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Hi lovely! Speaking of camp counselor James, I’ve always wondered what those training days were like when he and reader first met. I love reading those early first impression moments, and I was wondering how it was for them or what James thought <3
Thank you for requesting lovely!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
camp counselor!james x fem!reader ♡ 824 words
James’ parents raised him to reach out to people. He learned early in life how to go up to anyone, put on a smile, and ask politely if they’d like to be friends. It may have been a skill he was supposed to adapt as he got older. Remus teases that James has brought preschool social norms into adulthood; Sirius says it’s part of his charm.
Either way, it’s that old instinct that makes James choose the seat beside you.
Your fellow counselors are cloistered around a long cafeteria table, getting acquainted while you all wait for the camp manager to join you and training to begin. It’s early enough that the sunlight coming in through high windows is bright and buttery yellow. Those who have had longer drives to camp are nursing paper cups of coffee while watching the others chat, bleary-eyed. It’s the sort of table where you can only really talk to the few people seated nearest you, but James hasn’t seen you talk at all. You’re smiling, your eyes sweet and attentive while you listen to the others around you.
When there’s a lull, he gets your attention. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”
You turn with a look of mild surprise. Your smile takes a moment to return, hesitant, as though unsure if James had really been talking to you. “Yeah, I think they’re going to have us do name tags first thing,” you say. “Not many of us know each other.”
“Have you worked here before?”
You give a sort-of nod. “Last summer, for a bit. I only worked the first session.”
“Oh.” James remembers vaguely having that option, but he hadn’t considered that people would actually choose it. He hopes it’s not common; he’d rather keep you for the full summer. “What about this year?”
“This year I’m staying the whole time.”
James grins. “Me too. It’s my first year. Maybe you could show me the ropes?”
Your eyes flicker over him quickly, like you’ve done it before you could think. When you blink, they’ve stopped. “You don't seem like you'll need my help.”
The camp manager comes in to greet you before James can ask what colors you’d like in your friendship bracelet. You don’t join in on the murmuring or commentary some other counselors do, listening patiently and raising your hand when he asks who’s been through the general training before. There are other, specialized ones counselors can take to get certified for various activities—swim instruction, archery, management of the ropes course. You raise your hand to volunteer for the last one, and so does James.
As he watches you, he decides that he doesn’t think you’re completely reticent by nature. Just a tad shy, maybe. You seem like the sort that needs to get comfortable with people.
Luckily, despite what Remus says, James can be patient.
He is also tenacious.
James collects other friends throughout the day, but he doesn’t give up on you. He finally learns your name when you all paint them on wooden rectangles, and he asks you to show him how you’ve done the clouds around yours. He partners with you for your ropes course training, talking his way through the awkwardness of practicing taking harnesses on and off of each other. At dinnertime, another counselor’s story about a kid in a previous year who took a shit in her bag (not out of malice, she claims, but desperation) makes James shoot lemonade out his nose, and you laugh, bright and startled. James feels strangely proud for having caused it.
With eyes still watering, he nods at your plate. “Not a fan of grapes?”
You’ve stopped looking surprised when he talks to you; a victory in James’ book. You look only slightly chastised. “Just picky, I guess. These ones are sort of soft.”
“I’ll trade you my fries for them.”
You blink. “Are you sure? They don’t usually serve fries. You should enjoy them while you can.”
“Two fries per grape,” he negotiates.
You seem to debate with yourself for a moment before deciding they're James’ luxury to give away if he likes. You push your plate towards him, empty but for the few grapes, and take a few fries in return.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” James crunches a grape (you’re right, they are a bit soft) between his teeth and holds out his hand.
You raise your eyebrows, but put your own in it, shaking.
“I think we should be friends,” he says. “Do you want to?”
Your eyebrows travel further upward. “I don’t know if anyone’s asked me that since we were little.”
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not.”
You smile; it makes your lashes kiss at the corners. “It’s not an insult.”
“So?”
“Sure, James.” Hearing his name in your voice makes James grin inexplicably, and you grin back at him. “I’ll be your friend.”
hi mae! I’m finally done with finals and it’s getting warmer but I’m sick for the 4th time this year. this year!! I was wondering if you could write a doctor!remus x reader who’s a frequent flyer? I love reading all of your work and thank you for taking the time to write :))
Thanks for requesting angel <33
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 825 words
Remus enters the exam room looking sorry for you.
Despite yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth twitch. “What?” you ask, sore throat making your voice unusually husky. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Your doctor’s lips twitch in turn. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to make jokes,” he says.
You shrug. “I think I’m starting to get used to it.”
“To what? Being poorly?”
You nod, and he clicks his tongue, taking a thermometer from a drawer on his way over to you.
“That’s not ideal,” he says while he settles it in your ear. "Not that we want you miserable, of course, but it would be my preference for you to be used to feeling well instead."
You hum impartially. "It makes me appreciate breathing more."
Remus looks at the computer on the room’s desk over his shoulder, reading the notes the nurse who checked you in typed up.
“Your symptoms are the same as a couple of weeks ago?” he checks just as the thermometer beeps.
“Yeah,” you confirm.
You must sound as enthused as you feel, because Remus smiles ruefully as he places his hands gently on either side of your face. His fingers probe gently around your neck and underneath your jaw. You never know what to do during this part. Remus looks very concentrated, so you try looking over his shoulder, keeping your own expression neutral. Though you must reveal something (that, or Remus has spent so much time with you you've formed a telepathic bond) because he asks, “That hurts?”
“A little, yeah.”
Remus hums compassionately. He reaches back towards the desk to pick up a cotton swab. You must be feeling rather comfortable with him (or possibly just too fatigued for pretense) because you sigh morosely.
“We already know what it is,” you try. “Can’t you prescribe me the same stuff as last time?”
“We need a positive test first.” He takes up a popsicle stick, and you open your mouth begrudgingly.
Remus makes quick work of it, at least. He swabs the back of your throat in a couple of quick passes, already taking the stick out when you gag with a murmured, "Sorry.”
“Back soon,” he promises, putting your swap in a clear baggie and stepping out.
You swallow against the uncomfortable feeling that lingers in your throat. The act of swallowing hurts, too. This is the fourth time you’ve been under the weather in as many months, and you are, for lack of a better word, sick of it. It’s no pleasant task dragging yourself to the doctor’s office each time, sitting in stiff chairs under harsh lights when all you want is to be underneath the covers of your own bed. Remus makes it easier, though. He’s an easy presence. He makes you feel looked after rather than looked at.
It’s a minute later when he returns to sit with you while you both wait on your test results.
“So,” he says, pulling up a stool in front of the computer, “I last prescribed you antibiotics on the twenty-fifth. Do you remember when your symptoms cleared up?”
“Um.” Your throat scratches painfully. You try to clear it. “A few days after that. Maybe three?”
“And they came back when?”
“Yesterday.”
He glances at you, one brow slightly lifted. “You came in quickly.”
“I’m starting to learn the drill.”
Remus laughs. (Almost. His mouth twitches, and he makes an amused sort of sound in his throat. Always a victory.) “Fair enough,” he says. “So, yesterday. That’s about two weeks in between. You finished the full course of antibiotics?”
“Of course,” you say, nearly offended. You thought you'd established this is not your first time.
“Just checking.” He types something into his computer, one corner of his mouth quirked up amusedly. “Have you been to see an ear, nose, and throat specialist?”
“What, like cheat on you?”
Remus grins outright now (another victory). He swivels his stool to face you. “We’re on our way to qualifying this as a chronic case. If it comes back again after this round of antibiotics, you might consider seeing an ENT to ask about a tonsillectomy.”
The thought is strangely daunting. It’s taxing enough forcing yourself out of bed to come see Remus; you don’t want to begin the process again with someone else.
“Can’t I keep seeing you?” you ask.
Remus’ expression softens. “Of course you can. I just thought you might want another opinion.”
You shake your head. “I’m good.”
His mouth twitches again, like you’re making a joke. He sombers, though, as he looks at you for a long moment.
“I’m sorry this keeps happening to you,” he says. “You must be tired.”
Maybe it’s the sudden shift to earnestness, but your reply is a bit too genuine and far too self-pitying. “Yeah.”
Remus doesn’t begrudge you it. “We’ll work it out,” he promises.
The thing is, you have absolute faith that he will.
summary: "I need someone to help with him until I wrap up this case. To pick him up from school and stay with him until I get home" At your silence, James felt his shoulders tense slightly. "I know it’s a lot—" "I’ll do it." "And Henry can really be a handful— Wait, what did you say?" "The job. I’ll take it."
tags n warnings: dad!james, neighbors, fluff, nanny!reader, police!james, muggle!au, no use of y/n, implication that the reader cooks well, age gap (late 20s/early 30s), suggestive, sometime in the 90s wc: 4k
To be honest, James hadn’t thought about you more than necessary. He knew you lived in the apartment next door, a distant niece of Mrs. Jones, who had cared for her in her final moments—may she rest in peace. He knew you cooked well; sometimes, the aroma of whatever you were preparing spiraled through the air into his apartment, making his mouth water. He also knew you were kind, sweet, always offering smiles and waves to Henry, sometimes even treating the boy to small sweets.
And he knew you were beautiful. Very beautiful. Always dressed in delicate clothes—fluffy sweaters, long skirts, little things with pearl buttons and ruffles. You always left behind a sweet fragrance wherever you passed. If James had thought about it, just if, he might have wondered if, instead of sleeping in a bed, you spent the night resting in a field of flowers, like one of those nymphs from fairy tales. With the pale moonlight kissing your skin, covered by nothing but the finest petals, a serene expression on your face, lips slightly parted, dreaming of little wonders. But James didn’t think about that.
He also knew you were young. Not an absurd difference, no—he guessed you were in your mid-to-late twenties, maybe a little younger than when he had Henry.
You two occasionally exchanged small courtesies. Nods, closed-lip smiles, the occasional good morning. Once, in the building’s hallway, you called out for him to hold the elevator. Which James promptly did, watching you step into the metal box, nodding when you shyly thanked him. As you rode up together, he tried not to notice the stray lock of hair that had come loose, swaying lazily against your nape. He clenched his fists at his sides, exhaling only when he stepped into his own apartment, closing the door as if it were more than just something material—as if it were a shield keeping him safe from his own thoughts.
That was all he needed to know about you.
And it wasn’t like he didn’t have problems of his own. Being a single father took up most of his time, and work was always kicking his ass, especially when a new case came up. The hours were irregular, there was always something to investigate, always. He couldn’t afford another distraction, even if he couldn’t help but steal a glance or two. The poor man wasn’t made of iron.
Stolen moments—that was all James could have.
A new homicide had occurred. They had found the mutilated body of a woman discarded in a dumpster—again. There was a killer on the loose in the city. Which meant more hours at the precinct, or in other words: James was screwed. Very screwed.
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it never stopped being stressful. A new case demanded time, attention—dedication. It meant less time with Henry. It meant always having to find a babysitter whenever he got stuck at work. It meant coming home to find his son already asleep, even though James had promised to tell him a bedtime story.
James hated disappointing his son.
So when a free afternoon appeared, he didn’t hesitate to take Henry to the park, determined to burn off every ounce of energy a seven-year-old could have. It was a pleasant afternoon, worry-free, filled only with their laughter and the sweet taste of ice cream in an attempt to cool down after running around.
“We should do this more often,” Henry commented, still holding his father’s hand while waiting for the elevator doors to open. They had arrived at the building a few minutes earlier. The boy’s hair—the same mess of unruly strands as his father’s—looked even wilder after an afternoon outdoors. “I like when we can be together,” he added, his voice low.
James felt a tightness in his chest. His jaw tensed as he looked at his son, still so small. He wanted to offer more—but more than anything, he wanted more time. James’s parents had passed away years ago, and now, Henry’s whole family was just him. With the addition of his uncles—Sirius, Remus, and Peter, though the first preferred to be called godfather.
“I know,” James replied, squeezing his son’s hand, ignoring the ache in his chest as he continued, “I like it too, but dad—”
“Has to work,” Henry finished for him, tilting his head up with a sad smile that didn’t reach his green eyes. “I know, I just… I just wish we could spend more time together.”
A bullet would have hurt less. James swallowed the lump forming in his throat, blinking a few times as he searched for an answer.
“I’m sorry, love,” James sighed. “I wish that too. But dad has to work—someone has to pay for these glasses since a certain someone keeps breaking them almost every month.”
Henry giggled, adjusting the frame on his nose. “We also need to pay for chocolate,” he reminded him.
“Oh, yes, all the chocolate this little monster has been eating.” James smiled, ruffling his son’s hair—somehow managing to mess it up even more. With relief, he noticed the boy’s smile was real this time. “When I solve this case, I promise we’ll have more time together. We could go on a trip, what do you think?”
“A trip?”
“Yeah. Interested?”
“Yes!” Henry’s grin widened at the thought, practically bouncing with excitement, but then he paused, looking at his father with a seriousness far too heavy for someone so young. “Promise?”
James crouched until he was at eye level with his son, looking at him with the same intensity before lifting his hand, pinky finger raised. “I promise, champ.”
Henry lifted his hand too, just as serious, as if he were about to sign the most important contract of his life. Pinky promises were serious business. “It’s promised—you can’t go back on it.”
“Not even in my dreams.”
When the elevator doors finally opened, something caught Henry’s attention, and he quickly slipped into the hallway. James sighed, rolling his eyes theatrically, mumbling, “Little traitor,” as he adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder before stepping out.
A few steps later, he saw what had caught his son’s attention.
You.
Standing in front of your apartment door, though it was impossible to tell whether you were coming or going. Slightly bent forward as you spoke with Henry, your back turned to James. He stopped mid-step, feeling his mouth go dry as he watched you. As always, you were wrapped in one of those pretty outfits that made you look like one of those fine pastries displayed in a shop window.
Henry liked you. It was hard to imagine a child who wouldn’t. He had mentioned you a few times before, a dreamy smile on his face as he told his father that you had given him some cookies or let him pet Mrs. Jones’s cat. Or—much to James’s eternal embarrassment—about the time Henry, in all his innocent curiosity, had asked if you were already somebody’s mom.
Since Mrs. Jones had passed away almost four months ago, you had become the only resident of the apartment next door. And you were desperate. Very desperate.
Your life had been turned upside down ever since you moved in, taking care of your aunt during the final years of her life. It had become a full-time job, and now that she was gone, you still hadn’t been able to find another one.
Apparently, your experience as a caregiver wasn’t enough to get hired. No one seemed willing to employ a young woman who hadn’t finished college. The money your aunt had left was running out, and the bills kept piling up. The electricity bill was overdue, and you hadn’t had a hot shower in weeks.
Desperate didn’t even begin to describe your situation.
You had been standing in front of your apartment for a few minutes, fingers gripping the doorknob as you tried to steady your breathing, counting to ten as you inhaled and exhaled, fighting against the sting in your eyes. It had been another afternoon of handing out résumés, receiving looks of false sympathy as you listened to the same explanations. The staff was full, the position had already been filled, you didn’t meet the qualifications.
It was always the same bullshit.
You didn’t even notice anyone approaching until Henry stopped in front of you, his doe eyes watching you carefully.
“Hey, sweetheart,” you forced your voice to come out, rubbing your eyes roughly with the back of your hands in an attempt to wipe away the tears. A weak smile curled the corners of your mouth as you asked, “Were you at the park? You have some grass in your hair.”
You reached out, a familiar gesture, removing the strand of grass tangled in his dark hair. He didn’t pull away, and although his cheeks turned slightly pink, his dark eyebrows were still furrowed.
“Were you crying?”
Your mouth fell open in surprise at the question. Sometimes, you forgot just how observant he could be.
You looked away for a moment, clearing your throat to push back the tremor in your voice. “No. No, it was just something in my eye.”
“Uncle Remy says people say that when they don’t want to admit they were crying,” he argued. “He also always makes me hot chocolate when I’m sad. Would that make you happy?”
Warmth spread through your chest at his words, easing some of the weight on your shoulders. When another smile curved your lips, this time it was genuine. But before you could respond, his father approached.
“Henry.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gently pulling him closer to his side. “What have I told you about wandering away from me like that? And you can’t just go around approaching people.”
You looked up at James, breath catching in your throat. He was a few years older and lived next door. And you weren’t blind. Ever since you had moved in, you sometimes found yourself looking at him for a second or two longer than what was socially acceptable. But who could blame you?
He was kind, polite, an attentive father. And tall, and it wasn’t like those clothes hid the muscles underneath. It was a natural reaction, that’s what you told yourself sometimes. It was just a sign that you were alive.
Before you could stop yourself, the words floated out of your mouth. “You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Potter. Henry is a sweetheart, he never bothers me.”
His gaze slowly shifted from his son to you. The way his brows furrowed was painfully similar to Henry’s. His eyes lingered on you as if searching for something. Your shoulders tensed involuntarily, wondering if that was the same look he had when he was investigating.
“That’s a very kind way of seeing things.”
You offered a small smile in response, watching as Henry squeezed his father’s hand. “Dad?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“She was crying.”
Your heart skipped a beat, embarrassment bubbling beneath your skin. “No, I wasn’t—”
“Dad, tell her she doesn’t have to cry.” James, surprised and speechless—possibly horrified—looked at his son, mouth slightly open. Henry, undeterred, simply continued, turning back to you. “My dad’s a police officer. He won’t let anything happen to you. So you don’t have to be sad. Right, Dad?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to look at James, your face burning. You wondered if it would be childish of you to wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
“Henry,” James began, his voice tense, maybe even embarrassed. “Why don’t you go inside? You need a bath.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a request, kid.”
Henry let out an exaggerated sigh, but when James opened the apartment door, he walked inside without further complaints, though his lips were pursed in a pout and his steps were heavy against the floor.
You bit your lip, still unable to meet James’s gaze. The silence between you stretched—thick, heavy, louder than the noise of a traffic jam. You wanted to crawl back into your apartment and pretend the last few minutes had been nothing but a delusion of your exhausted mind.
He was the first to speak.
“Sorry about that.” You hesitantly looked up, watching as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Henry… sometimes he can be really—”
You waved your hands dismissively, forcing a smile. “He’s just a kid. These things happen. No need to apologize.”
For a moment, you simply looked at each other. What was your next move? Your keys still dangled, forgotten, between your fingers. You should have gone inside by now. And yet, your eyes remained locked on his.
If you were a little closer, you would be able to see the edge of his contact lenses. His beard was unshaven, dark circles rested under his eyes, and his hair was in its usual state of perfect chaos. He looked tired, but no less handsome. Somehow, the evidence of sleepless nights only emphasized his features, making him more human—more approachable.
“I…” James started, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His eyes scanned your face, lingering on the way your lashes were still damp, as if you really had been crying. He knew it wasn’t his business, but the question slipped from his lips anyway.
“Are you okay?”
You blinked, surprise flooding your features. Your mouth opened, the lie at the tip of your tongue, but no words found their way out—not when he was looking at you so genuinely, almost as if he truly cared.
Which made no sense at all. In all the time you had been neighbors, you had exchanged no more than a few words.
And yet, there he was. Standing in front of you, as if he was willing to wait as long as needed for your answer.
And it had been so, so long since someone had shown any kind of concern. Your lower lip trembled, and you recognized the familiar burning in your throat. Your eyes lifted, blinking once, twice, countless times in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.
"I... I just—" you sniffled, your voice too fragile to take shape. A melancholic smile curved the corners of your lips as you wiped your eyes, feeling more miserable than ever for crying in front of your handsome neighbor. "S-sorry, this is so pathetic. I-I really—"
His hand landed on your shoulder, a comforting weight. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of your blouse. You looked up at him in the same second, your heart tightening under the weight of the concern on his face.
"Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Did something happen?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes scanning over you as if searching for any injuries. "Did someone do something to you?"
You shook your head, still not trusting your voice enough to answer. James watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed. He had never seen you like this—so fragile, so vulnerable, like you were about to break at any moment.
He didn’t like seeing you like this.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked again, his fingers pressing gently into your shoulder, as if to emphasize his words. The feeling of touching you was still new, making his fingers tingle, even now, as he pulled back. When his gaze started to drift away, he called you again, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're not alone."
"T-thank you, Mr. Potter, but I don’t want to burden you with my problems."
"James."
"What?"
"Call me James, please. And you won’t be burdening me, I promise."
You sniffled again, still unsure how to deal with the weight in his eyes. It was easy to understand why he was a detective. It was easy to trust him.
Fighting the urge to wring your fingers, you exhaled, surprising yourself when you finally spoke. "I don’t think you can help me, Mr. Pott—James," you corrected, feeling your face heat up. "Unless you know of a place hiring someone without references."
James wondered if you could hear the gears turning in his head. It was an idea—a terrible idea. But it burned through his mind like the death of a star. It was the easiest solution to two problems. You raised an eyebrow at the expression on his face.
He wetted his lips, hesitating for only a second before speaking. "Actually, I... uh, I do."
"Really?"
James nodded in response, watching how your eyes lit up with hope. "Yeah, but..." He glanced down the empty hallway first, then back at the way your clothes were slightly rumpled after an afternoon at the park, as if carefully considering what to say next. "Can we meet in twenty minutes? To talk about it."
You nodded, hoping you didn’t seem too eager. If he really found you a job, it could be in the depths of hell, and you wouldn’t care.
James gave a short nod before stepping back through his door. You took a deep breath, sniffled one last time, then straightened your shoulders and stepped inside.
Gigi, the cat, barely waited for you to set foot inside before curling around your legs, nearly knocking you over in the process. She must be hungry.
You poured some food into her bowl before checking that everything was in order. James had never been inside, and that made you a little nervous. With nothing else to focus on, you put a kettle on the stove.
Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at your door. Your heart skipped a beat. Forcing your legs to move, you crossed the living room, ignoring the slight tremor in your fingers as you opened the door.
"Hey," James greeted with a small smile.
His hair was still slightly damp, a strand falling over his forehead. He had changed clothes, now wearing a white shirt that stretched just a bit across his chest, his forearms exposed. He smelled like soap and clean skin. You quickly dismissed any thoughts your mind tried to entertain.
"Hi," you replied, stepping aside to let him in.
Once James entered, you shut the door. He watched as you took the lead, walking back into the living room with small steps. Unable to help himself, his eyes wandered around the space—light-colored walls, countless books stacked on a shelf, delicate curtains. It was a feminine place, well cared for.
"Would you like some tea?"
James blinked, processing your words. "Oh, sure. Please."
You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and when you returned, James was still standing in the same spot, as if his feet had grown roots into the floor. It felt strange having him here, as if the place was too small to contain him.
"Please, have a seat," you motioned toward the couch with your chin. James obeyed promptly, sinking into the plush cushions, watching you place a tray on the coffee table and expertly pour two cups of Earl Grey. His eyes followed the movements of your hands, the way your fingers looked so delicate.
"How do you take it?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Your tea, how do you like it?"
"With cream and two spoons of honey, please."
When you handed him the cup, your fingers brushed by accident, sending a shiver down his spine. James cleared his throat, taking a sip, the rich, sweet taste spreading across his tongue. It was perfect.
He sighed, a sound of pure satisfaction, as he took another sip. "Thank you, this is perfect." A small smile curved his lips in gratitude. "But I know you’re interested in what I came here to say."
You waited, feeling the warmth of the cup between your fingers. He wetted his lips. "I know this might be an unusual situation, but when I said I knew someone who was hiring... that someone was me."
James watched as surprise crossed your face, so he continued, "A new case came up, and it’s taking up most of my time. Finding a reliable babysitter isn’t exactly easy. I know we don’t know each other very well, but I saw how you cared for Mrs. Jones. I see how you treat Henry. He adores you."
"I need someone to help with him until I wrap up this case. To pick him up from school and stay with him until I get home. You’d have the mornings to yourself, unless something urgent came up at the station." At your silence, James felt his shoulders tense slightly. "I know it’s a lot—"
"I’ll do it."
"And Henry can really be a handful— Wait, what did you say?"
"The job. I’ll take it."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. I mean, we're neighbors, I wouldn’t mind staying with Henry a little later. And I think I can handle it—he's really adorable."
James looked surprised, genuinely surprised. "I, uh… I didn’t expect you to accept so easily."
A nervous smile curled your lips as you remembered the growing pile of bills. "I'm kind of desperate right now."
"I'm really sorry about that."
You shook your head. "It’s not your fault."
"I still feel sorry."
"Thank you." To soothe your nerves, you took another sip of tea. "So, when do I start?"
"Tomorrow, is that okay for you? Great, this is really wonderful."
"You don’t, uh… want my résumé or something?"
"Actually, I’d be happy just with your number." Seeing the way your face heated up, he quickly added, "In case of an emergency, so I can call you."
Oh.
Oh.
Of course, that was the reason. You mentally cursed yourself for daring to think otherwise.
You leaned forward, reaching for the stack of papers on the coffee table. "My résumé has my number on it anyway."
James took the sheet, his eyes scanning over the printed details. Address, phone number, full name, date of birth—ten years, you were nearly ten years apart. But what really caught his attention was the photo. It was just a simple picture, but his eyes lingered on the way the camera had captured you. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over it.
You went over a few more details—schedules, salary, responsibilities. It was almost hard to believe this was real, that you had finally found a job. Even if it wasn’t permanent, at least it was something, and with free mornings, you could keep looking for something else. And you liked Henry—he was a truly sweet boy. Taking care of him wouldn’t be a burden at all.
You walked James to the door, feeling lighter than you had in weeks. "Thank you for this opportunity. I promise I’ll do my best."
"I know," he smiled, stretching out his hand toward you. You took it, feeling the way his fingers were slightly rough and firm around yours. You didn’t notice the way James looked at your joined hands, how he seemed to study the way they fit together. He exhaled, finally lifting his gaze to yours. "See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow," you repeated with a broad smile, having no idea what was ahead of you.
Summary: The kiss cam never lands on you, but the one time it does, it gives you the opportunity to kiss a very handsome man.
Content: fluff, meet-cute, mostly not proofread, tweaked the way a quidditch game goes of course, let me know if I missed any!
Word count: 1.4k
The stadium was already roaring as you found your seat, clutching your bag to your chest as you squeezed in, giving apologies to the people you went past. You let out a sigh of relief as you finally plopped into your seat, which was in a section high up from the ground.
You placed your bag in your lap, and rummaged through it to pull out your Omnioculars. You peered through him, inspecting the field that was currently empty as the game hadn't begun yet. You set them down, and waited in anticipation for the game to start.
You watched as people around you navigated the crowds to get to their seats. You were staring at a couple bickering in front of you when you heard a loud, "coming through!" From above you, and you lifted your gaze to see two men squeezing past the seats, coming your way.
You shuffled back into your seat as much as possible to give them, and they didn't go further as they took the seats next to you, the man with the glasses filling the one beside you.
You glanced at him once, and then twice, quietly taking notice of his good looks. He had dark, messy hair that fell over his eyes charmingly, and round glasses perched on his nose that suited him so well it should've been a crime.
He caught your gaze briefly, and you exchanged a polite smile with him, the kind only directed towards strangers, and looked away. He turned back to talk animatedly with his friend next to him, who had wavy black hair that fell to his shoulders.
You had seen plenty of handsome men in your lifetime, so you paid no more particular attention to the man beside you, and focused on the game instead. Your knee bounced with excitement as the commentator's voice started to boom from all corners of the stadium, the crowd finally somewhat settled as it increased in volume.
You cheered loudly with excitement as the players from each team came out, especially when you spotted your favourites. It was a game of Scotland versus Luxembourg, and while you had nothing against Scotland, you were rooting heavily for Luxembourg.
The game kicked off to a thrilling start, and you quickly discovered what team the man beside you barracked for by the way he he cheered especially whenever Scotland had the Quaffle, him and his friend sometimes shaking each other aggressively and shouting obnoxiously loud in your ear. You made your support for Luxembourg no less obvious, and felt smug whenever they took the Quaffle off Scotland's hands.
The game had been going on for hours, afternoon stretching into night when the Scotland team captain called for a timeout. It was basically a break for the players, and a break for your throat that had screamed itself hoarse. You felt no regret for it since Luxembourg was in front by sixty points.
After fifteen minutes had passed with no sign of the game starting up again anytime soon, a romantic melody started to blast in the stadium with a large projection of big letters appearing in the middle of the stadium.
A simultaneous series of groans and cheers erupted from the crowd.
It was the kiss cam.
The kiss cam only ever showed up when a timeout in a Quidditch match took a while, so it served as a source of entertainment while the viewers waited for the main event to start again. You had encountered a kiss cam before, but it had never once landed on you. It had gotten close, but you had never been put in a situation where you were pressured to kiss a stranger in front of thousands of people, so you were quite grateful.
You stared up at it in amusement. While you were happy to have never been a victim of it, it didn’t mean you didn’t find it entertaining.
A minute passed before the magical projection showed anything else, letting the crowd process what was happening. Then, the letters dissolved, and a large projection of a man and a woman appeared.
The stadium cheered loudly, encouraging them to kiss, and it seemed that the man and woman were already a couple by the way they laughed, leaning in for a sweet kiss with practiced ease.
Next was another man who sat with a younger girl, and it was clear as day that the girl was his daughter as he laughed at the girl’s obvious embarrassment, pressing a fatherly kiss to her forehead.
You waited eagerly to see the next faces on the projection when suddenly, you were looking at your own.
You blinked, eyebrows furrowing as your face showed on the large projection. You looked around you, eyes slowly widening as you realised you were on the kiss cam, where the whole stadium could see you.
And in the projection with you, was the handsome man with the glasses.
You both looked at each other in bewilderment while the stadium roared around you, loud voices telling you to snog.
“Uh- we don’t have to,” the man said, seeming just as unsure as you about what to do.
“Oh come on, just kiss her!” His friend encouraged, patting his back.
“I don’t know, are you…” he trailed off as you stared at him wordlessly, becoming speechless as you continued to gape at him. “We don’t have to, it’s okay.”
Before you could object, he looked to the projection of you two, and shook his head to the crowd, waving his arm to tell the people controlling the projection to turn it to someone else. The projection of you two eventually disappeared, replaced with someone else while the crowd booed.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you quietly said, even though it was impossible for him to hear you over the booming stadium.
You looked at your lap as a strange disappointment settled in your chest. You had no right to be disappointed, it had been your fault you hadn’t kissed, you hadn’t gathered the words to tell him it was okay. You had just frozen up like an idiot, and now your chance was gone.
It was only two kisses later when your face and his appeared on the projection again, another attempt at getting you to kiss.
Everyone around you screamed at the both of you to just lean in, and you let out a surprised laugh as the man’s friend slapped him over the head.
“Just snog her, Prongs! That’s the whole point of it!” His friend shouted.
The man looked at you cautiously. “Listen, if you’re not comfortable-”
“I don’t mind,” you said quickly, not wanting to miss your chance again. “Unless you do.”
He blinked in surprise, and then smiled. “No, I don’t.”
You mirrored his smile. “Okay, good. Then I guess I’ll just, um…”
“Yeah…”
You turned your body to him as you both started to lean in, and you were taken aback as his hand came to cup your cheek. You stared into his blazing eyes for a moment before you closed yours, and felt him close the distance between your lips.
You melted into it immediately, humming against his soft lips as his hand dropped from your cheek to your waist, while one of your hands went to his neck. You deepened the kiss, and felt him groan as he tilted his head, squeezing your waist.
The cheers around you were deafening, reverberating off the seats beneath you as you continued to kiss him reverently.
“The kiss cam isn’t on you anymore!” The man’s friend called to you, yet neither of you pulled away, too lost in each other’s lips.
You felt his tongue run along your bottom lip before it gently probed into your mouth, and your other hand flew to his neck, while both of his hands were suddenly squeezing your hips.
You only pulled away when you were out of breath, one of your hands sliding from his neck to his chest as you panted. You felt his chest move up and down as he caught his breath, his hands still on your hips.
Your eyes met his, and you both burst into laughter.
“I’m James,” he said breathlessly.
You grinned, telling him your own name.
“Nice to meet you,” said James, his warm breath still fanning on your face.
“Can’t believe you just snogged a Luxembourg fan,” said his friend from beside, and James lifted one hand off your hip to reach back and slap his friend on the back of his head, making you giggle.
summary — james potter is a regular at the pub you work at. just as he thinks he's making progress with you, he shows up later, bloodied and bruised. sad like a kicked puppy.
content 4.4k words, james potter x reader, no pronouns, alcohol consumption, mentions of violence, mentions of blood.
note hehe feels good to write for james again yay!
The first time James Potter speaks to you properly, the pub is so full you can feel the noise in your ribs.
Thursday nights always settle heavily over the place. Not lively in the clean, cinematic sort of way people imagine when they think about old pubs and city life, but crowded and overheated and faintly miserable around the edges.
You’ve not had enough shots to bear anything tonight. You think about downing another bourbon and coke, lest it make the vibes less miserable.
Damp coats steaming near radiators. Beer sticking to the varnished wood floors no matter how many times you wipe them down. The low hum of too many conversations piled on top of one another until it becomes one constant sound pressing against your skull.
Someone near the television is yelling about football. The kitchen door swings open in bursts of heat and swear words.
You’ve been moving since four o’clock, and your body has started slipping into that strange automatic rhythm where exhaustion almost becomes useful. Grab glasses. Pour drinks. Smile politely. Ignore the ache in your shoulders. Ignore the ache everywhere else too.
You’re balancing a tray of pints against your forearm when a man at the corner table clicks his fingers at you. Not even maliciously. Almost absentmindedly.
Something sharp flashes through you instantly. You turn before you can say something you’ll regret professionally and find another voice cutting across the noise first.
“Jesus Christ, mate.” Light. Easy. Amused in that effortless way some people are. “You trying to get barred?”
The man laughs awkwardly and lifts his hands defensively, already turning back toward his friends.
And then you look at the person who spoke. You recognise him vaguely.
Dark curls. Glasses sliding slightly down his hawk nose. Broad shoulders crowded into a dark jacket that still looks damp around the seams from the rain outside. He’s standing beside the bar with one hand curled loosely around an empty glass, looking toward the other customer with a sort of easy disbelief.
Then his eyes flick toward you instead. Not lingering long enough to make you uncomfortable. Just enough that something in your chest catches slightly before you can stop it. You look away first.
The tray feels heavier suddenly.
By the time you circle back behind the bar a few minutes later, he’s still there waiting to order. Leaning one elbow against the counter while the crowd shifts around him in restless waves.
Up close, he looks different from the way he did across the room earlier. Softer somehow.
Not polished in the way men usually are when they know they’re attractive. His curls are still damp, pushed back messily from his forehead like he’s been running his hands through them all night without noticing. Thin wire-frame glasses sit slightly crooked on his face. There’s stubble darkening his jaw like he forgot to shave this morning and never got around to fixing it.
He looks warm. Something about him feels lived-in already. Familiar in a way strangers shouldn’t.
You adjust the tray higher against your hip before it can slip.
“Think that tray gets any heavier and it legally counts as manual labour.”
“It builds character.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the glasses balanced dangerously near the edge. “It builds workers' compensation claims.”
That pulls a small laugh from you before you can stop it. No polite customer service laughter either. Real enough that it catches you off guard.
His expression changes the second he hears it. Brief softening around his mouth, like he wasn’t fully expecting to get that reaction and likes that he did.
“There,” he says quietly, almost more to himself than to you. “Knew you could do it.”
You narrow your eyes immediately, though there’s no heat behind it. “Do what?”
“Laugh at me.”
“That wasn’t at you.”
“Mm.”
You push past him toward the bar, already reaching to unload the glasses into the sink. The warmth of the room presses against your skin, your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades from hours spent moving through crowds and kitchen heat.
Behind you, he shifts closer to the counter.
Most customers fill silence by demanding attention from it. Tapping cards impatiently against wood. Leaning too far over the counter. Looking around for somebody more interesting to speak to.
He just watches you work for a moment. Like he’s trying to place you.
“You looked homicidal carrying that thing through the crowd,” he says after a second.
“I probably was.”
“Fair enough.”
You reach for a towel to wipe spilled cider from the counter, the wood tacky beneath your hand. Somewhere behind him, somebody cheers loudly at the television.
The whole pub feels like it’s breathing around you. Expanding and contracting in waves.
“What can I get you?” you ask, finally. His patience amuses you.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What would you recommend to someone trying very hard to seem sophisticated?”
You finally glance back at him properly then.
He’s leaning both forearms against the bar now, close enough that you can now smell rainwater still clinging faintly to his jacket beneath the heavier scents of beer and citrus and old wood. His sleeves are rolled unevenly to his elbows. There’s a faded scar disappearing beneath the strap of his watch.
“You don’t strike me as sophisticated,” you tell him.
His grin appears slowly. Pointy canines and glossy lips. “Oh, devastating.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Hard to say.”
The smile tugs unexpectedly at the corner of your mouth before you can hide it. You duck your head slightly, reaching for a clean glass, mostly to give yourself something to do with your hands.
Behind him, one of the men from his table looks over. Dark hair. Leather jacket. Sharp sort of face. He notices where his friend’s attention is directed almost immediately.
“Oh my God,” he calls across the room, loud enough that several people nearby turn to look. “He’s at it again!”
The man in front of you closes his eyes briefly. Something exhausted in the deeply familiar way people become around their oldest friends.
“I’m ordering a drink,” he calls back.
“You’ve been ordering it for like fifteen minutes.”
“That’s because the service here is terrible.”
You bark out another laugh before you can help it, and have to point your face down to the floor to hide it. The stranger looks triumphant about managing it twice.
“You’re humiliating yourself in public, Sirius.” Sirius.
“I do that every day.”
Another man at the table — quieter looking, book tucked beside his elbow — finally glances up from his drink. “Can you order before she throws something at you?”
“She wouldn’t,” the stranger says lightly.
You meet his eyes while reaching beneath the counter for tonic water. “Confident.”
“I believe in human connection.”
“You’ve known me two minutes.” You've seen him weekly for the past four months.
“And yet I feel we understand each other deeply.”
You shake your head despite yourself, trying to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, but something in your chest loosens anyway. The warmth of the room suddenly feels softer around the edges, the exhaustion sitting on your shoulders momentarily lighter beneath the easy sound of his laughter across the bar.
It’s annoying.
You’re tired. Covered faintly in beer. Your feet hurt. There’s still a stack of glasses waiting behind you. You do not have the energy for a charming stranger. And yet.
“Drink?” you ask again.
He watches you for a second longer before answering, expression gentling slightly beneath all the teasing.
“Tequila and soda,” he says. Then, quieter: “Please.”
The please lands somewhere unexpected. Small enough that it shouldn’t matter. But people reveal themselves in tiny things sometimes.
The way they thank you. The way they wait for answers instead of talking over them. The way they look at service staff when they think nobody notices.
You start building the drink carefully, ice clinking against glass beneath your hands.
He stays where he is. Not checking his phone. Not turning back toward his friends immediately. Just standing there comfortably in the space beside the bar while the pub moves noisily around both of you.
“You always work Thursdays?” he asks.
You lift your brow. “Usually.”
“Brutal.”
“You lot make it worse.”
He smiles. You hate it. “That hurts my feelings.”
“Your friend tried starting a football chant twenty minutes ago.”
“He’s passionate.”
“He was standing on a chair.”
“That does sound like Sirius.”
There’s affection folded so naturally into the sentence that you glance at him again before you can stop yourself.
James catches the look immediately. You’re beginning to realise he notices everything.
“You work here full time?” he asks after a moment, turning the damp coaster absently beneath his glass while he watches you move around the bar.
“Pretty much.”
You reach for a lime beside the chopping board, your colleagues behind on backup prep, the knife sliding cleanly through bright green skin whilst music hums low overhead and conversation swells through the crowded room around you.
“And live upstairs, yeah?”
You pause mid-slice. Only for a second, but it’s enough.
Your eyes lift toward him automatically. “How do you know that?”
A small smile pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth then, something quietly pleased settling into his expression without becoming smug about it.
“You pointed at the ceiling earlier when you said unfortunately.”
For a second, you just stare at him.
The memory flashes back embarrassingly clearly now — exhausted and distracted and making some offhand complaint about hearing the pipes rattle upstairs at three in the morning.
James watches realisation settle across your face. “Observant, me,” he adds lightly.
“You’ve got a dangerous level of attention to detail.”
“Or,” he says thoughtfully, “I’m incredibly creepy.”
“That could genuinely go either way.”
His laugh slips out low and warm at that, quiet enough that it almost disappears beneath the noise of the pub.
Outside, rainwater streaks steadily down the front windows, blurring the streetlights into long ribbons of gold against dark glass. Every time the entrance opens, cold air folds briefly through the packed warmth of the room before disappearing again beneath bodies and laughter and music.
You finish making his drink slowly, suddenly far too aware of him standing there. You slide the final lime wedge into the glass before topping the drink carefully.
“There.”
The lack of motivation to finish his drink quickly doesn’t surprise you. You’re not in a rush to get him to leave. Your fingers remain curled briefly around the side of the glass while you push it toward him across the polished wood counter.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
Then you’re the only bartender at the bar, and someone at the other end starts waving cash impatiently in your direction, and the moment breaks apart before it can become anything real.
Still, as you turn away to serve the next customer, you feel his attention linger for a second longer.
And later that night, while pushing through crowds of strangers and wiping down sticky tables beneath dim lights, you keep catching yourself looking toward the corner table near the windows.
Noticing whenever he’s there.
—
Outside, rain keeps throwing itself against the windows in uneven bursts, rattling faintly against the glass whenever the wind picks up hard enough. The front door barely stops moving all night. Groups stumble in dripping wet from the street, bringing sharp gusts of cold air with them before the warmth of the pub swallows everything whole again.
You lose track of time somewhere after eleven-thirty.
Orders blur together eventually.
Vodka sodas. Guinness. Rum and coke. Espresso martinis for girls already too drunk to pronounce it properly anymore. Somebody complains their chips are cold while you’re balancing at least eight empty glasses against your forearm. One of the newer bartenders disappears during the worst part of the rush and comes back twenty minutes later smelling like cigarette smoke and terrible judgement.
Through all of it, you keep catching pieces of James without fully meaning to. The scrape of his laugh carried across the room from somewhere near the front windows. The shape of him leaning back in his chair with one arm draped loosely across the booth behind Sirius.
His fingers tap restlessly against his pint glass whenever conversation drifts too long without holding his attention properly. It’s strange, the way awareness settles once someone’s lodged themselves firmly inside your head.
You stop looking for them consciously after awhile. Your body just does it automatically.
Every time you glance toward the windows, your eyes find him first before your brain properly catches up. Dark curls. Bare forearms. The familiar curve of his mouth whenever he’s halfway through saying something clever. The absent way he pushes his glasses higher up his nose while listening. The restless movement of his hands around pint glasses whenever he’s sitting still too long.
And later into the night, something about him feels wrong. Not dramatic enough for anyone else to pick up on. Just enough that you notice it because you’ve spent weeks accidentally learning the rhythm of him.
Sirius is halfway through some ridiculously animated story, gesturing so aggressively he nearly knocks over two drinks in the process. Remus looks exhausted in the deeply permanent way he always does when Sirius gets like this. Usually, James would be making everything worse on purpose. Interrupting. Laughing too loud. Throwing fuel directly onto whatever chaos Sirius starts.
Tonight he keeps drifting out of conversations halfway through them.
You watch it happen over and over.
His smile fades too quickly after Sirius says something funny. His attention keeps snagging elsewhere. Toward the windows. Toward the entrance. Toward movement outside whenever voices rise too sharply beyond the glass.
And every so often, toward you. The awareness of it settles uncomfortably beneath your skin after he points out your limp. You can still feel the ghost of his hand against your elbow.
Still hear the quiet certainty in his voice when he said it. You hadn’t realised anyone had been paying enough attention to notice things like that.
Near midnight, the atmosphere inside the pub shifts. The music keeps playing. People keep talking. Somebody near the televisions shouts loudly enough over football highlights that half the room groans at him to shut up.
Still, something changes. You notice it in fragments, a sharp burst of yelling somewhere outside, heads turning briefly toward the windows. The way James goes completely still mid-conversation.
Your eyes lift automatically toward him at the exact same moment his snap toward the front entrance. The shift in him is immediate enough to make your stomach tighten.
Every trace of distraction disappears instantly.
One second he’s half-listening to Sirius complain dramatically about something. The next, his posture sharpens completely, attention fixed hard toward the street outside.
Sirius notices too. You see his expression change the second he looks properly at James. You start to feel like a creep.
Whatever passes silently between them happens fast enough you can’t read it from across the room.
Then James is already standing.
The legs of his chair scrape harshly across the floorboards beneath him, loud enough to cut briefly through the surrounding noise. Several people glance over instinctively before losing interest almost immediately.
You don’t hear what he says. The music swallows most of it whole. You only catch Sirius muttering something sharp back before shoving himself upright, too.
James glances once toward the bar while moving for the entrance. Toward you. The look lasts maybe a second. Still, something uneasy twists low in your stomach before the front door even swings shut behind them.
Then they disappear into the rain. And the night keeps moving without them.
The second rush hits almost immediately afterwards.
A queue forms three people deep at the bar within minutes. Somebody drops a full pint near the pool tables and glass explodes across the floor. The kitchen bell starts going nonstop while one of the waitresses looks visibly close to killing someone with her bare hands.
You don’t have time to think. Not properly anyways. Everything becomes movement after that.
Your ankle throbs harder every time you pivot wrong. Beer soaks into your sleeve after somebody knocks into you hard enough to spill half their drink. A man in a football jersey clicks his fingers at you while you’re actively serving someone else and you briefly consider phoning in a bomb threat to get this place to empty as quickly as possible.
Through all of it, your attention keeps catching on absence. It happens gradually. A glance toward the windows while pouring a pint. Another while trekking between the kitchen pass and back toward the bar. Then all at once, the awareness settles heavily in your chest.
James still hasn’t come back.
You stop near the taps for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking automatically toward the booth near the front windows.
Remus sits there alone now.
One arm draped across the back of the seat, phone glowing faintly in his hand while irritation tightens visibly around his mouth. Sirius’s empty glass still sits abandoned on the table beside him. Across from that, James’s drink remains untouched, the ice melted now.
Condensation slides slowly down the side of the glass.
You keep catching yourself glancing toward the entrance every time it opens, expecting him to reappear through the crowd with rainwater dripping from his hair and some easy explanation already waiting on his tongue.
But midnight stretches toward one. Then one bleeds slowly into close.
And James never comes back inside.
By closing, exhaustion settles so heavily through your body it almost stops feeling real. The last customers stumble out sometime after two in the morning, laughter echoing faintly into the street once the front doors finally shut behind them. The sudden absence of noise rings loudly in your ears afterward.
Music cuts off midway through a song and the silence feels strange.
You move through cleanup mostly on autopilot. Chairs overturned onto tables. Sticky glasses stacked beside the sink. Your hands smell permanently like citrus and beer and industrial soap no matter how many times you rinse them.
Nobody else volunteered to take rubbish out tonight. You stopped expecting them to a long time ago.
The garbage bags drag heavily behind you while you shove open the back door with your shoulder. It sticks halfway like it always does when the weather turns wet, swollen wood catching stubbornly against the frame before finally giving way.
Cold air hits you instantly. Sharp enough to sting after hours spent inside overheated rooms.
Rainwater drips steadily somewhere nearby, echoing softly through the narrow alleyway behind the pub. The security light mounted above the back entrance casts everything gold and uneven against wet pavement.
And there he is.
James sits on the back steps behind the building with his elbows resting loosely against his knees, head tilted slightly downward like he’s listening absently to the rain.
For a second, your brain struggles to place the image properly. Not because he looks unrecognisable. Because you’ve never seen him still before.
His jacket discarded, wet, at his feet. Split skin stretched raw across his knuckles, where blood has already dried in dark streaks along his fingers. Bruising blooms faintly beneath his left eye, purple already spreading against dark skin.
There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his button down too.
You’ve spent weeks building this version of James in your head without meaning to. Warm laughter across crowded rooms. His attention catching on you from the other side of the bar. The smell of the same cologne clinging to his jacket. Long conversations after midnight while the pub emptied around you.
You’ve never once pictured him like this. Still enough to bruise.
Your grip loosens around the rubbish bags still hanging from your fingers. They hit the wet pavement heavily beside you with a dull thud you barely register.
James looks up immediately at the sound. And somehow, even now — bruised and exhausted and bleeding onto concrete — his attention still lands on you first.
“You look dead on your feet. Your ankle any better?”
His voice comes out rougher than usual, worn thin around the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. The teasing is still there somewhere underneath it — buried deep enough that it barely survives the exhaustion.
For a second, you just stare at him.
The alley suddenly feels too quiet after the chaos inside. Somewhere out on the main street, a car passes through wet roads with that low hissing sound tyres make after heavy rain.
James sits beneath the yellow wash of the security light like something half-forgotten.
Blood streaks across his knuckles in dark drying lines. The skin there looks split badly enough that fresh red still gathers slowly at the edges whenever he flexes his hand. Bruising has already started settling beneath one eye, staining the skin violet-blue beneath the harsh light overhead.
And somehow the thing that unsettles you most is how tired he looks.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
The words leave your mouth quieter than you intended.
James lets out a breath through his nose that almost resembles a laugh, though it sounds more exhausted than amused. He tips his head back briefly against the brick wall behind him before regretting it and deciding to look at you again.
“You should see the other guy.”
Normally, he would’ve smiled after saying something like that. You can practically picture it — the easy crooked grin, the softness around his eyes whenever he tries to stop you worrying before you’ve even started.
Tonight the joke just hangs there between you, tired and thin. Your eyes drag helplessly back toward his hands.
“What happened?” you ask again, softer now.
For a moment, James doesn’t answer.
His gaze shifts somewhere past your shoulder toward the mouth of the alley, jaw tightening briefly before he looks back down at his hands instead. The movement pulls another quiet wince across his face that he clearly hopes you won’t notice.
You notice anyway.
“There was some guy outside another bar down the street,” he says eventually. “He grabbed this girl — a friend — and wouldn’t let go of her.”
Something twists low in your stomach immediately.
James shrugs one shoulder lightly, though the movement looks uncomfortable.
“I told him to get his hands off her.” His eyes flick toward you briefly before lowering again. “He didn’t take it very well.”
The understatement almost makes you laugh. Almost.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmur quietly.
“I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding everywhere.”
“I’ve definitely looked worse.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly at the sound of it. You step closer before really thinking about it.
The movement makes James look up immediately. His attention lands fully on you with the same quiet focus he always carries around you, though now it feels heavier somehow in the stillness of the alley.
Up close, the bruising beneath his eye looks angrier. You can see where his bottom lip has split faintly near one corner too.
“You need to clean those,” you tell him, nodding toward his hands.
James glances down like he’s only just remembered them. “It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
His mouth twitches slightly at the sharpness in your voice.
For a second, neither of you says anything. The alley feels strangely separate from the rest of the world back here, tucked behind the warmth and noise of the streets. Just wet pavement reflecting yellow light. Both of you are breathing visible in the cold air.
Then James pushes himself upright from the steps. The movement is slow enough that you instantly know he’s hurting more than he’s pretending to. His expression tightens almost invisibly halfway to standing before smoothing itself back out again.
You catch it anyway.
“Careful,” you say automatically.
Something soft flickers briefly across his face at the sound of it.
You hold the back door open while he follows you inside, and the place feels almost eerie now without customers filling it. Chairs stacked high. Half-finished cleanup abandoned around the bar. The low hum of the dishwasher carrying softly through the silence.
James pauses just inside the doorway while rainwater drips from the edge of his coat onto the floorboards.
Your eyes catch briefly on the blood still drying across the bridge of his nose..
“Sit down,” you say.
He obeys with surprising ease.
The stool scrapes quietly against the floor as he lowers himself onto it, shoulders finally sagging slightly the second he stops moving. Up close, the damage looks worse than it did outside. His knuckles are swollen already. The skin split deeply across two fingers.
You reach beneath the counter for the first aid kit while James watches you silently.
“You really should’ve seen the other guy,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now.
You glance up flatly while pulling antiseptic wipes from the box. “Don’t start.”
That earns something quieter from him this time — the faint pull of a smile worn thin by exhaustion, there and gone almost before it fully settles across his face. The expression disappears quickly, though the softness of it lingers unpleasantly in your chest afterward.
You wet a cloth beneath warm water, squeezing it carefully between your fingers before stepping closer to him again. Without thinking, you move automatically into the space between his knees so you can reach his hands properly.
The position registers instantly. James goes completely still beneath you. So do you.
Heat crawls slowly up the back of your neck as awareness crashes hard into the silence between you. He sits close enough now that you can feel warmth rolling off him despite the dampness of his clothes. Close enough to smell sweat and soap and the faint metallic scent of blood still lingering against his skin.
Neither of you moves away. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cloth before you finally reach carefully for his wrist.
The second your hand touches him, James inhales softly.
i am all for camp counsellor james! love that energetic man. what about like cabin vs cabin games? obstacle course, rope tugs (is that what it’s called?) etc.?
just a concept, i don’t even have a specific idea on how that would go plot wise, but i like ‘competitive but in love’ james lmaoo
ofc as always, feel free to ignore if it does not inspire :) enjoy the great weather and i hope you’re doing well!
Thank you for your request angel! I hope you're doing well and enjoying the weather wherever you are too :)
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
camp counselor!James x fem!reader ♡ 807 words
It’s the giggling that gives them away. Not James’ giggling. The kids’. And maybe a little bit of James’.
They were doing so good. Honestly, it was a rush, sneaking through enemy territory, darting from hiding place to hiding place, the flag your cabin is guarding getting closer with you and the couple of your campers playing defense none the wiser. If James was on a team with Sirius and Remus instead of a bunch of ten-year-olds, the game would be…well, he wants to say cinched, but it’d be pretty much the same, probably.
But Sirius never revealed their hiding spots by laughing too loudly. Not since he was eight at least.
James hears the chatter between you and your girls go suddenly quiet, and he whispers to his boys, “Run!”
They break away from their trees to find you already heading towards them, all four beginning to sprint towards the bright yellow bandana tied to the post behind you.
“Go!” James shouts. Mostly for dramatic effect, but it does work to get a couple of his boys moving faster. “Go, go! Get it!”
Their shorter legs have a considerable disadvantage over James’ longer ones, but he’s not headed for the flag. (Not that he’s not tempted. He’s working very, very hard not to go for it, actually, but these games are meant to be fun “for the kids” and all that.) Anyway, your team has you, with your longer legs. Coming straight for him.
James can’t help the grin that takes him (okay, he was definitely contributing to the giggling) as he crosses paths with one of his campers being chased by one of yours.
“Go on without me, Callum!”
No protests from Callum. Ouch. James will nurse that wound later.
As he suspected, the girl chasing Callum can’t resist the challenge of catching a counselor instead. James draws her away, with you on his heels too. He dances around a tree just as you’re catching up to him.
“I got you!”
“No, that was my shirt.”
“That counts, James.”
“It does not!” he laughs, walking backwards while you advance.
James thinks you might have both been going easy on each other during the various cabin-against-cabin games last summer. Back then, James recalls being rather occupied with flirting with you, and his mother taught him that beating a girl mercilessly in every competition is no way to win her over. Maybe you were thinking along similar lines back then.
This year, the competitive glint in your eye is almost frightening.
It is also hot.
(James is a simple man.)
The thing is, as much as James would love for you to tackle him to the ground right now, he’s competitive, too. And, at least for the moment, he doesn’t have to worry about winning you over anymore.
“It’s really cute that you think you can catch me,” he taunts, panting a bit. Your other camper that was chasing him has given up and gone back to the action; it’s only you two now.
You make an aggravated sort of exhale, your breaths coming also fast as you both run around the forest. “I did catch you!”
“Clothes don’t count.” James feints left, then goes right. He feels a twinge of guilt when you nearly trip in your attempt to correct, fighting down an urge to reach out and right you.
The next time he tries a similar maneuver, you react more quickly. Your hand snares in his shirt again, and this time you hold fast; when you go down, you make sure James comes with you.
He manages to get his elbows underneath him to avoid falling flat atop you. Your expression is alight with triumph, your fingers still curled stubbornly in James’ shirt.
“Does this count?” you taunt.
“Well, you did only grab my clothes…”
You laugh breathlessly and give his chest a push. “Don’t even try it.”
James grins. You flatten your hand on his chest, your own eyes dancing with mirth. Despite the clear day, the air between you feels crackly and ripe like the sky before a storm.
“You got me,” James confesses.
You hum smugly. “I know.”
“Guess you’ll have to escort me to jail.”
You roll your eyes, but James secretly suspects that if he kissed your cheek it’d be warm. “I’m pretty sure that is how it works,” you say, giving him another push so that he stands up.
“What’s this about?” he asks when you close a hand around his elbow. “You think I’m going to run off?”
You send him a deadpan look.
“Hey, lovely, I know how to play by the rules.”
The look deadens further.
James gasps in a manner he hopes is convincingly indignant. “I am insulted!”
“Yeah, yeah,” you hum. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
I love your writing, especially James Bombero's. I need that man to be real.
Some fluff, maybe suggestive if you want (?) where the Pregnant reader is very happy to see James training and exercising and maybe because she is a little insecure about her body, he shows her that no matter the weight, he can carry her.
hi nonnie! Thank you so much for this request, I need to write something with them and their baby because I can't get enough of this. Hope you enjoy <3
firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who feels insecure about her body ✿ 710 words
cw: pregnant!fem!reader, body insecurity, James being hot but also gross, suggestive but no actual smut
james potter masterlist
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You bite your lip, shifting on the couch again. It’s been difficult to get comfortable recently, what with your body adjusting for new growth and the swell of your belly. That’s not why you’re squirming though, not really. That’s just your excuse.
The real reason is across the room, wearing a headband and shining with sweat.
James is doing bicep curls with weights you’re sure you’d never be able to lift. His small grunts with each rep have you hot and bothered no matter how hard you try to focus on your novel. Your eyes trace the same sentence four times before you give up, looking up to admire him again.
His muscles shift under the thin fabric of his sleeveless shirt. You find yourself staring, the book in your hand falling into your lap. James shakes his hair off his forehead again, beads of sweat dripping off his chocolate-colored curls. Your body heats, an ache between your legs that only worsens as you continue to watch him move.
It’s been a few weeks since you’ve let James touch you. You don’t feel right in your body.
You’re happy. Incredibly, wonderfully, amazingly happy to be carrying his baby, it’s not that. Every time you look in the mirror, you don’t feel like yourself. The thought of him touching you, seeing you like this, makes your skin crawl. You know James would love you no matter what you looked like, but you’re having trouble loving yourself enough to let him touch you.
The heat in your gut mixes with the icy coldness of insecurity. Your face crumbles and you look back at your book, nausea rising up your throat despite the fact that you’ve long surpassed your morning sickness phase.
Of course, it’s at this moment that James chooses to look at you. He takes out an earbud, a frown on his face. “Are you alright, love?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” You say, though the words are hollow and your voice wavers enough for him to notice. “I just… you look really good right now.”
“Why do you sound disappointed by that?” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe off his sweat as he steps closer to you. “Normally you’d say ‘oh wow Jamie, you are so hot with such big muscles, I love you so much!’” James does a very poor impersonation of you, but it’s enough to have one corner of your mouth tilting up into a smile.
“I would never say that.” You say back in a low voice, rolling your eyes at him. The tight feeling in your gut doesn’t go away, though, and your hands instinctively find your bump. Despite it being the main source of the insecurity, feeling the skin there also brings you a sense of comfort. It’s an internal battle that just leaves you feeling like there are bugs below your skin, like you’re an imposter. “I’m just… afraid to let you touch me right now.
James’ face contorts like this is the most confusing thing he’s ever heard, and then he looks almost offended. “Do you think so little of me? Angel, you’re carrying my child, I would never-”
“No, it’s not you, it’s… I don’t like how I look right now.”
A thick silence fills the room, lingering long enough that you interrupt it with a sharp gasp in surprise as James slides an arm under your legs, the other behind your back, and lifts you into his hold gently. He just chuckles.
“James!” You wrap your arms around his back to stop yourself from falling.
“You know I love you no matter what you look like, right?” James’ voice is soft.
“Yes.” You say, just as quiet. “I know.”
“And you just told me that I look good.” Not a question, but you respond the same.
“Yes, I know.” With a smile this time.
“And I’m really turned on right now, so can I please carry you upstairs and make love to you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to get shy or embarrassed. “I’ll worship you until you forget all about your insecurities, baby.”
Your cheeks heat, and you bury yourself into his chest. He smells like sweat and man, and you crinkle your nose.
hi babes. I love your James fire chiefX pregnant reader serie
Can you do one about the reader having a hard natural birth but in then all ends well? a mix of angst and fluff, please 🙏
Love your work ♡
hiii lovely! Thank you so much for your request, I can't wait to write him as a dad now too :))) I hope you enjoy this one, though I will say I made the birth vague because I have no knowledge or experience with labor lol okay hope you enjoy, lovely! <3
firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who goes into labor at the worst time ✿ 1.2k words
cw: fem!pregnant!reader, birth scene (vague), emt!Reggie helps reader give birth, unexpected birth/home birth, i'm sorry that the extent of my birth knowledge comes from grey's anantomy
james potter masterlist
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It had been a relatively easy, calm day for James and his crew at the fire station. So much so that he’s already uneasy. He doesn’t like sitting still, it makes him anxious. He’s already borderline frantic knowing that you’re sitting at home, ready to go into labor at any moment. This is his last shift before he has some time off to spend with you and the baby.
So, despite the fact that he continues to say he’s not an anxious person, he’s worried about you.
It gets worse when the newbie says “Wow, it’s been a good day!”
Immediately, a sharp tension takes over the crew. James’ shoulders tighten, and Sirius says “mate.” while rubbing his temples with his fingers.
James knows things are inevitably going to go wrong.
They do. Almost immediately the station gets swamped with calls, and he has to split everyone up for fires at multiple locations.
James heads to one scene, barking orders at the other men, though not in a cruel way, just loud and instructive. He needs them to move faster, always faster, as flames threaten to consume the entire building. Water sprays viscously from hoses, people run around frantically, and firefighters yell at each other over the roar of the flames.
In the midst of all the chaos, James doesn’t hear his phone ring. Not the first time, or the second, or the third. In fact, by the time he manages to glance at the screen, there are 13 missed calls from you. His heart sinks and he immediately presses answer when you call again, raising the phone to his ear.
“Is everything okay, Angel?” He plugs his other ear to try and each better, taking a few steps away from the scene, though it doesn’t block much of the sound of his pounding heart or the commotion of the fire.
“Well, um…” Your voice is shaky, a bit strained. You take a deep breath and speak again. “I think I’m in labor.”
He’s been expecting this call. Of course it happens at the worst possible time, and his heart leaps into his throat. “Did your water break?”
You don’t answer the question right away, and when you do, it’s not the answer he is expecting. Or wanting.
“Well, um…” You start slowly again, a nervous habit when you have to really think about each word coming out of your mouth. “Actually, it broke a few hours ago.”
This time it feels like his heart stops entirely, the scene around him drowned out by worry and the rush of blood to his ears.
“*What?*” He takes a few more steps away, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Well, I- I know most women have ah- hours after their water breaks, especially with their first birth, and so I thought I’d let you finish out your shift. But now my contractions are ah- only a minute or two apart.”
Fuck.
“Okay, Angel just… lay down, breathe through it, and I’m going to be right there.” James almost drops his phone as he stomps his way back to the scene.
“Please don’t hang up!” You cry out on the other end, forcing yourself to breathe. He can hear it, feel your panic through each inhale and exhale.
“I’m not, I’m not, baby. Just hang on.” James doesn’t know what to do, he can’t think, he can’t breathe even though he’s telling you to. His eyes land on Sirius, and he stomps over quickly.
“I have to go.” He kicks into Sirius’ shoulder a bit, just enough to get his attention, leaning in so his best mate can hear him.
“Now?” Sirius glances back at the still roaring fire.
“She’s in labor!” James tells Sirius, whose eyes widen dramatically and he starts nodding and shoving James in the direction of some ambulances.
“Go!” Sirius encourages with a nod, “Take Reggie’s ambulance, I’ll take over!”
“Thank you!” James manages to say before breaking into a run toward the ambulance, his body resisting due to the weight of all of his equipment. Reggie, Sirius’ younger brother, hops into the driver's seat without question.
“Where are we going?” He asks as James moves to climb in the back. He tells Reggie his address and the two are off, lights and sirens.
The whole time, the sound of your breathing and curses of pain reach his ears, he tries to calm you by whispering soothing words of his own into the line. He doesn’t know if it’s helping.
“James.” You groan, hissing an inhale through your teeth. His heart pounds, you only call him by his full name when you’re really stressed. “I think the baby is coming right now.”
“Just- just hold on.” He doesn’t know what to do. Reggie drives faster, turning onto your street. “We’re almost there, angel, just a minute.”
“I don’t know if I have a minute!” You screech into the phone, and James doesn’t know whether you’re truly about to have the baby or if you’re just scared.
He doesn’t even wait for Reggie to fully stop the ambulance before he hops out, running inside. He finds you in the bedroom, sweating and grimacing, and runs to your side.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” James coos softly, trying to soothe and take in the entire situation. “I have to see where you’re at baby, can I look?”
You nod, grimacing as James lifts up your maternity dress to look between your legs. Obviously he’s been there plenty of times before but… it feels a bit different this time.
James isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking for initially, but it becomes obvious when he looks. Because he can see the head already.
“Reggie!” He calls out to the EMT, who darts into the bedroom behind him. He takes in the scene and quickly realizes what’s going on, that there’s no time to get to the hospital.
“Shit, okay.” Reggie takes James’ place, and James moves up by your head to hold your hand.
Everything happens quickly from there. Reggie is able to talk you through what to do. James feels like he might pass out, but he focuses on you. Looking at you, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need.
This is definitely *not* the birth plan the two of you had made.
But when all is said and done, when the two of you hear the baby cry and James helps you into the Ambulance to head to the hospital, he finds himself oddly calm. He holds his newborn son as Reggie wheels you into the ER. The doctors check over the both of you, and though they’d like to admit you for a few days just for observation, James still only feels euphoric.
Because everything is fine, you are healthy and safe, and you’ve given him a son.
James can’t find it in himself to stay panicked. Like he says, he’s never been an anxious person.
He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then the baby’s.
“I love you.” He whispers to the baby, and then his eyes meet yours. “I love you.”
You blink exhaustedly, but smile, and cuddle your son tighter to your chest.
Hi honey! I came to request a James Potter au because the obsession with this man is very high!!!
The poor man, arriving home from his job as a firefighter, finds his very stubborn, eight-months-pregnant wife on a ladder fixing a light bulb. He must be scared and in shock. 🫠
hi nonnie!! You and the other anon literally sent in firefighter requests at the exact same time so i'm turning it into it's own little au. I already have another req for it! Also than you so much for requesting, especially a pregnancy request, my baby fever has been so bad recently I'm obsessed with writing family fluff. Hope you enjoy, my love <3
firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who should not be changing a lightbulb ✿ 771 words
cw: pregnant!reader, reader climbing a ladder while pregnant, James being a protective husband
james potter masterlist
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James Potter does not consider himself to be an anxious man.
As Fire Chief, he has to keep a level head. He needs to be logical, precise, and quick on his feet. He doesn’t have time to worry or be afraid, he has to act, and he prides himself on being able to do exactly that.
Except when it comes to his wife. With you, he can’t help but find himself sick with anxiety. And it’s gotten significantly worse since the two of you found out you’re expecting.
The anxiety usually creeps in toward the end of his shift. He doesn’t get nervous about fires or disasters, he gets nervous because he hasn’t heard from you in over an hour. No calls, no texts, no nothing. Which probably means that you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to be doing. And that is what worries him.
His muscles feel heavy as he steps up to the front door. It opens easily, the familiar scent and feeling of home easing the tension in his body just a little. The quiet brings the tension right back.
“Love?” He calls out, peeking into the kitchen. You aren’t there, or in the living room.
“I’m in the nursery, Jamie!” You call back, and that makes him smile. The nursery has been your favorite place as of late, James thinks you’re probably nesting. He finds it sweet.
It’s less sweet when he pads down the carpeted hallway and turns the corner into the nursery. His heart stops, the smile dropping off of his face.
“Angel, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
You’re several steps up a ladder, arms stretched fully overhead as you twist a lightbulb into the ceiling’s empty socket. Your belly, swollen and stretched almost as far as it will go, sticks out in a way that threatens your balance. He’s behind you instantly, hands on your hips to steady you.
“The light was flickering.” You explain, voice calm and soft like you aren’t on the verge of a dangerous fall.
“Please get down.” James grips your hips a bit firmer, but never enough to cause pain. His heart beats faster than it has in the last several hours, and he’s put out two fires today.
“I’m fine.” You blow him off, continuing to twist the lightbulb. You make a small, frustrated noise when your hand slips, and James thinks he might have a heart attack. But it’s when you move up on your toes that James decides he’s had enough.
“Okay.” He fully wraps an arm around the front of your thighs, under the bottom of your belly. The other sprawls across your side, keeping you steady. “You’re done.”
“Jamie-” You try to argue, but his grip only tightens.
“No.” He gently tugs at you, just enough to guide you down the ladder. He knows he can catch you if you lose your balance.
“I’m fine-”
“Get down.” He keeps his hands on you until your feet are planted firmly on the floor. And he still doesn’t remove them as you plop down into the rocking chair, he just moves them to your shoulders. You don’t look sheepish or guilty, instead you’re pouting. He hates that he loves it. “Don’t give me that look. You know you’re too far along to be doing things like this, my love. Especially when I’m not home to help you.”
“I was fine. I can change a lightbulb, James.” The way your lip sticks out encourages him to gently flick it with his finger.
“Said every person who has ever fallen off of a ladder changing a lightbulb.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and slips the lightbulb from between your fingers. “You’re carrying precious cargo. If someone is going to fall, it’s going to be me.”
“You’re not going to fall.” Your whined protest only serves to prove James’ point. He smirks, but hides it with a kiss to your hair before he steps onto the ladder himself. He reaches the socket easily, standing several steps lower than you were.
You pretend to be annoyed, but now that you’re settled, you notice there’s an ache in your lower back and your feet hurt. A hand rubs over your belly, and even your pretend annoyance starts to fade as you watch your husband install the lightbulb in his uniform. By the time his eyes meet yours again, you’re fully ogling him.
“I’ve changed my mind.” You decide as he steps off the ladder. He raises his eyebrows at you, a silent encouragement.
“I think you should be the one changing the lightbulbs from now on.”
WAIT WAIT FIREFIGHTER JAMES BUT HIS DAUGHTER MAKING CALLS JUST TO SEE HIM WHEN SHE MISSES HIM
"potter! it's your girl!" james is out of his chair and jogging to the landline in record time, wiping his face with a wrinkled napkin. his friend passes him the phone with a knowing smile and pats him on the back on his way out.
"hi princess!"
"hi daddy!" the way she's whispering makes james preemptively shake his head.
"where's mummy? you know this number is for emergencies, right bug?"
her little squeaky voice rises a whole octave as she tries to defend herself with a whine. "w-well yes, but I wanted to tell you about the ladybug I found in the yard," he can't help but chuckle when he recognizes the same tone you use when you're trying to get your way. "she chose me daddy, sat in my hand for hours!"
"of course she chose you, angel. prettiest girl on the block." he smiles when she giggles on the other side. he tries again. "where's your mummy?"
this time her voice is back to a whisper, "I'm in the closet, daddy. mummy is making dinn—"
the pair of them gasp quietly when they hear your voice calling for the little girl in the closer, the same little girl who then squeals! when you open the door to catch her red handed. "what's going on here?" james waits until he hears you on the receiver. "james?"
"hi pretty girl." it's sneaky, but he can hear your smile all the way across town.
you sigh, "she shouldn't get used to calling this number all the time."
"I know, baby. but can ya blame her? she loves her daddy. good to know at least someone misses me."
his smile widens when he hears you scoff, "yeah well, hurry home and remind me why I married you, yeah?"
"your wish is my command, princess, already on the way."
"bug, say goodbye to your dad."
"bye daddy!"
"bye, angel! you be good to your mummy, okay?"
"okay!"
"go wash your hands, please!" james laughs as he listens to his little girl run out of the room, already singing an off key rendition of some song he's pretty sure he could recite in his sleep at this point. he knows your attention is back on him when your own little laugh is closer to the receiver. there's a beat of silence. "be safe, okay? I'll see you soon, i love you."
"I love you too, baby. to the moon and back."
you both smile giddily into your phones, "to the moon and back."
Hiii 🫶🏻 could you write something about James and reader who are fiancé, and James comes home and notices reader isn't wearing her ring ?
(Sorry for any orthograph fault English isn't my first language 🥲🫶🏻🫶🏻)
no apologies necessary, sweetness! thanks for your request <3
James Potter x fiancée!reader who isn't wearing her ring [1.5k words]
CW: implied firefighter!James on account of his shift work though he could just be in another profession that has 48-hour shifts, fem!reader, miscommunication, fluff
James knows that he has a tendency to see the world through rose coloured glasses, but he doesn’t think that his proclivity for positivity lends itself to leaving him ignorant to reality.
He’s perhaps disturbingly optimistic, but he likes to think he has a relatively accurate finger on the pulse of his life. His relationships.
You.
Which is why he feels like the carpet has been ripped out from under him, like the ground has given way and he’s free falling into the depths of hell, like he’s been thrown overboard into the icy ocean surrounded by eerily silent nothingness as he stares at your engagement ring sitting like a flashing red light on your bedside table.
His brain is whirring and overheating, misfiring as it tries to recall any moments of discontent between the two of you, whether he’s ever seen you take it off since he proposed (he hasn’t), whether or not you’ve given him any signs that you’ve been at all unhappy.
He called you last night before you got into bed. He thinks you sounded worried but he figured that was typical; you often express a certain longing – a loneliness – when he takes on 48-hour shifts at the station, but he’s lucky enough that he only has to do that once a month. You hate the idea that he could get called away in the middle of the night, worrying you’ll wake up to terrible news.
But what if it wasn’t worry he heard in your voice last night? Or, what if it wasn't a worry at his expense, but rather because of him? What has he done?
And what can he do?
This is ultimately the thought that motivates him to abandon his work bag in the middle of the bedroom floor and go out in search of you, still in his work clothes, still desperate for a proper shower in his own bathroom, but neither of those were nearly as dire as righting whatever wrong he has caused with you.
He has to fix this; he’s going to fix this.
But his heart stutters and falters when he finds you in the kitchen, kneeling on the counter – despite the step ladder that James had purchased for you in hopes that you’d stop climbing the counters and save his poor, weary heart the worry of you falling – as you pull every single mug down from the highest cabinet.
Oh God, he’s too late, you’re moving out. You’re separating the mugs – the house’s prized collection – into his and hers.
“Angel.” He nearly whimpers; the moniker escaping his lips on an exhale as he catalogues the scene before him. “Wha- what happened?”
You startle at his sudden appearance, though your face quickly crumples int0 a terribly guilty and ashamed expression that has James’ stomach doing somersaults in anxiety and pre-emptive grief.
“Oh, James. You noticed…”
“I noticed?!” He huffs as he gestures at you vaguely as though the nakedness of your ringfinger was glaring to even the most casual observer.
“What happened?” He presses again, urgent this time as he wars with the prospect of pulling you off of the countertop to safety (solid ground) and wondering if that’s his place anymore.
He’s going to throw up.
“I’m so sorry, Jamie, honest.” You insist, sliding off the edge of the counter to stand in front of him; you wring your hands together in front of you looking terribly small and contrite.
“I…I don’t want you to be sorry, Y/N, I want to understand what happened?”
“It was an accident!” The confession seems to burst out of you, shocking you and devastating James. “It was an accident, Jamie, I’m so, so sorry. I know, I know I should’ve been more careful, but-”
“Careful!?” James nearly shrills, his mind running away from him as it concocts images of all the possible accidents and reckless behaviours you could possibly be apologising for. The protein shake he had at the end of his shift churns unpleasantly in his stomach.
“I’m sorry, James.” You murmur quietly, hands pressed together in a silent prayer migrating to your chin as tears threaten to fall from your lashes. “I thought there was room for them all up there but, clearly we have too many and when I turned around it just came crashing down.”
James' brain – and heart and lunch threatening to evacuate through his esophagus – stutters to a halt.
“Room for what?” He manages to get out, rubbing his chest with one hand as though he can convince his heart to return to its normal cadence.
“The mugs.” You admit miserably. “I know it was your favourite mug, but-”
“The one with the polkadots and hand painted heart?” James confirms breathlessly. You nod your head yes, a single tear finally escaping your waterline and leaving a treasonous streak in its wake.
“I know it’s not the same, but I stopped by the ceramic studio downtown and they helped me make a new one, but the drying and firing process takes a lot longer than I thought so I pulled every mug we had down so you could find one to use in the meantime and maybe we could display some of these somewhere else or pack them up but I didn’t mean to break it, James; I’m sorry.”
The silence following your spiel sits in the room like a physical weight as the pieces slot together in James’ mind; his stomach slowly comes to a rolling stop.
“You’re apologising to me because…my mug broke.” He confirms, the end of his sentence lilting up with a silent question mark.
“It was an accident, Jamie, I promise.” You whisper, eyes navigating James’ face as though trying to deduce whether it might be safe to approach.
His shoulders fall suddenly, both in relief and acquiescence; you seem to accept that as a sign that you could manage a cautious step in his direction.
“Are you mad?” You query.
“Not even a little.” James admits, though he does take a moment to mourn the mug he’s loved for years. He doesn’t know if you remember, but you had pointed it out to him on one of your very first dates, laughing at the sheer size of it and calling it ‘absurd’. The sound of your laughter when he insisted he was going to buy it is what pushed him to the conclusion that he loved you, that he loves you. He loved that mug.
But he’s happy to lose it if he was keeping you.
“No?”
James laughs; a breathless, disbelieving and relieved sound that has your brows rising and the corners of your lips threatening to turn up hopefully. “Angel, I saw your ring in the bedroom and, well, I-”
He doesn’t have a chance to explain to you the anguish he felt at the thought of you leaving him when you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him in shock.
“No!” You holler, the denial muffled behind your hands which then migrate to your chest as though you’re convincing your heart to stay put beneath your breast bone. “Oh my God, no. No, I took it off before I went to the studio! I knew I’d need to take it off at the wheel and didn’t want to put it down somewhere and forget about it! I got home and showered and, well, apparently forgot about it anyway. But at least it was at home and, oh Jamie.”
You’re equal parts fond, equal parts chiding, and equal parts sympathetic at your poor, lovesick, dramatic fiancé. Your fiancé, for his part, is beaming at you.
Flooded with relief at being wrong and chuckling at his own expense, James opts to close the distance between the two of you and holds you tight to his chest like he’s been longing to do for the past forty-nine hours.
“I can’t believe you thought I was leaving you.” You laugh into his chest; James rubs his cheek into the crown of your head like he’s trying to infuse his love for you through your roots.
“I can’t believe you went to a pottery class without me.” He volleys in turn, rewarding him with the bubbly, tinkering laugh that solidified his love for you all those years ago.
“The lady took pity on me on account of my red-rimmed eyes and gave me a discount; I’m sure she’d be very happy to hear my plan worked if both of us showed up for a class together.”
“I’d love that.” James agrees, rocking you to-and-fro at the thought of his poor sweet girl showing up anywhere distressed at all let alone on his account.
“We can make you a whole set of mugs with polkadots and hearts.” You continue, lips brushing against his collarbone like a guileful kiss.
“Thank you, angel.” He smiled, scanning the collection of mugs for one he might be happy to use until he gets his hands on your specially made one, “I can’t wait.”
hi mae! wondering if you feel like writing anything for fireman!james? i've been thinking about him lately......maybe something where reader has a fire at her apartment, some angst and comfort if you feel like it. thanks for considering, hope you're having a great day/night!
Thanks for requesting angel! Hope you're having a great day/night as well <3
cw: animal in distress
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
firefighter!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words
By the time James’ team finishes the primary search, there are fourteen residents on the street in front of the block of flats. All were out by the time James got here with the second truck, so his search went quickly, locating the original source of the fire—a dishcloth thrown on a hob that hadn’t cooled when the flat’s tenant went out, which then spread to the entire building. He tears off his mask and looks around for where he might be needed.
Most of the victims are already getting treatment, sitting on the sidewalk across from the blaze under a twilight sky, having pulse oximeters clipped to their fingers and being given oxygen in a few cases. It’s mostly calm, but—there. James catches sight of Frank trying to corral a victim who’s seemingly refusing treatment, and he beelines in that direction.
James’ timing couldn’t be better. He approaches just as you break away from Frank, and you’re—god, you must have been one of the last out, you’re staggering, dizzy from smoke inhalation. You stagger right into James’ arms.
“You’re okay,” he placates you swiftly, catching you around your waist. “You’re alright.”
You make a choked sound and try to get free.
James’ can’t let you go. You’re trying to run towards the fire, which is, you know, a bad plan. He tries to convey this as Frank approaches with oxygen for you. “We’re getting things under control. Okay? The best thing you can do is—”
You shake your head, keeping Frank from putting a mask on you. Tears stream from your eyes, either from fright or irritation from the smoke. Probably both, actually. “I have to—” Your voice is a hoarse wreckage. “I need—”
“What, lovely?” asks James while Frank continues trying to place the mask on your face. James could probably hold you still, weak as you are, but he’d rather not have to.
“My cat—” Your voice breaks on a cough, your breath wheezing as you fight to get something out.
James’ own breathing falters. “Your cat? It’s inside?”
You nod, coughing.
“Which unit?”
You point, and that’s enough. James gives you over to Frank, hardly taking a second to hope that his friend has you in a secure grip before jogging back across the street. He puts his mask on as he goes, shoving his hands into his gloves.
The fire is noisy. The team is working to put it out at the source, but in this part of the building it’s still finding new kindling, roaring its eagerness as it licks at the ceilings. The flat you pointed to is thick with smoke. James moves from room to room, checking under furniture, inside of closets, around corners. He has the half-desperate urge to tsk for your cat, though that won’t likely work, and clad in gear as he is it would probably seem vaguely haunting.
He goes through the flat more than once. As he’s standing from peering underneath your bed for the third time (which seems the most likely hiding place to him) James notices a lump under the covers. He thinks he can be excused for perhaps not being the most gentle in his haste to unveil the hiding place. Your cat disagrees.
James is glad for the thick material of his suit and gloves as the thing comes out shrieking and scratching. He’s impressed by its determination to tear into him despite how exhausted the poor thing must be—proven a moment later when it manages to find the space inside James’ sleeve where his wrist is exposed. Oh well, no rose without its thorns and all that.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” he mumbles, bundling the creature close to his chest as he leaves the room.
In the stairwell, the smoke is less thick, a sign that they’re getting the blaze under control on at least the ground floor. James passes a few members of his unit on his way out of the building (answering more than one exclamation of “Where was that hiding?” with a shrug) and goes outside to look for you.
He doesn’t have to look for long. Frank seems to have finally managed to cajole you into sitting down and putting on an oxygen mask, but at James’ emergence you make a broken shout and tear free all over again, sprinting across the street. This time, Frank is too caught offguard to stop you.
James is glad he doesn’t. You barrel right into James, take his cargo into your arms (James has a momentary panic that you’re about to get torn to ribbons, but apparently your cat only has it out for him), and crumple, sobbing, to the pavement.
James’ heart throbs painfully as you press wet little kisses into smoky fur, a string of raspy endearments tumbling from between your lips. Your cat must be feeling similarly, because James has never seen an animal fresh out of a trauma situation submit to loving so complaisantly.
“It’s okay.” James crouches beside you. He puts a hand to your back as Frank crosses the street to you, looking a mix of exasperated and relieved, with his equipment. “It’s a good sign that it’s still conscious, but you both need oxygen after inhaling all that smoke. Let us help, okay?”
You’re much more cooperative now than you were earlier. You let James hold an oxygen mask to your face while Frank prepares a smaller one for your cat, another sob escaping you when he affixes it to the creature’s tiny snout. The cat doesn’t offer much more resistance than recoiling slightly, and you coo, petting down its fur soothingly.
“I know,” you edge away from the mask to say. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
James feels this isn’t the best use of your air, seeing as your cat is unlikely to understand you, but he sympathizes with the need to apologize for a perceived failing when someone or something was depending on you. He also knows you aren’t talking to him, but he feels the need to reassure you anyway. “It’s going to be fine.”
You whimper softly. “Where was she?” you ask. James notes that you seem better than you were; your voice is still hoarse, but you’re no longer coughing. “I was trying to find her, but I—I couldn’t.”
“She made herself a rather good little hiding spot in the bed,” he tells you.
Your eyes well all over again. “Idiot,” you murmur, petting your cat lovingly. You look at James. “Thank you so much.”
He smiles and puts the mask back to your face. “I’m just glad everyone’s alright. She made me work for it, though.” He uses his spare hand to push up his sleeve, showing off the thin scratches on his wrist.
You back away from the mask again with a quiet “Oh” that contains more compassion than James thinks is really due (but he’ll take it). “I’m sorry. She’s really sweet, she was probably just scared. I’m sure she appreciates it.”
James chuckles and suppresses a comment about how you’re two peas in a pod.
“I would have been scared too,” he agrees. “Listen, can you do me a favor? Keep the mask on for a while. I think Frank’s gonna have a stroke if you don’t.”
You look at Frank, contrition coloring your expression. “Sorry,” you tell him.
Frank huffs a laugh. “It’s fine—just, yeah. Please.”
You wipe under your eyes and sit still so that James can hold the mask to your face again. The fire quiets a decibel at a time behind him. Looking at you, with your watery, happy eyes and your cat cradled lovingly in your lap, James feels good about tonight.
He offers you a smile, and even with the oxygen mask on, even weak as you are, you return it.
Blurb: Eddie isn’t only good with his hands. He worships the ground you gracefully walk on and he is determined to satisfy you in every way that he can. Your pleasure is his pleasure and thanks to your mutual friend Steve, he might just have a chance to give you what you deserve.
Pairing: Older!Mechanic!Eddie x Reader
Warnings: 18+, lust at first sight, rough!dom!Eddie (careful what you wish for, right?), oral (m receiving), p in v sex, sloppy kisses, naked bodies and underwear description, reader referred to as girl, pet names, praise kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), alcohol, characters are of ages 25+ and 30+
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divider by @cafekitsune
Not only was Eddie Munson phenomenal with his hands when it came to mending cars and tinkering around with bolts and nuts… but he knew a trick or two with his strong muscular tongue and his long skilled fingers; and they weren’t associated with playing guitar or singing a epic chorus.
Eddie knew how to fuck— and he was fucking great at it.
But he couldn’t just come out straight with it and tell you that— he had to ease into it. It was like a dark lustrous dance of longing and need and he didn’t mind if he were in it for the long run.
Eddie wanted you but he knew that perfection took time.
It all began on a sweltering summers day. The metal head was very well educated on how car batteries and engines reacted to intense heat— but no amount of study could have prepared him for the way your car trundled into his garage.
Wiping the sweat from his thick brow he watched how you swung open the door with a tired groan and a chesty grumble. Full of merciless rage as you rattled your hands against the metal plating of the evidently old vehicle. Swearing like a sailor on a sinking ship, “Piece of shit!! I hope they crush you!”
Eddie couldn’t control the way his jaw nearly hit the dusty courtyard floor as your heeled foot struck against the cars front tire multiple times. Your rage wasn’t what surprised Eddie— he was accustomed to watching customers let out their pent up rage onto their dying automobiles. But what stunned him was you. You presented yourself in a way that made Eddie question why you decided to bring your car all the way down to this side of town when you clearly could afford to go elsewhere.
Not to toot his own horn, but Eddie was one of the best mechanics this town had to offer. However, he did hold a reputation that much of the community did not agree with. He had a look that made people uncomfortable— that made them run away.
But not you.
You charged toward him fiercely and determined. You made Eddie shrink in his boots.
“Hi, I’m looking for Eddie? Eddie Munson? I’m told this is his place.” Your sugar coated tongue had Eddie’s mind reeling. The contrast of your actions and your personality made him want to laugh aloud— but he managed to keep his humour to himself. For now. You hoop your keys around your index finger, swirling the metal so they would clank and chime against one another.
“You’re looking at him, princess,” He wipes his large oil covered hands against the dark denim of his jeans, toying with the chunky silver rings that graced his fingers as he drank you in further— having a better view of you now, “How can I help?” He briefly glances over to your car, his two front teeth puncturing his bottom lip as he recalls the way you were attacking it just moments earlier.
“My friend Steve said if anyone can fix this hunk of shit then it would be you.” You offer Eddie a tight lipped smile, your hands resting comfortably on your hips as you also gaze back over at the rust bucket your father gifted you 4 years prior, “She isn’t much to look at, but she meant a lot to my old man so… I sort of have to keep her around, Y’know?” You roll your eyes comically and Eddie hums in acknowledgment, crossing his heavily tattooed arms over his plump chest that is clad in a tarnish white tank top.
“I get it.” He grins and winks at you, walking over to where you had abandoned your prized possession, “I hope Harrington put a good word in for me, his car would’ve been scrapped last year if it weren’t for my talent.”
“He said you were the best… alongside some other things that I best not mention if you wanna keep your friendship with him on good terms.”
Eddie laughs as he leans against the bonnet of your car, his wandering eyes flickering from your skirt that is stretched across the fullness of your thighs and up to your face and all over again. He couldn’t seem to pull his attention away from you.
“It’s unlocked, if you’d like to have a look inside.” You gesture toward the hood of the car which the metal head is leisurely draped on and Eddie’s cheeks warm at the inkling that he was caught gawking at you.
“Yeah, I’ll pop it open. It might just be the heat…”
It was now your turn to rake your eyes over Eddie’s frame as he peers into the organs of your nearly dead vehicle. He was only older than you by a couple of years and yet he seemed much more experienced in life than you did. The tattoos against his pale skin had you nibbling on the plush flesh of your bottom lip. His jeans hung loosely on his hips, held up by a studded black leather belt and above the hem you could see the waistband of his boxer briefs peering out at you.
One thing Steve had failed to mention to you before your arrival was how smoking hot Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson was. If you had known sooner, you would’ve dressed up a bit more— maybe you would’ve gotten changed out of your PA office attire.
But still, your tight fitted blouse and shiny black heels would just have to suffice.
“What are you doing right now?” Boldly you move around to meet Eddie’s line of vision. His eyebrows knit together in slight confusion and he flicks his fingers toward the open hood of the car, “No, I mean, after this. What are you doing? Do you.. have plans? Maybe going home to a girlfriend, perhaps?” You weren’t very subtle, but screw it! You saw the hunger in his eyes when you first showed up— he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him and you hadn’t been taken care of in a long time.
You were needy. Desperate. And Eddie may as well have been served up to you on a silver platter!
“Plans? Oh uh… no. Not at all. I uh… I was going to go home and have some shitty wine,” His pink lips perk up into a toothy smile, a knowing smile, and you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress your own, “Does that maybe interest you? You don’t seem like a shitty wine girl.”
You shrug your shoulders and a transparent smugness settles deep into the apples of your cheeks, “I like shitty wine.”
“The good thing about being your own boss is that you can finish whenever you want.” He slaps the bonnet of the car shut and dusts his large hands against one another, “How about I look at this tomorrow and we can take my car back to mine? Or would you like to check out my ass for a bit longer?” He slyly winks at you and your face tilts toward the ground as you make a feeble attempt to conceal the blazing fire that was torturing your skin.
“Hmmm that depends— can you guarantee that you’re not some psycho and that I won’t end up on the front page of the paper tomorrow?” For someone whose body may as well be a ferness with how hot it is, you sure are making Eddie work for what you both want. Something about him made you brave, but it also made you… timid. Quiet… obedient.
And boy oh boy, Eddie was enjoying every second of the power he had over you.
“How about I let you drive? You have the keys… you have the control.” His husky voice drops an octave as he takes a few steady strides toward you. His gaze penetrates yours and his dangerous eyes have an addictive allure. Captivating and intimidating. Revealing little but knowing much… it was exciting. He excites you.
“That could work…” your voice betrays your facade of confidence and Eddie grins wider at the soft falter in your tone. He could read you like a book. Your inviting body language, the blown darkness in the centre of your glossy eyes and the way you don’t back away from him as he stalks even closer to you. You were his prey… and he was the hunter set on a target.
One of Eddie’s rough calloused hands gently takes yours. He positions your palm flat out toward the sky so he could drop his keys onto it all while his focus on your face remains unwavering, “The keys to the castle.”
“Fitting, since you called me a princess earlier.”
“Maybe I orchestrated this from the beginning?” An entertained eyebrow perks up behind his stringy damp bangs.
“Is that so?” The sound of your hushed voice echoes back at you and your lips part longingly at Eddie’s close proximity. He is close enough to kiss— tasty enough to devour. A banquet of all of the most desirable and finer things in life.
“I saw you in those heels and with those legs… I couldn’t resist. They don’t call me a Eddie the freak Munson for no reason, princess.” There is a clip to his voice, a new intensity piercing through his words like a pin to a voodoo doll.
“You might just have to show me how freaky you really are then, Mr. freak…”
-
Eddie was right. The wine did taste like shit.
You were currently draped across Eddie’s large sofa, the soft suede fabric welcomed the mould of your body as you sunk into airy cushions and you sipped hesitantly from your stemmed glass. Smearing your dark lipstick across the pristine rim as you did.
Eddie was perched on a chair across from you which was cut from the same material as the couch. His feet were planted to the floor and his legs were spread wide; like a King on his throne. There was a coffee table separating the two of you and part of you questioned why he was so far away.
You and Eddie locked eyes, a welcoming and long stare. It was comfortable, patient but growing. Neither of you looked away, but none of you made the first move, either.
Eddie was assessing you. He was trying to figure out how this would go. How it would play out. Who was going to be the dominant one and who was going to submit?
You wanted it to be him. You wanted him to know that you needed your decisions made for you tonight.
You bring your glass of wine back to your mouth, taking a small drink and proceeding to lick and bite your lip afterwards. An unspoken invitation that Eddie silently accepts.
The warm light that glows from the table lamp next to you illuminates Eddie in a gorgeous orange hue, darkening his tattoos and brightening the metal around his fingers and his neck. You envision how he would look above you— glistening in sweat with his necklace shimmering as it dangles atop of your face. The image nearly causes you to whine aloud.
Nearly.
You surveyed your surroundings, “This is a nice place you have— very cozy.” You place your wine glass on a coaster, coming back to snuggle into the pillows of the sofa and Eddie hums, pleased.
“It’s no bachelor pad but it’s home.” He tilts his nearly empty glass toward you and a mischievous smile toys with the edges of his lips, “Thank you.”
He finishes his drink with one swift movement before he is leaving his post from across from you. You watch him with blown eyes, eyes that are bright and eager. He settles his lean and sturdy physique against the door frame that leads into his kitchen space.
Your heart rate quickens with anticipation and your hips squirm beneath you as you try and remain confident under his abysmal and sinful demeanour.
You were overly aware of the lewd events hurtling toward you and the excitement of it causes your face to flush with colour.
“I’ve never fucked a girl in heels before… I think you should keep them on.” He prowls toward you, his body language animalistic and focused.
He’s been wanting to pounce on you from the moment you stepped foot through the door— but Eddie is a gentleman and gentlemen take their time.
Eddie was in front of you now. His eyes such a deep shade of chocolate brown that they seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it. They were adorned by long dark eyelashes that you were envious of and strong clean eyebrows that framed the chiselled structure of his face. He looked like a painting. Like he wasn’t real.
“I… I can keep them on.” Your face tilts toward your feet as you try to remind yourself of the appearance of the shoes that you chose to wear that day however Eddie is quick to tensely grab you by the flesh of your cheeks and snatch your attention back to him.
“Eyes on me.” His voice is a hushed purr as his nose teeters on the edge of brushing yours, “I wanna see your pretty face.”
His grip remains tight and it forces your lips into a cute pout which Eddie coos at, “I wanna kiss you. Is that okay?” You nod your head feverishly. Without wasting a single second your lips finally met, tinged with impatience. His lips were magnificent, full and defined and soft. His tongue tastes of alcohol and mint and you moan at the contact of his wet tongue wrestling against yours. His teeth nip at your bottom lip and your eyes are lidded as your fingers touch the exposed skin of his shoulders with a feathery graze; causing goosebumps to arise on Eddie’s inked skin.
“I need to know that you want this…” He breathes heavy laboured breaths, “That you want me to take control. I like it rough, baby, so we need to have a safe word… okay? Safe word is Cherries. You got that?” His domineering mask slips for a quarter of a moment as his black hues sweeten. You nod again, your mind clouded with lust and desperation.
“Repeat it back to me.”
“Cherries is the safe word.”
“Clever girl.” Without a beat Eddie is dragging you up and onto your feet. You are wobbly on your legs for a moment but you are fast to regain composure. As Eddie goes to lead you through to his bedroom you stop, your body set alight.
“Eddie can I… can I taste you first?” You are a blushing mess as the words drool from your lips. You hadn’t stopped thinking about it since you seen him man spreading in front of you in his armchair earlier. You wanted to dip down between his thighs and make his cock twitch with need, “Please.”
The metal head looked bewildered for a moment however he quickly welcomed the request. How could he possibly deny such a sweet girl when she asked him so politely?
He walks the both of you over to the comfortable chair, sitting himself down and allowing his hands to have free roam of your ass and hips, “Ask me as nicely as that and I’d give you anything you want, princess.” The pet name was now tainted with naughty intention as it rolled off of his slick tongue and your knees weaken at the sight of him gazing up at you.
It was nice to be able to study a man features without any shame or embarrassment. You were so used to stealing glances at attractive men but the visual feast sitting in front of you was enjoyed without any guilt.
You offer Eddie an intoxicated smile as his eyes venture over your face, your neck, your breasts and your exposed legs. You weren’t worried about the way your body looked— there was something so calming about Eddie that struck a match of confidence within you and he seemed to like what he was looking at.
“Such a pretty thing, aren’t you?” He rips down your skirt from around your waist, letting it pool around your ankles and leaving you stood in the pile of bunched fabric. His hands work quickly on your blouse and Eddie growls at the sight of you. Nothing to you but your matching lace underwear set and your heels.
Your nipples peak at the change of temperature in the room and the sly man pinches them with the tips of his slender fingers, rolling the buds mercilessly and smirking devilishly as he does. The action causes a soft whine to emit from your throat and Eddie’s lips perk into a grin at the sound. He was obsessed with you.
“Kneel.”
And you do. The bones of your knees meet the floor with a pathetic thud and Eddie smooths the palm of his hand across the softness of your hair; enticing you that he will be gentle at first but he yanks the strands seconds later, causing you to yelp.
“Open up. I wanna see if I’ll fit.”
Bracing yourself with your hands on his jean clad knees you unhinge your jaw, opening wide as Eddie slots two of his fingers onto your tongue and they slide deep in the crevasse of your mouth. They tickle the back of your throat and your thighs clench together at the thought of him fucking of your face.
“It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I’m sure you can handle it. Right, hon?”
“Yes. I can take it. Please…” You babble around his digits.
There you are again with your manners and your begging bambi eyes. It awakens something within Eddie— something that had been sitting dormant but has now stirred from its slumber. A darkness. A line he had never crossed but he was so close to it now. He wanted to own you. He wanted you to belong to him… to be his and only his.
“Go on then, baby. He’s waiting.” He winks at you and your adrenaline shaken hands find the zipper of his jeans. Eddie’s thick bulge strains against the stiff denim and you chew on your bottom lip furiously as his long and full shaft springs from his boxer briefs.
Your mouth salivates at the sight and you look to him for permission, which Eddie gives, before you are popping his throbbing tip into the hot cave of your mouth. A vibration travels down Eddie’s cock and reaches his balls as you moan around him. He felt so good— so natural to have him in your mouth. Like sucking on your favourite treat.
“Fuck— that feels so good.” Dark curls spill onto the back cushion of the chair and Eddie’s hands fist your hair into a ponytail, guiding your slobbering mouth up and down the length of his aching cock.
Your mind was blank of anything except for Eddie’s body and the way he felt inside of you. He hadn’t even penetrated you yet and your panties were dampening with slick more and more with every passing bob of your head.
“Shit—“ Eddie seethes through clenched teeth, his hips rocking up to meet your sloppy movements and he punctuates each thrust with a rewarding moan. “I need to feel you.” It was abrupt, the way he ripped your mouth away from him— but you understood. You needed to feel him too. You hadn’t felt this desperate for anyone before; this sultry and seductive. This needy and submissive. You didn’t want this night to end.
You cant contain the soft pants that leave your throat, a mixture of excitement and arousal as you climbed onto straddle Eddie’s thighs. His body felt hard and masculine beneath your touch and you shivered at the way he laid a harsh spank to the meaty flesh of your ass.
“As innocent as you look, you really are just a dirty little slut, huh?” He slaps you again, this time harder than the last and you nearly collapse against his chest. Eddie laughs mockingly, forcing you to sit upright as his fingers plunge down into the soaking fabric of your panties.
You gasp, your already primed body becoming slippier as his fingers thrust softly into you— testing the waters.
“Such a wet pussy, all for me…” His fingers twitch inside of you and you release a sound which can only be described as a moan combined with a helpless whine. With his free hand Eddie rips your breasts from the confines of your bra, allowing the skin to spill free.
His tongue bathed your breast while he used his teeth, giving you peppered bites that shot pleasure through your body like a lightning bolt. He drew your coiled nipple into his mouth and he let his teeth roughly drag over the tip. You moaned loudly. He leaves your breast and looks up into your face.
“Tell me how badly you want my cock.” His voice is a clipped and cool demand.
“I want you to fill me up so bad. I need it, Eddie. Please… fuck, I want it more than anything.” Your hips grind against his fingers and your words must’ve struck Eddie in a pleasant way because before your brain has any time to catch up to his ever changing movements, his fingers are pulling your panties off to one side and his cock is teasing and toying with your dripping hole.
The eye contact between the pair of you was intense as Eddie’s entire length slowly slid inside of you. Your breathing catches in your throat at the stretch of him. Before long, Eddie settles inside of you and your eyes remain shackled to one another. Sex with a stranger shouldn’t be this intimate— so you screw your eyes shut.
Big mistake.
“Open your fucking eyes,” He snarls, his hand grabbing your throat harshly as he pulls your body down toward his, “I want you to watch me as I fuck you.” Your eyelids snap open and Eddie’s features are slack but intimidating as he looks at you. The feeling of being brutally and totally full was almost too much for you to stand. Too much for you to handle. He pulls back from you and begins to thrust.
“Wait—“ You plead and your hands find Eddie’s chest as you support yourself on top of him, “I just need a moment to adjust… you’re so big.” You squirm at the pulsing of your walls around Eddie’s shaft and he grins egotistically up at you.
“Perfect thing to say.”
He repositions his grip onto the back of your thighs, slowly readjusting himself beneath you and easing himself in and out.
“Okay,” you breathe with a soft nod, “You can fuck me now.”
Eddie sensed that your body was ready for his size and he then started to brutishly slam his body into yours. Unbelievably erotic sounds hit your ears as you feel and hear his hips slapping against yours. Sticky skin meeting sticky skin.
“Feels like someone is fisting my dick.”
“Wettest little pussy I’ve ever fucked, yknow that?”
“Shit, I could cum from just the sight of you.”
“Listen to that, baby. You hear how much your pussy is loving my cock?”
“Keep those stunning fucking eyes on me.”
Eddie’s deep grunts and moans mixed with his dirty commentary only heightened the erotica. You’re gentle to take his hand into yours, timidly welcoming two of his fingers back into your mouth as you bound up and down to meet the crack of his hips against yours. Eddie’s eyes gloss over from the view of you above him and his thrusts get snappier and more intentional. Harsher. Quicker. Deeper.
As his cock fucks your sweet hole, his fingers are busy fucking your mouth as well. He took note of how much you liked to have him in your mouth— no matter what part of his body that may be. Eddie got an inkling that this would be the first of many nights together. And he wasn’t mad at the idea— he was actually thrilled by it. It spurred him on.
“Rub your clit for me, sweet girl.” It was as if you were in a trance and the only thing you were able to do was obey Eddie’s every beckon and call. Your finger tips find your sensitive bundle of nerves and you sigh out in complete bliss at the euphoria that shocks up every vertebrae of your spine.
“That’s it, baby. I want you to cum so fucking hard. I’m getting so close— want you to cream all over my cock.”
The speed in which your fingers circled your clit increases and your eyes fight to stay open. You could feel the desperation punctuated in every one of Eddie’s quickened thrusts and you feel that familiar build coming to build in your tummy.
“Fuck— I’m gonna cum. Keep rubbing that clit, baby. You’re being such a good girl for me.” His tired pants fill the air and your mind whizzes and bubbles as you whine out loudly.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, of fuck!” Your mouth gapes open wide, mirroring the sweaty sex symbol below you and your eyes widen as your orgasm floods your every cell. Shaking your body from head to toe. You feel Eddie’s cock swell inside of you— causing your high to continue
“Shit!!” A yell breaks past Eddie’s swollen lips as his orgasm hits. You watch as his face contours as he cums inside of you. His eyes squint shut and his mouth is pulled into a grimace. The veins on his forearms bulk and tense. It was the sexiest thing you had ever fucking seen.
Your heart paced rabidly in your chest as you both breathed heavily, trying to control the heaving of your chests as you both came down. You’re relying on Eddie’s body to keep you from collapsing and Eddie is wise to this. His strong arms wrap around your body as he pulls himself out of you, bringing you to rest on his chest.
Too tired and sated to do anything else, you press yourself against Eddie’s bare and empty sack, grinding lightly down onto the tender flesh of his balls and the noise that leaves Eddie’s throat is indescribable.
You shoot up to look at him and it’s now your turn to smirk and it’s Eddie’s turn to flush a shade of bright red.
“Ignore that.” He coughs to clear his oesophagus, followed by a light hearted chuckle as you come to lay back against his limp body and a knowingness fills your mind.
This wasn’t just going to be a one night stand… and this wasn’t the last time you were going to be laying on top of Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson.
description: everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.
pairing: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)
tags: mechanic!eddie, eddie x you, no y/n, coworkers to lovers, unresolved sexual tension (until...), small town romance, flirtationship, mechanic core aftercare, old married couple energy, fucking on a '67 impala, workplace romance, tension tension tension, whimpering eddie, teasing each other mercilessly
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, needy eddie
WC: 4.1k
A/N: requested by my beloved @bitterestwillow I HOPE YOU ENJOY QUEEN AHHHHHHH. reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
yes, i had to use this gif for this fic...it does something to me idk......
The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.
“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”
The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”
Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”
Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana.
Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.
“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”
Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”
“They’re towels.”
“They are expensive towels.”
Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.
“Anything for my favorite customers.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.
“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.
The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”
You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.
Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” you asked suspiciously.
“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”
Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”
The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.
“Husband, huh?” he mused.
“Don’t start.”
“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”
Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”
“You work here.”
“Semantics.”
“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.
You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.
“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”
You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.
“Say it once.”
“No.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”
You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.
By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.
Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.
Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.
You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.
Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.
Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.
“You are down catastrophically bad.”
That got Eddie to blink. “What?”
Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.
“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”
Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”
Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.
“Shut up.”
Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.
Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.
The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.
The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.
Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”
Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.
It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.
Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”
Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”
Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?”
Eddie began to argue, but froze up. Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.
Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.
It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says you.”
“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”
Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is the truth.”
Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.
“Munson!” Both men looked over.
You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”
Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.
The next morning was somehow even hotter.
By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.
And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”
You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.
And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.
“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”
“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.
Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.
At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.
“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.
Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”
Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.
Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?
About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.
That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.
Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.
“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.
“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.
“Looks like jealousy.”
“Not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.
“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”
Eddie stood immediately.
Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”
Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.
“No fucking way.”
The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.
Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”
The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.
You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”
And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.
“You alright there, big guy?”
Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.
You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.
“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.
You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.
Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.
By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.
The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.
Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.
And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.
You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.
Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”
That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.
Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”
You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.
Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.
Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”
You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re sweaty.”
“Thought girls liked that.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”
“That happened one time.”
“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”
“It was hot.”
Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”
But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.
“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”
You snorted. “Into you? Please.”
“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”
“That’s because old people are nosy.”
“That’s because you look at me like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”
Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.
“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”
Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”
“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”
“That is not—”
“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”
“That was one time.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”
Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Interesting.
“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.
Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”
You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.
“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”
His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.
“Or what?”
Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.
You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.
His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.
Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.
He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.
“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.
“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.
Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”
“Now.”
He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation.
Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.
“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.
He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit.
Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors.
Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.
For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.
“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.
“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.
“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”
You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.
“Eddie—shit—”
“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”
You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.
“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”
You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you.
He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”
You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.
You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.
“You alive over there?” he called.
“Mhm.”
“Liar. You sound deceased.”
You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.
Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”
“You keep towels at the shop?”
“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”
He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.
“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.
You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.
“I’m multi-talented.”
“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”
“That is slander.”
You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.
“So.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”
“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”
anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA
hm drunk!dean (like, absolutely wasted) coming up to you at the bar and hitting on you. you have to remind him that you’ve been together for 2 years. sam never lets him live it down
He's all slurred and adorable, leaning in really close, breath flammable.
"Wha- whaddya say we get outta here? Go some place a lil more- topless?"
"And bottomless?"
He grins, eyes half open "You're my kinda-" Before he can finish, he stumbles into you.
"Sorry Sailor" You get him back on his feet "I'm taken"
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"This really, really hot guy. He's tall, broad, intimidating. He'd beat up anyone who even looked at me the wrong way, and he's got an ass that just won't quit"
"Sh-show me! Not the ass, the-the guy"
"Alright" You sigh, pulling out your phone, switching the camera to selfie mode "There he is"
"He do- don't look that tough" He gets closer, trying to see better "Not even that hot, you could- you could not a lot better"
"Really?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, I've always thought so"
You can't put him through much more, one floor length mirror and he'll beat himself up for your honour.
"Baby, c'mon"
"Hm?" He perks up as you lead him out the door.
"I'm taking you home"
"Ooh-oo, still got it" He mutters, grinning to himself.
"Dean, look at me"
"Yessir?" He flings his head around like it's on a swivel.
"You're my boyfriend"
"Ooh, upgraded quick"
"No- dipshit. You are my boyfriend. You have been for two years"
"I what now?"
He takes a minute, completely shocked before he looks back at suddenly recognizes you.
"Baby!" He pulls you down into he backseat of the car, arms locked around you "I missed you, sugar"
"Missed you too, De" You hummed, half suffocating as your hand flapped around, finally landing on Sam's shoulder in the front "Drive, now"
"But this is really funny" He barely suppressed a laugh enough to speak.
"Sam, drive, trust me"
"C'mon, five more minutes?"
"Sam I'm on top of your brother right now and he's drunk as fuck, what do you think he's gonna wanna do in five minutes?"
Cook trying to flirt with a shy/awkward reader? Also, I love how you write cook!!
flirting..
Letting out a soft snort as JJ has to take a deep breath in, you nod your head along with his ramblings, fingers playing with the loose papers stuck into your notebook. Three weeks now, you have been hanging out with JJ outside of your usual Maths class. The teacher had just started teaching standard deviation and it had quickly become the bane of both of your existence. No calculators were allowed, only the long and dreadful formula. The worst. Slowing down your pace as you slowly get closer to your locker, he bumps into your side accidentally, making you flinch.
“So, it’s this big battle, right? Lasers blazing! Pew! Pew! Pew!” He mimics shooting lasers with his hands, “Then, BOOM! The thing explodes and he’s still got his sunglasses on!”
“Mm-hm.”
“Wicked innit?” He smiles, “And the movie wasn’t even over! That was just the first ten minutes.”
“Did it play that song? The one on the radio?” You question, having a faint memory about it.
“Nah, they had to tape over it with some generic one. Couldn't even afford the rights to it, you know?” He shrugs, “You would've liked it.”
Shrugging your shoulders softly at his words, you suck on the inside of your cheek, pausing as you reach your locker. Tensing up at the sight of Cook leaning against it, you play with the corner of your notebook, squirming around. Your mind reels, stuck with being uncomfortable with James fucking Cook leaning against your locker and needing to get to your next class. James Cook, the bloke that flashed his cock on the first day of school. James Cook, who had zero shame. He was blocking your locker, forcing you to confront him so that you could get to your locker. Fuck.
Turning to JJ for some help in removing Cook from your locker, he’s already gone off, leaving you stranded. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mustering up your courage, you take a step towards your locker, your eyes focused on the scuffed up floors of the hallway like it was some kind of mosaic art piece on display. You could feel his eyes on you, looking you up and down. Taking a sharp breath in through your nose, you force yourself to look him in the eye, pretending like you were just talking to JJ or one of your other friends. You could do this. You could do this.
“Cook.” You try, wincing at the awkwardness.
“Oh, hello there, beautiful." He grins, puckering his lips into what you think is supposed to be a seductive smolder. “Lookin’ good today.”
“You’re in front of my locker.” You point out, eyeing it intently.
“Am I?” He raises a brow, chuckling in amusement.
“You are, Cook.” You nod softly, “I..I need you to move, please.”
A tense silence fills the air, and it makes you wince internally. Was he going to yell at you now? You had seen him yell at people for worse. Licking at his bottom lip for a beat, he begrudgingly kicks himself off your locker, rolling onto the locker beside it. Cringing as he stares at you head on, you avoid eye contact with him, taking a sharp breath through your nose. Just grab your stuff and leave. Fumbling around with the lock, you pull your locker up wide, trying to use the door to block him out. Placing a hand on your locker door, he pushes it half close, forcing you to still look at him.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with JJ.” He comments, making you furrow your brows.
“I am. You noticed?”
“Hard not to.” He argues, as if it was the most casual thing ever.
“Is it?” You raise a brow, “Not even my friends have really noticed that.”
“Yeah, well, it needs to stop.” He cuts you off, his voice firm like he was your Da.
“I beg your pardon?” You sputter, taken off guard by his words.
Rolling his eyes hard as if you weren’t understanding him, you open your mouth up to argue, before stopping yourself. Closing your mouth, you blink dumbly as you try to process his words, still not understanding. Why would you have to stop hanging out with JJ? What did that have to do with him? Turning your head away, you stuff your notebook into your locker, grabbing the sketchbook for your arts class. Pushing the door open a little more, he pushes it half-shut again, refusing to let you cower away from him. God, why wouldn't he just go away?
“Yeah, you need to stop, he’s gonna start getting ideas.” He shrugs, shaking his head.
“Ideas?” You scoff, flushing a bright pink in embarrassment at the accusations.
“Think you’re interested in him and stuff.”
“And that affects you how?” You raise a brow, closing the locker.
“Makes it worse when I flirt with you.” He states, as if it was the most casual thing ever.
“Flirt with me?” You pause, your grip tightening on the lock.
“Uh, yeah, you haven't noticed?” He scoffs, shaking his head offended.
“You don’t even look at me, Cook.” You argue, “I don’t even think that you’ve spoken to me until now. How is that flirting?”
“Been doing that staring from a distance thing, you said you wanted that, like in the movies.” He nods, “Just stop hanging with him, it makes flirting harder.”
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FORMULA 1 GIRLIE @frankiesweird - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
