if you're still doing drabbles ... what about clark or azriel reacting to you flinching ??
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Word count: 810
Warnings: mentions of previous abuse, angst, fighting
a/n: Drabble masterlist can be found here. I'm doing a drabble spree to make up for being gone <333
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"I told you. I don't feel comfortable with you around him," Azriel practically seethed, the argument continuing in its vicious circle. "He wants you. He always has."
You laughed, incredulous. "You're being unreasonable! Tobias has never wanted me. We've known each other for years!"
"I've known you for years."
"Yes, well, we are mates. Have a little faith in me. It's almost insulting at this point—the number of times I have had to reassure you that there is nothing, and there will always be nothing, with my friend."
Rage and frustration simmered beneath each of your words. This fight had been going on for far too long, a product of the agitating week the two of you had had. Azriel was overworked and filled with stress. You were irritated by the dead ends in your research.
And then Tobias had spoken to you earlier, and Azriel spiraled. Even if it wasn't really about Tobias.
"I can't seem to understand why you won't listen to me. I know what it looks like to be in love with you. "
You scoffed and raised an indignant brow. "I have a hard time seeing that right now."
Something flashed across his expression, and then Azriel was raising his voice. He never raised his voice. "How dare you insinuate that—I have never—"
The heat in the room was intensifying with the volume, and you felt yourself shrink out of habit. There had been others—before Azriel—that made yelling and violence feel more commonplace. Azriel knew about them. It was one of the reasons he never yelled.
But there was too much leading up to this argument, and you both had been defending your fruitless points for too long.
He didn't notice that you'd begun to stutter, too caught up in the continued fight. You didn't know why you were still going. "I-I just meant that i-it doesn't seem like you trust me. How—how are we supposed to talk to each other about things if you don't listen to me? If you can't trust m-me!"
Your hands were flailing now, trying to prove points that didn't mean anything anymore. Azriel yelled a few things back, matching your tone. And then he moved his own hands, and you flinched. An unintentional movement, a raise of your hands and a hard blink, but it was enough to extinguish the heat in the room. Enough for Azriel to turn starkly pale.
And then you were apologizing.
"Sorry! I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just—"
Azriel's face crumbled. He picked up where your words failed, his hands now dead weight at his sides. "Did you think I was going to hit you?"
You scrambled to appease him. An old habit. "No! No, of course not. It was just a reflex, and I would never think that you'd—"
You stopped talking as the wetness met your cheek, the sight of the single tear making Azriel look even more crestfallen than he already had. His shoulders slumped even as you quickly brushed it away.
"Angel, I would never—I would never hurt you. I am so sorry."
An uncomfortable laugh pushed from your chest. The emotions in the room were no longer sensible, and you felt like a live wire. "I know that—I'm being ridiculous. Let's just forget about this. I shouldn't have talked to him."
Azriel's neck bent to catch your eyes. You were looking at the ceiling, willing the tears to pool back in your waterline.
"Can I touch you?"
The question was like a punch to the gut. He asked so softly it hurt.
You released your lip from the vice of your teeth, gave a single nod, and then a slow, soft touch was on your chin, tilting you back down, allowing the flurry of tears to cascade down your cheeks.
And Azriel—your Azriel—looked broken at the sight of them.
His eyes became punctuated earnestness, brows low. "I would never hurt you, do you hear me? I shouldn't have yelled. I know that's difficult for you. I was selfish."
You shook your head, lips parting to make excuses for him—because you loved him—but Azriel gently shushed you. He let his gaze track along each of your features and moved his hands to the sides of your neck.
"Never apologize to me again. Not for that." When you looked at him, unsure, he only nodded. "Promise me that."
The slight downturn of your head was enough, and Azriel began to wipe the tears from your face. He kissed along the high points of your cheeks and your temple, brushing the hair from where it stuck to your skin.
"I won't say I'm sorry, but I will say that I wasn't—reacting to you. I know you wouldn't hurt me."
Azriel pressed his forehead to yours. "Doesn't matter. I never want to see you scared of me. Never again."
summary: malfoy manor is a great place for drinks, laughs, and…. orgys?
warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUTTTTTT, porn with negative 100 plot, literally just sex and mentions of alcohol, group of uni students that love to consensually gangbang when they have the chance (sorry i’m cackling at that), pansy and reader kiss a few times, multiple orgasms from some of the boys, anal sex, fingering, oral.
Habits are simple, predictable things, slipping into your life without much thought. Some are reckless, some harmless. And some, well—some come with the taste of someone else's lips.
You're not sure when kissing Pansy Parkinson became one of them. What started as a drunken dare, a little more fun than you'd planned for, has now undoubtedly turned into something else—something almost close to ritual. With every night that stretches long, every round of drinks that comes too fast, it's inevitable that your lips will find hers at one point or another, like clockwork.
And a habit is just a habit, but this one—this one you never feel like breaking.
"You ever try body shots with tequila?" Pansy whispers, breath warm against your lips as her smirk hooks you, the same way it always does.
"Plenty of times." You grin back, your mouth barely brushing hers. "What, you want me to lay back for you, Parkinson? Shirt pulled down—or off?"
Theo whistles, and Pansy giggles. They've seen this before, watched it unfold in countless variations, yet it's still equally as entertaining every single time.
"Pull it down, take it off, whatever gets me there faster." She's already moving, grabbing lime and salt with hands that are too steady for how much you've all been drinking. "You know I won't complain either way."
You pour her a shot, liquid gold catching the dim light in the room. You feel the weight of every inebriated gaze on you—Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo, Theo—all of them watching, same way they always do when you and Pansy put on a show.
You blink and she’s back in front of you, lime and salt in hand. You feel bold, drunk on the moment as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, leaning into her kiss only to break it as you pull the fabric over your head. The boys shift around you—more whistles—and Pansy's hands find your face, greedy and gentle all at once, barely giving you a moment to toss the shirt aside before she nudges you onto your back.
"You're so fucking hot," she purrs, slinking between you and the boys who are seated around the table, grinning. "Tilt your head, that's it—here—"
She nestles the cool shot glass between your tits while sprinkling the salt on your neck—then, the lime slice is between your teeth before you can even register it, and now you're staring straight at Blaise—his dark eyes roving over you like a feast, lips parted just enough that you can imagine the feel of them pressed against your own.
Your thighs tense, heat pooling low in your stomach.
"The boys wanted a show," Pansy whispers as she pulls off her own shirt. "They'll get one."
You hum in agreement and she works like she's done this a hundred times— shot glass disappearing between her lips, tossing the tequila back before she sets it aside— warm tongue dragging along the line of salt on your skin, moving up to suck juice from the lime between your lips. She meets your eyes for what feels like a split second before the lime is yanked free and her mouth is on yours, lips tasting like tequila and salt and something wild—
You close your eyes against the flood of sensation—the alcohol, the heat, the spinning of the room—and kiss her back with equal fervour. Her lips crush yours, sloppy and wild, a thousand impulses spinning through your mind and inevitably, you're too weak to fight them, tugging her closer as a result.
Pansy huffs, fingers curling into your hair as she crawls on top of you—straddling your hips on top of the table as one hand slips down to your chest. The boys are muttering things that you can't hear as the kiss is frantic now, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, the taste of lime and tequila lingering in each exhale.
"Gods, Pansy," you gasp into her mouth, hands sliding down her waist, digging into the fabric of her skirt. "You're insatiable."
She pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, her dark eyes glinting. "I could say the same about you, babe."
You feel the tension in her greedy fingers as they curl against your scalp, her weight pressing you down into the table, and suddenly—all the teasing, all the playing at flirting feels too far away—you need her closer, need to take control back, need to feel her beneath you instead of towering over you—
"Pans—" your hands find her hips, gripping tight as you push against her, trying to flip her onto her back—but in your haste, you misjudge the edge of the table and before you can stop her she's tumbling forward, off the side, straight into Draco's lap. "Oh—shit—"
Everyone gasps, the room pausing for a moment and you're vaguely aware of Blaise's hands clutching your waist, pulling you steady into his lap as you teeter off the table too, the tequila making your head spin. Pansy is sprawled over Draco on the floor, skirt hitched high enough to give the rest of you a perfect view of her ass—to which everyone in the room is admiring. Shamelessly.
It's a spectacle—and the boys have always loved a fucking spectacle.
"Merlin's sake—" Draco grunts as Pansy slumps over him, straddling his waist. You catch the way his hands grip her thighs, fingers flexing like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. "Always the bloody dramatics with you two.”
"I'm not even sorry." Pansy grins, unrepentant as ever as she leans into Draco's neck, teasing like nothing's even happened, like she's perfectly content to remain there, straddling his lap. "You make a good seat."
Draco scoffs, and Theo snickers from across the table.
"You're a menace." The words from Draco's lips sound a lot like praise, and something about the way his eyes flutter shut when Pansy's tongue finds the sensitive skin at his throat makes your mouth go dry. "You're alright, though?"
"Fine," she murmurs, though her tone suggests she's thinking of anything but her well-being. "Totally fine." Her fingers brush over his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt. "Are...are you fine?"
"I'm—" his voice catches when her fingers undo the first button. "I'm fine."
"You are," she agrees, voice a little hoarse, as she undoes the second, then the third. "Very, very fine."
Draco's face flushes, and there's a sheepish edge to his smile as his hands—almost without thought—begin to slide higher, fingers trailing under the hem of her skirt, pulling it just a little further up her hips. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second as he settles over the curve of her ass, and there's a spark, a shiver of something between them—
Your gaze flicks to Blaise, feeling his presence at your back—solid, grounding, the warmth of his chest pressed against you as you lean into him. You don't have to see him to know he's watching, though you find the confirmation anyways, his dark eyes tracing every movement, every shift between the two heated Slytherins on the floor.
When you glance back, you see the boys are all watching, too—Theo, Enzo, Mattheo—all glued to the sight, silent in their anticipation.
Pansy grinds down, and Draco's head tips back, eyes closed, hands clinging to her hips, her ass, anywhere he can find—
"They don't waste any time, do they?" Blaise murmurs, words a tickle at your pulse, the sound of his voice pulling you back into your own body, your own skin.
You shiver as his fingers trail lightly up your ribs, teasing the edge of your black lace bra—you tilt your head and you catch Theo's gaze sliding over you, flicking back and forth between Pansy's legs and the way Blaise's hands have begun their slow exploration along your sides. You grin as you meet Enzo's eyes next, his lip pulled between his teeth, fingers tracing the rim of his cup—
"You could take notes, Zabini," you murmur, the words catching in your throat as his lips graze your shoulder—so close, too close.
"Me? Take notes?" He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I've already got it down to a science, baby.”
"Yeah?" You hum, lost in the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his fingers are edging dangerously close to your breasts. You can feel Mattheo's gaze, burning into you from across the table, but you don't dare look, you'd crack if you did. "You sure about that?"
"Quiz me if you'd like." As if to prove his point, he pushes past the fabric of your bra, long fingers finding a nipple, and your hips twitch of their own accord, a gasp leaving your lips. "I'll pass any test you give me."
"Cocky." There's a slight edge to your voice as you roll your hips, meeting his heat with your own—just to distract him, of course. "You're gonna' make the others jealous."
"They'll have their fun," his finger toys with the clasp of your bra, now. You feel him undo it. "I want you first."
"Oh," you gasp at the sensation of cool air against bare skin as he yanks it off your arms, exposing your tits to everyone at the table. "Cocky and greedy."
"You'd expect nothing less, baby." He practically growls.
You choke on a moan. "Blaise-"
"That's my name," he's groping, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you squeak. "I know you're real familiar with it."
Pansy's moans, soft and breathy, fill the space as Draco works her out of her skirt, mouth moving between her thighs. You clench—seeing them—her fingers in his hair, her gasps growing louder and more frantic—your pulse quickens—
"Jealous?" Blaise's taunts, having caught you staring.
You shake your head, but—Merlin, how could you not be? You'd give just about anything to relieve the heat between your thighs. To feel the heat of all the eyes watching you right now against your skin. Mattheo, Theo, Enzo—
"Not jealous." Even you can hear how breathless you sound. "Just impatient."
"Patience is a virtue," Blaise says, all mock-virtuousness, squeezing your tits again, as if to punish you for being impatient. "One I'm happy to reward—"
Mattheo is the first to snap, shoving the half-empty bottle of alcohol aside and standing up, chair scraping across the floor. Theo considers doing the same, you can tell, eyes still glued to your half-naked body as he drains his cup in one gulp. Your eyes flick to Enzo, who's merely staring, his lip still being bitten to death between his teeth.
Merlin help you.
Mattheo strolls around the table—eyes roaming as he moves, stopping just behind where you sit on Blaise's lap, breath warm on the back of your neck as he murmurs in your ear—
"I've been patient." You think it's to Blaise. "Where's my reward."
Blaise snorts, and then Theo stands up.
"We've been patient." He's looking at Blaise, lips just starting to grin. "Real, real patient."
Enzo laughs as he rises, too—all three of them forming a loose semi-circle around you and Blaise. You can almost taste the testosterone—hot and eager and hungry—as their eyes rake over you.
Blaise tugs you closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'm feeling outnumbered."
"You're outnumbered," Theo agrees, smirk growing as his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you off Blaise's lap and to your feet. "You're also outvoted. You think we're going to just sit around and watch?"
"Not a chance in hell," Mattheo growls as he moves behind you, calloused hand running up your thigh.
Blaise grunts from where he's still seated, watching you with molten eyes, "you lot are animals, you know that?"
You almost laugh at that, considering he had your bra off in minutes.
"We're just—eager." Theo whispers, leaning in just enough to breathe against your neck, kissing a path up your jaw while Mattheo's hands work at undoing your skirt. You're so turned on you're not sure how you're not dripping down your thighs. "I wanted to be inside you three fucking hours ago."
You whimper at his words, the thick air of the room suddenly too much as Mattheo's hands push your skirt down your legs.
"Three hours is generous." Enzo's moving now, but he isn't looking at you—his eyes are locked on Pansy as Draco slams into her—the two of them locked in a trance. "My head's been filled with filth since this afternoon."
"Filth?" Blaise cocks an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
"Filth," Mattheo husks, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat—lips pressed to your ear. "All I've been able to think about for the past week."
Your hips twitch at the pressure against your throat—and you moan louder than Pansy. "Gods—if one of you doesn't fuck me in the next minute—"
"Told you," Blaise chuckles, watching Mattheo's hand around your throat like a hawk. "Animal."
"Then what?" Mattheo ignores him—fingers pressing against your pulse just a little harder as he pulls you flush against him, teeth finding your ear, and you feel Theo's fingers trail down your front, teasing your slit. "What're you gonna do?"
"Fuck," you mutter, breathless, hips jerking toward the touch. "I'll die—"
"Oh, that's not good." Enzo's looking now, circling around to stand on your free side, his gaze traveling from your face, down your body, to where Theo's fingers are centimetres from pushing into your soaked cunt. "Is it our responsibility to prevent that?"
"Probably. It's only the right thing to do." Mattheo's cooes against your neck. "Can't have you dying on us, now can we?"
"Mm. Not the only," Theo murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he pushes a finger inside you. "I can think of a dozen things to do right now."
"A dozen?" Blaise scoffs. You're starting to hate the sound of his teasing fucking tone. "Only a dozen?"
You can't even reply—any words you possess are swallowed by another moan as a second, then a third, of Theo's fingers push deep into you. Even his fingers are long, you think. You forgot just how big—
"Merlin, Theo—fuck—"
"That's the idea," he grins against your lips—you moan again when his fingers curl deep.
"You like that?" Mattheos hands are all over you—your tits, your ass, the press of his chest against your bare back—and you think that you need to see his face, need to see his eyes. "You need more?"
"Yes." You're not sure if you're speaking to Mattheo, or Theo, or Enzo or Blaise, or all of them. "Yes, please—please—"
"Oh good," Blaise muses. "She's polite."
"Of course she is," Theo groans as your cunt clenches around his digits—your slick sounds filling the space between you, mingling with the sound of skin smacking from a few feet away. "So good for us."
"Mm," Mattheo adds, teeth scraping over your shoulder, squeezing your ass to make you gasp. "Very."
"A real angel," Enzo purrs, still circling like a fucking shark, eyes flitting over to Pansy and Draco again as her moans grow louder, more insistent. "Especially when she's begging."
It's all too much—Theo's fingers pumping deep, his thumb swirling your clit, the sounds of Draco and Pansy and the feel of hands and lips and intoxicated eyes everywhere—
Your head falls back against Mattheo’s shoulder. "Oh, please—fuck—please—"
"What're you begging for, Bellissima?" Theo murmurs, drawing your eyes back to his. "Wanna use your words?"
You gasp as his fingers move faster, deeper, as if he's trying to pull the words out of your throat. "Need—"
Blaise snickers. "Yes?"
"Need to cum—" you cry out, hysterical as Mattheo pinches your nipples, groans against your neck. "Need to be—fucked—"
"And I'm the greedy one." That's Blaise again, insufferable as ever.
"We like greedy," Theo grins against your mouth, fingers crooking, and your knees buckle. "Right, boys?"
"We do," Mattheo growls.
"We like it a lot," Enzo agrees, his eyes finally meeting yours. "We love it."
"Then what're you waiting for," you gasp, unable to take much more of the heat building, twisting, every point of contact sending a new wave of need through your body. "Give it to me—"
"Give you what?" It's Blaise again—God, he's driving you fucking insane tonight. "You gotta be more specific, babygirl."
"Give—ohh—" your orgasm is right there. Right. Fucking. There. "Give me your fucking dick, Zabini—fuck—you called first—"
"Oh I did, didn't I?" Blaise still hasn't moved from his seat, but you can see the way his trousers are straining. "Guess it's my lucky day."
Theo lets loose a groan, and you can feel his hips jerking in rhythm with his fingers. "Thank Merlin for small favours."
"Lucky for all of us, really." The corner of Blaise's mouth twitches, almost with the suggestion of a smile. "Don't you think, Enzo?"
Before you can even comprehend Enzo's response, Theo curls his fingers just right, thumb rubbing your clit just right, Mattheo groping your chest and kissing your neck just fucking right—and then you're there—climax charging you, release spilling all over Theo's fingers—
"Oh, fuck—yesyesyes—"
You cry out and shudder forward, only being held up by Theo and Mattheos hands, and you're barely back on earth before you feel Blaise's fingers under your thighs—urging you back and laying you out across the table as if you're a fucking feast for him—
"Patience," Blaise grins down at you, hands finding your thighs, squeezing hard enough to drag you back to reality and realize he's got his trousers undone. "Is really such a virtue."
"Right," you mumble, still breathless as you look up at him. "Too bad I'm fresh out."
Blaise chuckles at that. "I can tell."
Fuck this—
"Blaise—if you don't fuck me right now—" you push up from the table, urging him back into the chair he was sitting in. "I will let everyone else fuck me first and make goddamn sure you watch."
There's a flicker of surprise in Blaise's eyes as he slumps back in the chair—Mattheo snorts behind you and for a second you wonder if you may have just gone too far—
"Not a chance," he smiles, his words coming out in a growl that's all heat and lust and something just a little dangerous. "We'll have none of that."
And then, he's on his feet again. But this time, when he touches you, it’s firm and fast and not at all gentle. He directs you around the table before bending you over it, and you hear someone—Theo, you think?—groan like they're in pain, the sound swallowed by a desperate moan that you know for certain is Pansy's.
Your eyes flutter when you hear it—you just don't know where to look—
"No, look up. Up." Blaise's hand is in your hair, forcing you to look up from the table, and you realize where the sound came from. "I want you to watch."
Your head's spinning in a way you're sure is not entirely from the alcohol, and it only intensifies when your eyes focus on the scene just across the room—Draco and Pansy sprawled on the couch, now, Pansy riding him while stroking Enzo's insistent dick, his glossed eyes glued to yours, watching, just watching—
Blaise's hand is still in your hair. "That's it. Watch."
Enzo smiles at you, cheeky and fucking taunting before Pansy tightens her grip while jerking him off and his head tips back—
"Gonna' be good for me," Blaise murmurs against your back—his tip pressing against your dripping entrance. "Gonna' take it all for me?"
"Yes," you gasp, catching a glimpse of Mattheo and Theo just off to the side of you, sharing a smoke. "Fuck yes—"
"That's it, baby. Just relax," he cooes, and then he's pushing into you. "Relax and enjoy it—"
There's a sting as he stretches you, and keeps stretching you until he's bottoming out far fucking deeper than you'd remembered—there's a moan from you that gets tangled between your teeth, a gasp from infront you, a moan from someone else, and—gods, if Blaise doesn't start moving—
"Blaise—oh, fuck—"
Blaise gives a low moan as your walls flutter around him, a swear under his breath that's punctuated with a hard squeeze of your hip. "Good—god—Merlin—"
He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, shameless—and it melds with Pansy's from across the room.
"Shh," Mattheo steps infront of you, blocking your view of Pansy and Draco and Enzo. "Let Blaise feel you—"
—and suddenly, Mattheo's hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back, coaxing your eyes to his. His other hand disappears, down past his belt, and you moan again—wet walls squeezing Blaise as he slowly starts to rock into you.
"I wanna' fuck your throat," Mattheo murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. "Badly."
"So needy," your words are a breathless moan, but Mattheo doesn't seem to mind—he just grins as he unbuttons his trousers. "Can't even watch for five minutes without—"
"I know, I can't," he interrupts, and his hand's back at your jaw, gripping hard. "You've got me too fucking hard."
You're about to reply with another smartass comment, but Theo saddles up next to his fellow Slytherin and before you can blink his hand is on the back of your head, tangling in your hair, angling your lips toward Mattheo's now-exposed cock—
"Don't worry about the smart mouth," Theo leans down close to you, every intention of cutting off your reply. "We have other uses for it."
You'd probably roll your eyes at the phrase if it wasn't for Mattheo's dick pushing past your teeth and hitting the back of your throat so quick you gag— eyes squeezed shut as Blaise bottoms out, again and again.
"That's one of them." he adds with a smirk, watching you choke on his best friends dick.
You can't even think. Every thought that enters your head is immediately replaced with another moan, another sensation, another need, another—
"Draco! Fuck!" You hear Pansy cry out from the couch.
"Keep going, Pans," Enzo grunts, his voice sounding choked. "Just like that."
"She taking you good, Blaise?" The question comes out in a moan of his own—you think it's Draco—and you wonder idly who's doing what over there now. "Tight as I remember?"
“Tight and wet and—fuck—" Blaise's voice has taken on a new level of strangled, desperate, need that's almost too raw to hear it, and— "she's—good. She's good."
"That's it," Draco grunts again, like he's pleased to hear it. "She's an—oh, yes, Pansy, fuck—"
The noise from the couch is too much—you're not able to think past the fullness—the desperate, overwhelming heat that's consumed you, and that's when you feel a pair of lips at your ear—
"Does it feel good?" Theo's words are barely louder than a whisper, your gagging sounds almost drowning them out. He grabs your hand, slowly bringing it to his crotch. "Having us like this?"
Your fingers are clumsy, shaky as they wrap around him and try to push his trousers down—it's hard to see past the water in your eyes but once you do you're rewarded with a gasp and a low swear under his breath that sounds so damn good you want to hear it a million times more.
"Mmmfff." You moan around Mattheo as Blaise's fingers find your clit, coaxing you towards a high you're not sure you can handle—
"That's it," Theo whispers, moving your hand just the way he likes it. His fingers are tangled with yours while his free hand finds your hair again, shoving you closer to Mattheo. "Fuck. That's it."
Everything is spinning and whirling in the best way, the best possible way, and you know you're there, so close, but it's so hard to think, so hard to do anything—when—
"You gonna' cum for us, baby?" Another pair of lips at your ear, not Theo's voice, but Blaise's—ragged with his deep thrusts. "Gonna' cum for us good and hard?"
Your response, which most likely would have been something along the lines of: "yes" or "please" or "gods yes fucking please," is completely smothered by Mattheo—his hand at the back of your head alongside Theo's, fingers tangled in your hair, cockhead slamming the back of your throat over and over and over—
"Then do it," Blaise knows your answer anyways. His fingers rub quicker, his hips piston faster. "Now."
And it's in this moment where you lose yourself completely—the world narrows down to your body, every sensation flooding through you, and the fucking sounds—Pansy's moans, Theo's groans, Blaise's pants, Mattheo's swearing, Draco's whimpers and Enzo's fucking grunting—where you can't do a goddamn thing to stop it, not that you even wanted to. You do what Blaise told you, cumming so hard you see stars behind your eyes, and for one blissful, everlasting second—you feel nothing but pure unadulterated pleasure, until it all comes rushing back with force.
You think you hear Theo say "good girl" as your body tenses—shaking, trembling, clenching around Blaise so hard his pace falters and his hips slow and his thrusts turn erratic—and then you feel it—the result of his pent up passion as he slows to to an absolute standstill—spilling his cum deep into your cunt while he shudders against you, gasping out a curse that might have been your name.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, slowly—carefully—and you feel him pull out of you just as Mattheo moans, hands tightening in your hair, spilling his own release down your throat. "Oh, sweet Merlin."
It takes a moment for reality to filter back in, and you try to catch your breath in a way that's probably not very dignified. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself—and quite frankly, you're not given the chance to figure it out as Mattheo pulls out too and Theo slips up behind you—
"Come here, Bella," he murmurs, his lips at your ear again—he sounds like he's trying to catch his breath, too. Through the fog you remember that at one point you were jerking him off—and you feel the confirmation of his need still hard against your ass as he pulls you up against him. "There we go. Easy now."
You try to speak—you're not sure what you would even say—but your voice is as shaky as the rest of you, and all that comes out is a soft moan.
"She's—" Blaise's still trying to steady his breath as he slumps into his prior chair, trousers still half undone. "—she's on mars."
"I've a feeling we all are," Theo mutters, holding you against him. His fingers skim down your stomach, almost like he's mapping out the aftershocks. "Some more than others."
You can almost feel the way his eyes flick across the room with that—noting the way Draco's splayed out on the couch next to Pansy who's now riding Enzo and jerking a still half-hard Mattheo—
"Oh, relax," Draco scoffs, eyes shut and head tipped toward the ceiling. "I'll rejoin the land of the living in a moment."
"Sure, Draco," Mattheo huffs, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes from here. "We'll be here when you do."
"Mm—fuck, Pansy—"
Enzo's moan cuts through their bantering and it's at that moment where Theo finally decides he's waited long enough—he grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the table, directing you to the couch where he slumps down and drags you into his lap, your thighs on either side of his—throbbing, leaking cock pressing against your cum soaked cunt.
You moan, and Pansy moans beside you.
"I think," Theo murmurs into your neck, his words as thick and as needy as his hardness, "I could get used to this."
"S'that right?" You try to keep your words cool, to be as unaffected as you'd like, but—there's no hiding the way your breath hitches, the way you move your hips just the slightest in his lap. "I can't say the same about your size."
"Take me at your own pace." He husks, a smirk you're sure is attached to the words. "I'm halfway there already from that handjob."
You'd laugh at that if you weren't still so breathless and shaky from before, so instead the laugh comes out as a needy moan as you slide forward, shifting in his lap until you feel his tip brush up against your already sensitive clit—
"Gods," you breathe out the word, bracing your hands on his shoulders. "Such a gentleman."
"Always," he replies, completely sincere just before his hands grab your hips and in one quick motion—he's guiding you down onto him. "Always for you."
You'd reply—you'd probably even say something that might be sweet, if you could, if the rest of the world didn't fade into a sort of pleasurable blankness as you sink down—down until the moan that leaves you is so unbridled that it should have been embarrassing if the whole fucking lot of you weren't so far passed embarrassment—because just the head of him is so thick and you're suddenly thankful Blaise stretched you out so deliciously because otherwise you think it'd be too much, too quick and—fuck.
You're still sensitive, and you know he can tell—
"Oh, she's tight." Theo's voice is low in your ear, his lips tracing your jawline. "Too much?"
"Never," you gasp out, offering some weak shake of your head. "Never too much."
He grins against your pulse, teeth scraping across your skin—
"Good."
He punctuates the word by sinking you down a bit more, the stretch of his shaft drawing out a moan from deep in your chest—
"And when it is?"
—he pauses, tightening his grip on your hips to pull you up slightly before sliding you back down—
"Tell me."
You're only half able to form the thought at this point—the other half of you is so preoccupied with the feeling of his hands holding you, his lips against your skin, his voice in your ear—you nod, anyway, and there's another moan from somewhere in the room—Enzo again, and it's more of a whimper than anything else.
"That’s it, Pansy, so good—"
"Feels good, Enzy?" Her response comes through gasps. "You like it like that?"
Blaise answers for them both—you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, slumped back in his chair with a new drink in hand. "Keep that up and he'll never leave that couch again."
"He's not the only one." Theo's words vibrate through you, and while you're not sure if it's the meaning behind them or the way they're sent deep into your neck with a hint of teeth, either way you have to swallow a moan before you can respond.
"Is that so?" You reply, doing your goddamn best to keep your voice steady as Theo's hips roll up into you again.
"It is so," he murmurs. "You think you can handle staying on this couch all summer?"
Summer. Hardly a week away. You think of the days and nights you're going to spend in this manor, in this room—in this room on this fucking couch—
His hands slip to your ass, guiding you up and down. "You think you could last another hour?"
"Mmm," you manage to get the sound out before he rolls up again, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive spot somewhere deep inside you and that's all you have to say before all other higher level thinking goes out the window. "Oh, Theo, you’re fucking deep—"
"I know," he replies, his breath harsh against your throat, his words lost between the moans you can't seem to keep from slipping out. "I know, bella, I know—"
Cocky bastard.
You lean down, pulling his head against your chest with hands in his hair and he follows. You'd think he'd try to pull back, just to say something witty with a smirk on his face—but instead he groans, his tongue flicking over your nipple and that's when you hear Mattheo grunt from somewhere beside you—
"Fuck me." His voice comes out as a gasp that he's struggling to keep from sounding strangled. Pansy's still lazily stroking him, multitasking while riding Enzo. "I'm so fucking hard again."
If you could manage a proper response, you might have said that was the idea—you'd probably have said something very clever about how you wouldn't mind letting him down your throat again.
You can still think, but the thought is a struggle, so all you manage is a breathless—
"Matt—“
"Mmm?" Hardly a hum—and for some reason it's so much more attractive than it probably should be. "Yes, princess?"
The way you shiver at the pet name is something you're going to have to examine at some point—not now, though, because if you have to put any more thought into any single thing you're going to explode.
"You—you—"
Theo interrupts before you can finish the sentence. "Fuck her, Riddle."
If Mattheo's surprise at Theo's apparent order is evident, it's masked by the moan he lets out as Pansy does something that must have felt especially good.
"I, fuck—I already fucked her throat, Nott. If you'd finish gatekeeping her—"
"She's got another hole, Riddle," Theo replies, with that self-assured tone that's too goddamn cocky to be legal and you wonder absently if he knows what it does to you as he gives a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips. "She can handle it, can't you, bella?"
You try to moan out an answer—you're sure there's a sound there—anything to let him know that yes, you not only can but that you're not sure there's anything you'd rather do—yet the words die before you can get them out as Mattheo is already moving—rough hands finding your ass, spreading your cheeks as he leans down to press a kiss to the dimples on your lower back. The sensation catches you off guard but you don't have time to think about that before you feel something wet—his saliva, you think—slick between your cheeks and then his fingers are there, rubbing and massaging against your tight hole—
And then, he's pressing a finger into you. "Oh—"
You're not even sure if your gasp is a reaction to Theo's movement or Mattheo's—all you know is that for a moment it all just combines into a whirlwind that seems to just drown all the oxygen out of your lungs completely—
"I know," Theo's breath is as laboured and rough as yours—the rumble of his words vibrating against your chest, your collarbone. "God, I know—"
"Jesus," another moan, strangled and needy, and it's not from you or Theo or even Enzo—it's from Mattheo. "Oh, this ass is tight—"
That's not something you're going to be able to get over—hearing that coming from him. "Oh fuck, Matt—"
"Mmm?" There's a smile in his voice—and you'd see it on his face if you were facing him, if all of his focus weren't so decidedly somewhere else. "You want me to fuck this perfect ass, don’t you?"
With that he pushes another finger into you while Theo wraps his arms around your waist to hold you steady to his chest. His hips cant up into you, and you swear you're on fire—Mattheo chuckles.
The sensation is so much you’re crying out again, his teasing turning infuriating. "You're a goddamn—ah—bastard—"
"Maybe so," he replies, with a smack to one of your asscheeks. "But a bastard that's going to—"
He stretches you out, pumping and scissoring slow, just as deliberate as everything else he does—and the moan you let out is enough to drown out whatever witty, dirty words you're sure he was going to follow that with—
"Fuck—fuck," the word is all you can manage as you brace your hands against Theo's shoulders, nails digging into his skin— "oh, fuck—"
Mattheo groans against your back and you swear it's intentional because he has to know what all of this is doing to you—what it's doing to Theo by association.
"Fuck, she likes that—" Theo's gasp hits you like a punch in the gut. "I should have—"
It's like there's a whole sentence, some snarky, perfectly articulate statement he had in mind, but whatever words it was comprised of are lost in the way he shivers—in the way his hips jerk more erratically due to how tight you're squeezing him—due to the way your walls spasm as Mattheos fingers keep pumping, stretching—
"Should have what?" It's a miracle you manage the words, and you're feeling particularly proud about the way it's more of a challenge than a question, even if it's half mumbled.
Whatever it is, he can't say it, and whatever retort you had for that is interrupted by the sound of a grunt—Enzo. His face is screwed up in pleasure, his breath is coming in ragged, uneven pants and there's a look in his eyes that looks distinctly broken.
Mattheo groans and pulls his fingers free. You feel the tip of his dick replacing them. "Can’t fucking wait any longer."
Pansy grins and moans out her reply. "Yeah, you are."
There's little else you can say—not that you'd have the words even if you weren't as lost as the rest of them. You just have a flash of thought about how you've never seen Enzo look like that before, open and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of whatever bliss he's riding right now, but then there's another feral moan escaping your lips—
"Oh, Gods, Mattheo!—"
Theo groans into your neck as Mattheo presses in and it takes merely two seconds before your eyes roll back—the way he sinks into your ass is a level of fullness you weren't sure you could reach, and even that's a thought that's too complex for you to process as your head drops, forehead pressed to Theo's shoulder.
There's a hiss from his lips, another muttered curse that you half catch as he bites at your collarbone, his hands moving back to squeeze your hips—
"Fuck, yes," Mattheo's voice sounds more strained than you've ever heard it. "Jesus Christ, that feels good—"
"Don't think the saviour would like you taking his name in vain," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room. "Not in this scenario at least."
No, he wouldn't, you think, but there's no way you've got the wherewithal to speak now—any focus you had is lost now that you're impaled on not one, but two cocks and it's like your entire nervous system's been turned over to the sensation of being so fucking full, so surrounded—of not being able to do anything except try to remember how to breathe.
It's not working very well.
"Mm," Theo's moans, fucking up into you nice and slow. "I think he'd understand."
"I think that's a rather blasphemous stance to take," Blaise replies. "Then again, given the scenario, perhaps that's not the most shocking revelation I've had of you all today."
"Blaise," Enzo groans, his tone somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Are you really going to try and have a conversation right now?"
"Just making an observation," Blaise says casually, and you swear that part of your brain that still functions can see the smirk plastered on his face in your mind. "Merely commenting about the depravity on display."
"Your commentary is duly noted," Mattheo breathes, his words punctuated by a low moan as he smacks your ass. "And dismissed."
There's a grumble of agreement through the room at that, including one from you, but all your words come out as a gasp—
Theo loves you like this. You can tell he's fucking savouring it. "That's it, bella. You don't need to do more than that."
Part of you wants to protest the statement, wants to argue that you have it in you to contribute more, but no matter how hard you try—and you do try—all that comes out around the moans is an inarticulate mess.
"Yeah, that's it," Mattheo groans, and you'd be embarrassed about how utterly ruined by all of this you are if you could focus on anything other than the two dicks pumping you in rhythm. "Just let me and Nott take care of your—mmf—tight fuckin' holes."
There's a whine that worms its way out of your chest and through your lips at that, and you don't know what it's begging for—just that it's begging, and all your mind cares about right now is that Theo and Mattheo understand that.
Theo's response is a moan of his own and a hand finding the back of your neck, his fingers wrapping around your hair. "So fucking wet—tight—"
"And taking us so goddamn well," Mattheo adds as one of his hands grab your ass again, spreading you open. "Fucking hell—I'm so close—"
"So are we," Theo responds for you, and the words are harsh and desperate and make your whole body shudder. "So—ah—so are we—"
The realization that he can feel how close you are makes you clench—walls fluttering around the both of them as they fuck you tempered—it’s only a few more seconds before you're seeing stars so bright you hardly register the sounds of Enzo and Pansy reaching their climaxes next to you—the feeling of Pansy crashing her lips to yours as she cums and moans into your mouth propelling you further over the edge, into your own ecstasy—
And if there were a way to describe it, you're sure you'd think of it later, but right now it's all just fire and lightning—pleasure wracking your body until you're certain you're not going to come down for hours. You can't really hear anything—just the rushing of your own blood pulsing in your ears—but as it starts to subside, your vision returns and the sound follows—your lips still pressed to Pansy's as Theo moans underneath you, spilling his release into your cunt while Mattheo is still thrusting slow—
"Oh my god," you gasp as you break the kiss, all of you breathing so hard you're sure it's going to take a while for the oxygen levels in the room to return to normal. "Oh my god, oh my god—"
"Mmm," is about all Theo seems to be capable of currently.
It’s a rare thing for him to be rendered speechless—and you'd grin at the knowledge if it weren't for Mattheo still thrusting deep in your ass—leaving Theo trapped inside your cunt, his length still twitching and throbbing within your walls.
"Still with us, princess?" Mattheo's chuckle is somewhat strangled, and the hand he's not gripping your ass with finds your hair again, tugging your head back to expose your neck. "You aren't done already, are you?"
If he expects—or even wants—an actual answer to that question, he's going to be very disappointed because all you can manage is a strangled half-moan that's a decent representation to how you're feeling right now—
"I think she's lost her words," Mattheo murmurs—and then it's like he realizes something. "Maybe we should test that."
"Wha—"
It's not a proper word, but you don't even have the chance to fully get it out before his hand in your hair is pulling your head back even further and you realize that at some point Pansy had gotten off of Enzo and he's now kneeling on the couch in front of you with his cum covered cock aimed directly at your lips—
"Clean me off."
It's another demand you'd probably be inclined to respond to with a snarky reply if you were at all confident in your ability to do anything other than open your mouth and let him press the tip to your tongue—
"Good girl," Enzo says, and the praise is delivered with that voice that sounds like it came from some dark place inside him, the one that's only ever really appeared in the privacy of these walls and with this group of people. "Taste your bestfriend on me, hm? You like that?"
It's a question you'd probably deny a few months ago, but that's not the case anymore—and you know that the answer would be obvious regardless, given how you've just proven you're more than happy to share them with her. So instead you give an answer that's a better representation of how you feel without having to admit it, and it only comes out as a hum of agreement as you taste her.
"I know you do," Enzo replies, and he's got that same smirk he usually has when he's got the upper hand, the one that usually makes you feel at least mildly put out—now it just makes you shiver. "Little slut."
Theo, who's still trapped underneath you and still half hard inside you, moans at that.
"Mmmm-" yes, you want to say, but you can't and the noise you manage instead, around the taste of your bestfriend on your tongue, comes out more like a whimper that has absolutely no business doing as much to you as it does.
Mattheo growls with a deep thrust into your ass, and the whimper turns into a whine as Pansy moves closer to you.
"You look pretty," she murmurs, her mouth pressed against your hair as Enzo pushes his dick deeper down your throat. "You look so fucking pretty right now."
There's something about that, the way her voice caresses the words, that makes something warm rush through you, wrapping around the bliss and squeezing until you're almost overwhelmed again.
Your eyes water, as you gag. "Mmgh—"
"Mhmm," her lips move down your cheek, next to your mouth where Enzo is still slowly fucking it, and it's like the action is deliberate—a way to show, without saying it outright, just how wrecked you are. "And you say I'm insatiable."
That's fair, because right now you're fairly certain you've never wanted something to continue forever quite as much as you do this, regardless of the fact that you know it's not practical.
"Ah, fuck—" Mattheo grunts with a messy thrust. “Oh, fuck—"
He's not the most loquacious person in the world but even he is having a hard time getting words out—and you're not much better, with the only sounds you're capable of making completely indecipherable even for you, let alone the rest of the room.
"Fuck—" with a final curse, he spills his release deep into your ass and Theo groans from under you as you clench as a result. "—yes."
The feeling of him twitching and spilling inside you makes you moan around Enzo, and he groans too—one hand tangled in your hair and the other tangled in Pansy's to keep her close—
"Mm, yes," Enzo moans now, jerking his hips toward your face. "Feels good—so good—“
—and close is an apt word because they're all close to you, all surrounding you—even Blaise and Draco's exhausted presence are felt in the background.
"I'm pretty sure she's gonna be sore for days after this," Pansy says, the words whispered. "I hope you all know—"
"I think she'll be thanking us for that," Theo replies before anyone else can. "In a day or two at least."
Pansy giggles, a sound that's soft and familiar and comforting even in this current state of being surrounded and overwhelmed, and her cheek brushes up against yours as the two of you peer up at Enzo—
"You're probably right." She whispers.
Enzo grunts, pulling his cock from your mouth and offering it to Pansy who greedily takes it in her own—
"Selfless generosity," Theo murmurs from directly under your chin having just witnessed that, and his tone suggests he's got his signature smirk in place. "How noble of us."
"Very selfless," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room again—and even as you're lost in pleasure you know that statement borders on sarcastic. "Absolutely nothing in it for any of you."
"Nothing at all," Theo replies, the same amount of sarcasm in his voice as Blaise's. "It's all self-sacrifice."
"Mm," Mattheo murmurs against your shoulder, before he pushes himself off you and finally pulls out. "Not even a shred of personal satisfaction."
You're still collapsed on top of Theo, as boneless as a human being can be, and a quiet whine escapes your lips at the loss before you can stop it.
"See," Theo murmurs, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "We've practically made a martyr of ourselves here. Selflessness at its finest."
"So humble," Blaise says, and you swear you hear the eyeroll that's almost certainly included. "I think this calls for medals and a parade through the streets. A holiday, maybe. Selfless Slytherin Day."
Enzo huffs—you can tell he's considering telling Blaise to shut up before he ruins his orgasm but as Pansy drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he seems to forget about it—
"Absolutely," Mattheo says—and if you had the strength to lift your head and look at him there'd likely be a smug smirk on his face. "I'd volunteer to be parade marshall, personally."
Enzo pulls out of Pansy's mouth with a gasp—and it's all but two seconds before he sprays sticky jets of cum all over your face and hers, his head tipping back as he does—
"I'm sure you would," Blaise says dryly, his voice coming from closer now than before. "I'm sure you would also volunteer to accept the medal, and then offer a speech about how humble you are."
"Mhm,” Mattheo sounds unbothered. You know he is. "Obviously. Someone's got to make sure the truth is told."
Pansy giggles against your face, then, before her tongue drags across your cheek, collecting some of Enzo's release. "Well, it's no good if you all are going to keep doing a poor job at the selflessness part.”
"I think we're well past the point of pretending we're doing this selflessly," Theo mutters dryly as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "If we were capable of that level of pretending, we'd all be in Ravenclaw."
Your hands find Pansy's hair, holding her close to you as you lick Enzo's cum off her chin and jaw.
"You're welcome to switch houses if you'd like," Blaise responds dryly. "Some of us were sorted to our houses for reasons other than self-satisfaction—"
"Oh, shove it, Zabini," Enzo says as his breath comes back. "You're acting like a bloody dad."
Blaise opens his mouth, presumably to offer some kind of sharp retort, but before they have a chance, Pansy cuts in. "If you're all quite finished with the pissing contest—“
"We've been done for minutes," Theo replies quickly, hand now stroking through your hair. "Now we're just bickering for the sake of it, as usual."
"Which means we've got at least another half an hour to go," Blaise mutters—before apparently giving up all attempt at sounding cool and collected and flopping down on the nearest open section of sofa.
"At least," Mattheo agrees. "Maybe an hour, if we're lucky."
Next to you, Enzo grunts out a laugh as he starts trying to fix himself back to modesty. "Lucky is one word for it—"
"I think lucky is an excellent term for the current state of things," Theo replies, his voice all smooth and silky and perfectly at fucking ease. "In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of anything more lucky than getting to experience this."
i’ve been thinking about james with a reader who really enjoys physical touch and closeness.
i feel like james would be sooo about physical touch, just glued to readers side. just massive loverboy energy from him all the time
idk if this is enough detail to be a proper request, but would love to read you thoughts or something similar to it
you're so real for this actually, anon! here's a little drabble for you <3
James Potter x reader ✩ 550 words
cw: just fluff
“I wish I could crawl inside your skin,” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep, barely more than a whisper.
James’s fingers stay tangled in your hair, warm and steady. It’s late – far later than either of you should be awake – and the soft pull of exhaustion drapes over you both like a heavy blanket. But you cling to the last flicker of wakefulness just to stay here a little longer, pressed close to your lovely boyfriend.
“What?” His voice carries a bemused lilt as he tilts his chin down to look at you, eyes soft beneath the dim light. You’re sprawled against his chest, your face warm and hidden.
You bury yourself deeper into the heat of him, nuzzling the thin cotton of his shirt like you’re trying to dissolve into it. His arm tightens around your waist in response, and though you can’t see his face, you feel the slow, familiar grin spreading beneath you.
“Nothing,” you mumble, voice muffled and low. If you could melt right into the mattress, slip into the sheets and become one with them, you would.
James lets out a soft laugh that rumbles low and warm under your ear. He tilts his head, his chin brushing the crown of yours, a featherlight touch that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he pokes you in the ribs. Not hard, just enough to make you flinch and squeak in surprise.
“That’s weird,” he says, feigning innocent curiosity. “Because it sounded like you said something about crawling into my skin, you freak.”
“Stop,” you hiss, squirming as his fingers press into your ribs again. Your laugh slips out anyway, tangled in embarrassment and affection. “You’re the worst.”
“Oh, I know,” he grins against your hair, voice warm and sing-song, “but apparently, I’m such a delight that you’d like to unzip me and wear me like a hoodie.” His breath tickles your ear. “That’s love, baby.”
You groan, mortified, and try to wriggle free, but he’s quicker, curling around you like a vine, anchoring you with his arms and laughter. His hand creeps up your side again, fingers poised like they might tickle.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say weakly, knowing full well you’ve lost all credibility.
“Oh no, I believe you,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “I just think you’re unwell.”
“You’re unwell.”
His voice drops even softer, a secret between you two. “Yes. Terminally.”
His fingers loosen just enough for you to sink back into his hold, your body folding into his like two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. He nuzzles his head into yours, a warm sigh steady against your temple, and your legs instinctively tangle beneath the covers, desperate to feel every inch of closeness.
A soft giggle escapes you, light and unexpected in the stillness. His breath catches, and he pulls back just a fraction, brow raised in curious amusement.
“What’s funny?” he asks, voice gentle, teasing.
You trail a lazy finger along his collarbone, heart still fluttering, and whisper, “Seems like you’d like to get in my skin.”
His grin deepens, eyes sparkling in the low light. “Never said I didn’t, angel.”
summary: professor lupin hates having meetings with parents. but maybe he hates them a little less after meeting you, a single mother to the kindest student he has taught.
wc: 1.7k+
If there was something Professor Remus John Lupin hated more than anything, it was having parent-teacher meetings. There was something about having to owl parents about their kids’ behaviour or academic performance that made him feel guilty, as though he was snitching on a good friend. But sometimes, it was crucial.
Remus paced in his office for thirty minutes before you were scheduled to meet him, his sympathetic system tossing him into fight or flight mode. Would you be a kind parent, with the best interest for your child, or would you be a strict, unwelcoming person who took everything from him as an attack? Godric, he wished it was the former.
At four o’clock sharp in the afternoon, the dreaded knock of Remus’s office door was heard. The professor scrambled up to get the door, patting down his clothes one last time before swinging it open. His jaw almost dropped. You were absolutely beautiful, wrapped in a warm coat that only exposed the bottom of your shins and feet, clad in tall heels. Clearly, you had just come from work, Remus thought. “I apologise if I’m late, Professor Lupin, I came straight from work.”
You knew you were right on time.
Remus shook himself out of his daze, stepping aside so you could enter his office. “You’re right on time, Mrs. l/n.” You smiled gently at him, heels clicking on the floor as you moved to sit in the chair he gestured to. “Oh, I’m not married, Professor Lupin.” Great, he had already managed to embarrass himself. “Oh, I apologise. Devon did mention it was just the two of you.”
Ah yes, Devon. The entire reason you were here.
Merely a naive first year, eager, pushing his glasses up his nose as he scurried over to his next lesson. He was a bright kid, the kindest one Remus knew, and he was failing almost all of his classes. “Has he done anything wrong?” You asked, a sudden look of worry overtaking your features. “Right,” Remus cleared his throat uncomfortably. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. “I told Devon to come meet us in fifteen minutes, because I wanted to discuss the situation with you first. As you know, the academic reports for the first term will be out soon, however, Ms. l/n, I have to warn you, it’s not looking good.”
Remus feared you might cry with the way your face fell, so he just kept speaking, hoping something would make you feel better. He heard the pace of your pulse increase, going unsteady. “Devon is an incredibly bright wizard. He’s the first to pick up every spell, and participates in class all the time. His enthusiasm to learn is truly admirable, but when it comes to assignments and assessments, he seems to fall short.” Your eyes turned glassy, and you brought your gaze down to the hands folded in your lap.
“I can’t believe it.” Remus felt a pang in his chest at the way you said the words, helpless and guilty. He wanted to stand up and give you a hug. “I thought he was doing perfectly fine. We send each other owls all the time - I, I don’t know why he wouldn’t bring up the fact that he was struggling.”
Remus stood up from where he sat at his desk to come sit down in the chair next to you. He placed a friendly hand on your shoulder. “It’s normal for kids to want to impress their parents. And, don’t worry about it. The reason we’re having this meeting now is so that we can figure what the problem is early on.” When you met Remus’s eyes again, he saw that they were filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Professor Lupin, I don’t know why I’m-” You cut yourself off the second you heard your own voice break, immediately looking away from the professor.
“I don’t want you to feel like this is your fault, okay? We’ll sort things out together. I honestly called you in for this meeting because I actually have a suspicion to why I think he may be struggling.” Your head snapped towards Remus, eyes wide, and Remus extended a hand to wipe the tears away from your cheeks before realising that you were the mother of one of his students. He felt his cheeks go hot, pulling his hand away from your face.
“I think Devon might be dyslexic.” You straightened your posture, sniffling slightly, and your faced morphed into one of realisation. “Oh my god. How did I not notice?” “It’s normal for you not to. I only noticed it may be a possibility because I’m dyslexic myself.”
“Oh.”
But before Remus could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. You frantically wiped away at the tears on your cheeks and straightened your posture, watching as Remus walked over to the door. It’s normal for parents to want to impress their kids, he realised. “Hiya Professor Lupin.” Devon greeted in his usual cheery voice. “Hi Devon.” Remus moved out of the way, and Devon’s eyes bulged out of his face as his eyes landed on your now standing figure. “Mum!” He yelled, running over to you and throwing his arms around you in a tight hug. Cupping your son’s cheeks in your hands, you ducked down to press a soft kiss to the top of his head.
“Why are you - oh. Did Professor Lupin tell you about my grades?” He asked, voice much lower, eyes fearful for any disappointment you might hold on your face. “Yeah, he did, Dev.” Devon frowned, letting you guide him by the hand to sit down. Sitting in front of him, you brought your voice down so only he could hear you. So you thought.
“I’m not upset, Devon. I just wish you told me you were having trouble. I thought we trusted each other enough for that.” Devon nodded at your words, swinging his feet above the ground. “I know. We do. But I didn’t want you to worry.” You chuckled lightly, a fond smile on your face. “That’s sort of my job though, isn’t it?” Devon shrugged his shoulders, not meeting your eyes as he mumbled “I guess.”
Remus’s heart warmed at the sight. He couldn’t believe that he was worried about meeting you. You were so motherly, he thought. So caring. In fact, Remus couldn't believe that you weren't married. Remus stepped forward to sit in front of his desk, interrupting the moment between you. “Devon, can I ask you a question?” Remus asked. The boy silently nodded. “Do you have trouble reading? As in, do you find it difficult to process things after you’ve read them? Or have trouble writing things down?”
Devon’s only response was “I know how to read.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, Devon. I know how to read too, but I always have trouble understanding things after I read them. Sometimes the words even look like they’re moving on the pages for me. And that makes it difficult for me to write sometimes.” Devon’s head snapped up to look at his Professor, mouth agape with a silent question. “Come here for a second.” Remus said with a nod of his head towards him. Devon obliged, trudging around the desk as Remus pulled out a textbook from one of his drawers.
Flipping over to a random page, he looked at Devon expectantly. “Pain to read, right?” Finally, a response. Devon nodded, looking back at Remus, his humiliation finally fading away. Remus brought his wand up to the page, mumbling something under his breath. He turned his gaze to Devon once more, who was so surprised that he pulled the textbook closer to him, eyes wide with shock as he scanned over the pages. “How did you do that?”
“Simple spell, really. I’ll teach it to you tomorrow after our lesson, alright?” Devon nodded, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the textbook pages. "Devon?" Devon's head shot towards you, and he rounded the desk, returning to you with a smile on his face. "Do you think this will help with your grades? Or are you struggling with your lessons too?" Devon glanced towards Professor Lupin, who was looking at him with the same careful expression as you. He finally shook his head. "No. I think classes are pretty easy most of the time." Remus heard your sigh of relief as a small smile made its way onto your face. You nodded twice, blinking slowly.
“That’s it then, Devon. You can go, if you’d like.” Devon looked back and forth between you and Professor Lupin, throwing his arms over your shoulders in a loose hug. “Winter break is only two weeks away. I’ll see you soon.” You whispered to him, tilting your head down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Okay. I love you mum.” He said, pushing the glasses up his nose, leaving a smudged fingerprint on the lens. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
Your gaze followed Devon as he ran out of the office, a slight furrow between your eyebrows. You couldn’t help but worry about him. Standing up, you turned to face Remus, smiling softly to him. He walked around his desk, leaning back slightly on the wooden surface. He only now realised that even in heels, he stood taller than you. “I don’t know how to thank you, Professor Lupin.” Go out with me for coffee, he thought. Instead, the words that came out were, “Remus is just fine.”
You laughed softly, nodding. “Alright, Remus. Thank you for this.” “I’m happy to help.” Remus responded, a smile making its way on his face at the sound of your heart speeding up. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
He saw you two weeks later, standing on platform 9 3/4, snuggled warmly in a coat, scarf wrapped around your neck to keep you warm. The bottom half of your face was fully hidden, but when you spotted Devon walking off the train, you lowered the scarf, waving to your son with a wide grin. Remus swallowed thickly, then. Remus hadn’t stopped thinking about you since the meeting.
He hoped he could come home with you for Christmas too.
summary: Wedding bells are ringing and your unstable friendship with Sirius has become a real one. He looks too good to be true and you both find yourselves on a balcony again.
cw: enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, a little bit of angst, Reg is readers biggest supporter
an: this is the final part!!! how exciting!
<< previous part
The morning blooms soft and golden across the countryside, sunlight spilling through clouds in dappled patterns across the sprawling grounds. Flowers are everywhere – tumbling from railings, curled into small bouquets, woven through the white iron trellis where Regulus and James will soon stand, hand in hand, eyes shining.
Inside the old estate house, the air buzzes with energy. Laughter drifts from the kitchen. There are shouts for bobby pins, a steamer, someone to please find the missing ring box.
But upstairs, in the quiet of the bedroom, it’s still. Sacred. Soft.
You’re crouched beside Regulus, pinning a white rose into the small cluster of greenery at his lapel. His suit is already immaculate, made up of sharp black lines, polished shoes, silver cufflinks you’d teased him about earlier for being obnoxiously perfect.
“You’re not breathing,” you murmur, eyes narrowing as you adjust the stem. “You’ll pass out before the vows.”
“I am breathing,” Regulus replies, too quickly.
You huff a laugh, standing to give him a final once-over. He looks stunning. Ready.
He fidgets with a cufflink.
You swat his hand. “Stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing.”
“You always fuss.”
He exhales, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. And then, something in his expression shifts. Softens.
“I just… I want to say thank you.”
You blink. “For what?”
“For all of it,” he says, with a shrug that barely hides the weight behind the words. “For being here. For… everything.”
His smile is small and real. “You’ve been more than I deserved.”
“Reg,” you say, voice low but steady, “don’t start with that.”
A pause. He looks down at his hands. Then back up. “I just need a minute. Alone.”
You nod. No hesitation. Just a gentle squeeze of his sleeve before slipping out and clicking the door shut behind you.
You lean back against it, exhaling. The hallway is quiet, all soft light and distant voices. Your chest is still warm with his words.
Then you pause.
Sirius is standing just down the hall, half-shadowed, hair still damp, curls brushing the collar of a deep navy suit. His tie is loose, and when he looks up, something in his face softens.
The smile you exchange is small, a little surprised, but undeniably warm.
His eyes sweep over you, lingering. “You’re beautiful.”
Not you look beautiful. Not that dress is beautiful. Just you.
Heat blooms in your cheeks. You brush a strand of hair behind your ear like it’s nothing, even though it feels like everything.
“Oh,” you say lightly. “Well. You don’t look terrible either.”
That earns you a laugh. Quiet. Genuine. It makes his eyes crinkle in that way you’d never admit you love
“I should check on James,” he says after a moment. “He’s probably halfway to a breakdown.”
“Big job,” you grin.
“Big responsibility.”
“I’ll see you out there?” he asks, softer now.
“Yeah,” you say.
He goes, and the hallway feels emptier without him in it.
You stand still for a long moment. Trying to calm the flutter in your chest. You hadn’t planned on feeling anything today but joy for your friends, but Sirius always manages to rearrange all the thoughts in your head.
It didn’t used to be like this. You used to loathe him. Or you told yourself you did.
And now?
Now, he’s calling you beautiful like it’s not even a question.
-
The seats are full, murmurs fading into a hush as the first notes of soft music drift through the air. The scent of summer is thick, wild roses and fresh grass, the faint sweetness of champagne.
You’re standing just out of view behind the trellis, heart fluttering, dress brushing softly against your legs. You take a breath – steady, quiet – then another.
And then Sirius is there.
His arm slips gently through yours.
It’s not awkward, not anymore. His touch is sure but careful, like he knows exactly where the lines are between the two of you now. Like he’s asking, not taking.
“You ready?” he murmurs, voice low, just for you.
You nod. “You?”
He huffs a breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
You step forward together.
At the altar, you split wordlessly, parting like you’d rehearsed: he to James’ side, you to Regulus’.
You meet Regulus’ eye, and he gives you the faintest smile. One that trembles a little at the edges.
Your hand finds his briefly, just a squeeze.
He exhales, nods.
The music swells.
And then James appears, radiant and ridiculous and clearly trying not to cry. Remus and Lily are just behind him, faces glowing.
When James reaches the altar and his eyes find Regulus, the air shifts.
The whole world stills.
They join hands without prompting. The officiant begins to speak, but you hardly hear the words. You’re watching the way James looks at Regulus – like he’s still surprised he gets to love him this loudly, this openly. And Regulus, who once hid everything behind sharp eyes and cold shoulders – looks utterly undone. Soft. Free.
And then come the vows.
James goes first, voice cracking just once, around the word always. He grins through it. Regulus wipes a single tear from James’ cheek with the back of his knuckle, like he’s done it a thousand times.
When it’s Regulus’ turn, his voice doesn’t shake.
But you do.
You feel it first as a tightness in your throat, then behind your eyes. His words are everything he once struggled to say: I trust you. I choose you. I love you. Over and over, in every quiet promise.
You blink fast, determined not to cry, not now, not when this moment isn’t yours. You swallow it down, push it back.
Your hands are folded gently in front of you, fingers clenched just a little too tight. The sunlight catches on Regulus’ ring just as James slides it into place. Somewhere behind you, someone sniffles. Maybe two people.
Your throat tightens with almost no warning. You blink quickly, trying to bite it back, willing the tears not to come – not now, not with mascara on, not with a thousand eyes nearby. This is their moment, and you want to see it clearly, not through the blur of your own dumb emotions.
You glance across the aisle in an effort to ground yourself and that’s when you catch it.
Sirius is already looking at you.
You don’t know how long he’s been doing it. Maybe since Regulus started speaking. Maybe longer.
He’s standing still, face open and unguarded. And when your eyes meet, something gentle passes between you. Like he understands exactly what you're feeling, and maybe he’s feeling it, too.
Your lips wobble as you try not to laugh or cry or both.
And then, as if choreographed, you both smile.
Just a curve of your mouth but it’s real. Watered down by emotion and soft in the way things are when they matter.
The officiant’s voice is still going, words like “love” and “forever” floating in the warm air. James is beaming now, both hands wrapped around Regulus’. The world is still watching them.
But for just a moment, you and Sirius aren’t watching anything else
And then, because life keeps going, Sirius dips his head just a little and you breathe again.
The crowd laughs when the officiant finally announces what everyone already knew; that they are, in fact, married.
Applause erupts. Somewhere a bird calls from the trees, and someone pops the first champagne bottle far too early.
But your chest is lighter now, somehow. Brimming and full.
You spare one last glance across the aisle.
Sirius is clapping, laughing softly at something James just said, but when he catches you watching him, he doesn’t look away.
Instead, he smiles again, small, and this time, just for you.
-
The party is in full swing: drinks flowing, shoes long since discarded, laughter rising like music itself. James and Regulus are somewhere in the middle of it all, spinning each other around in calm, affectionate circles, completely smitten and blissfully unaware of anything outside their orbit.
You’re tucked off to the side, seated at one of the round tables draped in linen and petals, sipping champagne that’s gone a little flat. Taking it all in.
“Are you just hiding, or sulking?”
You don’t even have to look. That voice, teasing, silk-wrapped sarcasm, could only belong to one person.
Sirius slides into the seat beside you, drink in hand, grinning like he’s been waiting to corner you all evening.
“I’m not hiding,” you say, without looking at him.
“Oh, so sulking it is.”
You finally glance over at him. He looks unfairly good in the dusky light, hair pushed back now, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, tie draped loose around his neck.
“Actually,” you say, tone dry, “I’m recovering from nearly crying during the ceremony.”
Sirius barks a laugh. “Nearly? You were crying.”
You gasp, mock-offended. “I was not.”
“Oh come on,” he grins, leaning closer, voice dropping. “You got misty when Regulus was speaking.”
You try to hold his gaze, to look stern, but it’s hopeless. “You’re such a knob.”
“And you’re a softie,” he counters, tipping his glass toward you. “But don’t worry. I think it’s cute.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You weren’t exactly composed yourself, by the way.”
Sirius feigns innocence, one hand pressed to his heart. “Me? I was stoic. Regal. Like a very handsome statue.”
“You sniffled.”
“I was clearing my throat.”
“You wiped your eyes.”
He leans in, a glint in his eye. “Must’ve been pollen.”
You laugh, and it’s the kind that bubbles up before you can stop it. Sirius looks entirely too pleased with himself, eyes bright and smug.
And then—
“Excuse me,” a familiar voice cuts in, smooth and playfully urgent, “but I need to borrow her. Before my husband notices and gets jealous.”
Regulus appears beside the table, already holding out a hand, a rare spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. His tie is gone, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed in a way that’s only half champagne.
You blink up at him. “You’ve been married for two minutes, Regulus.”
“Exactly,” he says, with faux seriousness. “That’s at least one and a half minutes too long not dancing with my favourite person.”
Sirius snorts. “Charming. I’m sitting right here.”
Regulus’ hand is warm in yours as he ushers you away from the table and out onto the dance floor.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.
“I’m married,” he counters, smug and sparkling. “I’m allowed.”
The two of you fall into a rhythm, slow and familiar, surrounded by the soft chaos of the party: distant laughter, clinking glasses, the lazy pull of music you only half-hear. You sway more than dance. It’s easy.
And then Regulus tilts his head, studying you with that sharp, knowing gaze that always sees more than it should.
“I thought you two were friends now.”
You blink. “What?
He shrugs, all innocent nonchalance. “You and Sirius. I thought you were friends.”
You pull back slightly to look at him better. “We are?”
Regulus hums like he doesn’t quite believe you. “That conversation sounded a bit too close to an argument for my liking. Three months ago you would’ve bitten his head off.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “It’s fine, he knows my limits. Some teasing is… fine.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
You sigh. “Okay, sometimes it’s even kind of nice.”
Regulus grins, wicked now. “Nice?”
You give him a look. “Oh shut up. He’s harmless.”
He leans in, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Harmless is right. He looks like a kicked puppy.”
Your stomach dips. “What?”
Regulus nods subtly toward the table.
You follow his gaze. Sure enough, Sirius is sitting exactly where you left him. His glass is half full, fingers tracing lazy, distracted circles along the rim. He’s looking off into the distance, not watching anyone in particular. His posture is slouched in that way it gets when he doesn’t think anyone’s paying attention. The shine is gone from his expression.
It hits you somewhere deep. The kind of ache that makes you want to do something. Say something.
Before you can move, though–
“Can I steal my husband away?”
James’ voice cuts through, cheerful and bright. He appears with a grin that’s too big for his face and eyes that are entirely focused on Regulus.
You blink, the spell broken.
Regulus’s face softens immediately, lit from within. He gives you an apologetic smile, already turning toward James, fingers still laced with yours until the very last second.
“Be good,” he says under his breath, squeezing your hand once before letting go.
“I am good,” you call after him.
James sweeps Regulus away with a dramatic dip and a kiss that earns a round of applause from the nearest table. You shake your head, grinning, already stepping back toward the edge of the dance floor. But before you get far, Regulus calls over his shoulder:
“Maybe you should dance with him instead.”
You roll your eyes. “Subtle,” you call back.
But you're laughing as you go.
And then, like your feet are moving without consulting your brain, you're crossing the floor again until you're standing in front of Sirius.
He glances up just as you approach, and the moment his eyes land on you, a smile spreads across his face – slow and soft and stupidly lovely.
“Hi,” he says, like it’s a secret.
“Hi,” you echo, suddenly conscious of your heartbeat, your dress, the exact placement of your arms. “Do you… want to dance?”
His eyebrows lift in mild surprise, but the smile never wavers. “With you?”
You snort. “No, with that fern behind you.”
He rises, one smooth motion, and offers his hand with mock chivalry. “Well then, I’d be an idiot to say no.”
The music has slowed now, something dreamy and a little crackly playing over the old speakers. You step into him easily, his hand settling at your waist like it’s done it a hundred times. Your palm presses lightly to his shoulder, the other resting in his.
It should be awkward, but it isn’t. It’s quiet. Simple.
Nice.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” you murmur after a few turns.
“I don’t,” he replies, voice low. “I’ve made an exception for you, you should feel special.”
You scoff – flustered and entirely unable to play it cool – but there’s warmth blooming in your chest. Rising behind your ribs. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist.
“Look at us,” he continues, tone light but careful, “I wouldn’t have bet on us dancing together during the wedding at the start of all this.”
“Me neither,” you say, with a teasing lilt to your voice. “You were unbearable.”
He chuckles. “Still am.”
You smile at his chest, trying to keep the spin of your thoughts from showing on your face. It’s too easy to fall into step with him like this, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of movement and breath and the faint scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing. He’s warm under your hand, and close. Too close.
And now you’re thinking about how unfairly good he looks – how the looseness of his tie shouldn’t be attractive, how the smirk on his lips should be annoying, how the heat of his palm at your back shouldn’t make your whole body feel like it’s been turned up ten degrees–
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You’re suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of where you’re touching. Of how nice it feels to be here, held like this. How badly you want to stay in it.
You like him. Maybe more than like.
And it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?
Somewhere along the way the forced civility you held with him for Regulus’ sake changed, no longer forced. And now it’s evolved once more.
Too late. Too much. Too real.
Your chest tightens.
“Hey,” Sirius says softly, brows drawing in. “You alright?”
You look up at him – concern now edging his voice – and your heart twists.
“I–” you start, then falter. “Sorry. I just–give me a minute.”
You pull away gently but firmly, stepping back with a weak smile that you hope doesn’t look as strained as it feels.
Sirius straightens, blinking in surprise. “Did I–?”
“No,” you say quickly, already turning. “You didn’t do anything. I just… I need some air.”
He doesn’t stop you.
But as you walk away, head buzzing, pulse racing, you can feel his eyes on your back.
-
The stars are just starting to show, scattered and faint across the deepening blue of the sky, when Sirius realises you haven’t come back.
He’s tried to play it off by talking to Marlene, helping Lily sneak extra cake to Remus, even dancing once with Dorcas just to prove (to no one in particular) that he’s not thinking about you.
But now it’s been twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.
So he sets his glass down, mutters something about needing a break, and slips through the quiet corridors of the estate house, past flower arrangements wilting softly in the hallways and flickering sconces. He checks a few rooms. No sign. Then, finally, he pushes open the heavy glass door to the west balcony.
You’re leaning against the wrought iron railing, the soft fabric of your dress rippling slightly in the breeze, face tilted up toward the sky like it might offer answers. The moonlight catches the curve of your cheek, and Sirius’s breath catches before he can help it.
He steps closer. “There you are.”
You say nothing, and the silence stretches. He takes another step, stopping a few feet away. His voice drops into something lighter and teasing.
“I’m not sure we should be on a balcony together after last time.”
You tense. Just slightly.
“That’s not funny, Sirius,” you say, sharper than you meant, voice catching around the edges.
And he sees it. The way your shoulders stiffen. The subtle sniffle you try to disguise as a breath.
His heart stumbles.
Immediately, his expression shifts, looking sheepish and sincere.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t’ve joked.”
You wave a hand, brushing at your face like it’s nothing. “It’s fine,” you say, too quickly. “It just… wasn’t my proudest moment.”
Sirius leans against the railing beside you, close but not touching. His voice is quiet now, almost hesitant. “Wasn’t mine either. You were shouting at me, and I was all like ‘I love you,’ which was fucking ridiculous, honestly.”
You glance at him, brows raised.
He huffs a laugh. “I was clearly mental that night.”
Sirius watches you carefully now, his posture still loose, his eyes anything but. The teasing is gone. What remains is soft concern, sharper than it should be, he's holding his breath and doesn't know why yet.
Then it happens.
You give a laugh.
Just once—short.
But it sounds more like a sob.
And Sirius straightens immediately, something tightening behind his ribs.
“Hey.” His voice is low, but urgent. He steps closer. “What’s going on?”
You shake your head, quickly, as if that'll stop everything in its tracks. “It’s nothing.”
Sirius doesn’t budge. Doesn’t look away. He tilts his head, trying to catch your eye.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he says, careful now. Not pushing. Not yet. “Come on. Talk to me.”
You still don’t meet his gaze. You’re looking at the horizon hoping it might swallow you. Like the quiet might save you from having to say the thing that’s been clawing its way up your throat all evening.
“I just… it doesn’t matter,” you mutter, arms folding tight across your chest like armor. “There’s nothing I can do about it, anyway.”
Sirius blinks once. Slow. He takes another step in, close enough now that you can feel the heat of him beside you, but still not touching. Still giving you space. His voice drops, gentler this time.
“Maybe if you told me what it is,” he says, “we could figure it out. Together.”
You inhale sharply, then let it out in a rush. “Sirius, really. It’s fine.”
But your voice cracks right in the middle of fine.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Sirius runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through in the way his fingers tug a little too hard. “You’re not fine.”
You whip around before you can stop yourself, arms still crossed, eyes blazing. “Can you just–stop?”
He goes quiet. Still.
“You keep asking and pushing and being–you–and I can’t–” You falter, teeth clenched.
His expression folds, careful and confused. “Okay… I just think you might feel better if you get it–whatever’s upsetting you–off your chest.”
You shake your head, laughing once. “You don’t get it, Sirius.”
“Then make me get it.” His voice is rising now too, not angry, just desperate. “You disappear halfway through the reception, you come up here and cry into the sky, and I–I’m going out of my mind wondering if I fucked something up or if I said the wrong thing or–”
“You didn’t,” you snap. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and that’s the problem.”
Sirius stares. “What?”
Your hands drop from your chest, open at your sides like you're giving up a war you never wanted to fight. “God, Sirius. I’m in love with you. Okay?”
It crashes out of you, sharp and too loud in the open night air. Your heart slams against your ribs, and suddenly it’s all just out there, no taking it back, no stuffing it down.
“I didn’t mean to be,” you continue, voice wobbling now, “and I didn’t plan it, and I definitely didn’t want to realise it in the middle of Regulus’ wedding, of all places. But I did. And now I have to live with that. Because I’m too late.”
Sirius opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
The silence between you and Sirius stretches, thick and heavy like the humid night air around you. The stars above don’t seem to have any answers either, just cold pinpricks of light in the vast dark.
Your chest tightens, eyes searching his face for anything but all you see is a kind of stunned quiet, the weight of your confession hanging between you, ready to shatter.
When the quiet gets too loud, you break it, voice small and unsure:
“I… I don’t know why I said that. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe I’m just–”
You start backing away, the words tumbling out too fast. “Let’s just go back inside, okay? It’s late, and this–this isn’t a good idea.”
You move toward the door, your heart hammering, hoping maybe if you put distance between you two, whatever this is will disappear.
But before you can cross the threshold, you feel a sudden, firm grip on your arm.
“Sirius?” you ask, startled, turning toward him.
He’s shaking off whatever trance held him silent, eyes wild and intense, and then–
He pulls you closer, breath hot against your skin, and his hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.
Without another word, he presses his lips to yours. Not a quick peck, but deep and searching, like he’s trying to say all the things his words can’t reach.
You sink into him, closing your eyes, letting your hands rest lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms.
When you finally pull apart, the world seems to hold its breath.
Sirius is breathless, eyes dark and fierce and full of something raw.
“How could you ever think you’re too late?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I haven’t stopped loving you. Not then, not now, not ever. Especially not because of that night.”
You stare at him, heart still hammering against your ribs, the world narrowing to just the two of you beneath the quiet stars. The sudden rush of his words wraps around you, soft and unyielding.
“But… I was awful to you,” you whisper, voice barely steady.
Sirius shakes his head, a slow, sure movement that seems to sweep away every doubt you’ve ever had about yourself. His fingers brush against your cheek, thumb tracing a gentle, reassuring line along your skin.
“I was horrible to you once too, remember? That was then,” he says simply. “Doesn’t matter now. You haven’t been awful to me since. Not once.”
You blink. “Not once?”
He smiles. A soft, slightly crooked thing.
“No. Since that night, you’ve been… something else.” he swallows hard, voice low and certain, “you’re not awful. You’re the best thing I never expected.”
You feel the sting of tears again, but this time they’re different. Not shameful, but relieved. Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t too late at all.
Sirius leans in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “So don’t run from this. From me.”
You close your eyes, heart full, breath catching with a laugh that’s half disbelief.
He pulls you closer again, and you open your eyes to see a mischievous smile painted on his lips.
“Besides, that mean streak of yours is what pulled me in originally. I quite like it.”
You huff, swatting lightly at his shoulder.
“I hate you.” you reply with a beaming grin on your face.
“You’re lying.” He says with a smile mirroring your own. “Let’s not say things we don't mean, doll.”
You laugh, breathless and still trembling from everything you’ve said, everything he’s said in return.
Sirius is looking at you like you hung the stars.
You lift a hand, fingers brushing a stray curl from his forehead, letting your palm linger against his cheek.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you whisper.
Sirius leans in, so close you can feel the smile on his lips before he speaks.
“That’s the fun part.”
And then he kisses you again – slow this time, and sure. Like a promise.
IM SO SORRY—I FEEL SO LATE. I DIDNT EVEN NOTICE YOU’VE POSTED THE LAST PART ALREADY BUT HERE WE GOOOO. I am super duper gonna miss this little series, Flo. How I wish this was very long so we could all suffer from heartache and have to sit through and groan from how dumb these two are being—HSHAHAHHA but jokes aside, I am so happy they finally got together—they deserved it, and also I teared up a little bit during James and Reg’s wedding, did you know? Especially the part where Regulus was saying his vows. 😭🫶
you could never be late tally!! TYSM i'm so glad you enjoyed, the whole thing was soo out of my comfort zone, i'll miss this little series too (i need a break from big angst though haha) James and Reg's wedding was one of my favourite parts to write even though they're not the main focus 🫶🏻🫶🏻
james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader
'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (drabble)
synopsis: at Potter Manor in spring, even a Black can begin again—where healing stumbles, but sweetness lingers, and love, warm as frosting and softer than rain, finds its way home. ( i suck at summaries)
cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!
w/c: 6.5k
a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3
part one part two masterlist
“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”
Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command.
She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer.
The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.
She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest.
You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.
You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.
You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”
A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.
“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”
Love.
The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.
So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.
You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.
The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort.
There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.
The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave.
You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.
From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.
“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.
“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.
And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice.
You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.
Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest.
He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.
“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.
You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.
“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”
You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”
James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”
And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion.
Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.
Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.
You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are)
It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.
The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful.
“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.
“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.
You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.
James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”
You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”
“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”
Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right.
You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.
That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.
There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.
James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash.
Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.
So instead, you learn to make frosting.
You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden.
There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.
And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.
Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it.
Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”
And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.
Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory.
You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.
“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”
Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.
And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.
You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.
“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”
You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.
It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.
From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”
You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”
Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”
And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.
Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.
You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.
The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still.
Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back.
“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.
Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.
One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.
You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.
Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones.
It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.
You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.
Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.
Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.
Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache.
You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.
Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.
“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.
The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.
James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.
And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.
“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”
Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”
You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”
James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”
“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”
James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”
That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.
Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.
The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.
You hesitate. “The ugly one?”
He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”
Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”
You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.
Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”
It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.
You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.
He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”
Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.
James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”
“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.
Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”
The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you.
You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.
You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.
You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.
James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.
He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.
“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”
Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.
He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.
James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.
Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”
He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”
“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.
“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”
James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”
Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.
You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes.
You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.
The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.
Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.
You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”
James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”
You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.
The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.
Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.
Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.
“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”
“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.
He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.
He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”
You blink. “What?”
“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”
Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”
“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”
You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.
“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.
“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”
“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”
He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”
James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.
And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.
Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.
The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs.
You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.
He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.
Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.
Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”
And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.
Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest.
When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.
For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.
Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.
You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.
—
The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss.
You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.
You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.
But two days later, it’s harder to rise.
The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth.
The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.
Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.
But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.
You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.
James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.
You won’t be the shadow in their light.
So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.
You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.
And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.
You breathe through it, quiet and constant.
Because what else can you do?
You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place.
The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.
You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay.
It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.
You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.
Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.
Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.
And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.
Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.
Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.
But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.
Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.
And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.
They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open.
You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe.
You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.
Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers.
You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore.
You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.
And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.
Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you.
You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin.
She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence.
You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.
You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one.
And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded.
Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.
You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream.
You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.
Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.
And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.
Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.
It starts at your spine.
A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you.
But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving.
By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore.
It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.
You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.
And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.
Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?
You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.
You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.
And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.
If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.
You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip.
Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now.
You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind.
A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.
And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.
His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.
Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.
He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain.
You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.
The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow. And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden.
You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.
His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”
Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.
James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.
And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”
“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”
Something in your chest gives in.
And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.
“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.
“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”
You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.
Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.
“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”
James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.
“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”
You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”
He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.
“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”
You swallow. He goes on.
“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”
You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.
“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”
You hate how seen that makes you feel.
“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”
You look down, heart a mess in your throat.
“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”
You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.
“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”
He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.
“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”
He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.
“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”
You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.
“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”
You want to look away, but he won’t let you.
“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”
“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”
His voice is almost a prayer now.
“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.
“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.
“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”
“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.
He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”
His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.
Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go.
His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.
You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.
He leans in.
Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.
And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.
“I love you, Jamie.”
He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.
Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”
You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.
He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”
“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”
You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”
You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”
You don’t answer right away.
You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows.
Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.
Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.
James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose.
You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath.
Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.
He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.
He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred.
The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.
Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.
Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light.
She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.
Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.
A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.
“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.
Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”
“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”
Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”
Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”
Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.
“He’d give her anything.”
“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”
There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,
“She’ll be loved.”
And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house.
There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays.
But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain.
The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest.
Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again.
And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again.
He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.
Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.
Ahhhh!!! Congrats on 1000 it is so deserved!!! Can I request the prompt "this is the worst decision you will ever make, I'll see you at seven" with a post azkaban sirius? I think it would be hilarious if reader is the one to say the line, but I would love to see whatever you do with it!!
Hi! Thank you ❤︎ I know this ended up being short, but for some reason, I struggled to write this. But it's pure fluff and I think everyone enjoys fluff ❤︎
1,000 Followers celebration
Hope y'all enjoy ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
Drinks
Sirius Black x fem!reader
microfic - 942 words
cw: fluff
Paying attention during Order meetings proved to be difficult. Moody’s voice melted into an incomprehensible buzz as you stared across the room. The room was slightly stuffy; old wizarding homes didn’t have the ventilation that they really needed, even in the kitchens. Moody was recapping the points of a mission that you weren’t going on. It made you feel less horrible about zoning out.
Across the table from you was Sirius Black. You knew him from when you were at school. You didn’t expect him to recognize you; you were a few years younger than him. Being as popular as he was, the whole school knew about him and you didn’t have that recognition. Within your own year, you had some traction, but it was nothing compared to the Marauders.
Sirius’ personality, as you observed it during meetings, hadn’t changed much since school, which you found intriguing. The man had been to Azkaban and escaped. He managed to maintain who he was despite constantly being around dementors. That wasn’t something the average person could do. And if you add in the fact that he actually fought in the first war – you were still in school – and lost friends? He should be a shell of man. And yet, he wasn’t.
“Hanging around, sweetheart?” a voice asked you, breaking you from your thoughts.
You blinked before looking up at the source of the voice. Sirius. Oh. You blushed slightly.
“Meeting over?”
“Been over for a few minutes now.”
“Sorry,” you said with a heavy breath. “Zoned out, I suppose.”
“Something weighing on you or do you just not like Moody?” he asked, resting his hip on the table. He had a very casual air about him.
You didn’t answer right away. Your thoughts hadn’t been on the war, although that would’ve been an easily understandable answer. You debated telling Sirius that you had been thinking about him. You didn’t know if it would come off as peculiar, but you knew the longer you stayed quiet, the worse it would be.
“No, no. Moody’s fine.”
“Then what’s on your mind? If you want to talk ‘bout it. I can put the kettle on,” he offered with an air of nonchalance.
You hadn’t expected such kindness from him. Certainly not directed at you, a girl he barely knew if he even remembered you from school. You pushed your chair back from the table and stood up.
“Just thinking. The war, you, work, my family’s safety, everything.”
You had turned to leave, but Sirius reached out and touched your elbow. You looked back at him with a tilted head.
“Me?”
“Yeah,” you said, facing him fully. “You’re an enigma. Just as you’ve always been, but it’s different.”
He chuckled. “As I’ve always been?”
“We were at Hogwarts together for a few years. I mean, everyone knew you, but you still managed to surprise people.”
“Didn’t know we-”
“I’m a few years younger than you. I didn’t expect you to. I don’t think I ever crossed into your radar.”
“Maybe you should’ve,” he said, eyeing you up and down.
You laughed and crossed your arms.
“You wouldn’t’ve even looked at me.”
“Looking at you now, though.”
“Are you?”
You couldn’t help the smile that was growing on your face. His tone was flirtatious. You wouldn’t deny that he was attractive when he was younger, just as you wouldn’t deny that he was still attractive.
“Should I put the kettle on? So you can figure out this enigma?” he asked.
He tucked some of your hair behind your ear. It was a cheesy move, but moves exist because they work and your heart skipped a beat when he did that.
“Sirius, do you even know my name yet?”
“No, which makes you a mystery to me. One I’d like to figure out.”
“Right,” you said before telling him your name. “And I really can’t be staying long tonight. I need to check on my parents. I worry about ‘em with everything that’s going on.”
“Of course. You did say you were thinking about the war earlier.”
You nodded.
“Are you free tomorrow then? We can do tea, or something harder if you’d like. We have brandy, wine, beer, whiskey, the works.”
“Is the escaped Azkaban convict asking me out?” you asked with a teasing lilt to your voice.
“I am, although I didn’t commit the crime I was imprisoned for.”
“No doubt you’ve committed other crimes though,” you laughed.
“But I wasn’t tried for those,” he said with a wink. “So, tomorrow. Drinks? Here, since, you know, I can’t leave.”
“With a girl you don’t really know? This is the worst decision you will ever make, I'll see you at seven.”
You walked away from Sirius before apparating to your parents’ house. They greeted you cheerfully, assuming the giddy smile on your face was due to seeing them and not having made plans for a date.
Sirius shook his head as he laughed to himself, pushing himself off the table to put the kettle on. He didn’t need you to enjoy a cup of tea. Remus came back into the kitchen.
“I’ll have a cup too,” Remus said, sitting back down at the table.
“Oh, you paid more attention to the younger students when we were at school. What can you tell me about the girl sitting across from me today?” Sirius asked as he placed two cups on the table.
“Erm, not much? I’ve heard she’s good at dueling, exceptional wandwork. Why?”
“She’s coming back over tomorrow and apparently inviting her was the worst decision I will ever make.”
“Right, because going after Wormtail alone was so brilliant.”
summary: When Sirius and Remus find you at the celebratory party your parents organised for you, they discover the unfortunate truth of the ultimatum your parents gave you. Luckily for you though, Sirius is quick to think on his feet,
wc: 1.6k+
Remus was under the impression that he would never get to see you after watching your on-stage performance. A picture of you would be etched in his mind forever, teasing, calling him, but he’d never get to speak to you. You’d be yet another thing Remus longed to have but would never meet. Apparently though, when Remus agreed to come watch your show as moral support, that wasn’t the only thing he’d signed up for.
Remus had never been to Grimmauld Place, or the rich gardens your parents had built on the property. As Sirius dragged Remus into the house, he looked for signs of misery around the house that Sirius had courageously returned to after running away from his parents. He really must love you, Remus thought, because he never thought Sirius would dare to step foot in his parents’ house again.
He was led to the ballroom, which had been decorated to fit the Phantom’s theme. The lights had been charmed blue, and blue bows were ribboned around chairs. The boy’s eyes scoured the room to find your bright smile that had lit up the vast stage. Sirius stopped in his tracks, and Remus mimicked the movement, following his friend’s line of sight.
And there you were.
But instead of a smile gracing your face, your eyebrows were furrowed, betraying the incredible way you looked tonight, in your dark gown and styled hair. Remus heard Sirius scoff in amusement: he wasn’t surprised you weren’t happy whilst speaking to your parents. All they did was upset people, left and right. Remus observed the way you sharply nodded to your parents before turning away from them to greet the people who had started filling the room.
You lingered next to a tall man who looked to be at least a decade older than you, but you seemed rather comfortable with him, linking your arm through his as you spoke. “Regulus!” He heard you call out, watching as your brother approached you. “This is my co-star you wanted to meet oh so badly.” You teased your younger brother, who immediately turned red, shaking your cast mate’s hand. Remus frowned for a moment before it dawned on him. He played the phantom. No wonder he barely recognised the man.
Remus shook himself out of his thoughts, but instead of finding you next to the two men again, you had disappeared. Sirius muttered something under his breath, grabbing Remus by the wrist and guiding him out of the ballroom before the celebrations even began.
Sirius led Remus further into the Manor, up the staircase grand enough to belong at Hogwarts and into a dark hallway with portraits of relatives who whispered judgementally as they walked past them.
Sirius came to a stop in front of an opening at the end of the hallway. There was a large round bookshelf lining the walls, though they stopped at pristine white double doors with ornate victorian designs. Sirius knocked on the door twice, and was almost immediately rewarded with a cry of “Who is it?” Remus’s breath hitched in his throat at the sound of your muffled voice, and he immediately straightened his collar as Sirius responded.
The door swung open and you squealed at the sight of your brother, throwing your arms out to hug him. Sirius laughed joyously as he wrapped his arms around your waist, giving you a compliment on your performance. You thanked him, eyes closed as you basked in your brother’s warmth. Pulling away from Sirius, you quietly gasped as you saw the man standing behind him, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from embarrassing yourself. You had noticed him in the audience as you did your bows, watching as he stood alongside everyone else to give you a standing ovation. You felt proud that such a handsome man enjoyed your performance and you didn’t think by any means that Sirius had brought him there with him.
“This is Remus,” He started, and Remus smiled, taking a step forward and offering you his hand. You shook it with a shy smile, mumbling a “Hi.” as Sirius continued “He came with me. He’s my best mate.” You inhaled sharply. This was the famous Remus Lupin who had pulled so many pranks with Sirius? Who had spent seven years at Hogwarts sharing a dorm with your brother? You were immediately angry with yourself for not having met him sooner.
“You were absolutely wonderful tonight.” He told you, and you almost melted at the sound of his voice. You smiled, thanking him softly, but both men in the room noticed the way your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Turning away from them both, you took a seat on the edge of your bed, an almost sad look on your face. “So, uh, how did you like the rest of the show?” Sirius frowned, taking two long strides to shut your bedroom door before coming back in to sit next to you on your bed.
Remus felt like he was intruding.
Sirius draped an arm over your shoulders, lowing his voice despite the three of you being alone in the room. “What did they tell you? You know you did great, yeah? Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”
You shook your head slowly. “It’s not that, no.” You glanced up at Remus before looking back to Sirius, a questioning look in your eyes. Do we trust him enough? Sirius nodded, urging you to go on. We trust him. You huffed, one hand coming up to rub your arm as your thoughts began racing. “It’s - like I knew it would happen eventually but I just thought I’m doing so well right now that they wouldn’t be focused on it!” Sirius furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Remus inhaled deeply, feeling his chest tighten at the sight of your pain.
You seemed so different now, so vulnerable, compared to the character you played mere a hour ago. Your eyes shone with tears but you blinked them away, finally looking up from your lap. “They’ve decided it’s time for me to get married, apparently.” Sirius made a pitiful noise, but you ignored it, standing up abruptly.
“So since I’ve made such a name for myself in the industry, they’re saying I need a husband who’s also an actor, so our children can be musical theatre prodigies. They’ve given me an ultimatum. Either I find myself a successful husband in the next six months, or I marry Lewis — my cast mate. Who is twelve years older than me.”
Remus winced at your words. He wondered how your parents could be so cruel and now it seems as though he’s receiving a live example. How could they be so perpetually controlling? Was it not enough that you already had a pristine reputation? An impeccable career? You also had to be married before you even reached your mid-twenties? Sirius stood up, putting both his hands on your shoulders, watching you for a short while before bringing you into another hug. Your hands hopelessly rested limply by your side, and you were staring at the wall, deep in thought.
When Sirius pulled away from you, you sighed, smiling defeatedly at him, putting both your hands on your hips. “I’d marry pretty much anyone other than him!” You cried, and you remembered the second man in the room. If only he had been your cast mate. In that case you’d never even try to look for another husband.
“Anyone?” Sirius asked, watching as you sat at the chair in front of your vanity. Sirius turned his gaze to Remus, who was watching you with a sad expression on his face. “What about Remus?” Both your heads snapped towards Sirius in an instant, eyes wide with shock. You were both scared that the other would be repulsed by the offer, terrified to look at each other in the face. “Remus, you’d marry my sister, wouldn’t you?” Remus felt his face flush as you turned to look at him, and he spotted the hopeful look on your face from the corner of his eye. “Mate, I’d do absolutely anything for you, you know that.”
Sirius grinned, turning to look at you now. “Remus is better than anyone else! Who better to marry than my best mate? He’s a great man, darling.” You didn’t need convincing to agree to marry Remus. He had already said he would marry you, despite it being for your brother, and just moments ago you’d wished for him to be your husband to be instead of your boring co-star. You gulped, watching his handsome features twist into one filled with worry, running a hand through his soft looking hair.
You nodded. “I’d marry him.”
Remus released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and felt his face flush as he realised what he had agreed to. A marriage. Something Remus had thought for years that he would never have, but here you were, agreeing to marry him. But then Remus remembered your parents’ criteria. “But I’m not an actor.”
You finally stood up from your spot on the cushioned chair, walking towards Remus with a confident smile on your face. “Well, do you want to be? You’ve definitely got the face for it.” And Remus found himself saying yes, tying him to the single person in the theatre industry who had more connections than anyone else. He found himself tossing aside his dilemmas of what he wanted for a career to accept an entirely new course of action. So when you shook Remus’s hand with a smile and hugged your brother, thanking him for thinking on his feet, Remus knew he had sailed into the storm.
summary: Sirius has to bring moral support with to come watch your debut as Christine in the Phantom of the Opera. Despite the judgemental pureblooded families around the pair, they are both serenaded by your enchanting singing
a/n: this is more of an introductory chapter, the real story begins in the next one!
Sirius had not exercised his skills on being the ‘perfect pureblood’ in just about, well, since he was taught them. However tonight, he hadn’t only gone to the extent of putting them into practise, but he even taught Remus the few rules he could remember, and everything about theatre etiquette.
All to impress you.
His favourite family member, and the only pureblood with perfect reputation he could stand being around.
Walking into the theatre, Sirius knew that he and Remus never looked better: in old, untouched suits Sirius had specifically tailored to fit them perfectly, all to put every other snobby, rich pureblood coming to watch you to shame. He didn’t hide his smirk as he and his best friend walked into the theatre, aware of the heads turning to look at him, long haired, pierced, tattooed, and his best friend, scarred, freckled, a half-blood. Remus nervously fiddled with the end of his blazer, playing with the metal cuff-link, but to outsiders, his scary resting face gave them the impression he was confidently fixing his appearance, judging all those around him.
Sirius patted Remus’s shoulder as they finally reached the front row of seats, and Remus walked in first, though he didn’t have to move far because their seats were front and centre: the best seats in the house.
Courtesy of you, of course, though the wealthy families around the two men didn’t need to know that. “I could get used to this.” Sirius whispered to Remus, spreading his legs slightly and looking around him. He gaze caught on a curly-haired boy to his right. His younger brother, who nodded curtly to him when their eyes met. Regulus was sat with your parents a couple rows back; clearly you hadn't offered them any free tickets. The older couple was engaged in an enthusiastically fake conversation with another couple, but their rich laughs reached Sirius’s ears, and he shuddered, turning to face the front again.
The last bell rang in the theatre, signalling any wanderers to finally make their way to their seats. Remus’s gaze was drawn down to the orchestra below them, hidden by a railing above the pit. As the lights died down and the orchestra began playing the overture, Remus turned his line of sight to the empty stage. Remus wasn’t a theatre connoisseur. Unlike these wealthy pureblooded families surrounding him, he had only been to a community theatre once when he snuck out of the orphanage with the few friends he had to watch a local production of Matilda. But now, as the live music flooded his veins and the actors started appearing on stage, he decided he liked the rich culture of theatres in the wizarding world.
Remus barely understood the start of the show, but the second he spotted you across the stage — with unmistakable features that belonged to an entire bloodline of Blacks, but so undeniably you — he was taken.
From everything Remus had learned from your parents, he always hated them, but he couldn’t help but agree with them on the fact that you had more than just links to the most powerful wizards in the industry. You had talent. No wonder they had sent you to beauxbatons, where your full potential as a performer could be reached. Your voice was melodic, angelic, serenading even.
So when the show ended and you smiled so widely through your first bows in your run as the lead in the Phantom of The Opera, Remus silently promised you that he would think of you, think of you fondly when you’ll part ways tonight. He’ll remember you once in a while, or perhaps even more than that, because it will be impossible to get your enchanting cadence out of his mind.
summary: You had always been grateful that your parents put all their money into making you the best at something you loved - musical theatre. The opening night of your new show is opening doors for you beyond your career.
Deluded by your parents’ insistence of this industry’s difficulty, you imagined all the women in the audition room glaring at you. Whether it be due to their belief that you would fail, or their jealousy, you didn’t know, but it was okay, because you were only imagining it. You’d finally learned that after three years of countless auditions. Each time you booked a role, your confidence in your abilities was reinforced. Shutting your eyes, you let yourself be serenaded by the piano on the other side of the thin wall, an auditionee singing to her heart’s desire.
“Ms. Black?” Your eyes snapped open, and you stood up with a kind smile on your face, instantly putting up a confident front as you followed the lady into the audition room. The woman who had gone before you was just finishing up, thanking the panel before walking out. You didn’t miss the discouraging look she gave you, and you couldn’t suppress the surprised tug of your eyebrow. Despite the obvious years she had on you, the grown woman still had the audacity to try and scare you. Pathetic.
“Right, Ms. Black, we’ll have you sing for us first.”
The casting director’s words echoed in your mind as you stared into the opera theatre’s blinding lights, your co-star now commanding you “Sing, my angel of music!” for the first time in front of your audience. All of the wealthy, noble wizarding families watched you with scrutinising — no, mesmerised gazes, your siren song ringing in their ears and manipulating their thoughts to secure the idea that the Black family had the best performer in the history of wizards. And it wouldn’t stop with you. With your legacy, any children you bring into your bloodline had to be performers, classical singers, dancers, embodiments of elegance and beauty.
Just like you, they would be angels of music.
As you did your bows at the end of the show, holding hands with the rest of The Phantom of the Opera’s brand new cast, you bathed in the praise. You were aware that your parents had pushed you to become the perfect pure-blood woman. The more your brothers rebelled, the tighter of a hold they had on you. But in this moment, hearing the applause from over a thousand of the richest wizards in world, you were grateful. Grateful that whilst you had been torn apart and sewn back together until every unique strand of hair was in its place, it had been whilst your parents paid for lessons with the most talented teachers to make you the best at what you loved: musical theatre.
You weren’t aware of the two men your age sitting at the second row of the stalls. They were both up on their feet, feeding into the standing ovation the crowd had given you, but your brother and his best friend were officially your two biggest fans, and they wouldn’t let you forget it.
pairing: remus lupin x reader (no specific pronouns are used but remus calls reader pretty)
synopsis: full moon fast-approaching, remus browses the library in search of a book that will help him forget, but he finds something even better: you.
content warnings: loser!remus coded (kind of), lots of yearning, slight angst, bad writing
word count: 749
The drizzling rain hits the patterned glass windows of the library and its gentle pitter-patter casts a melancholic spell throughout the room. Remus quietly browses, foot-steps heavy as he walks through the spaces between tall, dark, and completely packed shelves. He hopes to find something new. Something compelling enough that he won’t notice the never-ending ache in his bones that grows stronger by the nights during this time of the month, every month.
Deep down he knows it’s no use.
Before Remus realizes, he’s wandered to a part of the library (surprisingly) unfamiliar to him. About to explore, he’s stopped in his tracks.
It’s you.
Sitting in a secluded nook on what looks to be the coziest armchair and reading a book under a pretty stained glass lamp (though Remus would argue not nearly as pretty as you), you’re the picture of comfort—serenity. His mind screams at him to walk away, as disrupting your peace feels like an azkaban worthy crime, one he thinks he’s committing by just standing in your presence, and yet something inside him makes him stay…
Sensing someone, you look up from your book and notice him.
Before Remus’ internal panic can begin, you send him the sweetest smile, and he swears he can feel the warmth that you radiate and wants nothing more than to let it seep into his achy bones.
He has seen you around the corridors before, paid attention to you in the classes he was lucky enough to have with you, and he’s deduced that you’re the personification of a warm cup of tea, a soft blanket, and his favourite knit jumper, and if he felt he deserved it, he’d want nothing more than to be enveloped by you. You’re kind and he’s never seen anyone fail to smile when you’re around. If there was ever any place to find solace it’d be with you.
Remus hesitantly smiles back, and he wonders if you can sense its hidden wistfulness, maybe even see the way his heart is practically clawing its way out of his chest in hopes to get to your gentle hands.
“Hi Remus.”
Two words, yet the butterflies he feels in his stomach after hearing you say his name must amount to several.
There’s so much he wishes he could say to you, except he doesn’t. And he never will. He can’t. So he settles with greeting you back, and searches for a way to linger a little while longer.
“What’re you reading?”
You extend your arm, favourite book in hand for him to take, and he comes forward, hyper aware of the way the distance he put between you both is closing in, making the magnetic pull you possess impossibly harder to ignore. When Remus’ hand grabs the book, he tries to push the fact that a mere inch from his fingertips rests yours out of his head.
“It’s my favourite,” you reveal, smiling up at him.
The sight is too much so he looks down at the book now in his hand, forcing his focus to shift to the cover, examining it (though he can’t process anything with you right there).
In a moment of what he can’t decide whether is boldness or all his systems failing (probably the latter) he asks, “What’s it about?”
You visibly light up and Remus’ chest fills with pride at contributing to your expression.
You begin to tell him about the book. Eyes twinkling and voice fond, he can tell how much you love it and it’s the most endearing sight. What would your eyes look like if it was him you talked about?
Remus scolds himself for wondering what it would be like to be the object of your affection. He knows allowing his mind on this path of imagination is a slippery slope, one that inevitably leads to heartbreak. But with the full-moons impending arrival, the fact that you’re talking to him feels like a gift, and he tells himself that he can be selfish just this once, so he hangs onto your every word like it’s the last time he’ll ever hear you speak.
Remus Lupin believes there’s no universe where someone like him would deserve, let alone end up with someone like you; however, your mellifluous voice, one he thinks must be coated in honey allows him to—for a moment— pretend, and as you go on, the ache he's so accustomed to feeling lessens. Enough that for once he can act like it was never there.
Hi Flo, hope this ask finds you well! Saw your post on requests so here is an idea, hopefully you like it.
Everybody decided to head out to a pub for the night. Reader’s tell for being tipsy is the fact that her lips and tip of her nose start to feel numb. After three drinks (and giggling uncontrollably at whatever story Sirius is telling her) bf!Remus asks if shes feeling alright (cause Sirius is never that funny when she’s sober). Instead of answering she asks Remus to give her a kiss (which he obv gives her) and she follows it by a worried smile and a „yeah, i’m definitely tipsy”. To which Remus is just smitten. Idk if it makes sense but hopefully it does!
Hi darling! love your brain for this idea, thank you for requesting! <3
Remus Lupin x reader who is a very giggly drunk ✩ 900 words
cw: drunk reader, smitten remus, fluff
The sofa feels like a cloud beneath you, and the edges of the world are softening, blurring at the corners. But it's nice. It's fun. You’ve thrown yourself down next to Sirius, after an intense bout of karaoke with Lily, and folded yourself over. Back flat against the seat cushions, chin tucked into your chest, you already know tomorrow’s stiff neck will be worth it.
It takes a second to clue in on exactly what Sirius is doing, his arms wide and theatrical as he gestures, and smiling as he speaks. He must be telling a story, probably to James. But when James rolls his eyes and walks off, curiosity tugs at you
“Sirius, Sirius, Sirius–” whether it's the incessant chanting of his name or the poking in his side that gets his attention, you’ll never know. He's got a lazy smile on his face as he turns and a pink flush to his cheeks that comes along with intoxication.
“Oh! Hi, babe,” he slurs, blinking slowly. “Whatcha doin’?”
“What were you talking about? With, uh, James?” you ask, your own voice syrupy with drink.
“Telling ‘im my madeira cake joke.”
It’s a joke that Sirius has told a million times before, a terrible one, something about the prices of cakes. The mention of it is all it takes for giggles to start falling out of you in droves. Sober you would likely have the same reaction as James but the drink flowing through you has made everything a hundred times funnier.
When your laughter prompts Sirius’, the sound of his laughter makes yours all the more intense. You try to sit up for air, but the shift in weight sends you slipping off the edge of the sofa, landing hard on the floor with a graceless thud. Sirius nearly falls off after you, doubled over, wheezing.
It all comes to a head when your laugh turns into an aching cough. You think, somewhat dramatically, this might be how I die.
Then a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow, careful circles. The coughs ease. You blink up, tears in your eyes, and find Remus crouched beside you, a small crease of worry pinched between his brows.
“Hi,” he says softly, when you just stare.
Without thinking, you reach up and gently poke the furrow between his brows, like smoothing out a wrinkle in a shirt. It’s clumsy and heavy handed but meant to be sweet.
“Hi,” you croak at last. “Y’look handsome.”
He huffs a laugh, eyes warm. “Thanks, sweetheart. You okay?”
You ignore the question. “Can I have a kiss?”
Remus doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, one hand steady on your back, the other warm against your cheek. It’s a familiar sort of kiss, full of care and comfort, like the kind he gives you when you're half-asleep.
When he pulls away, instead of a dopey smile, he sees your face tinged with the slightest worry. Remus opens his mouth ready to speak and possibly placate a drunken breakdown when you interrupt.
“Again, please. M’trying to figure something out.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “So polite,” he teases, before leaning in to give you another kiss; this one a brief, affectionate peck. You hum against his mouth, and he guesses it's satisfaction.
“Oh,” you breathe as you pull back, a small giggle slipping out. “I’m so drunk.”
“Noo,” Remus responds, drawing out the vowel sarcastically, though not unkindly. “How’d you figure?”
You wrinkle your nose, then tap the tip of it with a finger. “My nose is numb,” you inform him gravely, “And my lips. It’s– It happens.” You say it with wide, solemn eyes, then burst into another fit of laughter.
Remus stares at you for a moment, and something tender flickers across his face. He doesn’t laugh but his mouth lifts into a soft, amused smile.
“Do you want some water? Or bread?” he offers, brushing a bit of hair out of your face.
You tilt your head back and forth, as if really thinking through the options in your head before you focus back on Remus.
“Can we– Can we go home?”
Remus nods instantly, like he’s been waiting for the question.
“Yeah, dovey. Let’s get you home.”
He stands and offers you both hands, gently tugging you upright like you’re made of glass. Your limbs wobble underneath you and he steadies you with an arm around your waist. Sirius, now half-sprawled across the sofa with his legs over the armrest, whistles at the two of you and raises a lazy hand in farewell.
“Tell him the cake joke on the way home,” he calls after you, voice muffled into a throw pillow.
“Bye, Sirius,” Remus calls back, guiding you toward the door.
“I love that joke.”
Remus looks down at you, exasperated and affectionate. “You don’t even remember how it goes.”
You press your face into his shoulder as you walk, your feet half-dragging. “I remember it has… Madeira. That’s all you need, really.”
Outside, the air is crisp and cool. It brushes against your flushed skin, sobering you slightly, enough to make you shiver and burrow closer into Remus’ side. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it around your shoulders without a word.
“You’re so good,” you mumble, half into his collar.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re so drunk.”
Ooooo okay I do think Remus is the best choice in this one!!! How is it when the two of them start to have feelings? Does Remus fall first and want to hide it? I need more of them 😭
To answer your question plainly ml, no Remus doesn’t fall first (he fs falls harder though) <3
cw: modern au, patriarchal dating norms, the boys are goofball idiots
Who’s That Girl AU
roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 781 words
“Wha—” Sirius is laughing at you. Never a great sign. “Where did you take these?”
“Around,” James hedges.
You pull your legs up onto the couch, trying not to look as self-conscious as you feel. “James thought it’d be a good idea for me to show a…variety of hobbies.”
“Do you actually know how to rollerblade, though?” Sirius asks, scrolling through the photos James took on your phone. “You look like a baby giraffe in these. And—oh, god—you definitely don’t know how to rock climb. Is this photoshopped? Remus, come see this.”
Remus, finishing fixing himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, comes to lean over the back of the couch. Evidently, his curiosity has outweighed his general disinclination to do as Sirius bids him.
“We weren’t going to actually go find a mountain,” James says defensively, “and she didn’t want to go to my climbing gym.”
“Where’d you take this, then?”
James mutters, somewhat abashedly, “My room.”
Sirius snots. “Well, if your aim was to make her look loony, you’ve succeeded.”
You wrap your arms around your knees, unable to keep yourself from watching Remus out of the corner of your eye as he watches Sirius go through the pictures James took for your dating app profile. His face is unreadable, but those hazel eyes don’t stray from your phone as photo after embarrassing photo of you scrolls past. You feel your face heating. Remus lifts his tea to his lips for a sip, impassive. His hair has grown so long a tendril nearly brushes the rim of his cup.
This is why you need to be on dating apps in the first place. Because you notice things like this. Developing a crush on your flatmate is a horrific idea, predestined to end in any number of horrific ways. You need a distraction. Some other point of interest for your overeager heart to fixate upon.
“Help me,” you beg Sirius.
He nods, his lips pursing in thoughtful contemplation. “You need some pictures with blokes,” he says. “It shows you get along with men, and seeing you with other guys always makes men want you more.”
You eye him dubiously. “That works for you?”
Sirius gives you a smug look. “Babe, I’ve never needed to resort to tricks. I do know how men think, though.”
James makes a skeptical humming sound. “You don’t want to use any with attractive guys,” he argues. “Wouldn’t want to make them think they have to deal with competition.”
Sirius appears to weigh this. “Fair enough. Only pictures with Remus, then.”
Remus shoots him a dry look.
You look at James to see if he’s going to say anything. He appears unphased, seeming to accept the remark as a harmless joke. With some effort, you seal your lips shut.
“Oh, come on,” Sirius scoffs, “look at these. What’s with all the long skirts? Are you a vicar’s wife?”
“Jar,” says Remus.
“What’s wrong with being modest?” you ask.
“It’s boring.”
“Just because I don’t like to wear my clothes the way you wear my clothes,” you defend yourself, “doesn’t make me boring.”
Sirius raises an unimpress brow, like doesn’t it? “I’m just being honest,” he says.
“Well, your honesty makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I’m trying to help you get shagged!” Sirius throws up his hands. “You know, you’re going to be a tougher sell if you insist on being difficult.”
“Jar,” Remus says again, more forcefully.
Sirius looks to James, aghast, but your flatmate only shakes his head solemnly.
“Jar, Pads,” he seconds. “Ten pounds.”
Sirius huffs but takes out his wallet.
You wrap your arms tighter around your shins. “I don’t think I want to have to put a bunch of showy pictures on here just to get a date.”
“Quite right,” James agrees with you. “Not for free, babe, that’s what I always say. That’s why I keep my shirt on until the third date, as a rule.”
You and Remus both give him puzzled looks; Sirius appears unsurprised.
“Not much staying hidden if you’re still wearing those shorts of yours around them,” he mutters bitterly.
“What? What’s wrong with my shorts?”
“If you have to use some of these pictures,” Sirius says, “stick with the rock climbing ones. The less obviously fake ones, of course.”
“Yeah?” You scroll back to those. “Why?”
“You look fit in those.”
“Awe.” You smile at him, surprised. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” Sirius shrugs insouciantly. “Just calling a spade a spade. Your arse looks killer in those. Doesn’t it?” He turns to the other boys as your smile morphs into a grimace.
James shrugs, though he doesn’t not look appreciative; Remus only says in monotone, “Jar.”
warnings: SMUT 18+, dbf!patrick, this picture has awoken a beast within me, not proofread, this is a blurb
You really shouldn't have gone to that party.
Stumbling out as the sun was barely beginning to rise, makeup running down your cheeks, hair matted, the morning chill only accentuating the pounding in your head... yeah. You shouldn't have gone.
You sat down on the curb, not even caring about the dirt, phone slipping from your fingers as you stared blankly at the sky paling into color. Your head throbbed. Your mouth was dry. Somewhere inside, someone was still playing music—tinny, distant.
There was no way you could call your dad. No way.
You scrolled. Bit the inside of your cheek. Hovered.
Then you pressed Patrick’s name.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little raspy—just on the edge of sleep or maybe freshly caffeinated. “You okay?”
You winced. “Hi. I—um. I’m sorry. I know it’s early. I just... I didn’t know who else to call.”
A soft pause.
“Where are you?”
You rattled off the address, voice small. You were already kicking yourself.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said. No sigh. No lecture. Just that calm, practical tone he always had when things went sideways.
“Are you sure?” you asked quickly. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I just—”
“Relax,” he said, and you could hear the smile in it, even if it didn’t reach his voice fully. “I’ve got morning practice anyway. You’re just giving me an excuse to swing through Starbucks.”
A little breath of laughter escaped you, surprised and grateful.
“Hang tight,” he said. “Try not to fall asleep on the curb or anything. I don’t wanna have to scrape you off the pavement.”
“Got it,” you murmured. “Thanks, Patrick.”
Another beat. A little softer now: “Of course.”
The car rolled to a stop a few feet away, headlights off, sun just beginning to bleed over the trees. The driver’s door creaked open, and there he was—gray hoodie tugged over his head, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair tousled like he’d barely combed it. His tennis bag was tucked in the backseat, half-zipped.
Patrick.
You squinted up at him, cheeks burning in spite of yourself.
“Didn’t I tell you not to fall asleep?” he said, voice teasing, with something gentler underneath. His eyes swept over you quickly—not lingering, but taking everything in. Your ruined mascara, the strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder, your legs curled tight to your chest.
You started to get up, but your balance betrayed you, and you staggered a little.
Patrick was already there.
“Hey, easy.” His hand closed around your arm, steady but careful, like touching you too much might cross a line.
“Sorry,” you mumbled.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, guiding you to the car. “Just get in. I turned the heat on for you.”
You blinked. “You did?”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
The passenger seat was warm. Or maybe that was just him—close now, buckling your seatbelt because you weren’t moving fast enough. You could smell him: clean, woodsy, like soap and early mornings. Your skin prickled where his knuckles brushed your collarbone.
When he finally shut the door and rounded the hood, you exhaled.
He slid into the driver’s seat like he hadn’t just touched you at all. Adjusted the heat. Picked a random radio station on low volume.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I’m stopping for a sandwich.”
You hesitated. “Kind of feel like dying.”
He grinned. “Perfect. Bacon, egg, and cheese it is.”
The gas station was almost empty when he pulled in. Patrick killed the engine and stretched—arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to expose the cut lines of his waist. You looked away too fast.
“I’ll be five minutes,” he said, already climbing out. “Text me if you want anything that isn’t a heart attack on a biscuit.”
He shut the door before you could answer.
You closed your eyes while he was inside, but the moment the car door opened again, the smell hit you first—bacon, melted cheese, butter-soaked bread.
Patrick dropped a paper bag into your lap. “Eat. You look pale.”
“You look pale.”
He gave you a look. “You look like someone wrung you out and left you on the porch.”
You snorted and unwrapped the sandwich. It was stupidly good—warm, greasy, exactly what your stomach didn’t know it needed. You were halfway through it when you realized he was watching you.
“What?” you mumbled, mouth full.
He shrugged, biting into his own. “Just making sure you don’t pass out. Or choke.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You always stare at people when they eat?”
“Only the ones in tiny dresses who call me at sunrise.”
You swallowed a little too hard.
He didn’t look away. “You still cold?”
You nodded.
Without a word, Patrick reached into the backseat and pulled out another hoodie—his hoodie.
“Put this on,” he said. “Before you turn into an icicle and I have to explain it to your dad.”
You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it.
It smelled like him. Like eucalyptus body wash and sweat and something a little sweet underneath. You pulled it over your head and didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped—just for a second—to the way it dwarfed you.
He cleared his throat and looked back out the windshield. “There. Now you look even more like a bad decision.”
You raised a brow. “Yours or mine?”
That made him laugh. Low, quiet, kind of dangerous.
“Careful,” he said, glancing at you sidelong. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”
You didn’t answer.
You just looked at him.
And for a moment, the inside of the car felt too small. Too warm. Like maybe he was thinking the same thing you were.
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Not quite. Just… full.
Patrick reached for a napkin and wiped a bit of grease from the corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked to you again. He was still chewing when he said, “You’ve got something right—”
His thumb brushed just beneath your lip.
You froze.
So did he.
The pad of his thumb lingered longer than it needed to—half a second, then a whole one. His gaze dipped to your mouth, then flicked away.
“You’re fine,” he said, voice lower now. He looked forward again, like maybe the windshield had something urgent to say.
But his hand didn’t move far. It settled between you, fingers flexing once on the center console.
You didn’t think. Just placed your own hand over his.
His breath caught. Just barely.
“I’m not a kid,” you said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“You don’t have to treat me like one.”
Still, silence.
And then—slowly—he turned his hand palm-up beneath yours. Interlaced your fingers.
His grip was warm, strong, sure.
When he finally looked at you, there was something behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“I know,” he said.
His thumb traced a lazy line along your knuckles. “That’s the problem.”
His hand tightened around yours.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
But something had shifted—something neither of you could walk back.
Patrick’s gaze dropped to your mouth again. This time, it stayed there. He leaned in just slightly, enough for you to feel his breath, warm and coffee-sweet, against your cheek.
“I shouldn’t,” he murmured.
You didn’t move.
“Say it,” he added, barely above a whisper. “Say I shouldn’t.”
Your heart was in your throat.
Instead, you whispered, “I can't.”
That was all it took.
His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, reckless. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other cupped your jaw like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You kissed him back with everything left in you—drunk on exhaustion, adrenaline, and him.
He pulled you toward him, over the console and into his lap. The gear shift dug into your thigh, your knee knocked the door, and both of you cursed in the same breath before breaking into breathless laughter. It didn’t matter. You climbed on top of him like you were meant to.
His hoodie bunched up around your waist as his hands moved beneath it—palms dragging over your thighs, your hips, your ribs. He kissed you like he was starving. Like he was tasting something he wasn’t supposed to have.
“You have no idea,” he growled into your mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You smiled against his lips. “Pretty sure I do.”
He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper.
Then, without a word, he shifted underneath you and leaned forward, reaching past you to push the seat forward. He jerked his chin toward the back. “Go.”
You blinked. “What?”
Patrick’s voice dropped. “Backseat. Now.”
You didn’t argue. You crawled through first, hands bracing on the center console, dress riding up with every inch. He followed right after, awkwardly maneuvering into the cramped space with a low, breathy curse as his elbow hit the ceiling.
The car was quiet again—no music now, no hum of the engine. Just your breathing. Just the heat.
And then his hands were back on you.
He looked at you like he was starving—like if he didn’t get his mouth or hands on you again, he might actually lose it.
“C’mere,” he murmured, breathless, yanking you onto his lap before you could blink. “Need you. Fuck, I need you.”
The kiss was messy, frantic—your teeth bumped, your noses knocked, and someone elbowed the door with a thud. You both burst into a quick, breathless laugh before diving back in.
His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding under your dress, palming your ass like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first.
“You’re gonna kill your car,” you gasped as your knee hit something.
Patrick just growled into your neck, “Totally worth it.”
He pulled your panties down with a desperate kind of focus, bunching them at your knees. “These are mine now,” he said, tucking them into the pocket of his hoodie like a little shit.
Then his fingers were on you—slicking through your folds, pressing in like he already knew the shape of you. One finger first, thick and slow, then two, curling just right as he began to thrust them in rhythm. The wet sound of it filled the tight car space, obscene and perfect, while his free hand slipped under your dress to palm at your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You couldn’t decide what made you burn more—his touch or the way he was watching you, jaw tight, like he was trying to memorize every twitch you gave him.
“You’re so wet already,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”
You moaned, hips jerking into his hand.
He kissed you again—hard—then leaned back just far enough to watch you fall apart. His thumb circled your clit while two fingers thrust deep, slow and steady, crooking just right.
You tried to hold back the noises, but they spilled out anyway. Every stuttered breath, every high-pitched gasp, just seemed to make him harder beneath you.
“Don’t go quiet on me now,” he said, grinning even as his voice cracked. “I wanna hear it.”
You clenched around his fingers and came hard, head buried in the crook of his neck, thighs trembling as you rode it out.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he whispered. “That’s so good. Jesus.”
You were still shaking when you reached for his waistband. “You next.”
He didn’t hesitate—just groaned and fumbled for his wallet, tearing the foil with shaking hands.
You both laughed when his knee knocked into the door again. “We’re gonna destroy this car,” he muttered.
“I’m shocked it hasn’t exploded yet.”
You rolled the condom on for him, and when you sank down onto him, he let out the kind of sound that made your whole body clench again.
“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You’re—god—don’t move yet.”
“Why?” you teased. “Gonna embarrass yourself?”
“Absolutely,” he groaned.
You grinned and rocked your hips, slow and deliberate. He hissed through his teeth and grabbed your hips like he needed something to ground himself. Your thighs were slick where they met his, your breath catching every time you bottomed out. His hands roamed constantly—up your sides, around your back, down to your ass—never still, like he needed to touch every inch of you at once. The sweat-slick friction between you, the squelch of movement, the heated press of skin to skin—it was all too much, and not enough. He cursed so loud it bounced off the windows.
You started to move in earnest then, both of you panting, bodies slamming into every surface possible—door, seatback, each other. Every time you changed rhythm, Patrick swore and begged you not to stop.
“Feel so fucking good,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me. This is how I die.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
You were dizzy. Slick with sweat. Fingers tangled in his hoodie.
The second orgasm hit harder. Your whole body locked up, pulsing around him as he pulled you tight against him.
“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he groaned, following you over the edge.
You collapsed into each other, lungs on fire.
Your knee was definitely bruised. His elbow was definitely going to swell.
Worth it.
Neither of you moved. His nose was in your hair. Your hand rested over his heart.
And the car finally went quiet again.
Everything buzzing. Everything perfect.
He kissed your cheek, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth.
"Your dad’s gonna murder me."
You laughed, still breathless. "You’d put up a fight."
Patrick grinned. "Glad one of us has faith in me."
He glanced down at the crumpled seat beneath you. "Shame. These were nice seats."
You snorted, tugging his hoodie back over your head. "Guess that’s what happens when you treat a Honda like a motel."
He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a grin that had no business being so soft. "If anyone asks..."
james potter and a classic amortentia situation, but instead of being all bashful he realises this is actually the best way to confess bc what are you going to do? DENY that he's in love with you?
"PROFESSOR, MINE SMELLS LIKE HER!!"
Silence. Remus is facepalming. Sirius is grinning.
summary: Slughorn had asked for a volunteer to take a whiff of armontentia—also known as one of the strongest love potions during potions class, and James—finally seeing it as a way to pour his feelings for you, seized the opportunity faster than the crack of lightning.
pairings: James Potter x Fem!reader
warnings: none! pure fluff. James being the Gryffidor that he is.
note: thanks for this request, twin. So sorry this has taken a bit long to be written. Anyway, I hope enjoy this you lovely angel <3
James Potter Masterlist
The moment James stepped foot inside the potions lab, he was surprised by the scent that welcomed him. It wasn’t the usual musty scent that lingered in the air due to the poor ventilation of the classroom… It was something familiar, something he was sure he had smelled before but couldn’t pin a name on.
Nevertheless, James was glad for the sudden change. At least he didn’t have to sit in this classroom for an hour with his nose occasionally tucked under his shirt, trying not to be suffocated by the scent that lingered in the air.
With a smile, he strutted over to his usual seat, barely paying a sneering Snape any attention as his eyes zeroed in on you—a twinkle of mischief sparkling beneath his glasses. He didn’t even notice his three best friends who were conversing amongst themselves.
“Fancy seeing you here, love,” he greeted as he smoothly sat on the stool with the grace of a toddler who landed on his arse, purposely brushing his elbow against yours—just to feel the tiniest bit of contact with you. “You’re looking smashing today. Is that a new hairstyle?” he added, a smile still annoyingly intact.
You rolled your at James, a habit that you have now been accustomed to ever since he decided to torment your every shared potions class. You were astonished you haven’t gotten yourself blind considering that it had been exactly six months since he started pestering you. Six months of always rolling your eyes at him. It had always been like this since the beginning of seventh year—with James sitting beside you ever since the start of term. It was surprising to everyone, most especially to you, since the Gryffindor had always made it his mission to sit with Lily Evans, a Gryffindor girl who had been unfortunate enough to have caught the bespectacled boy’s attention.
But that was years ago—back when James didn’t realize that other girls besides Evans existed.
“It’s my everyday hair, Potter. Did you smack your head on the way to the potions lab? Your head seems to have grown thicker than usual,” you mumbled, tone a bit harsh, though it did nothing but widen James’ stupid smile.
He didn’t even hear the rest of your words, or maybe he did—but as usual, he let them slip from one ear and out the other, instead focusing on the way your lashes fluttered softly as you sent him a glare, nose flaring slightly in annoyance. You’re pretty, he thought to himself silently before forcefully and painfully pulling his eyes off you just as Slughorn arrived with the sound of the wooden door banging.
“Good afternoon, class!” greeted Slughorn as he paced towards the table positioned in front of the classroom—a bubbling cauldron sat just above it. He pointed at it—eyes flitting towards the sea of students. “I’d like to ask if anyone in this class has the slightest idea of what this potion might be.”
Someone raised their hand in the air—and the smile that James had donned on his face dropped as soon as he realized that it was none other than Severus Snape.
“It’s Amortentia, professor,” the Slytherin answered, prompting a frown to morph on James’ face.
He looked at his friends, mouthing a discernible ‘kiss ass’ that made Sirius and Peter chortle, whilst Remus silently shook his head with a small smile.
“Very well, and I suppose, Mr. Snape, that you know how this potion works?” Slughorn grinned—eyes twinkling blindly as if Snape had just handed him a bar of gold.
“It is a love potion; known as a powerful one.” James’ brows furrowed at Snape’s words as looked back at the front of the classroom, mouth parting in concentration as he let each syllable sink into his mind. For the first time in his entire life, James found himself listening to Snape with a look of interest—no visible signs of a frown on his face. It was as if another person was talking in front.
“The smell that this potion produces is different for each person, depending on what or who they are most attracted to. The potion is also considered dangerous as it could cause someone to become obsessive if it is drunk.”
James’ eyes almost bulged out of their sockets—a flush flooding over his senses as soon as he realized that what he might have smelled upon entering earlier could be none other than your signature scent. He blinked, once, twice—willing himself to calm down as a thought rushed through his head.
Turning his gaze at you—James let a smile grace his lips, an idea already simmering in the corner of his mind.
He didn’t even hear the rest of what was exchanged between the potions master and his nemesis—already imagining various things between you and him; ones that he would not dare to voice out lest you give him the hex of the century.
“Now—who’d like to take a whiff of this concoction?”
James’ hand shot up faster than you could say Quidditch, an excited smile stretching across his face. A cacophony of giggles flitted across the classroom—something that only fueled James’ determination to be the first one to try the potion. He could feel the heat of your eyes from the side of his face—feeling as if you were looking through a magnifying glass to sift through every nook and cranny of his mind.
He couldn’t blame you for staring, not when it was his first time volunteering in Slughorn’s class.
The professor seemed pleased at James’ insistence as he nodded, the older man’s lips widening into a smile. “Well, if you insist, Mr. Potter.”
A victorious grin bloomed on his face; looking as if he had just accomplished an almost impossible feat and was rewarded an Order of Merlin. With a small glance in your direction, he winked, leaving you all hot and slightly embarrassed as he strutted over to the front of the class as if he owned the very damn classroom.
Silence fell over the entire potions lab the moment James reached the table. Though it wasn’t entirely silent, as a couple of whispers and giggles bubbling from every corner of the room could be heard.
He could feel his heartbeat triple inside his chest from excitement—a sharp sound ringing in his ear as if someone had let a Bludger loose inside the room and smacked him square in the head. Tentatively leaning over the cauldron, the familiar scent of your clothes and hair travelled through his nostrils, leaving a warm and fuzzy feeling to wash over his entire being.
Godric, he could stay here—with his head halfway dunked into the potion and not even Slughorn could pull him out of it. Was this what Snape was talking about?
Lips curling into a smile, James dared himself to look at you, eyes holding something that made your stomach twist—sly and mischievous.
An idea popped into his head; one that made his smile even more wide. Painfully wide. With a dramatic gasp and widened eyes—James clutched his chest as if he were some maiden protagonist in one of Remus’ favourite novels. Looking as though he was about to faint any second.
“Professor,” he called, voice coming out breathless, “the potion smells like her!” he exclaimed, lips slowly morphing into a grin, index finger pointing directly at you.
There was silence. Thick and loud silence that James swore he could hear a pin drop on the stone floors. Half of the class seemed to have been frozen in their seats—eyes just as comically wide as James’, whilst the rest were smiling, clearly amused at his theatrics. Remus looked as though he might shrink at any moment, whilst Sirius and Peter appeared to be thrilled at James’ words, their shoulders shaking as they tried to contain their laughters.
You looked at him, body turning rigid as a statue. James could make out the way your nose flared even from a distance, lips twitching in embarrassment at the fact that everyone’s attention has been poured on you.
Even Slughorn seemed to be at a loss for words, not really expecting someone to be so frank. But there’s nothing really surprising when it comes to Gryffindors as they wear their heart on their sleeve like a badge of honour—especially when the Gryffindor in question was none other than James Potter.
It was a bold statement, that much he knew.
“What? Do I need to say more? It’s like what Sniv—I mean Snape said. It smells different to everyone based on what they find attractive.” He shrugged his shoulders, walking back towards your shared table as if he hadn’t just flipped your entire world in front of the class.
Oh you were sure your stool had vanished under your arse, feeling as if you were defying the fucking gravity. You could still feel everyone’s eyes on you. Burning and drilling through you.
When James neared, he stopped just a few meters from your table, wearing a stupid smile that looked as if the sunlight was slipping past his lips. He leaned in, the scent of the entire room clinging to his robes. “So now that I’ve made my feelings clear, how about a date this Saturday?”
also i love this: “But there’s nothing really surprising when it comes to Gryffindors as they wear their heart on their sleeve like a badge of honour.”
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