@jeong-uwu's fic-recs

Am I online or is it just the queue

[honeyy-darling]

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pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t

warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?

It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.

Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.

He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.

Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.

Worth it every single time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3

[luveline]

clark who’s been yearning for you for so long it’s a new kind of heartbreak he invented, aliens only, just pure unlatching agony to see you and to be too scared to ask for what he wants. he carries a pit around in his stomach, completely unaware of how easily he could have you (borrow you, keep you) if he asked.

not that it’s any of his business, but you like him. obviously. six foot and the rest, muscle with that layer of fat, a melt-in-the-mouth goodness about him that trips up any woman in a hundred metre radius. why would you ever put your heart on the line for a guy so clearly adored?

clark’s miserable. lonely and hounded, burdened with tens of friends and not enough of you. he spends coffee breaks peering around the corner hoping you’ll come in so he can make you a cup, tries to never look too busy for conversation, and walks the long way home most nights in case you’re gonna catch up in your kitten heels and your pretty business casual v-neck and change his life. he thinks about you asking him out for a drink so often he starts imaging your hand on the crook of his elbow, starts turning in the middle of the street for any murmur or click on concrete.

you notice clark’s distress only because you spend entirely too much time wishing you could kiss it off of him. so one evening when he’s looked blue all day and you’ve gathered enough nerve, you follow him down the street and reach for his arm. clark, are you–

yes! he says, immediate with wide blown eyes, like he scared himself. oh. sorry. what were you saying?

are you alright? you ask him. which isn’t so nice as a drink, has him pink in the cheeks with embarrassment as he explains to you how alright he really is, he’s just tired, just hungry, not exhausted from a day of watching the back of your head, no sir.

do you want to go out with me? he asks, quite unsure of where the question came from. he’d really meant to say something else, prolonging his thousand-years of suffering into whatever painful shade he could muster. when you say yes, he takes your hand and puts it to his heart so you can feel the very human way it races whenever you’re around. thank you, he breathes. i think you just saved my life.

[luveline]

coworker!james and his love hate gf meeting his parents by accident? she thinks he won’t own up to her but he’s super proud and calls her his girlfriend (for the first time 0.o) 

coworker frenemies <3 fem, 1.2k

You get the foolish idea to check in on James. Dying, he’d texted, won’t be in. Don’t miss me too much <3

And then, throughout the day, can you ask Remus to answer his phone please lovely, sorry 

Can you make sure my smiskis are all okay

I miss you too much 

Did you see that thing on the news about the goats in Spain ? 

Sometime around three, as you’re preparing to leave, his sporadic texting ends. You and Remus get on alright without James, and a quiet day comes to a close at four. 

“See you tomorrow,” you say. 

“Yeah, see you, have a good night,” he says back. 

You might. It depends on how James is feeling. You go to the shops on the way and wrack your brain for the things he likes. You know he likes cream of chicken soup: he brings it in his thermos sometimes for lunch. He likes freddos, tangerines, melon slices, and everybody likes balsam tissues and painkillers. 

James doesn’t necessarily have to let you take care of him, but it’s a care package. He can take what he wants and bin the rest. You get him some cool patches for his eyes and a box of teabags and consider yourself finished, paying, packing it into a tote, and carrying it back to the car. You get nervous on the road leading into James’ flat building, but Sirius’ car isn’t outside, just an old BMW that looks well loved. 

You pop the button to be let into the building and seconds later you’re opening the door. You make your way up the tight steps to the second floor and then the third, pausing to catch your breath lest you seem unfit just outside the door. 

You raise your hand to knock. James laughs from somewhere inside, loudly, and that laugh travels toward you until he’s yanking the door half off of its hinges.

When he sees it’s you, he grins. “Hello, beautiful.” 

“Hi. You okay?” 

He sniffles, but he doesn’t seem too poorly. His eyes are sore and he has a tissue in hand, but James is nothing if not spritely. “I’m okay, lovely, are you okay? To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

“I brought you sickness survival essentials,” you say, dangling the bag on two fingers between you. “Just in case.”

He gets that look on his face you’re finding yourself on the receiving end of more and more. That You can be so lovely face. Like you’ve done something selfless, and he’s not deserving of it. “Thank you,” he says genuinely, quietly, slipping the bag from your hand and leaning in. You’re expecting the kiss on the cheek, just not the hand under your jaw turning you for a chaste one on the lips.

“Listen,” he says softly, “my mum is here.” 

You pause. “Oh.” 

“My dad, too, actually. She caught wind that I was feeling rough from Sirius and she’s brought it upon herself to come and make sure I’m alright.” 

“Oh. Well, well I’ll just go–”

He shakes his head. “Don’t go. I mean, you don’t have to stay, ‘course you don’t, but you can come in and meet them.” 

“As…” 

“What do you want to be?” he asks. 

It’s probably written all over your face exactly what you want to be to James. It’s the bag swinging from his elbow. It’s what he asked you not so long ago, sitting on the end of his bed with a puddle of nerves in your stomach. Do you want to be… this is the real thing, right? 

You didn’t know what to say, so you’d kissed him, and he’d known it wasn’t a yes or no. 

“Are you sure you want them to meet me?” you ask. 

“Yes.” He strokes your cheek with his forefinger, all gentleness, but then he gives it a squeeze. “Be warned, mum’s heard everything about you, even when I was sure I hated you.” 

“What if she doesn’t like me?” you ask, sickly. 

“She took your side every time,” he assures you. “I just mean she’ll give me a smug look every other minute. And my dad’s just happy to be wherever he is. But if you don’t want to… you know, if you’re not ready, that’s fine. I wasn’t gonna ask ‘cos I was worried you’d say no.” He winces. 

“I’m really worried they won’t like me.” 

“Why wouldn’t they?” he asks, as though the possibility is a pipe dream. 

“James, you didn’t like me.” 

“That had less to do with you and more to do with email politics,” he jokes, “lovely, you don’t have to come in. It’s fine, there’ll be other times.”

It’s his confidence in that that makes you take a step forward. “Do I look a mess?” 

“You’re beautiful.” 

“James, I just went to work, I’ve been up since six–” You give him you’re most pleading look, eyebrows soft and lips a little pouted, “please, just check.” 

James holds you by the shoulders, his gaze moving over you one feature at a time. “Still beautiful,” he says quietly, “you have something in the corner of your eye.” 

“Get it.” 

“I will,” he laughs, “just gimme a second.” 

You gasp as he almost pokes your eye out. 

“James, babe, who’s at the door?”

You’re surprised to hear a male voice and instantly endeared. James, babe, turns away from you, slipping a hand behind your shoulder to force you into the hallway next to him. A dark-haired older man is standing in the door to the kitchen, his smile curious and friendly. “James?” 

“Yeah, this is Y/N,” James says, “she was just making sure I’m okay.” 

“You've invited her in for a cup of tea?” Monty asks, a picture of his son as he gestures for the kitchen. 

“Tea?” James asks, watching you carefully. 

You attempt to hide your nerves with a nod and a smile of your own. “Yes, please.” 

Monty heads back into the kitchen. James runs his hand down your back and lets you step in front of him, bearing the brunt of his mother’s gaze all by yourself. “Hello,” she says, clearly excited.

“Hi.”

James holds you by the back. “Mum, dad,” —you suck in a breath— “this is Y/N. She’s my girlfriend but–” He raises his voice before Euphemia can talk. “It’s not been long, okay?” 

“James, why didn’t you say?” 

“Mum, I just–” James sighs. You go numb with the pleasure of the thing —you weren’t expecting him to say girlfriend. To own up to you completely. “You dropped in unannounced, and we aren’t telling very many people.” 

“It’s my fault, I didn’t say–” You start, tamping down a brilliant smile. 

Monty cuts you off swiftly. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. We’re all here now, aren’t we? So, you work with Jamie?” 

“Yeah, yes, I’m on the accounting team.” You relax into James’ touch, letting your shoulder be guided against him just a bit. “I started a couple of months ago.” 

“Almost a year ago,” James corrects. “Should we have that cup of tea?” 

You frown at the scratch of his voice. “I can make it,” you offer. 

Euphemia laughs, James groans, and Monty has a twinkle in his eye you aren’t familiar with. “I can make the tea,” Monty says, “why don’t you lovely ladies sit down?” 

“Does that include me, dad?” 

“Of course it does.” 

[luveline]

ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄᴇ ꜰʀᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ ᴀᴜ ✦ ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ

you foster a hot and cold relationship with your desk buddy, James, until things start to change, and you both fail to ignore your new feelings. fem, sfw you and James have to share a bed you slip outside of the office you offer the very first olive branch James defends you from a coworker James assures you that you’re pretty James pretends you aren’t cute at karaoke you faint at the office you realise James isn’t fully insufferable you fall asleep on James’ shoulder James forgets why he doesn’t like you you buy James a new smiski for his desk you come onto your period unexpectedly James accidentally calls you lovely you and James get stuck in a lift James hates when people flirt with you James jumpstarts your car, you ogle James is upset when others treat you badly you call James ‘Jamie’ for the first time James antagonises you into a kiss you and James hide your feelings James takes you out for coffee

[moonstruckme]

mae i’m reading through the blvd is not that bad and im living for the concept of reader finally being the one person in the world the boys have ever met to out freak sirius in the sexual tension war. it’s beautiful and ik they want her BAD

Thank you angel <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

cw: alcohol

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2.7k words

The way The Marauders play, you’d never guess the week they’ve had. Sirius flirts with Remus onstage, Remus rolls his eyes and ignores him like always, James laughs and blows Sirius kisses to make up for it. They’re magnetic, and carefree, and fun. 

You think part of it is the music. Each of them clearly live for it, as all great musicians do. You can see the way James’ shoulders loosen as he lets the music draw him in, the way Remus’ hold on his bass relaxes (as though he hadn’t teased you for strangling it only a few days before). You ease up a bit, too, standing to the side of the stage and watching with a faint buzz of anxiety running through you. 

Before the show you managed to corner a sound tech, asking him to double-check that everything was in working order. He gave you a look that asked without asking who you were to be making such inquiries. You contemplated flashing your press pass and seeing if that did you any good, but luckily Lily came along with the same request, and you left the bewildered sound tech in her capable hands. 

Even so, you don’t fully relax until the show is done. 

Remus walks off first, backlit by blue and red light. Then Sirius, who shoots you a wink on his way past. James laughs and pulls you into a sweaty hug, saying, “You looked so nervous that whole time.” 

“Sorry.” You shy, patting his back awkwardly. “It was a good show.” 

James shakes his head as if to brush you off. He leans close as you follow the other boys back to their dressing room, lowering his voice underneath the cacophony of others. “I was, too.” 

You haven’t written one thing in your notebook all night. It’s shameful, a waste of your time on this tour and a smear on your reputation as a journalist, and yet you’re too relieved to feel very remorseful about it. It’s difficult to feel anything bad around such a merry band of marauders, anyway. 

James and Sirius are singing and dancing, the elongated version of their song Sweet and Easy, Sirius playing the riff on his unplugged guitar. Remus has to maneuver around them to keep his bass out of harm’s way, his lips curled up with an exasperated fondness. The venue has left a bottle of wine, which the boys find quickly, completely ignoring the glasses beside it in favor of passing the bottle between them. Sirius puts his guitar away but doesn’t stop singing, occasionally taking breaks to make exuberant twanging sounds with his mouth. Lily stops in to check on them and steal a sip of the wine before flitting off to talk to some venue personnel about some business none of you pretend to understand. 

You’re content to watch it all, finally getting some decent notes, but soon Sirius holds the bottle out to you. 

“Have some,” he offers. 

“Oh, I can’t,” you say. “I’m working.” 

“What if you didn’t work?” James proposes. He’s got the sun shining out of his face, gleaming with sweat and smiling so big your cheeks ache with sympathy pains. “We haven’t had a proper night on tour since you’ve been here. You should come out with us.” 

You raise your eyebrows, curious. “Out where?” 

“I don’t know,” says James, as though it’s ridiculous to assume one would know where they’re going before they get there, “out.” 

“You’d be alright with me coming with you?” 

“You can absolutely come with us, if—” Sirius steals the pen from your hand. “—you leave your security blankie at home. No work.” 

“I can’t,” you say, genuinely apologetic. This feels like an olive branch, a reward for your show of loyalty in keeping Remus’ illness secret, and you hate to refuse it. But the entire point of you being here is to work. 

You brace yourself for Sirius’ anger, but he only pouts. It’s a nearly disorienting contrast, his eyes made big underneath all the eyeliner and bottom lip pushed out. “Why not? Aren’t you ever off the clock?” 

“Are you?” you counter. These boys would know a thing or two about not being able to shed a professional skin. No matter where they go, they’ll always be The Marauders. 

Sirius doesn’t back down. “Don’t work. Let us show you a proper night on tour, but it has to be off the record.” 

You sigh, looking away from him as you consider. You do want to go. You only know that you shouldn’t, that there’s no real point in it if you’re not getting quotes you can use. Unless, maybe, spending off-the-record time with the band makes them more likely to give you good quotes in the future…

Your gaze wanders until it finds Remus. He gives you a shrug, as if to sympathize. You won’t be winning this one. 

“Okay.” You take a breath. “One night.” 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“We’re not up against great odds,” James levels with you, bent close to your ear as you both watch Remus chalk his cue stick across the table from you. “Sirius is good, and Remus is really good, but the good news for us is Sirius gets sloppy after a few drinks.” 

“He’s had a few drinks,” you say hopefully. 

James grimaces. “A few more. You said you haven’t played before?” 

You take a sip of your beer (Remus had surreptitiously guided you away from the punch bowl, informing you that it’s often spiked with more than booze at these things) and regard the way Sirius is racking up balls on the other side of the pool table. It’s covered in red carpeting, and the size of it makes you wonder how whoever’s house this is got it in the door. 

“Not much,” you admit. 

James nods, then laughs at your grim look. “I’m sure you’re a quick learner.” 

“I’m really not.” 

“Are you going to break, or are we?” asks Sirius, grinning smugly at you both as he steps back from the table. 

“We are,” James announces. He takes the cue stick he’d chalked up for you both a few minutes before and steps up to the table. It smacks into the white ball with a satisfying sound, sending the rest scattering. 

“Stripes,” he says proudly, when one goes in. He tries to send another in behind it, but it bounces off the wall just shy off the hole. 

Sirius says something to Remus as he goes up next. The music is too loud for you to make it out—An old rock album that you’ll have to ask the boys what they think of later. If someone puts on a Marauders track and you get their live reactions, you’ll really wish you hadn’t left your pen and tape recorder on the bus—but the glint in Sirius’ eye tells you it’s something that would make grandmothers around the globe clutch their pearls. Remus scoffs and banks a solid ball neatly into the corner hole. 

He and Sirius take turns, and it quickly becomes apparent that James wasn’t exaggerating. They hit three in before Sirius misses the fourth. You’re about to tell James to forget you and try to save your team by doing it all himself, but he’s already putting the cue stick in your hand. 

“Alright, so your hand is your bridge,” he says as he leans down beside you and helps you position your hand on the table. “You want to use it to guide the shot.” 

He’s already hip-to-hip with you, but when his free hand lays comfortably on your back, showing you how to lean down, you stiffen. James takes it away instantly. 

“Curve your thumb up a little…” he continues, putting a few inches of space between you. “Perfect. See, I knew you’d be a natural. Can you line it up from there?” 

You try your best, but ultimately the ball goes flailing in the opposite direction of what you intended. You laugh at yourself as Sirius boos and James gaily accuses the other team of having sabotaged your cue stick. 

Sirius sticks his tongue out as he lines up his next shot. 

“You know,” James says quietly, underneath the sound of Sirius’ cue ball finding its mark, “you don’t have to believe the rumors. Not all of us musicians actually have every STD known to man.” 

Your face falls, and he grins at you. 

“I’m joking.” 

“No, no.” You shake your head, heart in your throat. “It’s not that. I’m not—I don’t disapprove or anything, I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, I really was joking,” James tells you. “It’s okay.” 

“No, I think touching is great.” You feel your eyes pop as soon as you hear it out of your mouth. Shame washes hot from your chest up to your ears. “Not…I mean, physical affection.” You cringe, but you can’t think of any nicer way to put it. “I think it’s great. I just can’t do it.” 

James’ look softens. “I get that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You didn’t,” you insist. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m just not used to it, so I…it surprises me, I guess.” 

He nods slowly. Like he really is listening, and a little bit like he feels bad. “Okay. Well, if—” 

“Hello?” Sirius says from the other side of the table. “It’s your turn, slackers.” 

You smile at James in hopes of dropping it, and after a moment he smiles back, letting it drop. James gets one of your striped balls in before you manage to hit in the white ball by accident, which is apparently worse than hitting nothing at all. 

Once Sirius and Remus realize how truly hopeless you are, they definitely start going easy on you. They deny it, but the change is hardly subtle. Remus misses easy shots. Sirius stops ragging on James for taking extra time during your turns to coach you. When you manage to make your skills look really pathetic, the unanimous decision is that you should get a re-do. 

They still win by a good margin, obviously. Sirius is still fairly gloaty about it. 

Remus is put on your team next to even the odds. He’s as good a coach as James, though he says the way James showed you how to position your hand was all wrong and makes you learn it again. You get two beers in before you realize that beer is having more of an effect on you than you anticipated. Sirius crawls up onto the table to make a difficult shot. Remus can’t stand to lose, and so sends a few of your balls home before relinquishing the cue stick to you each turn. James and Sirius give several demonstrations of the victory handshake they came up with back in school. 

Eventually, Remus goes for a smoke, and then it’s only you and James against Sirius, which should be easy if it weren’t for James’ unwavering faith in you. Sirius shoots the eight ball around for ages while you try to catch up. When he makes fun of you you steal a cocktail napkin from the bar and play him at tic-tac-toe until you feel better about yourself. 

“Easy,” James laughs, steadying you with a brief touch to your arm when you nearly sway into him. “You alright?” 

You try to will your atoms to steadiness. “Mm, yeah. I’m good, I just…”

Sirius giggles. He’s a giggly drunk, you’ve learned, which suits him in a way you can’t explain. If you could draw instead of write, Sirius’ laughter would look like little starbursts coming out of him. 

“You just?” James is laughing at you again. It’s catching; a laugh bubbles up in your own chest. 

“I just didn’t think I’d get like this from a few beers,” you admit. You think hard. “I guess maybe it could be because of the hotel food.” 

Sirius props his elbow on the edge of the pool table and his chin on his hand, looking up at you through his lashes. “The hotel food?” he asks. 

You grin, sheepish. “That might be it. I’ve been stealing the free breakfasts from your hotel, so just, you know. Maybe those carbs aren’t still in me now.” 

James makes an odd face—odd for him, at least, something not very smiley—and Sirius heaves a big, long sigh. 

“I thought you were so smart,” he laments. 

“I am smart,” you defend yourself. 

“No.” He shakes his head. Morose in a way you’re beginning to recognize as playful from him. “You’re a silly, silly girl.” 

“You’re mean.” 

“I think they’re going to wind down here soon anyway,” says James. He gathers you and Sirius’ half-finished beers along with his own. “I’ll go find Remus so we can get back.” He sends Sirius a teasing look. “Can you be trusted with her?” 

“What must you think of me?” Sirius gasps. “Go on. We’ll get the coats.” 

“Not too much touching,” says James, already leaving. 

Sirius stares after him with a bewildered look, but ultimately he shrugs, accepting. “Come on, doll.” He snags you by your belt loop, tugging you upright before letting go. “Let’s go see if someone hasn’t stolen our things.” 

Along the way, Sirius gets stopped by others at the party, some who have just realized he’s here and others who have been waiting for the right time to ask for an autograph. People have been coming up to the boys all night. You’ve made yourself scarce when it happens, melting into invisibility on the sidelines, but now Sirius won’t let you; he keeps you close, hooking a finger in your belt loop again and then glancing over periodically to make sure you haven’t gone anywhere while he smizes and flirts with his fans. 

Eventually, you make it to your destination. The impromptu coat closet is a guest bedroom, quiet and blissfully dark and with a sinfully soft-looking bed to hold all of the coats. You crawl up onto the pile without a second thought (you can hardly account for the first). 

“What are you doing?” Sirius’ voice has softened, as though he doesn’t need to shout so much when no one’s around to hear it, but you can still detect the amusement in it. He gives your ankle a tug. “We’ll never find you if you disappear in there.” 

You let out a sigh, sinking down into your plush mattress of outerwear. To sleep here sounds incredible. It’d be the best sleep you’ve had in a week, far preferable to the ever-hardening tour bus seats. “You should be happy. You can finally be rid of me like you’ve wanted.” 

Sirius tsks. “Oh, but leaving you here like this would be playing dirty. I wouldn't want to win like that.” The bed shifts as he sits down by your legs. “Also, Remus would kill me if I left his coat, and you’re on top of it.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” You abide the tug Sirius gives near your hip, lifting up so he can pull the coat free. 

“How drunk are you really?” 

“Not that bad,” you say, nearly falling asleep on a pile of coats. You turn your head. Sirius is little more than an outline in the gray dark. “Hey, can I…can I say something that’s going to make me sound like an idiot?” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

“You guys aren’t like how I expected you to be.”

He grins, surprised. A flash of teeth. “You aren’t quite what I think we were expecting, either.” 

“That makes me feel better,” you confess. 

“That it’s not just you?” 

“Yeah.” 

Sirius chuckles. “Happy to be of service.” 

The pile of coats poofs with air as he lays down beside you. It settles slowly. 

“I can hear your brain working. What is it?” 

“I have a question,” you admit. “Off the record.” 

“Shoot.” 

“You really wouldn’t leave me behind just because I’m drunk?” 

“I thought you weren’t drunk.” 

“Not very.” 

Sirius hums, considering. “I suppose not,” he says eventually. “The others are getting a bit attached to you. And Remus already told James we can’t have a dog, so.” 

“So I’m…you’re comparing me to a dog?” 

“Well, gorgeous, if the shoe fits…” 

“You’re so mean.” 

“Yeah.” His chuckle breathes up towards the ceiling, a sigh you don’t think you’re meant to hear embedded inside. “I know.”

[luveline]

hi jade~ I got a pixie cut and love it! I feel like all my confidence have come out of hiding lol. Can I request bombshell!r getting her hair cut & absolutely rocking the pixie & Sirius (who I imagine would have longer hair) being very in love lol - but they’re not together yet?

“I reckon,” James says, clearly chuffed, “that it's a targeted attack against your psyche. Like, she's gonna kill you.”

Sirius might have to agree with him. You're bumping up the steps to the University society building with a big smile, the shorn length of your hair bouncing against your ears as you do. Sirius could pretend he doesn't notice, he could be honest, but he settles somewhere between it and hopes against hope he'll be braver later. “Nice cut.” 

You mount the last step and accept James’ half hug. “Thanks, Sirius. Nice ring.” 

He twists the ring in his nostril. “What, this little thing?” 

“What's with the change, angel?” James asks. “You look amazing, but it's a big difference. Did you mean to go so short?” 

“I meant to, I honestly love it.” You tuck a bit of hair behind an ear with a foreign shade of bashfulness to your movements. Sirius would let you eat him alive. “Not too big a difference, right?” 

“It's huge,” Sirius says, imbuing it with as much approval as will fit in two syllables. 

Sirius hasn't cut his hair in ages, can't be bothered, a wolf cut grown out and kissing his throat as he moves. You told him you liked it once and he hasn't wanted to change it since. He can't help thinking it's a nice balance between you both, your pretty face totally enhanced by the short cut, and his ruggedness hidden by length. “It's really fucking pretty,” he says finally. 

James gives him a proud smile over your head. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning to the side to show him the back of your head. “It feels really soft now. Do you wanna feel?” 

Sirius’ asphyxiation happens slowly. He holds his breath as he brings his hand to the back of your head where the hair is shortest, weaving his fingers into the hair there and pulling up. Your hair is softer than anything he's ever felt as it runs through his fingers, but the moment is over too soon. 

You shiver happily. “Right?” you ask, hair falling back into place.

Sirius is gonna spend the rest of his life trying to do that again. Before he can say something he can't take back, James brings a big hand to the back of your head and does the same. “Holy fuck,” his idiot friend says, “that's insane.” 

You meet Sirius' eyes with a laugh. He could almost believe you're sharing a secret with him, like you know exactly how Sirius had felt with your hair between his fingers, but it's probably his imagination. He wants it bad enough to make it up, that's all. 

[luveline]

hello miss jade ily! since you’re feeling the marauders right now, may i request something with any of the boys, pre-relationship and too lovestruck to speak? reader has done something innocuous, or she’s literally just standing there, and he can’t not break and smother her?

hello lovely, thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

modern au 

You let yourself in quietly. Remus can tell without raising his eyes from his laptop that it's you. James would shout hello, Sirius would beeline for the downstairs bathroom. You close the door with care and leave your shoes under the stairs; Remus can picture you turning your head to one side gently, listening for signs of life. 

"James?" you ask.

"Just me," Remus says. 

You come around the doorway, beaming at him like he's the one you were looking for the whole time. "Hey, Remus. Don't suppose you know when James is back? He's going to take me to the garage so they don't rip me off." 

"Uh, no, but– but I could go with you?" he suggests. Remus isn't your boyfriend, but he wishes desperately that he was and he thinks that's a boyfriend's duty to perform, right? "I'd be happy to." 

Your phone dings. You pull it out with a smile. "Oh, it's James," you say, "he's still coming, but he's late. That's fine, I didn't have an appointment or anything. I'd love for you to come if you want, though, baby." 

Remus chokes on nothing, clearing his throat and sitting up to not seem so pathetic. "I'll come." Because baby? Baby?!

"Brilliant. How's you writing?" 

"Uh, it's, you know, happening. Slowly." 

Remus is admittedly much more collected regularly, but your sudden arrival, your smiling, and now your pet name, you've thrown him for a loop. He's doubly thrown when you sit down on the sofa beside him, no polite space, thigh to thigh and close enough to smell the oils in your hair. 

"I'm not looking, I promise," you say. 

Writing is a raw process. Knowing someone else's eyes are on it magnifies the flaws, but he realises with certainty that he doesn't care if you see it, flaws and all. "That's fine. I don't mind so long as it's you." 

"Lucky me," you say. 

You take your phone out. Remus doesn't mean to pry but you're right there, and your phone screen brightness is high. The text thread between you and James is open, your thumbs penning a quick response. 

Hey James, are we still meeting at the house? I'm omw. 2:17PM

yeah of course, remus is there so go have a cup of tea ill be there soon 2:30PM

ok 2:31PM

sorry running late !! Promise I'll be there, have remus make you a scone :) 2:40PM

I like him too much to have him act like my serf, you can buy us both big salted pretzels on the way home to say sorry for wasting his time 2:45PM

I'm sure he's just gutted to spend time with you 2:46PM

Nice one, James, Remus thinks incredulously. That's exactly what Remus needs, more evidence that he fancies you. You don't seem to have noticed either way, swinging a leg over your knee and finishing another text to James. 

I hope not, I love spending time with him 2:48PM

Remus turns to his computer screen, elated and guilty at once. He was not supposed to see that, surely. 

"Your word count is really climbing," you say, tucking your phone away. "A hundred and fifty thousand. I can't imagine writing so much… will you have to cut that down?" 

"Yep. Much more chance of being published if I fit their standard count. It'll need at least forty thousand words shaved off." 

You shake your head. "I can't imagine putting in all that work and then having to put in more work to get rid of it." 

"Think of it like refining, instead," he suggests, his fingertip sliding across the laptop's space bar. "I'm making sure nothing is boring." 

"I doubt it's boring if you're the one writing it." You stand to his surprise and stretch, a slice of your waist appearing as you twist away from him, an audible click emitting from your back as you roll your shoulders. "Can I make a cup of tea, please?" 

You've had a hundred cups of tea in this house. 

"You know you don't have to ask," Remus says. 

"But it's always nice to ask first," you say as you leave. 

He suspects you were talking more to yourself than him as you occasionally do, and he pays little mind to your movements in the kitchen. He has a lot of work to do and not nearly enough time to do it, and editing isn't as simple as cutting away. It's not obvious what needs to go. Remus has to have a deep think. 

He gets distracted. When you return he barely notices, busy rewriting a clunky sentence. It's not until your pinky finger brushes his arm that Remus remembers you're here, emphasis on you, and that he's besotted. 

When he looks up, he doesn't suppose he'll ever forget again. 

You're at his side neatening a plate of biscuits and toasted scones, the very tip of your tongue peaking between your lips in concentration. It's a simple thing, some might even find it unattractive, but you're totally focused on the plate of biscuits, your lovely eyebrows tightly pinched. 

You seem upset, for a moment. 

Then you meet his eye and any trace of unhappiness vanishes. You're smiling again, eyes alight with something he can't name. "I got you a couple of biscuits and stuff, hope that wasn't too forward. You never remember to eat when you're writing." 

"Oh, sweetheart," he says unbidden to himself, hands paused at his laptop, "that's not too forward." 

He sets his laptop aside and stands. There's nothing for it, no hold to bar —Remus steps forward to kiss your cheek and squeeze the top of your arm, the kiss swift and the squeeze less so. 

"Don't set up around me," he continues fondly, "we'll go have tea in the kitchen with the window open. You can tell me about your day, please. I should've asked you earlier." 

"Don't worry, there's nothing important to share," you say, and to Remus' delight, you've visibly flustered. 

His hand slides down the length of your arm to your hand, where he holds your fingers in his palm. "If it's about you, it's important. Mm?" 

You stare down at his chest and laugh softly. "Okay." 

It's a credit to his self restraint that he doesn't kiss you then and there. 

[luveline]

so! we were talking about hockey!sirius a couple days ago soooooooo

i would love to request hockey!sirius flirting with a reader who is not yet his girlfriend. (bonus points if he does the lighting her cigarettes for her like i would die actually)

thank you for requesting! —hockey player!sirius asks you on a date. 1k

"Hey, you." 

You squeeze your box of cigarettes but manage to keep your flinch to yourself. "Sirius, you're like a ghost," you complain, letting your bag fall back behind you. 

"A fit one, at least?" he asks. "I've caught you, haven't I?" 

You fish your box of cigarettes from your bag guiltily. "Don't tell my coach and I'll give you one." 

"Give me two and I'll let you borrow my clipper."

"A clipper," you drawl, drawing two cigarettes from the box to pass him. "I didn't think you were rich." 

"You know, my parents are loaded." 

You put a cigarette between your lips and shove the box down the depths of your bag, your dirty little secret hidden once again. Sirius knows because he's the only other idiot sportsman at your rink stupid enough to smoke at practice. "Weird brag." 

"Well," —he bobs his head from left to right gently, inhaling sharply as he lights the end of his cigarette, breathing through it, "it would be if I spoke to them." 

"Oh, shit. Sorry." 

"Don't be sorry," he says, his cigarette held carelessly between his lips as he ushers you forward. He's much more careful about you, holding your arm in a gentle hand as he lights the end of your cigarette, and nodding encouragingly when you inhale, his eyes a stony grey where they meet yours. "I brought it up." His hand coasts briefly up to your shoulder before he takes a step back. "I like telling you things." 

You lean against the wall and Sirius leans beside you. The outside of the rink is boring, a huge parking lot full of cars going in and out. Sirius' car, a dark cherry red oldsmobile with more scratches than paint, is parked not too far from where you're standing, a dent the size of a sledgehammer head in the driver's side that wasn't there before. "What happened to the vampmobile?" you ask. 

"James. I bet you never would've guessed," he says sarcastically.  

"I wouldn't have. He's a sweetheart. I'd be much more tempted to think you did it doing doughnuts on the industrial–" 

Sirius cuts you off, flicking the tip of his cigarette with a put upon attitude, "I don't do doughnuts. You think so little of me, sweetpea." 

He says sweetpea like you're the cutest thing on earth. You nudge him mildly and stub your cigarette out on top of the square black bin, half-smoked. "I better go home."

"Working tonight?" 

"No, I finally have a night off. Got a ton of stuff I need to do, but it shouldn't take long." You lift your arms into the air and stretch your sore shoulders, angled away from him to avoid giving him a show of the world's ugliest yawn.  

"Wanna get something to eat?" 

You hurt your jaw trying to stop your yawn midway through, arms falling flat to your thighs. Sirius isn't looking at you, gaze on the vamp mobile, smoke curling like a ribbon between his fingers. He has nicely shaped hands, very boney in the sharp way but still rather inviting, when you think about it. 

"Now?" you ask. 

"Tonight. If you want to, I'll take you out." He takes another drag, eyes flaring in time with the ash. "Don't act like you don't know," he says through the exhale. 

"Know what, Black?" you ask. 

"That I'm mad for you." 

You're suddenly and deeply aware of how you look, a mess after practice, hair straggled from its styling, face without any make up. There's nothing wrong with the way you look, but when you picture someone on Sirius' arm, it's never you. You fiddle with your jacket zipper, voice low, "I didn't know that." 

"I don't believe you." He's not accusatory, simply stating a fact. Sirius stubs his cigarette out next to yours, black hair ruffled in the wind, the scent of him adrift. He smells like smoke, of course, but there's a nicer woodiness beneath it. "I'll take the way you're looking at me as a solid maybe. You can text me." 

"No, I mean. Yeah. I mean–" You stammer as Sirius laughs warmly. "I'll text you. If you really are mad for me." 

"Want me to prove it?" he asks. 

Your lips part of their own accord. You look like a deer-in-the-headlights for sure, completely stopped by the implication. Even the thought of a kiss from his has your pulse capering hard. His hands cold from the rink pressed gently to the warmer stretch of your collar, slipping into the hemline, curling behind your neck as he steps close. You can't summon the kiss itself, too close to bursting, because what would you do? Where would you put your hands? Is there a specific place? 

"Don't look so nervous," he murmurs, his eyebrows pinching ever so slightly together. "I'm not gonna jump you." 

"It's not like that, I just don't know…" 

"About us?" he asks. "That's why I'm trying to ask you on a date. You can make your mind up about us and I'll help you bulk for sectionals."

"I don't need bulking," you say. 

He laughs. "No, you're perfect. Beside your bad habit, that is. We have that in common." Sirius steps forward, pauses. "Can I kiss your cheek?" 

His asking is the last straw. You're melted like a slush curl. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. 

Sirius kisses your cheek gently, and then he tucks his face against the side of your head and gives you a hug. "Text me, yeah? If you want." He peels back to grin at you. "I have to go back in. Elite league won't win itself. Talk to you later, doll."

You watch him retreat back into the centre, not sure what you want to do first; text him, or smoke another cigarette. In the end, you decide against the cigarette. If he's really going to prove how mad he is for you, you don't want to taste like smoke. 

[joshuhaos]

This is soo cute!!!

[ellecdc]

May I please request poly!marauders x blunt/sarcastic reader when Sirius picks out readers outfit for a party.

Like he comes in with a shopping bag and throws her a skirt and “this black skirt will look lovely on you ☺️.”

“Sirius, you bought me a bloody headband.”

“It’s labeled a skirt, check the tag. ☺️”

“Rem is going to kill you”

“He’ll be too busy staring at you.”

James walking in and getting all blushy and remus trying not to stare like 👀

hahahah this was so funny - here's a little baby blurb for ya, pretend they're getting ready for an end of term party after their final exams in their final year <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader who tries on Sirius' newest purchase for her [485 words]

CW: immodesty, revealing clothing, suggestive language and ending

For quite some time, there had been nothing but the sound of your shuffling and the occasional curse under your breath before your voice permeated the dorm room. 

“I cannot wear this, Sirius.” You stated simply, and Sirius could almost see your hands resting on your hips as you shot him an unimpressed glare from behind the bathroom door. 

“Sure you can, doll.” Sirius responded just as simply. “I bought it for you.”

“I am one wrong move away from an indecency charge.” You continued. “Where’d you even buy this?” 

“A muggle store in London.”

“What section?”

Sirius let his magazine drop into his lap as he tilted his head at the bathroom door. “The women's section?”

“Sirius, this looks like a bloody head band.” You insisted as you flung the door open to expose yourself.

Sirius was immediately rewarded with the stunning vision of the majority of your body and a great expanse of skin, considering you’d tried on your new skirt he bought for you with the cropped shirt you’d already been wearing. 

“Fuck you look brilliant.” He breathed out as he took in the sight of you.

“I look half naked.” You volleyed. “What do you think Remus is going to say about this?”

“Thank you?” Sirius offered, eyes still glued to your abdomen. 

“He’ll have you bollocks.” You corrected, moving to look at yourself in the mirror as you tried to preserve your modesty by lifting the skirt up higher which only resulted in more of your arse showing, and pulling it down which only served to expose more of your midriff. 

Sirius was in heaven. 

“Are you two almost ready to go? I showered down at the pitch so only need to change bef-” James had been saying before stopping abruptly in the middle of the room - so abruptly, in fact, that Remus walked straight into him - to stare at your figure. 

“What is…what is that?” Remus started awkwardly, seemingly trying to avoid staring at the lower half of you and failing miserably at it. 

“It’s the new skirt I bought for her over the hols; isn’t she stunning?” Sirius responded salaciously, never removing his hungry gaze from you. 

“It’s downright indecent.” You muttered, but Sirius could see the signs of bashfulness flitting across your features at having all three men’s attention pointed directly at you. 

“It's…a lot.” Remus agreed, his gaze steady on you though he looked to be trying to make it appear it was analytical in nature vs hungry.

“It’s not enough…” James whispered; eyes glossed over and mouth slightly agape as he stared at you in reverence. 

“It’s perfect.” Sirius concurred. 

You groaned in exasperation. “I cannot go out like this.” You repeated.

“No, you’re right.” Remus agreed definitively, earning him an indignant sound from Sirius before he watched as the lycanthrope turned and locked the dorm room door before throwing up a silencing charm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[amnmesias]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

remus lupin x fem!reader

summary: Remus and you aren’t exactly friends. But not enemies, either–some say it’s just the natural rivalry of your sports. Everyone thinks you hate each other, and you let them believe it. If you’re reckless on the slopes, Remus is methodical… the natural course of winter sports. But the truth is far more complicated.

tags: fem!reader. potter!reader. winter olympics au. snowboarder!reader, skier!remus. sort of enemies to lovers.

❆ = suggestive, MDNI. 18+

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten part eleven, part twelve, part thirteen, part fourteen ❆, part fifteen ❆, part sixteen, part seventeen ❆, part eighteen, part nineteen, part twenty

series moodboard

[amnmesias]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

remus lupin x fem!reader

word count: 2.4k

tags: fem!reader. winter olympics au. snowboarder!reader, skier!remus. sort of enemies to lovers. 

a/n: oh my goddddd. yup this one’s the first big step

part thirteen ❆ series masterlist 

—

As it turns out, James ended up in third place at the snowboarding slopestyle qualifiers, even with the fall. Just below Barty, who ended up in the first place. It was a very good day for the GB team overall. Somewhere in the city, you’ve positioned yourselves as the winning nation and most likely to medal first. The matter here is, when? And from who?

Remus shakes his head quickly, cleaning the sweat off his forehead as he climbs down from the treadmill–energy pumping high enough to try and have another go at training if there’s time. Or space. He certainly doesn’t want to spend another second secluded in his dorm. There has been enough pondering and pacing around he’s sure he’ll only drive himself mad.

But every time he slows down during his day–all he can picture is your tear-streaked face and the ruckus he managed to catch from your argument with James. It’s not my fault you’re stuck in a limbo with Remus, his voice rings out. Louder and louder despite every second he raises the volume of his headphones. 

It takes him a pause in the song to realize someone’s talking to him–he lowers his headphones to his neck, hanging limply as he turns to meet Lily’s amused gaze. But her eyebrows remain slightly furrowed in that worrisome way that hasn’t gone away since James’ small shoulder injury.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. A little breathless, too.

Lily waves him off, sending him a reassuring smile. “No worries,” she nudges him with his hip. “What’re you doing here so late? And all alone?”

“Just getting some cardio in before calling it a day,” Remus shrugs, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “I’m heading out soon, though.”

“You know, you’ve already qualified second place. You’re allowed rest.”

Remus’ lips twitch into a sheepish little smile. “I know.”

She beams, wide and proud that has him momentarily forgetting the weight in his chest. As Lily tends to do.

“Congrats, Moony,” Lily says softly, he bows his head in gratitude–all he allows himself in his guilt spiral. Her ever perceptive eyes seem to catch on this. “I’m… actually here to extend an invitation for the man of the hour.”

He hums. “I’m the man of the hour?”

“We’ll get together at James’ dorm to watch Sirius’ qualifiers. You in?” 

He pauses, visibly hesitating. For a split second, your face clouds his vision, tears glistening against your pink cheeks and glossy eyes–

“She’s not… she won’t be coming,” Lily says quietly, lips twisting from side to side. Remus feels the knot in his chest tightening at the troubled look on her face. “They’re still a little… um, upset.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Well, then… I’ll be there.”

Lily nods, sending him a funny little look at his quick decision–but she doesn’t pry. Remus doesn’t think she would, but he still tilts his head curiously when she doesn’t walk away, either. 

She sits on the bench instead, right by his duffel bag and blocking any form of escape he can come up with. “Are you…” she rubs her lips together, choosing her words carefully. “Remus, you know you can always talk to me, right? About anything?”

His eyebrows pinch, almost involuntarily as he looks down to search for his water bottle. “Yeah, I know,” he nods. Lily simply taps at it with the toe of her shoe under the bench. Remus puffs a laugh. “Thanks–it’s just… don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will,” she smiles, eyes holding an everlasting patience when he won’t meet her gaze. “But it’s okay to struggle a bit to get there.”

“I’m not struggling. I qualified with second place,” he’s quick to say. Facts. Those can never get complicated. “Really, Lils. I’m okay.”

“Remus.”

He drops his head, closing his eyes in resignation. 

Lily sighs, leaning back over the wall when he doesn’t offer an explanation, or at least an olive branch. “James is not angry with you,” she says softly, ducking to search for his wandering eyes. “He’s just… he’s going through a bit of a life changing process. But he didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Remus nods, throat bobbling as he fiddles with his gym towel. “I’ve fallen during qualifications–whatever’s said after that must be taken with a grain of salt.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to just… throw both of you under the bus. And blame you for what happened.”

Remus sighs, making a point of sending her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Lily, really. That’s not what I’m upset about.”

“Ah,” she says, mimicking his knowing tone. “What were you upset about, then?”

A pause.

He looks back down at his gym towel, twisting it from side to side–something for his hands to do.

“I think it’s quite obvious.”

“I may have a hunch,” she wrinkles her nose at Remus’ startled laugh. “Does it… perhaps have anything to do with one half of—what was it?”

“Mighty duo of snowboarding?” Remus supplies bemusedly, corners of his mouth quirking into a little smile when Lily’s shoulders relax. He sucks in a breath, channeling all his courage. “And yes... you’re not wrong.”

She nods once, then another time with resolve before standing up. “I know I’ll have to Heilmich the story out of you. But, Remus… you can’t let it consume you this way. Both of you.”

“I know.”

“Yeah?” she searches for his gaze. 

“Heard, captain,” he nods, smiling at Lily’s sheepish reaction at the moniker. “I’ll see you in a bit. I just have to take a shower.” 

“Of course. Oh, and Remus?” He slings his bag over his shoulder, pausing with the bottle mid air when Lily turns back to him. “James isn’t by any means upset with you, okay? I promise you.”

“He’s not?”

“Actually,” she pauses, eyes flickering around the gym like James can materialize out of nowhere. “He’s the one that sent me here to check if you’re upset with him.”

This does get a laugh out of him, Remus feels the knot loosening just enough to let some fondness settle in his chest. “Of course he did,” he shakes his head. Lily only shrugs as she walks backwards out of the gym.

Remus looks down at his towel, a crinkled poor little thing that keeps being on the end of his anxious ticks. He shoves it deep inside his duffel bag before heading out the gym, not before stopping by the lockers to pick the rest of his gear on the way out. 

Except, the lockers aren’t empty.

He freezes when he manages to catch a glimpse of your silhouette before fully walking inside. It’s hard to ignore you. You’re quite literally taking up most of the space in front of the mirror, studying the bruising in your hip and navel with a certain detachment that Remus thinks isn’t normal.

For a second, all he can see is the corner of your mouth holding back the wince of your fall–how you tried to hide the way your palm pressed at the spot to relieve the soreness. I’m not stupid enough to fall for that again, your voice rings inside his head. So does the wounded look in your eyes. 

“Would you like a picture instead?”

Remus blinks, shaking his head very quickly to focus his gaze back on you, tapping at the hem of your shirt to hide the incriminating bruise of your fall.

He swallows the rebuttal that almost slips out of his lips, a pure muscle memory reflex as he turns the corner to walk to his locker. If you’re surprised by his lack of comeback, you don’t make a comment. But Remus feels your intense gaze following his every movement.

You hum, turning back to your own locker. “You qualify second, and suddenly no one’s worthy of your presence.”

“You should get that checked,” he says instead, tapping his code to open the locker. “It’s not normal to spread to your stomach.”

You pause, letting his clipped answer hang heavy in the air. Remus continues fiddling with his gear inside, meticulous in his movements as he puts everything inside his duffel bag. 

You clear your throat, turning to your own locker. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he nods his head, channeling all his leftover energy to appear casual. “Or at least–”

“I said I’m fine,” your voice catches, making Remus’ heart stutter as you slam your locker closed. “What is it to you, anyway? I thought you didn’t care?”

“No. You assumed it.”

“Um? No?” you frown, hands braced over your hips when he doesn’t meet your gaze. When his voice is controlled and clipped and devoid of any emotion–not even anger. You feel a hollowness in your chest at his lack of reaction. “You specifically said–”

“I lied, okay?” he snaps, cutting you off. He finally turns to face you. “I do care–and it’s driving me fucking mad because I know for a fact that you don’t.”

Your surprised expression is fleeting enough to make Remus wonder if it was all part of his imagination. But then you let out a startled, almost bitter laugh as you shake your head. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you manage to say, eyes looking everywhere but at him. Another angry laugh puffs out of you, fingers flying to press at your forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ—I can’t believe you.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says, casually. Like it doesn’t take him a lot to utter those words past the prideful feeling in his chest. “Stop running off and tell me to my face.”

You scoff. “There it is—why are you always accusing me of running off?” you cross your arms. “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“Hypocritical?” he repeats, feeling the anger he had tried to press down igniting at your accusation. “You’re calling me a hypocrite after what you did? Running off to Junior when… when…”

You take a step closer.

“When what, Remus?” you say, searching for his gaze. A challenge. He parts his lips to speak, but you’re quicker. “When I waited hours for you? When I spent every fucking second tidying my dorm? When I set my pride aside to wait for you… when you didn’t even deign to let me know you changed your mind?”

Remus blinks, feeling his heart slowly and slowly creeping up his throat with each of your words—how each question is as charged as the previous one, twinged with pain and heartbreak that makes your eyes blaze. He tries, and fails, to swallow the ever consuming ire that had been trapped in his throat and chest. Replacing it with something worse… realization. 

You suck in a breath, dropping your arms. “When I waited for you, only to find out you were out… partying and snogging every breathing thing that crossed your path?” you say finally, your voice wavers with the weight of your question–throat bobbling like the heartbreak has managed to return despite the years that have passed. “So tell me, Remus… how can I be a hypocrite when you said you’d show up but ran off to someone else instead?”

He pokes at his cheek, looking away from your charged glare. “I saw you, y/n,” he almost whispers, feeling his own ire returning at your confused reaction. He takes a step closer. “I saw you with Junior–not even a second after I walked away. And then? I see you with him? Nearly on top of each other like you… like you were trying to shove it into my face?”

You scoff. “You’re telling me you went out because you saw me with Barty…? Talking? What the fuck, Remus?” your face falls. The anger in your eyes morphs into something worse, heartbreak. “Do you even hear what you’re saying? Barty doesn’t even like girls.”

He laughs, bitter. “It seems to me he likes them just fine–”

“God—I can’t even have a serious conversation with you.”

“Me?” he repeats. “You’re the one that keeps throwing barbs and fucking… fucking riddles at me and, expect me to understand you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What could I possibly have said to you? That I waited?” you send him a baffled look. Remus inhales deeply, watching as you take a step to walk away from him. And the conversation altogether. “I like you, Remus. But not enough to compromise my dignity.”

Your steps echo as you walk out the locker room. And it takes Remus an embarrassing beat to process what you’ve said.

I like you, Remus.

He lets his bag drop to the floor, turning to catch up with you.

Turns out you’re not very far. Remus nearly crashes into you as he rounds the corner, lips parting at your slumped form against the hallway. Your eyes are squeezed shut, hand pressing hard at your chest like you’re trying to tame your heart from leaping out.

He doesn’t announce himself, standing in front of you until you feel his presence. If you do, you remain eerily silent in your poor attempt to pull yourself back together.

“Say that again,” he says, voice barely a whisper.

“Remus,” you whisper back, brave enough to speak but not to meet his gaze. “Please, don’t.”

Remus shakes his head, fingers cracking with electricity–feeling a phantom sensation at his fingertips when he takes a step closer. They almost reach for your hip, a movement born out of reflexive memory.

“I thought…” he wets his lips, trying to speak through the clogged feelings in his throat. “I thought you were with him, that you chose him… all this time…?”

“I don’t want to go through this again,” you shake your head, fingers traveling to your collarbone, pressing down like it’s the only movement controlled enough to calm your anxious hands. “Just… forget it.”

“y/n,” he prompts, daring to take another step closer. “Look at me.”

His voice carries throughout the hallway in a quiet echo. 

“I…” he inhales deeply. “I don’t want to continue in this… this weird limbo.”

Your eyes do snap open at this, meeting his gaze in surprise. “You heard that?”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Your breath hitches, very faintly to the untrained ear, but Remus only takes a step closer. Your eyes flit up very slowly to meet his gaze–a deja vu in his movements as your hand falls to your side. 

“Say it again.”

You swallow thickly. “Why?” you whisper. “So you can turn and reject me again?”

“I won’t.”

A small laugh escapes you, wavering and low as you force your gaze away from him. “I don’t know if I believe you, Remus.”

He blinks, and it’s in that millisecond of recalibrating that you slip out from your cornered spot against the wall. Remus takes a startled step back, but doesn’t follow behind, even as your hand travels down to your hip. Out of memory or pain, he doesn’t know.  

[joshuhaos]

Oh my goodness!! The tension!!

[ohclaire]

You had problems with letting go of control. Whether is was a lack of trust in others or too much belief in your own, you didn’t like not being in charge.

Planes, being in the passenger seat, even having too much to drink disturbed you. Because if something went wrong, you had no control of fixing the situation.

This persisted for most of your life until you met people that made you feel…safe.

Of course being a subordinate in the military often meant you weren’t in charge. It was an inevitability you were willing to accept, but work around all the same. Even receiving orders meant you’d be the one carrying them out, so you could decide how things end.

But when you were placed in the 141, every other member kept showing you again and again they could be trusted.

It started with Price, your captain. You were used to the ‘every-man-for-themselves’ mentality that came with a lot of the teams you had been on. Apparently there was something wrong with you because no one had ever shown you this camaraderie everyone talked about. It used to bother you, but now you’d begun to accept the fact that no one was ever going to have your back. Until your new captain did.

Shepherd gave the 141 some bullshit instructions for a mission that was horribly thought out. A guaranteed cluster-fuck if it were to be carried out the way it was written. As he explained the orders, you buckled in and resigned yourself for a week of interpreting the plan your own way (so as to not be killed) and having to claw your way back to base alone (after everyone else inevitably abandons you). Instead of your captain blindly agreeing with the higher ups like your previous COs, he actually argues on your behalf. Saying that he won’t send his team into such a poorly designed mission, that he was willing to let the bad guys walk rather than risk the rest of you.

You practically broke your neck to look at him when he first contested the general, thinking this was some elaborate hazing prank. But when he actually got Shepherd to agree to a delay to solidify the weak spots in the plans, your trust and respect for him grew ten-fold.

Price shut off the video call, slamming the computer shut and shaking his head before seeing your expression and looking at you confused, “what’s the matter? Lookin’ at me like my head fell off.”

“You…” you’re baffled, “you didn’t let us just walk into that…”

His brows furrow and his arms come up to cross over his chest, “course not. Need my team alive.” He seems offended.

You wave your hands, you finally get a good CO and you insult him immediately, “I didn’t mean that I expect you would! I…just have never had a superior back me up like that.”

He’s concerned now. They’re all concerned now.

“‘M your captain, love, backing you up is my job.”

You let the conversation end, not revealing how it sent you reeling and reconsidering everything you thought you knew about having a superior.

He keeps doing it too. Advocating for the team, making sure you weren’t gallivanting into unnecessary danger, providing for you. It makes you trust him. Which isn’t something you have felt in a very long time.

This behavior was not isolated to just the captain of your new team, rather they all started to show you how much you could trust them.

There was a moment where the team needed to repel down an incline. The rest of them had made it to the bottom, and you were last to descend, when suddenly the enemy was back on you. You were dangling helplessly in the air, once again expecting them to scatter for cover and leave you to fend for yourself. Instead they all stayed right where they were and laid down cover fire.

You practically shat yourself when Soap yelled up at you to cut your rope. There was no way in hell you were letting yourself go into a free-fall with only the promise of someone catching you.

But you were outnumbered and out of time and so when Soap yelled “trust me!” you pulled your knife out and cut the rope without another thought. You briefly had a second to contemplate your demise when instead of the hard ground you landed in Soap’s strong arms. You barely had a second to be shocked before you were pulled away to cover and locked back in a fire fight.

That night, though, you couldn’t get it out of your head. Replaying how much they were there for you, the fear of having to blindly trust someone, and most of all, how you did trust him.

Then there was a time not even related to work. You’d been on your way back from a stint of leave and your car broke down on the side of the road in the middle of a snow storm. It was the dead of night and you were planning on sticking it out in your car until a tow truck could come, until you got a call from Kyle. You’d briefly mentioned before the leave when you were planning on returning, and he remembered. And then called to check when you didn’t show.

You bashfully told him your scenario and tried to protest when he said he was coming to pick you up. Somehow, you were still shocked when he actually showed up, coming around to open to the door for you, revealing the passenger seat with a blanket on it and a hot tea in the cup holder.

When you said he didn’t need to do all that, his only reply was, “I’d do much worse for you, love.” He smiled like that was something you could casually say to someone. Like it didn’t cause your heart to beat out of your chest.

And when you somehow snapped your ankle on an op, instead of abandoning you with the promise of a med-evac later (you were familiar with this scenario), Ghost carried you the 10 miles back to the exfil site. They actually all looked horrified when you said you’d wait for help later, that they could leave you, like it was a guarantee that was their plan instead of taking you with them.

“We don’t leave people behind, sergeant,” was the only explanation Ghost offered. You tried to ignore how warm and soft his chest was for the next 10 miles.

They kept doing these things. And you started letting go. Eating with them, falling asleep around them, letting them stay behind your back, letting them decide how to play an op, letting them drive, even going on a blind-op where only Price knew all the details.

The boys wouldn’t say anything, afraid of scaring you away like you were a startled stray, but when you let your guard down around them for the first time it filled them with incredible satisfaction. It wasn’t hard to guess you had been mistreated in your old teams, and there was no way in hell they were letting it happen again.

It was a horrifying and liberating experience to trust someone so wholly, to lend them everything you were and pray they wouldn’t break it. They hadn’t so far, and you trusted them to continue to keep you safe.

[ohclaire]

Secretary!reader who is incredibly shy. The boys love messing with you, like to see how you squirm. You’ve started getting used to the comments and innuendos, your face hasn’t gotten any cooler, though.

Without fail when they walk past your desk in the morning, they’ll throw some quip your way.

“Well aren’t you a sight for me sore eyes, bird.” Johnny is always the most dramatic, and spends the most time loitering.

“Lookin’ as delicious as ever, sweetheart.” The captain throws a wink your way, he’s a walking HR violation.

“Mornin’, pretty.” Simon’s gruff voice is muffled from under the mask. You’re sure if you told anyone he said things like this they would get you checked.

“You still being good for us?” Kyle raps his knuckles on the wooden top of the desk, barely sparing you a glance as he struts past.

And without fail, you’ll flail and flounder and the blood will rush to your cheeks and they’ll just laugh and walk away like you weren’t contemplating your whole existence.

Of course it sent you into overthinking hell, because why did they keep doing it? Were they bullying you? Did they just think you so obstructive that they needed to bring your poor, long-untouched hopes up? Were they testing your tolerance? Did…did they actually mean the things they said? That one was obviously not the answer, but gosh they made your thoughts run away.

You never knew how they actually felt about you until your desk got moved to a more central location.

Someone retired and you blessedly got to abandon your rickety old desk that was next to the fan unit that never shut up. What that meant though, was you were now in the central path of travel into base instead of snuggled next to the side door only the 141 used.

You figured you’d seen the last of them because of that, after all why would they change their routine simply because your desk got moved?

Your theory was quickly disproven when the following Monday they strutted in through the main door to swing right past your new desk.

“Tryin’ to get rid of us, love?” John leans over the new desk, elbows splaying on the ledge, bare forearms exposed and flexing. You avert your gaze fast.

“No…desk opened up.” Your gaze flits back to the paperwork you’re completing.

“Old one wasn’t good enough for ya?” Inquires Ghost.

You raise your eyebrows and snort to yourself, keeping your eyes on your computer, “pretty sure it had termites.”

“Ah! Wouldn’t ya know, you can make jokes.” Johnny joins the ‘leaning-on-your-desk’ party.

You roll your eyes. This is just like in high school when the popular kids would say you were just so quiet. Or in elementary when the meanies would tug your hair or clothes. They were totally making fun of you. (You wish they meant what they said. That they actually had an interest in you).

“So can I expect you to change your route to bother me here, now?” You finally find their eyes. Deciding enough was enough and you should start to push back a little (even if that meant your hands were shaking aggressively).

“Yes, love.” Confirms Kyle with his stupid smile, “see you tomorrow!” He laughs and pats John’s shoulder like a signal. They all walk away. You convince yourself you don’t miss them.

And you try to ignore everyone else’s nosy gazes.

The actual realization came the next morning, when instead of the familiar faces of the 141, another gruff military man is standing at your desk.

Now, that wouldn’t be too weird except you weren’t that kind of secretary. You didn’t direct people or answer questions, you mostly just handled some paperwork. So you were a little confused on what he might need from you…maybe he was lost?

“Oh! Hello! Can I help you?” Might as well assist him while he’s here.

His gaze is no where near your eyes, rather roaming your body in a way that sends a shudder down your spine. (Nothing like how you feel when your the boys look at you).

He’s licking his lips and still not looking you in the eye when he answers, “I think you very much can, baby.”

Ew.

You try to keep it together but you’re not very good with conflict or uncomfortable situations, “um, sir…if you’re lost you can be directed by that gentleman over there,” you point to the secretary that does direct people.

“No…no I think I’m right where I need to be.” He smiles and finally makes eye contact, which is somehow worse. “How bout you stand up for me, baby, and we can see what we’re workin’ with.”

Oh you’re going to throw up. You’re flustered, and not in the good way, and you have no idea what your next move is when a large hand lands soundly on the desk next to his. Another slaps firmly onto the creep’s shoulder.

“We have a problem here?” You never thought you’d be so grateful to hear John Price’s stupid little accent in your life. For as much as they flirted with you, they never made you feel uncomfortable.

Even talking directly to this man, John’s gaze is solely on yours. Your shoulders drop. The rest of the 141 are behind him, practically surrounding the new guy.

He turns around, sensing the new status quo. “No! No problem here. Just tryin’ get some directions from this pretty thing here.” He keeps digging his hole.

“Well I suggest you find them somewhere else.” Simon’s tone leaves no room for argument. Besides, who in their right mind is disagreeing with him, ever.

All of their faces are dark, which is a stark contrast to the smirks and smiles they normally have for you. You’re beginning to comprehend why everyone finds them so intimidating.

Luckily, the creep knows when he’s lost and he scurries away.

There’s a silence for a moment before John turns back to you, “‘m sorry ‘bout that, love. Won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.” He gives you his stupid eye-crinkling grin that you pretend to hate before they all leave you alone again.

The next time you see Corporal Creep he’s sporting a black eye…you’re not going to draw any conclusions about that.

Pt. 2

[ohclaire]

Thinking about quietly possessive Simon Riley who has decided you’re his even if you don’t know it yet…

He’s always been loyal to those on his team, encroaching into possessive territory in even the best circumstances. He learned early that if he found something good, he needed to claim it fast and hold on tight or it would be taken from him. So when he finally had a team that didn’t treat him like a freak…he got protective. And you just ended up being the final nail in that coffin.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he does have a soft spot for people who are good. Good like Johnny, like you are. For too long he was only surrounded by the scum of the earth, people who took without any regard for the people around them, any regard for him. You weren’t like that. You were all give. Too much sometimes. People who take, love people like you that they can exploit. And thats where he comes in. To keep you safe.

To do that, though…he needs to stake a claim.

He started easy, purposely swapping your jackets so you would walk around with ‘RILEY’ proudly displayed on your back. You were confused on how the mix up occurred, but when you couldn’t find your jacket, he insisted you use his in the mean time. He wasn’t planning on recovering yours anytime soon.

He was always watching from a distance whenever someone talked to you. Across the mess or on the mats, anyone approached you and suddenly nothing else he was doing mattered. You couldn’t understand when people would see something off to your side only to run away from the conversation moments later. Whenever you checked, you only ever saw the soft eyes of Simon. He never let you see the glare.

He got bolder. Eventually throwing his arm around you whenever possible. Casually, at first—at least that’s how it came off to you. Everyone else, however, knew he wasn’t big on physical touch. To them, it was radical. To you, it was just Simon. You liked the support his presence brought, knowing he was watching your back. Feeling him. He liked that too, of course, but he liked that everyone started avoiding you more.

And when you got hurt, he unabashedly told the infirmary that he was your fiancé to get in to see you (and changed your emergency contact while at it). You didn’t need to know about that, you were just happy for the company in the hospital.

Eventually, the questions came—to him of course, no one dared approach you now. So, whenever someone asks if you’re dating, he tells them yes.

You’re the last person to know that you apparently have a boyfriend.

[ohclaire]

Winter was safe.

At least, as safe as you could get in a zombie apocalypse. The undead didn’t do well in the cold, limbs with no blood froze, fell off, slowed them to an essentially inert state.

But when you didn’t need to worry about horrifying, rotting, infectious dead people, you had to worry about starving.

When the news broke that the cold slowed them down, just about everyone migrated north. What that meant, though, was basically all of the stores were totally raided.

So here you were, in your fingerless gloves (that used to have fingers) digging through the wreckage of a 7-11 you’d been to before trying to find anything edible enough. You’d take something even technically edible at this point. The gloves catch on a broken shelf, sending your frustrations over the edge. You rip them off and throw them on the ground.

It was the fifth store you had tried today. You were getting desperate enough to start trying the same places again. In the summer, you could forage in the forest, maybe even catch something in a snare if you were lucky. But right now? The forest was deader than the zombies. You’d have to rely on something canned pre-apocalypse. Or you could die. That was looking pretty appealing right now.

Your doom-and-gloom thoughts were interrupted by a loud rattle by the door. On instinct, you ducked and pulled your knife from your belt, making yourself small behind a shelf. Sure, winter slowed them down, but that didn’t mean a persistent straggler wasn’t possible. You couldn’t let your guard down.

You were tense, ready for any scenario…until you heard voices. Accented voices—at least to you in mountain-town USA.

“Bloody hell, this place is a ghost town…”

They were human, but you still didn’t dare poke out. The apocalypse did nasty things to people. Made them compromise their morals for survival. Some people leaned into that more than others and there was no way to know.

“Just see if there’s anything salvageable, sergeant. Map says this is the last town for a while.”

Sergeant? Military? Last you heard, they were all wiped out in the initial push-back. Not to mention they were passersby, which was incredibly rare. People in general were getting rarer by the day, but most people clung to the safety of the cold, and towns they knew. Unknowns were dangerous. Trained ones, even more so.

As far as you knew, this place didn’t have a back door. But, if you could get to the front undetected, you could get the hell out of dodge, belly no less empty, but still very much alive. You’d take that trade-off.

As they rounded the shelves, you paralleled their movements, snaking around them to stay out of sight. Curiosity was a beast of its own, though, so you risked a peek.

There were three of them, all large men. One was older with mutton chops and a bucket hat, holding a gun—a large one—and looking around while the others dug through the mess. The other two were younger. One shorter, but no less built, with a Mohawk of all things. The other, very pretty with a Union Jack on his cap.

They all had guns (another rarity these days) and tac vests, clearly military and clearly not American. Definitely wanted to avoid them.

They seemed occupied with their search, which benefited you. They didn’t seem overtly concerned with their noise levels either, so it was easier to sneak away. By the time you made it to the front door, you almost felt like it was too easy. Still looking back to make sure they hadn’t seen you, you didn’t notice the hulking figure in front of you. But boy did he see you.

He grabbed you by the straps of your backpack before slamming you against the brick wall of the building. Oh…they left a scout. You realized a little too late. He was the scariest of them all, face fully covered by a skull mask. He had to have been well over 6 feet, and struck an intimidatingly muscular figure. You were so so so incredibly fucked.

“Captain!” His low voice cut through the silence of the outdoors, making you flinch. You can’t remember the last time someone had yelled in your presence. Frankly, it’s been a while since you’d seen anyone at all.

His comrades responded rapidly, flying outside with their guns up ready to defend him. They deflated at the sight of you, which…was sort of offensive. Sure, you probably didn’t look as intimidating as them, what with no gun, and you were clearly outnumbered, but still. They didn’t know what you could do.

“Well, what do we have ‘ere, Ghost?” Mutton chops—the captain?—asks.

Your brows furrow, “ghost…?” You can’t help but whispering inquisitively.

His gaze turns back on you, “got a problem?”

“No!” You speak louder, head shaking, “no problem…just…ghost?”

The one with a Mohawk snorts before Pretty Boy stomps on his foot.

You’re confused at the dynamic here. Are you in danger? You can’t tell. Ghost still has you pinned, but they all seem very relaxed and Mohawk even seems to find humor in the situation.

“Are…you gonna kill me?” You were always told that speaking your mind is best.

The captain lowers his weapon fully, hands coming to wrap around the front straps of his vest before rocking on his heels and smirking a little. You try to ignore the way it crinkles his eyes and how that makes you feel. “No, sweet’eart, we’re not that type of folk. Just needed to make certain you weren’t a threat.”

There’s silence for a moment. Your gaze sweeps from the captain to Ghosts hands, still wrapped around your backpack straps and pinning you to the wall, before back to the captain in a silent plea.

“Alrigh’, Ghost, release.” He lets you go, dropping you the inch he had you raised back to the ground, before backing up.

You fix your jacket and bag and clear your throat, wiping your hands down the front of your shirt. “Well…gentlemen…if that’s all…” you move to leave before the captain jerks you back by the hook on the back of your bag.

“Not so fast.”

This is getting old quick.

“What!” You flip to face him, exasperated and no longer caring, “what could I possibly do—“ you stop at the sight of a granola bar in his outstretched hand. You look down at it and then back at him. Was he really offering this to you? Food was so scarce and kind people even scarcer. What did he want in return?

Before you could ask or just grab it and run, the sound of a motorcycle revving in the distance interrupted your thoughts.

You flinch hard, looking the direction it came before backtracking rapidly. “Shit. Shit, shit—“

They’re confused but you’d be damned if you had another run in with him. You’re about to take off when you think about them. Clearly unfamiliar with the territory and kind enough to offer you food (…and not kill you). The least you could do is save them from this fate.

So, you grab Pretty Boy’s bicep and tug him along with a “come with me!”

“Hey, wait a second—“ Ghost is gripping his gun and taking a defensive step forward, but you don’t have time for his suspicion.

You’re still holding Pretty’s bicep when you swoop past Mohawk and grab him too, “if you want to die that’s fine by me!” The two in your hold are sharing a glance over your head but seem inclined to listen. You don’t spare a look to see if the other two are following, if not, it’s their funeral.

You’re pretty sure the gas station has a secondary building around back for overstock and snow supplies. Last you checked all the food was gone, but hopefully the door was still in tact. You had to be out of sight before they got here.

The sounds of motorcycles were getting closer, and your window was closing. Luckily, you could see the shed still standing with a door. You abandon the hold on the boys in favor of tugging the latch and opening the door to the shed. Looking behind you, the other two ended up following, both seeming more suspicious of you than they had when you were pressed to a wall. There wasn’t time to explain, though, so you just ushered them in before following and closing the door.

It was about a quarter of the size of the actual station, with some closets and nooks and crannies, but they stayed huddled by the entryway, reluctant to venture further into the dark unknown.

You turn to face them, feeling claustrophobic at the way they are towering around you. You take off your backpack, shoving it into the chest in front of you. “Hold this.”

You start to rummage through before Ghost interrupts, “are you going to explain anything?”

Your head whips up in the dark, “shh!” You pull out a flashlight and flick it on, zipping your bag up and flinging it onto your back.

You break out of the circle, giving the room a glance over to make sure no zombies had made this their hibernation home. When you’re certain it’s clear, you turn back around to answer.

“Listen, there’s only one group in town that have motorcycles and you don’t want to cross their path.”

They share a dubious look with one another before shouldering their guns higher. “I think we’d be set, love.”

You scoff, “you’re not the only ones with guns. And from the looks of it, you’re a lot nicer than they are.”

“We’re only nice to people who look on the verge of starving. It’s not like you pose much of a threat.” Ghost again.

They’re not getting it. “Just!—trust me. You’re passing through, right? Not from around here?” You’re looking at each of them in the eye, trying to impress upon them how serious you are. “These guys rolled up at the very start. People were making a community here. With walls and laws, trying to make something of this mess. They tore it all to shreds. Pretended to join the community and then opened the gates to a bunch of undead. The things that they did—“ you take a breath and look away before continuing, “they’re not good, okay? If they saw the gear y’all’re sporting, they’d never let you walk away.”

You can only hope you got through to them because the motorcycles are here. You turn off the flashlight and punch through their group again to peek out a gap in the door. Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here, please—

They park the bikes in front of the 7-11.

“Alright! Split up, see if this fine establishment has what we’re lookin’ for!” His southern drawl makes you shudder, thinking back to how callous he was in the wake of the destruction he caused.

“His name is Graves.” You whisper, not taking your eyes off of him. “Was U.S. military before all of this…deserted when the shit hit the fan.”

They don’t ask how you know so much about him.

Suddenly you jerk back with a hissed “shit!”

Suddenly you’re turning around and pushing on their chests to get them to move. “Go, go, go! Someone is coming.”

You had seen plenty of hiding places when you were checking for undead, you just had to hope they wouldn’t check too thoroughly.

You all scrambled for a place to hide, silently directing them to places you had spotted. Everyone squeezed into gaps or took closets, and then it was just you, standing in the middle of the room, spinning helplessly. Footsteps approached from outside, about to reach the door, when someone stuck their hand out and jerked you into their spot.

Ghost squeezed you into the cabinet he was in, chest pressing to yours, before shutting the door and plunging you into darkness.

“I—“ you try to whisper, but he just brings his hand up to cover your mouth as the door to the shed creaks open.

Your breathing picks up as someone enters to room, sweeping a flashlight back and forth, momentarily illuminating the crack in the cabinet. You can hear his boots scrape the floor and the click of a gun as he leisurely makes his way deeper into the room.

Eventually he stops in front of your cabinet. Your eye flickers from the crack to Ghost’s eyes. His gun is nuzzled between the two of you. He brings his finger up to his lips before reaching down to your thigh holster for your knife, not yet pulling it out, just hovering with his hand pressed against your thigh and waiting for the door to open.

“Walkowski!” You hear Graves yell from the main building. The man retracts his hand from the handle of the cabinet and runs back to his master.

Ghost drops both of his hands from you and you finally feel like you can breathe again.

You all give it a moment before emerging from your hiding spots. You approach the door that is still ajar, looking out to find no one in sight.

You look over your shoulder and gesture for them to follow before shooting out and jogging for the back of the gas station.

As you all take refuge behind the back wall, Graves finally re-emerges with his crew.

“Any clues on our little deflector?” He asks his goons as they flood back to him.

“Not sure, sir, but we did find this.” One of them holds up two gloves—your gloves.

Graves chuckles and takes them from his hands. “Well I’ll be!” He holds them up and waves them at his other comrades, “looks like we’re on the right track, boys!”

Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut at your stupidity. A barely audible fuck leaves you. The boys share a look, starting to put some dots together.

You all stay silent as they all get back on their bikes and start up the road. The tension only minimally leaves your shoulders, you honestly look on the verge of tears as you stand.

“Well…it was nice meeting you. Thanks for the granola bar. If you’re trying to get out of town you’re going to want to follow the highway so you don’t get stuck in a snowed-out overpass.” You point in the direction of a large road, not turning around to face them before staring the opposite direction Graves went.

“Come with us.” Ghost stops you before even fully considering what he’s saying. He spares a look at John, forgetting chain of command for a moment. All he’s thinking about is that he knows what it’s like to be running from something. To be scared. But John doesn’t protest, in fact they all look to be in agreement.

That does get you to turn back. “What?” You say incredulously.

“We could use a guide.” He offers.

“I’m—“ you look around like you’d find someone to protest, “I’m not just dropping everything I have here for…for some strangers I met 30 minutes ago…” despite your arguments, you look contemplative.

“Everything you have here? Like what? The lack of food and a sociopath on your ass?” Tough love it is.

You scoff and shake your head. Of course they caught that. Your brain tells you that there’s no argument, that obviously you can’t go with them. But…but…

To tell the truth, you had nothing here. Just the memory of what was before Graves took everything. He was right. You were starving and terrified Graves would find you everyday. You were sick of watching your own back, sick of having no one to talk to, and sick of Graves looming over you.

You open and close your mouth a couple of times. “…okay.”

You’re not sure how, but you felt like you had just irreparably changed something.

[ohclaire]

Depressed omega!reader whose scent makes it incredibly obvious.

Obviously omegas being emotionally regulated and safe was very important for pack health, and their scents ensured everyone knew if they were in distress.

But you tried, really tired, to reel it back in. Of course you didn’t wanna be walking around practically sending out a distress beacon, but short of getting on scent blockers there wasn’t much to do. And you tried that too, but apparently one of the side effects of the blockers was depression…which just wouldn’t help the situation would it? Well, at least then you wouldn’t be bothering the whole team, you supposed.

When you got like this…and your scent went out, unpleasantly curdled from your normal one, everyone else went haywire. It was only their biology, distressed omega means unhealthy pack. It sent them into overdrive, itching to help and find a solution. Part of you felt incredibly guilty that your hurt was causing them discomfort too…but the rest of you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Which sounds callous, but caring about anything got hard, and thinking down that road just made your scent worse and made the boys go more stir crazy, which made you feel guiltier…so you just stopped thinking about it.

Sometimes it’ll come out of nowhere. You’ll be sitting in the rec room, having an enough pleasant time, everyone doing their own thing. And suddenly you’ll start thinking too much, too deeply about certain things, and won’t even notice how far your thoughts go until Johnny gives a loud whine. Only then do you notice how much your scent has changed and how everyone has stopped what they’re doing to look at you in concern.

You always mumble a “sorry…” when you realize. But they don’t let you apologize.

It’s…nice in a way. You’ve always been bad about asking for help, and for too much of your life your sadness (and subsequent scent changes) went uncared for. So to have them care so much about it…made you feel good. Feel loved.

Sometimes they’d take your mind off it. Moving from individual activities to a board game, or a movie night. Or sometimes they’d ask if you wanted to talk. And most of the time the answer was no, but sometimes you’d cry into their arms and it would make them cry too, but you’d feel better.

And you love them for it.

But sometimes even that’s too much.

And so you’ll lock yourself in your room and lose yourself in your nest, lose yourself in the thoughts, and just let yourself feel.

You could still sense them, taking shifts outside your door. You don’t know if it’s intentionally set up so you’re never alone, or if they just have the urge to get as close as they can when your distressed scent is wafting through the cracks in your door and they can’t reach you.

You lie there for hours, maybe days, and it feels like it’ll never get better. Like there’s weights attached to your limbs, glueing you to the sheets. But then eventually you wake up and feel like you can manage a shower, and suddenly you’re putting on new clothes and drinking water and opening the door. And the boys have the decency to behave relatively normally, just relieved that you’re feeling okay again. You prefer it to them treating you like glass.

But still, they’ll make you breakfast and refuse to let you help, and they’ll make you sit in the middle of the couch to be surrounded by them with a million blankets and your favorite show on. And John will kiss the crown of your head when he hands you your coffee, and Kyle will warm your cold hands and kiss your knuckles, and Simon will put his head on your lap so you feel attached to the world, and Johnny will say something that will make you laugh for the first time in days. And you’ll start to remember a little why you got out of bed.

Maybe in the future, you’ll leave the door unlocked. Let them be there while you feel like you can’t breathe. But for now, they can handle the feelings of uselessness if space is what you need. They’d do whatever it took to make you feel okay again.

[mousedotjpeg]

"He's done this on purpose." You murmur, fingers tightening around the hilt of your sword. "He really has."

"Are you truly so sure?" Legolas questions.

"Most certain."

"Perhaps... we shall return to the others?" He asks, though makes no attempt to move his heavy feet, nor tear his eyes away from the very intimate problem you faced.

"And set our eyes upon their evil little grins?" You counter.

"Mischief, perhaps, may be their intention. Vengeance, however, shall be our own."

"Noted. That does not, however, solve our current... predicament." You gesture loosely to the elephant in the room. Daringly, you tear your eyes away from the single, and only bed in the inn's small room, to settle onto your traveling companion.

Your ridiculously handsome travel companion. Who looked as though he was struggling to pass a rather large bowel movement at the moment.

"I shall have no problem taking the floor." Legolas reassured. (You couldn't tell if he was informing you, or himself.)

"A nice thought... if there were any floor space." You countered again, eyes sweeping over the incredibly cramped space.

"Rather peculiar decorating indeed, hm?" He weakly offers.

"Mm." You blinked once. Twice. "Well. I suppose that is our only option then. The keeper did affirm the lack of vacancy."

With a curt nod, Legolas cleared the room in two measly strides, beginning to unfasten his weaponry while allowing you the privacy and space to disrobe. Your brain had begun to feel fizzy at the encroaching anxiety, fingers fumbling in their effort to untie your outerwear.

The two of you quietly prepared for bed, not a creak sounding about the room aside from the clinking of assorted steels.

After several terse moments that left you standing in your undergown and stockings, you reluctantly spun around to face the very object of your ire. Stupid, dreadful bed.

"Listen," Legolas began, sounding so suddenly serious you nearly tripped trying to turn and face him. His eyes stared down so intensely into your own even from across the room it was nearly impossible not to drown yourself in them. "We have both slept on far colder ground, with far more bothersome company. This shall not be what upends us."

"You speak as if the company is the problem." No doubt he could hear the racing of your heart, though his eyes flicked down to follow your tongue as it ran across your dry lips.

"Never, not your company." His response slipped from his lips so quickly you hardly had time to dwell on your doubts.

"Then what is it?" You reply, voice merely a strained whisper. Legolas' throat bobs, before he takes a steadying breath and walks around the bed, standing before you.

"For centuries we have danced around each other, yet you still remain unsure of my intentions?" He questions, large hands rising to grab hold of your shoulders. "Tis not the company, meleth nin, but the proximity."

"Proximity?" You weakly question, leaning into his hold.

"Proximity, which leads to temptation." His hands begin to wander, sliding first down your bare arms, before circling around your waist. Legolas pulls you closer, breath fanning over your lips.

"Temptation? You?" You respond, voice lacking the bite in which you initially intended. "You flinch every time I near, yet you wish me to believe you are tempted?"

"And nothing short of it. For three centuries I have been made to gaze upon that which has beauty like no other, yet never permitted to touch it."

"You speak as if I am some sort of relic. Only to be seen from afar, never to be touched nor held." Your fingers curl into the neck of his tunic, his skin impossibly soft beneath your fingers.

"Not a relic, but a flame. One I feared to touch, lest I be entirely consumed." His nose brushes against your own, hands sprawling across your back. "Your heart is racing. You shall tell me if this is unwelcome."

"Legolas, you fool, it is most welcome."

His lips, at last, find yours, not urgent but reverent as he presses into you, every facet of his being melting into yours. For several blissful moments you remain in his embrace, lost in the enchantment as his lips move against your own, growing in fervor the longer they meet. Your hands press further, further along his neck, his jaw, his pointed ears, until they settle into his hair, ensuring his station with their grip.

"You have me, meleth nin, as you always have." Legolas murmurs against your mouth, hand rising from your back to caress your jaw, cool touch sending shivers about your spine.

"And you shall not lose me."

end.