Would he actually like someone like me? Would he actually think I'm pretty? Would he actually stay interested in me when other more beautiful people exist? Would he actually yearn for me? Would he—SHUT UP. YES. FOR FUCKS SAKE YES. HIS HEART ACHES SO BAD OVER YOU. HES CRUMPLED UP ON HIS SIDE IN BED AND ACCIDENTALLY GAVE HIMSELF A BONER THINKING OF YOU.
With Jason, arguments always start with something small. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the rain outside and the low murmur of the television that neither of you are really watching. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest in that way that makes his shoulders look even broader, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth while he throws some half teasing comment that pushes exactly the wrong button.
“Jason” you warn, voice sharp but not serious, turning from where you’re rinsing a mug.
He lifts a brow. “What? I’m just sayin’, you can’t call what you made earlier ‘dinner.’”
You spin around, water dripping from your fingers, and narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”
His grin widens instantly, he loves this. “Babe, I love you, but frozen pizza with hot sauce doesn’t count as cooking.”
You gasp, mock offended, planting your hands on your hips. “At least I made something! You were the one who said you were too tired to help!”
“I was shot last week” he says like it’s a perfectly valid excuse, voice rich with that gravelly, lazy humor that’s so infuriating and so unfairly attractive.
“You were grazed” you shoot back. “And you milked it like it was a gunshot wound to the heart.”
He laughs, a deep, rough sound that fills the kitchen, and shakes his head, stepping closer. “I did not milk it.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
“You literally asked me to carry your jacket upstairs”
He lifts his brows, pretending to consider it. “That jacket’s heavy”
You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible you know that?"
“And you’re adorable when you’re mad” he murmurs, that teasing edge softening, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before darting back up.
You ignore it, or at least you try to. You step past him to grab a towel, mumbling “You’re still wrong.”
But Jason moves with that quiet, effortless grace he never loses even out of the suit, and suddenly he’s right in front of you again, leaning down just enough that his shadow drapes over you. The scent of his leather jacket mixes with rain and the faint spice of gun oil, so very him.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls, voice low and teasing, “you really wanna keep arguing about pizza?”
“Yes” you insist stubbornly, though your pulse betrays you, fluttering under your skin. “Because you were being a—”
You never finish the sentence. Jason doesn’t give you the chance.
He catches your chin with two fingers, and before you can even inhale, his mouth is on yours. It’s quick, at first, soft, but demanding, like he’s just trying to shut you up and knows exactly how. The argument dies against his lips in a muffled hum, your fingers clutching at the towel still in your hand before it slips to the floor.
You pull back, breathless. “Jason—”
“Mhm” he hums, barely opening his eyes, lips brushing yours again. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m still mad at you” you manage between kisses, voice smaller now, weaker.
“Sure you are” he mumbles, kissing you again, deeper this time.
Your hands find his chest, intending to push him back, but his warmth radiates through the soft cotton of his shirt, and instead of pushing, your fingers just bunch in the fabric. He keeps kissing you, slow but relentless, that infuriating smirk pressing into every brush of his lips.
You try again, breath catching. “Jason, I’m—”
“Mhm, yeah, I know” he murmurs, catching your lower lip gently between his teeth before you can finish. It draws a quiet sound out of you that you didn’t mean to make, and he feels it, hums against your mouth in amusement.
Your mind goes fuzzy, the argument dissolving into the taste of him, warm, familiar, addictive. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, fast but steady, and when you pull back again, he’s already chasing your lips, eyes half-lidded, hair falling over his forehead in that boyish, unfair way.
“Jason—” you whisper, trying for stern but failing entirely.
He just shakes his head faintly, kisses you again, words tumbling out between breaths.“Nope… not done… talking…”
“You mean kissing.”
“Mhm.” Another kiss. “That too.”
You can’t help but laugh this time, the sound caught between your mouths, and he grins against your lips like he’s won. One of his hands slides around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him, the other tracing up your spine in slow, lazy circles that make you shiver.
By now you’ve forgotten what you were even arguing about. Maybe it was pizza. Maybe it was his attitude. Maybe it doesn’t matter at all, because he’s kissing you like it’s the only language he knows, and you’re responding before you can think.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his smile soft now, quiet and a little smug.
“Still mad?” he asks in a low murmur.
You glare up at him, but it’s weak, your lips still tingling. “You can’t just kiss your way out of every argument.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheek. “Seems to work pretty well.”
You huff, pretending to be unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah” he says, leaning in to steal one more kiss, softer this time, lingering. “But you love me anyway.”
And maybe you do roll your eyes, maybe you mutter something about him being insufferable, but when his hands slip down to your waist and he pulls you close again, you don’t resist.
Doofenric the Ostrogoth (insert jokes about his daughter Vanessa being "Goth" but in the modern sense) invented a City-Mover-Inator to move Rome across the Danube so his Germanic confederation could sack it.
Thankfully, Agent Pericles stops him by redirecting the Inator to Finius and Ferbingetorix's New Rome instead, moving it to the Bosphorus.
While Pericles and Doofenric are fighting over the controls of the Inator, it gets accidentally changed to paint remover mode and then fired at a random direction.
Somewhere nearby a painter just finished coloring the statue of the emperor when suddenly all the paint gets removed.
I will never understand how some took one look at The Marauders and thought “Pranksters yes.”
The clue is in the name Marauder: a thief, stealing, pillaging.
Those boys are the archetype of dark academia and they’re thieves too.
James aka The Golden boy steals hearts and loyalty. Popular despite the cruelty he eventually grows out of.
Sirius aka The Fallen Aristocrat steals identity. He rejects his family ideology so much he almost inverts. Never comfortable in the light or the dark. Too rebellious for one. Too reckless for another.
Remus Lupin aka The Scholar steals belonging and education in a world where he should have none.
Peter Pettigrew aka The Observer steals credit and power. Clinging to the edges of a myth until jealousy and fear fester.
The Marauders Map itself as a theft. They literally steal Hogwart’s secrets for themselves.
A group which epitomises knowledge as power, friendship as religion, ritual (the full moon), secrecy, and guilt. The beauty of ruin.
But as with most brilliance they all burned too fast for too long, and, eventually, time stole back from them.
Monsters to some with the faces of gentlemen. They’re Dark Academia GOLD.
Remus' heart leapt at the sound of your giggle, the sweet sound sending a wave of endearment through him. The purple bottle of wound-cleaning potion had slipped from your fingers and onto his pajama pants. He smiled softly as he looked at you, patting down the last of his bandages before casting a hot air charm to dry him off.
The full moon had been a few nights ago, but this particular transformation had taken quite a toll on Remus and all he wanted to do was rest. Lucky for him, you never let him spend it alone. His chest blooms with warmth and adoration as you finally settle into bed beside him, asking once more if he was alright.
"Yeah," he whispered in response, his voice filled with a mixture of contentment and affection. "Perfect."
"Mm I love you so much."
Remus felt his heart swell with a mixture of tenderness and affection as you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss there. The feeling of your lips against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around you tighter.
At your spoken words, his chest ached with a deep need to express his own feelings. "I undoubtedly love you more," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse, filled with sincerity.
"I don't believe you." you mumbled teasingly.
"Is that right?" he chuckled at your soft, sleepy mumble. "Then I'll just have to prove it to you, love."
"Yeah, and how are you planning on doing that?" You asked, yawning as you blinked lazily up at him.
The lycanthrope let out a soft sigh, his smile growing even wider. He almost didn't feel the pain of his transformations anymore once you were beside him, especially when you looked as cute as you did in this moment.
"Hmm," he murmured, as if considering the options, his fingers idly tracing patterns along your back. "Well, I could start by telling you that you're the most beautiful person I've ever laid my eyes on, and the sweetest, and the kindest."
You beamed, pressing your cheek into his shoulder so you could look up at him while he spoke. "Yes, and what else?"
Remus continued to smile down at you, the beat of his heart picking up as you pressed your cheek into his shoulder, gazing up at him. He let out a soft hum, as if thoughtfully considering what to say next.
"Well," he began, his fingers now drawing circles between your shoulder blades, "I could also tell you that I've never felt this strongly about anyone before. That my heart aches when you're not around, and that I truly can't imagine my life without you in it."
"Sap, sounds like you're gonna propose to me or something." you giggled sleepily, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzled into his shoulder.
Remus chuckled as sleep began to take you, his heart fluttering at your words, the implications of a proposal sending a thrill through him. He continued to run his fingers across your back, trying not to feel guilty about his current financial situation. He'd be lying if he said that he hadn't already thought about the idea of marrying you once you were both done at Hogwarts, and he hopes that one day he'll have the courage and means to ask you to do so.
"Who knows," he replied in a low murmur, his voice filled with a mixture of affection and longing. You're definitely asleep now, he decides, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He'd give you the world if it was that easy, but for now, this will have do.
maybe it wasn't done on purpose or moreso out of self preservation but i do think it's very funny how the saja boys never think twice about running away from huntr/x when it comes to battles unless they are cornered and absolutely have to like u can tell jinu def chose them for their boyband potential rather than fighting ability
I hate when a tiny stupid thing pushes you over the edge and makes you freak the fuck out because it makes you look like a completely irrational tar pit of a human being. Like no I promise this is warranted just maybe not about that specifically I swear I'm well adjusted. Come closer stick your fingers in my cage
summary: You and James are best fucking friends—nothing more, nothing less. So why does everyone act like you're secretly in love, like it's some kind of undeniable fact?
cw: fluff, a pinch of angst, steamy makeout but no smut, best friends to lovers, idiots in love.
James gets up from the booth and leans down to ruffle your hair just because he knows it’ll annoy you. All sat around a too small booth in the back of the pub with a few chairs pulled up to accommodate the large group. It’s James' turn to buy a round, and you make a show of swatting his hand away as he goes, tracking his movements all the way to the bar.
You have a second to take in the dingy lights and the rowdy regulars in the local before Lily scares you half to death, leaning into your field of view. Eyes alight with mischief and an impish smile on her lip.
“So…” she says, dragging out the vowel, “what's going on?”
“What's going on with what?” you laugh, confused but delighted by Lily after a few drinks.
“You and James!” she practically squeals, shaking your arm with gleeful energy. “You’ve been giggling like schoolkids all night. He had his arm around you! Just admit it already—you like each other.”
You groan. “Lils, we always do that.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, clearly fed up with your refusal to see what she sees. And you? You’re fed up with everyone constantly implying that you and James must fancy each other. As if friendship isn’t enough.
“James and I are friends. That’s—”
“Best fucking friends,” James announces cheerfully, appearing out of nowhere and sliding your drink in front of you before placing the rest in the middle of the table.
“Exactly! Thank you,” you say, gesturing to him like he’s just proved your point.
Lily exhales sharply, throwing you a meaningful look before turning back to the group.
James sinks back into the booth beside you, draping an arm casually along the backrest behind your shoulders
“Try this,” he says, nudging his glass toward you. He’s been working his way through the list of ridiculous specialty mocktails on the menu and insists you sample every one. “It’s strawberry… something. You’ll like it.”
You take a sip. He’s right, obviously—it’s sweet and bright and tastes like summer. You smile up at him, pleased. “That’s really good. I’m getting one next round.”
He grins, radiant. “You can have that one, angel.”
You try to push the glass back, but he doesn’t let you. He’s about to insist again—mouth open, eyes soft—when a familiar voice cuts in.
“Why don’t you share your drinks like that with me, Moony?” Sirius whines from across the table, looking genuinely offended.
Remus sighs—meaning to sound exasperated, probably—but the fond look he gives his boyfriend tells a different story.
“We’ve been drinking the same thing all night, that’s why,” he replies, a smile starting to bloom on his lips. “And…” He glances your way with a teasing glint in his eye. “We’re not an old married couple like them.”
“Yeah,” Sirius mutters, barely above a breath, like it's a tragedy, “good thing they’re both fit.”
You let out a loud laugh. “We’re friends—”
“Best fucking friends.”
“—Not an old married couple. And honestly, you can’t say anything, Remus ‘Knitwear’ Lupin.”
“She’s not wrong,” James says with a quiet chuckle, sliding his hand to your back, fingers moving in lazy, absent-minded circles.
Remus only laughs, shaking his head, while Sirius looks scandalized—utterly betrayed on his boyfriend’s behalf.
“I like Rem’s knitwear, Trouble,” Sirius says, fixing you with a glare that would be more effective if his cheeks weren’t flushed from the drinks. “And I’d be very careful, or I’ll convince him to stop knitting your presents. Then all you’ll get are boring gift cards.” He nods solemnly, clearly impressed with his own threat.
You gasp dramatically, hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. “You wouldn’t.”
Sirius just giggles in response—giggles, which is never a good sign—so you turn to Remus, eyes wide, appealing.
“You wouldn’t let him, would you? You’ll still knit me things, Rem?”
Remus chuckles, shaking his head with a smile that promises yes, always.
That’s when you notice James—usually the loudest one at the table—has gone quiet. You turn toward him, curious, and catch the way he’s watching you. Soft eyes. That funny little smile he only wears when he thinks no one’s looking.
“You okay?” you ask, voice gentling with concern.
The question seems to pull him out of whatever haze he was in. His grin returns, bright and easy, like it never left.
“I’m great, angel.” He leans in, dropping his voice so only you can hear. “If Moony stopped knitting for you... I’d learn how to.”
You blink at him. “You? Knitting?”
He nods solemnly, one hand still warm against your back, and raises the other as if swearing an oath. “I’d do it for you. Even if it meant stabbing myself with the needles every five minutes. That’s how committed I am.”
You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re so dramatic.”
You’re laughing, and your cheeks are warm, and James is still looking at you like you’ve hung the stars—but you brush it off like you always do.
Because this is what you and James do. Banter, teasing, little smiles no one else gets—your own language that you’ve been speaking fluently for years. It’s not new. It doesn’t mean anything.
He nudges your knee with his own, still grinning like he’s won something. Like your laugh is enough.
And maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
But then Lily shoots you another look across the table, all smug eyebrows and that annoying “I told you so” glint in her eye, and it hits you again like it always does—this sudden awareness of how everyone else sees you. You and James. As if it’s already written somewhere, carved into the stars or tucked between the pages of your shared history.
You take a sip of the strawberry-whatever to stall, trying not to frown. Because the truth is, you know how this looks from the outside. All the little things he does, the way you lean into him without thinking, the endless inside jokes—it paints a picture. A certain type of story.
Because he’s James. And you’re... you.
And no matter how many times Sirius winks or Mary raises a knowing brow or Lily insists you're in love, you don’t think there’s a universe where you and James actually get together. Not really.
You’re best friends. That’s it.
And maybe there’s something sacred in that. Something worth protecting.
Besides—he doesn’t fancy you. Not like that. And you certainly don’t fancy him. No matter how charming he is. Or how warm his laugh makes you feel. Or how he always saves you the last piece of your favourite treats even when he pretends he won’t. Or how he’s looking at you now like he’d burn down the world just to keep you smiling.
No. You don’t fancy each other. That would be... messy. Complicated. The end of everything easy and good between you.
And James Potter may be a lot of things, but he’s not your ending.
He’s your always.
So you take another sip of the mocktail he gave you and bump his shoulder with your own, like nothing ever passed through your mind. He bumps you back, that lazy smirk still on his lips.
-
The pub starts to empty in waves, voices thinning out as people stumble toward coat racks and lingering goodbyes. You're nestled deeper into the booth than you realized, lulled by warmth and easy laughter and the comfort of being surrounded by your people.
Eventually, someone suggests calling it. Mary’s already halfway into her coat, Sirius is trying to coax Remus into stealing pint glasses for their flat –something about the collection– and Lily kisses you on the cheek with a meaningful look before grabbing Marlene’s arm and disappearing toward the door in a burst of cold air and laughter.
And James?
James is exactly where he’s been all night—at your side, elbow brushing yours every time he moves. When you pull your coat on, he reaches over without thinking and helps tug the hood into place for you.
“You ready?” he asks, and it’s easy, familiar.
“Yeah. Thanks for driving.” You smile, a little sleepy now that the buzz is fading.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t trust anyone else to make sure you get home.”
-
The drive is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. Music hums low through the speakers—something you’ve heard a million times over, something James mumbles along to under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening. He’s one of those annoyingly good drivers too. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely between the seats, fingers drumming to the beat.
You glance over once and catch him mid-yawn, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at the road.
“Wanna come in?” you hear yourself ask when he pulls up in front of your place, your voice softer than you expect. “Just for a bit? I might put on a film.”
James looks at you, searching your face for something. Whatever he finds, it makes him smile—gentler than before. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
You flick on the lights when you step inside, and it’s like muscle memory from there: shoes off, jacket thrown over the arm of the sofa, kettle filled. James leans against your kitchen counter like he belongs there. And he kind of does. There’s a mug he always uses in your cupboard. A hoodie of his in your laundry pile.
“What are we watching?” he asks, already padding into your living room, socked feet silent on the floorboards.
“Something easy,” you say. “Something we’ve seen before so I don’t actually have to pay attention.”
James shoots you a grin over his shoulder. “That for me or for you?”
You ignore the question, toss him the remote. “Dealer’s choice.”
You end up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled somewhere in the middle because it’s late and it’s cold and this is what you do. It’s not new.
The movie starts playing, dim blue light casting soft shadows across his face. You watch it for a while—or try to—but your thoughts start running at a mile a minute instead.
You try to focus on the movie. Really, you do. But all you can hear is Lily’s voice echoing in your head: “Just admit it already—you like each other.”
It’s not just her. It’s everyone.
Sirius, with his loud, theatrical gasps every time James passes you a drink. Marlene muttering “just kiss already” under her breath like it’s an inside joke. Even Remus, who’s supposed to be the voice of reason, always quirking a brow when James tosses an arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which it is. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean anything.
But now? Now it’s stuck in your head. Every glance, every smile, every stupid joke he laughs too hard at—it’s all tinged with the weight of everyone else's expectations.
You lean your head back on the cushion and sigh.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” James asks, voice soft and scratchy with tiredness.
You glance at him. His eyes are still on the TV, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he already knows you’re spiraling.
You hesitate, then sit up a little. “Can I ask you something?”
His gaze flicks to you instantly. “Course.”
“Do you ever get… tired of everyone thinking we’re in love?”
James lets out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “All the fucking time.”
You nod, almost relieved. “Right? It’s like—just because we’re close doesn’t mean we’re secretly pining.”
“Exactly!” James says, animated now, like he’s been waiting for someone to validate this. “Like, we literally watched Sirius throw himself at Rem for years and no one said shit, but I pass you a drink and suddenly it’s like—‘When’s the wedding, James?’”
You snort, finally smiling. “It’s exhausting.”
“Truly.”
Silence falls again, but it’s different now.
“I just…” you start, voice quieter. “I wish there was a way to prove it, you know? That we don’t fancy each other. That this—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you “—this is just friendship.”
James raises a brow, half-amused. “You want, like… a presentation?”
You giggle. “Maybe.”
“Bullet points and everything?”
“‘All the reasons James Potter is categorically not in love with me.’”
“‘Exhibit A: the time I ate her last slice of pizza.’”
“‘Exhibit B: he never laughs at my best jokes.’”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
Another beat passes. You look at each other.
There’s a flicker in James’ eyes—just a spark of something you can’t name—and it hits you, sudden and sharp, how close you are. His knee is still pressed against yours. His fingers are brushing your ankle like it’s nothing. Like it always has been.
You lick your lips. Heart hammering. And then—
“…We should kiss.”
James blinks. “What?”
You’re not even sure where the words came from. They just—slipped out. But now that they’re here, they feel oddly right. Inevitable.
You swallow. “We should kiss. Just once. To prove there’s nothing there.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence.
You rush to explain. “I mean—everyone keeps saying there is. And maybe if we just… did it, and it was awkward or bad or whatever, we could tell them and they’d drop it. They’d finally stop acting like we’re in some secret relationship.”
James is still staring, mouth slightly open.
You flush, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s stupid, forget it—”
“I’ll do it,” he says suddenly.
Your breath catches. “You will?”
He nods, slowly, like he’s still catching up with himself. “Yeah. If it’ll prove a point.”
You try to ignore the way your pulse spikes. “Right. Okay.”
With the room still mostly shrouded in darkness, it's difficult to make out the features of his face clearly. He shifts closer to you whilst manoeuvring your legs to settle beside you properly. There's little time to recognise the shift in his gaze as it pins to your lips before he's grinning and speaking again.
“What happens when you fall in love with me because of this?”
You snort, rolling your eyes, “Your ego’s fucking massive Potter, I’ll be fine.” you say, gently slapping his arm. “Not sure about you though.” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you, acting like you're the biggest nuisance in the world.
“Come on then.” you say, impatiently. James sighs, then nods, before he's raising a hand to cup your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's holding something fragile, priceless. And then he's leaning in so slowly, allowing you the time to pull away in case you’d been joking.
You let your eyes fall shut, expecting his kiss as your hand drifts to rest on his knee. You don’t notice the faint hitch in his breath at your touch—it’s so subtle, it nearly slips past you. The kiss comes and goes in a heartbeat, a fleeting, chaste peck that barely brushes your lips. When his hand pulls away and he clears his throat, your eyes open. He doesn’t say a word.
Despite the fact you should feel happy that you felt nothing, there's a strange twisting feeling in your stomach. Like when you startle awake after dreaming that you're falling. Then it comes to you, that kiss wasn’t a real one it can’t prove anything.
“That wasn’t a proper kiss, James.” you say while looking down at your hands, not wanting to face him.
“You’re right.” you look up to see his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and you're startled by the sudden fascination with his mouth.
“You have to kiss me like you’d kiss someone you're in love with.”
James’ gaze drops to your lips and stays pinned there as he’s silent, thinking.
“I can do that… I think.”
“Come on then.” you joke as you take a deeper breath in.
James exhales, slow and steady, but you can see it—the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s restraining something. Like there’s a weight behind your words neither of you wants to name just yet.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice quieter now, with none of that usual cocky lilt. It’s careful. Measured. He’s giving you one last out.
You nod. “It’s just a kiss.”
But it’s not. You both know that. It hasn’t been just a kiss since the moment you suggested it.
Still, you say it anyway, because it’s easier to pretend it’s simple.
James shifts closer, knees brushing yours again, the space between you shrinking by the second. His hand finds your jaw again—just like before—but this time his thumb lingers at your cheekbone, the pad of it brushing soft circles that make your heart lurch. There’s something almost reverent in his touch now, like he’s memorising every inch of you.
When he leans in this time, it’s slower. Like he’s moving through water. Like the world around you doesn’t matter anymore.
And when he finally kisses you, it’s nothing like the first time.
It’s not hesitant or performative or brief. It’s warm and aching and real.
James kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Like this isn’t about proving anything or making a point—it’s about you. About this.
His lips are soft and sure against yours, and when your hand slips up to grip the front of his jumper, he deepens the kiss with a low hum in the back of his throat, like he’s been holding that sound in for too long.
One of his hands slips down to your hip, shifting you closer, settling you on his lap. You go willingly, knees digging into the sofa at either side of his thighs as he tilts his head back to reach you better. Completely lost in each other, forgetting, you’re sure your lips will soon turn numb.
Your hands drift upward to settle around his neck and lightly tug the hair at the nape of his neck. James pulls you closer by the waist, chests flush and his mouth remains probing and searching on your own.
There’s the feeling of a smile in the kiss but you can’t tell who’s it is. You’ve fallen into a steady rhythm, easy and sweet, but when a noise is pulled from his throat you freeze, pulling away.
Looking down at him your face sits somewhere between concern and confusion. James stares right back at you panting, but otherwise seemingly unaffected.
“Forgive a man for getting distracted, angel.” he defends, like it's all your fault.
You know you should move away from him now. Really, you know. But there's a strange standoff happening where neither of you look away and neither of you move. Until you do.
It's hard to tell who moves in first, but the other reciprocates and you’re kissing again. James kisses you like a man starved. It's feverish and intense. It's everything.
You can’t help but grab hold of his hair, curls silky and soft through your fingers, giving them the slightest tug experimentally. It makes James shamelessly grind up against you. Nails digging lightly into the back of his neck, you gasp when his mouth leaves yours properly and latches onto your neck, lost in the bliss of it all, you grind down against him.
“Fuck, don’t do that,” His breath sounds strained. “can’t take it—“ His murmur is a rumble against your skin. You flush at the idea that he can’t contain himself because of this. Because of you.
When he pulls away, finished ravishing your neck, you come back down to earth, scrambling to remove yourself from his lap. His hair is messy, messier than usual, from your touch and his lips are red and kiss bitten.
You look to the far corner before you speak, unable to look at him now.
“... I guess we’ve proved we don’t fancy each other, then.”
You’re a liar and you know you are.
-
It’s been two days since the kiss. Two long, excruciating days where you haven’t spoken to James once. Not a text. Not a call.
You’ve replayed that night over and over in your head, hoping it would start to blur around the edges, lose its sharpness. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s crystal clear—every touch, every sound, every look he gave you. And worst of all? You don’t even regret it.
You’re halfway through nursing a lukewarm coffee at the back corner of a café when Sirius slides into the seat across from you like he owns the place, all leather jacket and smug grin.
“Oi,” he says, tugging your cup toward himself and taking a sip without asking. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
You blink, startled. “Us?
As if summoned, Remus appears beside him, calm and neat in that way that makes you feel even more frazzled by comparison. “She’s definitely been avoiding James,” he says, not unkindly, as he slides into the seat beside Sirius.
Sirius throws an arm around Remus’ shoulders with dramatic flair. “And thus—by extension—the rest of us, tragically caught in the crossfire of whatever the hell is going on.”
You frown. “Nothing is going on.”
Sirius lets out a loud, derisive snort. “Right. Tell that to James, who has been moping around the flat like a Victorian widow.”
“I’m serious,” you say quickly.
Remus raises an eyebrow. “So are we.”
You roll your eyes. “Come on. He’s not moping.”
Sirius levels you with a look, all theatrics dropped. “He didn’t even yell at me for eating his last bag of crisps yesterday. He just sighed. Like—actual sadness sighing. Who even does that?”
Your heart sinks, but you try not to let it show. “He’s probably just… tired. He drove me home from the pub that night, maybe he’s still catching up on sleep.”
Sirius and Remus share a look.
Remus tilts his head. “That’s the night it started, you know.”
“I told you,” Sirius says, grinning now like he’s cracked a case. “Something happened in that car. Or after. Did you two fight?”
“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Nothing happened.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
“I’m not lying,” you lie.
Remus leans in, voice quieter now, more careful. “We’re not trying to corner you. Just… we’re worried. About both of you.”
You take a long sip of your coffee, trying to buy time, but it’s cold and bitter and doesn’t help at all. You stare into the cup like it holds the answers. It doesn’t.
Sirius softens, which is somehow worse. “Look, we’re not asking for details. Just—maybe talk to him?”
You sigh. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”
“Try the truth,” Remus offers gently.
The truth is a mess, though. The truth is a blur of lips and hands and breathless gasps. It’s James’ eyes on yours in the dark, his fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid you’d vanish. It’s the way you didn’t sleep that night, couldn’t sleep, because your skin still remembered the shape of his touch.
And the worst part? The worst part is you know what you felt wasn’t one-sided.
Sirius glances at his watch. “If you don’t call him, I’m sending him to your flat.” He threatens, leaving no room for argument.
-
You don’t call him.
You want to—God, you want to. You’ve picked up your phone half a dozen times just to stare at his name, thumb hovering over the call button like it’s going to electrocute you. But every time, something stops you. Some awful cocktail of fear and guilt and what-if. What if it was a mistake? What if he regrets it? What if he doesn’t, and you’re the one who ruins everything?
So you don’t call. You sit with the silence and let it suffocate you.
It's nearly midnight when there's a knock at your door.
Your heart jumps into your throat. For a second, you think about ignoring it, pretending you’re asleep, but you already know who it is.
You open the door anyway.
James is standing there, hoodie thrown on as if he’d left in a rush, curls messy and damp like he’d just run his hands through them a thousand times on the way over. His eyes flick across your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. Like he didn’t quite believe you’d actually answer.
He looks tired.
You swallow. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes, voice low.
There's a silence. Tense. Tight. It stretches between you like a rubber band pulled too far.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says eventually, shifting on his feet. “Told myself you’d call. That I’d give you space.” He pauses. “But I waited. And waited. And you didn’t.”
Your chest aches.
“I know,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I just… I couldn’t.”
James steps past you without asking. You don’t stop him.
He makes his way into your flat like he always has- it’s muscle memory. Like he belongs here. And God, maybe he does.
“I’ve been losing my mind,” he says suddenly, turning to face you. “I thought we were okay and then it’s like you disappeared. No texts. No calls. Like it didn’t mean anything.”
“It wasn't supposed to mean anything, James.” you snap.
He flinches, like you’ve slapped him. You immediately regret it.
“I didn’t mean—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“You didn’t mean for it to mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it did.”
You exhale shakily, crossing your arms like they can shield you from this. “We said it was just a kiss. To prove a point.”
“Yeah, well, that didn’t work,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
You glance away, blinking too quickly. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s not fair that I kissed you and everything changed and you’re acting like it didn’t.”
You hate this. Hate how right he is. Hate how vulnerable he looks standing in your living room like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare you off.
Your voice is quiet. “I didn’t know what to say.”
He’s quiet a beat. Then:
“Say anything.”
You hesitate. Your throat feels too tight. But then you force yourself to look at him, to see him.
“I love you,” you say. “And I don’t care if it’s wrong, I just do.”
James exhales, a slow, shaky breath like he’s been waiting for this—like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” you repeat, firmer now. “I love you and I’ve been trying not to. Because I thought it would ruin everything.”
He steps forward, hands gentle as they come to rest at your waist. “I’ve always loved you, I think.”
It breaks something open in your chest. This is real. This is terrifying. This is everything.
“But what if we mess it up?” you ask, voice trembling.
James gives you a soft, crooked smile—the one that’s always undone you. “Then we mess it up. Together.”
You laugh, a watery, disbelieving thing, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in.
And when he kisses you this time, it’s not tentative or desperate. It’s steady. Sure. Like he knows you’re his.
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