I saw that you’re taking requests for the boulevard is not that bad, and I thought what if the tables were turned and reader got injured? I wonder how they’d react! Maybe reader gets lost in the crowd and thinks they’re gonna leave her, but they actually notice her disappearance and look for her. They’d get worried when they find her injured and realise they actually care about her.
Thank you so much! I’m in loveeee with this story🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
Thank you for reading and requesting gorgeous! I hope you're doing well too
cw: crowd crush, rioting, police
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
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2k words
You're not interviewing the boys until after the show, and you reason there's no point in hanging around their dressing room if you're not getting quotes. So, you go to the crowd.
It's a half-baked plan. You can't ask fans to speculate about an album they don't know about yet, so you figure you'll ask some questions about what The Marauders mean to them or how it feels to be here or whatever. It'll come to you. Or it won't, which would also be fine, because you probably won't get anything you can use in the feature anyway. You just need a distraction.
It does feel good to be down in the action, though. You've loved being backstage at so many shows—watching the band prepare, seeing all that goes into it, it hasn't lost its sparkle for you yet—but this is where your heart is.
It's where you started. With your shoes sticking to grimy floor, neck craning to witness the live performance of a song you've heard a thousand times on the record player in your own home. Hearing and seeing the same emotions you've felt intimately grip musicians while they play. Experiencing it, along with everyone else there, all of you losing yourselves to the sort of raw feeling only music has ever given you.
You're back in it now.
The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.
It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.
You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.
In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.
Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.
You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.
The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.
The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.
You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.
A security guard pokes his head out.
"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"
He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."
You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."
The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."
A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.
The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.
"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."
"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."
The metal door shuts with a clang.
Deja-vu.
You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.
You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.
"Come on!"
"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."
You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.
Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.
It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.
It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.
You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.
You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.
The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.
"Hey? Hey!"
Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.
"Y/n!"
You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.
"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"
You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"
James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.
"Are you alright?" asks Remus.
You burst into tears.
It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.
"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"
"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"
You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.
Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.
"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.
"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"
"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.
You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."
James scoffs. "You think we'd go on to the hotel without our own live-in paparazzi?" He plants a kiss on your head as you start toward the bus. "No way."
I hate being a good girl I fear it is the worst thing ever. look at me whilst I have hope and faith and walk down the path that makes everyone say “good job! if you keep going down this correct road everyone will be proud of you” meanwhile the road is this endless stretch of nothing that I have gained nothing from. and millions of people walk incorrect roads and get thousands of things that I do not
i do not want to live in the fucking panopticon fuck the camera that blinks above me at work, the tv watching me at the store, the "smile you're on camera" signs, the ring cameras, the flock cameras, the apps to track your child or partner, the activist friends telling me "just assume everything you do in public is being recorded somewhere", the government building protester databases, the teslas recording every move all around them, the knowledge that everything i type or search or save is being tracked and logged, the ads and search suggestions that mysteriously know what i was just talking about, the way biometrics keep creeping into more places, the way my car spies on me, the way my phone spies on me, the way there is nowhere to go to get away from it!!! no wonder the internet is full of vindictive little stalkers and witchhunts when it's the water and the air of society from the culture to the infrastructure
🏷️: finishing shoresy now that I have temporary access to hulu! here’s some stream-of-consciousness about hitch and the pretty new barmaid at their usual spot, because he’s been occupying my mind the last few days, and he needs a stable relationship in his life to keep him away from the bender this whole team is currently on (take notes from your captain, dude). ~800 words.
he was “you in the sweater” first, referred to with an upward nod while she was somehow pouring two drinks and taking two different people’s orders all at once, then “newfie” once she’d heard exactly how thick his dialect was, and finally “hitch” after she’d gotten to know him and the b’ys.
but tonight, he’s none of those.
“hiya, teddy,” she says softly, already reaching for the bottles she needs to make his signature mar-toonie.
she knows his name. not the abbreviation of his last name that the bigger half of sudbury knows by now, but his actual legal name, and she makes it sound like heaven.
he hasn’t had a sip all night, didn’t pregame with the b’ys or do anything to celebrate their win tonight besides sit with goody and have their post-game ‘sticks, and he’s already at a loss for words.
but he has other things to focus on right now, namely the way she’s swaying a little bit as she stands, how she’s moving slower than normal and not doing her usual bar tricks.
“y’alright, love?”
“migraine.”
he’s had a concussion or seven before, and knows that being in this kind of place, with the constant bustle and sound of stools scraping back, pool and darts being shot, glasses clinking and drunk idiots yelling over the music that’s already loud enough, a headache is murder.
and she looks like she’s gonna keel over any second now.
“think my nephew and his gross friends got me sick.”
he’s met the aforementioned kids a few times in passing, on days where the U10 practices ended just before the blueberry bulldogs’ started theirs. gross is definitely an apt description. but they idolize him and the b’ys. and her.
for all intents and purposes she’s a stand-in parent, but young and cool enough to occupy a space between mom and sister. of course she let them sleep over on her night off. probably let them stay up late to watch the west-coast nhl games and made pancakes when they woke up at noon the next day, all without complaint.
and now here she is at work, sick as a dog but still made up and dressed in the barmaid’s uniform of a tight-fitting, low-cut shirt and jeans that may have been painted on, because the bar needs her, and because she needs this job to pay for her nephew’s sticks and to keep the lights on at home, and because she’s not a fucking quitter.
he respects that. but he decides then and there that “go till you can’t go no more” does not apply to her.
he still hasn’t responded to her remark, but she’s finished mixing his drink by now, slid the glass across the bartop and is turning around to put the bottles back in their proper place. never one to cut corners, even in a state such as this.
fuck, she’s shivering.
so he does what any self-respecting, love-sick newfie man worth his salt would, and reaches over his head to pull off his sweater, leaving him in just a plain t-shirt beneath.
she’s facing forward again, blinking at him as she tries to figure out what the fuck he did that for, in the middle of february in ontario, unprompted and not obviously part of some idiotics encouraged by his friends, who are nowhere nearby and look to be engaged in a passionate conversation about something dumb.
he extends it toward her. “here.”
more of those sleepy blinks. lard, how does someone with a cold this bad look so cute? is this what she’d look like after waking up in his bed on a lazy sunday morning?
“you’re freezin’,” he prods, and it clicks.
she looks at it for a moment, contemplating.
it’s a really nice sweater. one of those cable-knit ones that fishermen wear, allegedly. he doesn’t remember seeing any of those prince edward island guys with one on. they were more hoodie types. practical to the core and too damn nice. it was a little unsettling, actually.
she finally caves, accepting it and slipping her arms through the too-long sleeves, and he watches her realize that the garment is still body-warm — he’d literally taken it off his back to pass it to her across the bartop.
he may be part of nat’s affectionately-named gang of sluts, but this innocent gesture is going to take a spot in the top five most intimate things he’s ever done with another human.
“thank you,” she says, in a hoarse whisper that he can’t hear over the ruckus of the bar, but he can see the way her lips part around the words, see it in her eyes that he’d just tossed her a lifeline to get her through the next few hours without falling over, and that she’ll be eternally grateful.
“don’t mention it.”
he settles down at the big table with the rest of the team, taking a sip of his first and only drink of the night — he needs to be well and truly sober to drive her home after last call.
being a humanities major who’s friends with stem majors is so funny because you’ll ask your friends what they’re doing today and they’re like “UGH it’s so stressful i have to stabilize the reactor core for my nuclear power midterm and then i have to build the supercomputer from i have no mouth yet i must scream for my electrical engineering homework :/ what about you” and you’re like “oh well i have to read a fun little book and write an essay about gender.” and they still think you have it worse
Being a stem major who's friends with humanities majors is ALSO funny bc you ask what's goin on with them and they're like "oh yeah my day's pretty good! I only have to read 50 pages for this one class today and half a book for another one. It's much better than last week where I read three books and wrote a 10 page paper about their overlapping motifs for one class while also researching a niche period of time that our library doesn't have any resources on. How's it been for you?" and you're like "oh I have a lil packet of fun math puzzles due tomorrow." and they look at you like you're carrying the weight of the universe on your back
This is your reminder that just because something falls within the skillset you've practiced, so you can do it and you don't find it particularly hard or stressful relative to other things, it doesn't mean it isn't actually hard work you should be proud of yourself for accomplishing!
what if orpheus was butch and she unclipped her carabiner and held it out behind her and then eurydice clipped it onto her belt loop and then orpheus didnt have to look back because she could hear eurydice jingle jangling behind her. follow me for more dyke solutions to famous tragic literature
I feel like jily would see reader and both be like oh fuck and then decide to just adopt/bring them into the relationship. Like they sit by reader at meals, James butters both lily’s toast and readers, lily sits on the couch by reader in the common room and puts her head in their lap while snatching their essay out of their hand to proofread while James sits on the floor and lily mindlessly plays with his hair, they save reader a seat at the three broomsticks on hogsmeade days. And poor reader just thinks they’re friends, or maybe they decided they need a kid since they act so married/mom and dad. And one day Lily or James is like yea my partners and reader is like uh as in plural? And both James and Lily whip their heads around and are like yea moron us three???? What did you think was happening???
Thanks for requesting!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
hogwarts uni au
poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1k words
All three occupants of the table light up when you and Remus enter the Three Broomsticks.
“Move,” Lily tells Sirius promptly.
He scoffs, but happily vacates his seat next to James in favor of one on the other side of the table, where Remus can sit next to him. “Fuck off, Evans.”
James slides out of his chair and into the next. “Saved you a seat,” he says, smiling that megawatt smile that jellies your legs. He pulls out the newly empty chair between himself and Lily.
“Oh.” You falter only a moment at the fact that they’re not sitting together before taking it. “Thanks.”
“Is this new?” Lily touches the pompom of your hat. It’s the faintest brush of her fingers, and yet your face heats like a struck match. Her eyes find yours, fond. “You look very cute.”
“Thanks,” you say again, quieter.
She smiles. “What kept you two?”
“Transmutation paper,” Remus answers for you, collapsing into the chair next to Sirius’. Your lips tug fondly as you watch how Sirius curls into his side, Remus’ arm coming around the other boy’s shoulders almost unthinkingly. “Our professor’s got his pants in a twist about structure. Wants us to hit every point of the rubric in order.”
“Tyrant,” Sirius decides immediately.
“Same one who gave us a paper due during reading week, too.”
“Knew I hated him. We should spell his shoes into tar.”
“Do you want me to read it over for you?” Lily offers, while Remus and Sirius sidebar about how a shoe-to-tar spell might be achieved. “I can compare with the rubric if you’d like a fresh set of eyes.”
“You don’t have to,” you try, but Lily waves you off, beckoning for it.
“While you do that,” says James, standing, “I’ll go get drinks. Moony, what’ll you have?”
“Whiskey sour, please,” Remus replies. He’s taking out his own essay, newly paranoid that he’s missed a point.
“Yuck. And you want a cider, angel?”
You assume for a moment that James must mean Lily, but she already has a drink. He’s looking at you. You didn’t realize he knew your usual order.
“Yes, please,” you say.
James goes to the bar, while Lily leans closer to praise you for an apt transition between your thesis and first argument. Her shoulder bumps into yours, a warmth you can feel through the layers separating you. It’s innocuous. But you wonder if Lily would be so comfortable around you if she knew of your giant, shameful crush on both her and her boyfriend.
It’s hardly your first forbidden crush (you carried a torch for Remus for months after he and Sirius got together) but it’s definitely new for you to have a crush on two people who are in a relationship together. Because fate likes to laugh at you, James and Lily decided they’d like to be your closest friends right around the time you started having feelings for them both. You feel a bit accomplished for having gone undetected for so long. Lily is smart; you thought she’d clock your puppy eyes within a week of getting to know you better, but so far nothing has seemed to deter the couple from wanting to spend more time with you.
“This is good,” Lily says, still skimming the end of your paper. “I can’t imagine what your professor could fault you for. You’ve laid everything out perfectly.”
“Ooh, high praise,” James teases, setting down your cider in front of you. A short glass has appeared in front of Remus. James lays his arm across the back of your chair casually. “Give her a break from school, love.”
“Wait.” Remus sends Lily a sheepish look. “Will you read mine?”
James laughs. “I think both of my girls deserve a break.”
“Hear hear!” Sirius lifts his glass, while the words my girls are still echoing around in your head like a song that sticks. “Speaking of, Prongs, do you want to do something off-campus on Friday?”
“Not this Friday,” James replies unhesitatingly. “We have a date.”
You turn to him, a bit wounded. “This Friday?”
James’ eyebrows raise. “Yeah. Did you forget?”
“I just…I thought we were going to the cinema on Friday.”
“That’s what I meant.” He squeezes your shoulder, giving you a bemused smile. “So like I was telling Pads, we have plans Friday.”
“Oh, sorry.” You feel silly. “The word ‘date’ threw me.”
Lily looks up then, her brows bunched to James’ raised.
“...Why would that be?” James asks.
“Because…” you say slowly, hoping one of them will finish for you. When they don’t, you flounder. “Well, is it a date?”
“Of course it is,” James replies.
You reel.
“Oh, lovely.” Lily sounds a strange mix of fond and empathetic. “Did you not know we were asking you on a date? What do you think the other night at our apartment was?”
“Studying,” you say tightly.
James nods. “A study date.”
“Right, but—when you called it that, I didn’t take it for—you know, anything. Remus and I have study dates all the time.”
“You what?” Sirius rounds on his boyfriend, who is doing his best to appear as though he isn’t listening.
“What did you think was happening between us?” Lily asks you.
You look at her helplessly. “Friendship?” With the added flavor of one-sided, hopeless pining.
“Godric.” James runs a hand through his hair. When he breathes out, his lips twitch; it’s like he’s incurable. “Well, would you want to date? Since apparently we haven’t started yet.”
“How many dates do you think we’ve had?”
“Four, love.”
“Five,” Lily corrects him. “You’re forgetting the pond.”
“Right. Five.”
You gawp at them, replaying every hour you’ve spent alone together in your head. It did feel strange that they kept inviting you along to things. But you only thought you were their very special third wheel.
“I’d like to be on a date,” you say.
James’ grin splits his face, and Lily laughs breathlessly. “Great,” she says. “We can consider this our first.”
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
