you got the cinema

alyssa • she/her • stan of everything • multi fandom fic recs

[nowayhomerry]

fic rec masterlist

| WIP’s !! |

harry potter

- harry potter

- draco malfoy

marvel

- peter parker (tom holland)

- steven grant

- marc spector

dc

- bruce wayne

stranger things

- eddie munson

criminal minds

- spencer reid - part 1 part 2

celebs

- harry styles - part 1 part 2

grishaverse

- kaz brekker

[marauder-misprint]

It's been so long since we've read a good James x Slytherin reader. Especially if they went from enemies to lovers and my favorite authors wrote it.

Ah, that would be so wonderful!!

Cora! ❤︎ I hope this scratches the itch (sorry it took so long) ❤︎ I believe I'm getting better at writing James and having another 10K+ word fic about him doesn't hurt. ❤︎ This was def more reader/James based and it's weird to not have many 4/4 Marauder interactions. Whatevs ❤︎

Hope y'all enjoy ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Power of a bonbon

James Potter x Slytherin!fem!reader

13.5k words

cw: enemies-to-lovers, typical Slytherin/Gryffindor hatred dynamic, allusions to sexual activities, unwanted advances, little bit of pining, some fluff, ig angst if you squint

There were few truly great Hogwarts mysteries left. Most things could be explained with magic and everyone just went with it. 

The hatred that you and James Potter had for each other? No one knew. 

James hated all Slytherins. That was understood. But what he harbored towards you was on a whole other level. It was known within two weeks of your first year that you two could not be sat next to each other nor paired with each other. 

You didn’t hate all Gryffindors. You didn’t hate all pure bloods. You didn’t hate all quidditch players. You didn’t hate glasses or obnoxiously cocky people. You simply hated James for breathing and no one could figure out why him specifically.

“Wow, they really let anyone into N.E.W.T. potions, huh,” you said, mainly to Dorcas, as James walked in with Sirius. “I suppose daddy dearest might’ve donated a pretty galleon to the school.”

James didn’t say anything until he sat down. “All rattle and no venom.”

“And he wishes I’d bite him,” you retorted. 

Dorcas laughed along with a few other students who had heard you. 

Someone behind you explained it to whomever they were sitting with. “Snakes usually have to bite to inject venom, but it’s also a kinky thing. Like a sex thing.”

You raised your hand to your mouth to hide your laughter. Professor Slughorn chose that moment to exit his office and start class. 

The beginning of sixth year had you hoping you’d have minimal classes with James. Less classes with his friends would be cool too, but avoiding James was your top priority. As you went through that first week, your schedules were revealed to be inconveniently similar. Whatever higher power there was hated you. It wanted to see you suffer. 

By the weekend, the whole Slytherin Common Room knew about your predicament; you had whined about it several times. 

“I can make him disappear for you, sweetheart,” Wilkes said, leaning forward slightly as he stood with you and your friends. 

You squished his cheeks with one of your hands. “Thank you, but then you’d get in trouble with old Dumbledore, because he loves the Gryffindors, and we can’t be having that.” 

He chuckled and removed your hand from his face. 

“If you change your mind-”

“I know where you sleep. Don’t worry.” 

“You can always visit me there, even if you don’t change your mind,” Wilkes said with a wink. 

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” you said before turning away from him and looking at Dorcas with wide eyes.

You would laugh about that later in your dorm. He had started slightly flirting with you last year, but it was nothing too direct or even actually asking you out. It was simply an announcement of interest. An invite to his bed was quite a jump. 

“Do you feel woo-ed? Swept off your feet?” Dorcas asked through her giggles. 

“I feel like he’ll ask for my hand by the end of the year, even if I never step foot in his room,” you said heartily. 

“I can see if Evan knows if his parents are trying to set him up with anyone. If not…” Pandora said from where she was laying on her bed, “that could be a real possibility.”

“We’ll see what he’s saying after Christmas,” you laughed. 

If Pandora asked Evan, he could bring it up to Wilkes that your friend was asking about his marital status and that would let him think you were interested when you weren’t, not really. But things could change over the length of a term. Maybe if he asked you out and was a decent date. As things stood at that moment, you were as likely to go on a date with him as you were with James. 

Wilkes’ comments were about as frequent as they were in the spring, although they were more bold – like his invitation to his room. He wasn’t the only one to flirt with you. Avery and Mulciber also said suggestive things to you. A Ravenclaw properly flirted with you in a more polite, let-me-get-to-know-you kind of way. A fifth year Gryffindor dared to ask you out; you declined. 

“I can’t wait for the first party,” Dorcas said one evening in the common room. “You’re going to be snogging some bloke in the corner and it’ll be the gossip of the school.”

“Why would that be exciting for you?” you asked.

“You could use a good snog. You’ve kissed, what, one guy? That Hufflepuff last year who dropped the card during Suck ‘n’ Blow?” 

“I stand by what I said. He did that on purpose,” Pandora chimed in.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because that seventh year wanted to kiss a little fifth year.”

“He didn’t pull away! I swear he leaned in!”

“He was drinking firewhiskey.” 

“I think my point still stands.”

“A halfway pretty girl and alcohol can make a bloke do a lot of things,” you said. 

“Halfway pretty?” Dorcas laughed. “One second!” She held up a finger and then turned to where some boys were sitting on the other side of the room. “Oi! Is Y/N halfway pretty?”

“Bloody gorgeous, and she’d be perfect on my dick,” Mulciber said. 

Others nodded in agreement. Wilkes made a similarly vulgar comment. 

“Gross but proved my point,” Dorcas said, turning back to you. 

“I blossomed over the summer,” you said as you crossed your arms and leaned back into the couch. “Of course those horndogs are going to say I’m pretty if it increases the slim chances they’ll ever get laid.” 

“You blossomed in third year,” Pandora said matter-of-factly. 

You and Dorcas both stared at her.

“What? I have a brother. And I may have heard things.”

By the end of the month, five different guys – not including the fifth year Gryffindor – had asked you out. You turned them down with an “I’m not looking for anything serious.” Most of them turned away, disappointed with your answer. All except Barty Crouch Jr. from the year below you.

“Good thing I’m not either,” he said. 

You raised your eyebrows slightly. 

“I’m looking for something fun and…” He gave you an obvious once over. “You look like fun.”

You returned his once over with a smirk. “Better question is are you?”

That’s how you ended up in a broom closet with him. He was also the one you spent most of the first Slytherin party swapping spit with. With how you acted around each other in between and after, it was clear that it was simply fun. There were no strings. No commitments. No feelings. 

In the span of that same month, your foot got stuck in a false step, your bag ripped at the seam and all of your ink pots were suddenly spotless. Not just empty, spotless. It wasn’t like the ink had spilled or dried out, or you forgot to get a refill. Each pot was pristine. It was so clearly done on purpose and you knew there was no one else to blame besides James. You had no proof of it but you knew. You did have proof that he tripped you and stole your Charms notes. 

You were, however, the reason all of his cloaks were six inches too short and all of the covers on his textbooks were swapped. A few doors slammed shut by themselves in his face. You also ensured that he was insulted at least once a day. His looks, personality, family, intelligence, excuse of humor. Anything about him was fair game as far as you were concerned. It was practically a miracle you weren’t at each other’s throats with wands drawn. 

“Y/N, you got a minute?” someone asked as you made your way from the library back to your common room. 

You turned to see a seventh year Hufflepuff walking toward you with an easy smile and confident air about him. You had a good feeling about what he was going to say. At least the general idea of it. He was going to say that you were pretty and smart and he wanted to take you out sometime. You prepared to tell him that you weren’t interested. 

“You’re not seeing that Crouch kid, right?” he asked.

Apparently word about who you were snogging had traveled a little bit. 

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “He’s just a good snog, you know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I’ll take your word for it though.” He reached out and brushed his knuckles against the side of your arm. “What about you?”

“What about me?” you repeated with a tilt of your head.

“Are you a good snog?” 

That got a short laugh out of you. “How would I know that? I can’t very well snog myself.”

“Crouch didn’t tell you? That’s not very considerate of him. I think a lady ought to know. How about this – you come down to my dorm and I’ll tell you how you do.” 

You rolled your eyes. Your gut told you this was a joke, just a guy trying his hand at what he knew was a long short. 

“I think I’ll be going back to my own dorm. Alone,” you said. “Thanks for the offer.”

You started walking, but the hand that had been brushing against your arm grabbed it. Your immediate reaction was to pull out of his hand, but he had a tight grip. 

“I could come to your dorm. I don’t mind.” 

His smile shifted from sweet to something that put a stone in your stomach. You tried pulling away to no avail. 

“I don’t care if you mind. I mind.” 

“Come on, don’t play hard to get.” His other hand reached for your other arm’s elbow. “We don’t even have to go back to a dorm if that’s what’s stopping you. Plenty of broom closets between here and there. Empty classrooms. You can have your pick.” 

You kept trying to move away from him. Your wand was at the bottom of your bag and you knew you couldn’t grab it without him stopping you. This Hufflepuff was too strong. 

“My pick is not you,” you hissed. 

“I’m better than Crouch. You’ll see,” he said, forcing your body to turn toward him and then leaning in. 

You didn’t see James appear. Not until the Hufflepuff was pulled off of you and pushed to the side.

“Bugger off, Knighton,” James said firmly.

When the Hufflepuff didn’t leave right away, James gave his shoulder a shove. 

“Go,” James said. 

Knighton looked annoyed but left. Then James turned to you. 

“You alright?” he asked in a hushed voice. 

You hesitated before answering, taking a moment to adjust your bag on your shoulder. You reached into it to grab your wand. If that was how boys were going to be in the corridors, you’d need to be better prepared. 

“I’m fine. Thanks.” 

Of all the people to show up and stop Knighton, why did it have to be James? He probably thought that you owed him now, that you were in his debt. You’d rather be in anyone else’s debt but his. 

You were visibly flustered when you got back to the common room. No one said anything as you went straight to your dorm. Barty saw you go but didn’t even consider asking Pandora if you were alright. There wasn’t anything between you two. The pretty girl he had been kissing was in a huff; that was something to avoid. 

 You expected James to flaunt it in your face that he practically saved you. A few days passed with virtually no changes. He treated you like he always had. There’s no mention of Knighton and his unwanted advances. 

It bugged you. Why did James bother to help you if not to hold it over you? Why would he go back to hating your guts so immediately? Something about it didn’t feel right. 

“Potter. A word,” you said after Potions. 

He stopped just outside of the classroom. And so did Sirius. 

“Just Potter,” you said to him flatly. 

“Yeah, I want my mate to show up to Ancient Runes alive.”

“Pads, go,” James said. “I can handle myself.” 

Sirius looked from you to James, to make sure that he was sure, and then back to you. Then he walked away.

“Need another rescuing?” James asked. 

“I wouldn’t call it a rescue.” A lie. “But it is bothering me.” 

James let out a disbelieving huff before saying, “You don’t owe me or anything, if that’s what’s bothering you.” 

Straight to the point. It was almost funny how well James knew you. You crossed your arms. 

“Why did you help?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. “I thought you loved to see me miserable.”

“Only when you bring it upon yourself. Or when I cause it.” His lips briefly curled into a smirk. “Knighton was being an arse, and no one deserves that kind of torture.” 

He gave you a curt nod and walked in the direction that Sirius had gone. You watched him walk away with a frown on your face. That conversation didn’t soothe your thoughts. It made them worse.

So you didn’t owe James anything and he didn’t seem to want to hold it over you. But he wanted to be the only one to torture you? Really? It didn’t make sense. You wanted to ask why. You tried to think of reasons why for the rest of the day. Nothing made sense. 

“What was that about?” Sirius asked when James joined him and Remus in the Ancient Runes classroom. 

“Incident with Knighton the other day. It’s nothing.”

“Knighton?” Remus asked. 

James nodded, but Remus didn’t seem satisfied with that.

“What were they doing that she needed to talk to you about?” 

James looked away from the boys momentarily, running a hand through his hair.

“He, um, was being a twat. Harassing her,” he said. “I… I stopped him.”

Sirius laughed, “You stopped him? Don’t you harass her every day?”

“No, like he was forcing himself onto her.”

“Huh,” Sirius said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Didn’t think you’d be a knight in shining armor for her, of all people.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with her. Didn’t matter who Knighton was doing that to. It was just that he was doing it.”

Remus hummed and tossed Sirius a look, which James did not miss. His friends didn’t think that you had nothing to do with it.

“I didn’t even know it was her until I pulled him back,” James lied.

He had heard your voice. He heard you say you didn’t want Knighton and the older boy didn’t back off. James knew it was you, but he stood by what he told the boys. It didn’t matter that it was you. It could have been anyone and James would’ve pulled Knighton off of them. He meant it when he said that the seventh year was an arse and no one deserved that kind of torture. 

He just didn’t linger on what he told you – that he was the only one allowed to make you miserable. He also didn’t mention that to the boys. They would’ve taken it to mean something that it didn’t. 

“Would you describe Potter as self-righteous?” you asked the girls in your dorm that night.

Dorcas hummed as she flipped the page of her Transfiguration textbook. “Lots of ways to describe him. That could be one.”

“What’d that piece of shit do now?” Beatrice, another one of your roommates, asked.

“He said he wants to be the only one to torture me.” 

“That’s… something,” Dorcas said, looking up. “What’s the context?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes at the memory. 

“Fucking Knighton? I think that’s what Potter called him. Older Hufflepuff. Tried to force his way into my pants and Potter swings in ‘n’ makes him stop.” You shook your head. “I was going to tell him off, because I will not be in debt to Potter. And he says that he’s the only one allowed to torture me.”

“Imagine if he had said he wants to be the only one in your pants,” Pandora laughed. 

You, Dorcas and Beatrice all stared at her for a second before laughing with her. 

“He would never,” Dorcas wheezed.

And nothing changed. You still made it your number one mission to make James miserable, and he you. It was almost like you had an understanding. You hated each other and that’s what it was. You were allowed to make each other wish you were never born. Whether anyone else was allowed to do that was up in the air. Boys still asked you out from time to time and you still snogged Barty periodically, but no one made unwanted advances on you. People, usually Slytherins, expressed their annoyance with James and his friends, but you were the only one who ever seemed to exact any kind of revenge on them. If you were messing with someone, James was the target.

You walked into Potions, going to take your usual spot when you noticed that not only was Dorcas not sitting there, but no one was sitting in their spots. Everyone was standing along the back wall. Someone pointed to the blackboard. 

Assigning new seats

You went to stand next to Dorcas.

“Since when does Professor Slughorn assign seats to sixth years?” you asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought it was for a different class but Vance said she saw him writing it when she walked in.” 

“But why do we need them? Aren’t we all doing fine?”

“As far as I’m aware… Who knows what’s going on in that old man’s head?”

The last few minutes before class started passed slowly. 

“Good morning everyone!” Professor Slughorn said once he exited his office. He held a small cauldron in his hands. “Good to see everyone saw the board. We’ll be drawing numbers for the new seats.” He shook the cauldron so everyone could hear slips of paper rustling. “One is the front left-most seat, and so on. Then seven in the second row. I don’t care what order you draw in, just no switching!” He set the cauldron on the demonstration desk at the front of the room. “If anyone ends up with who they’ve been sitting with so far, I will move you.” He clasped his hands together and smiled. “Alright, go on. We have an exciting lesson ahead of us.”

“Doubt it,” Dorcas muttered, but she led the class to the front of the room. 

She sighed after drawing and showed you the slip. Three. 

“Front and center,” you said. 

You stuck your hand in the cauldron and swirled the papers around. You selected one and unfolded it. Eighteen. You showed Dorcas.

“Other side of the room. It’s been nice knowing you.”

Dorcas only had to turn around to find her desk. You walked to the back of the classroom and began setting up. Slowly, the rest of the class picked their numbers and found their new seats. There wasn’t much conversation happening. 

“Professor,” James’ voice said. “I can’t sit here.” 

You glanced up from your fingernails. You may have been picking at them while you were waiting. Professor Slughorn took the slip from James’ hand and you were half-surprised to see him look back at you. There were two people James couldn’t work with: Sirius and you. 

“That’s not Mr. Black there,” Professor Slughorn chuckled as he gave James the slip back. “You two are no longer second years, Mr. Potter. I trust you’ll find a way to work together.”

“Professor,” James said, almost begging. “I’ll sit anywhere else.” 

“Mr. Potter.” 

James frowned. The professor’s tone said to drop it and deal with it. James walked back to your table and dropped his things on it with a thud. 

“Wow, don’t act like I killed your owl.” 

He glared at you. “I wouldn’t put it past you to.” 

“I wouldn’t actually kill an owl,” you scoffed. “Even if it had the unfortunate fate of belonging to you.” 

“This better be temporary…” James grumbled as he took his seat. 

Once everyone was situated with Sirius sitting in spot seven, Professor Slughorn explained why they were switching seats. Part of being in N.E.W.T. level courses was being able to succeed no matter who you worked with. Everyone in the room was competent. None of them should have any issues with brewing potions if they could personally do it. Who you sat next to was a preference, but life is not about your preferences. But he claimed he wasn’t cruel. He would be assigning an out-of-class project for everyone to complete with their new partner to help you familiarize yourself with each other. 

James kept his eyes glued to his notes the whole time Professor Slughorn spoke. You watched him in your periphery. You knew you’d be fine. You were good at Potions. And you assumed James had to actually be decent enough to make it into the class, despite what you had said at the start of the semester. You knew that James was a decent student. You just also knew that it drove him crazy when you implied he paid his way through classes. 

By the end of the period, you were ready to tell James that you could meet in the library a few times and crank out the project. It would minimize how much time you spent together. He would just have to do some extra work by himself, as would you. 

Only you didn’t open your mouth fast enough after Slughorn dismissed class. Within seconds, James was gone. You stood up and followed him out, but you and Sirius both stood outside the classroom for a second, looking for him. He really booked it. 

Sirius glanced at you sideways. “Right… Bye.” 

Sirius met up with James in the Great Hall, where he was already shoveling food into his mouth. 

“So, those new Potions seats,” Sirius said as he sat down across from James at the Gryffindor table. “Not ideal, if you ask me.” 

“Nowht idweal?” James repeated through a mouth full of food. He swallowed. “I’m not sure you saw who I was seated next to.”

“You did rip Knighton off of her. So how bad could it be?” 

“You know how bad it is.”

“You’ve never told anyone why you hate her. So, do I know?”

James shook his head. It had been pretty clear at the beginning of first year that you weren’t going to talk about it and James agreed that that was the best course of action. He wasn’t going to change that now. 

“I have my reasons.” 

“Reasons you haven’t told me. Or Remus. Or Peter.” Sirius scooped some food onto his plate. “She’s a Slytherin so I get it, but… I don’t know. She’s not like Snivellus or Mulciber or Avery.” 

“You don’t know her like I do,” James said.

“Clearly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that miserable in Potions. History of Magic maybe, but not Potions.” 

You could see Sirius and James’ animated conversation from across the hall. It deepened the frown that had graced your face since you exited the Potions’ classroom. 

“Don’t let that shit get you down, lovely,” Avery said. 

“He’s a proper twat,” you said with an eye roll. “Annoying that he can’t seem to see that I want to be sat next to him as much as he wants to sit next to me.”

“I would’ve thought he was smart enough to understand that you have to work together if you want to pass,” Dorcas said. 

You shrugged. “Maybe he’ll pay Slughorn off later and I’ll get someone decent… Actually, I wouldn’t mind that.” Your face turned hopeful. “What do you think I’d have to do to get him to try that?” 

James’ attitude toward you didn’t change over the rest of the day, nor did it change during the span of time until your next Potions lesson. He looked ready to completely ignore you again.

“Potter,” you said, sitting down next to him.

He didn’t react. 

“You have to acknowledge me if you want to pass this class,” you said flatly. You saw him flex his eyebrows and took it as acknowledgement. “Just let me know which parts of the project you want to do and we’ll just meet in the library once in like four weeks to combine what we got.” 

“I’ll do the whole thing,” James said. 

You gaped at him briefly, waiting for him to say he was kidding. James was theoretically known for making jokes all the time. But he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t laughing. There were no indications that he wasn’t being completely serious.

“No? I’m not letting you be solely responsible for my grade.”

“Then proof it when I’m done. I don’t care. I’m just not working with you.”

You frowned. “What is this? Some ploy to get me deeper in your debt? First Knighton and now this?” 

That got James to shoot you a sour look.

“I told you you don’t owe me for that.”

“I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t help someone like me without getting something out of it.”

“Because I’m just that selfish, right?” 

“Selfish, righteous, pompous, overblown. I could go on.”

“Of course you think I’m all that.” 

“You are.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” James said, bringing his attention back to his Potions book. “And you don’t owe me.”

You shook your head and said, “If I don’t owe you, meet me in the library after lessons to figure out what parts of the project we’re each doing. Swallow your pride if that inflated thing can fit down your throat.”

Professor Slughorn started the lesson, allowing the silence between you and James to return. Saying that you worked together during the lesson was a gross overstatement. But, Professor Slughorn had seen that you were sort of conversing before class and he thought that was a win in his books. 

When you were dismissed, James didn’t say anything to you. He got up and found Sirius before walking out. You waited for Dorcas.

“Where’re you going?” Sirius asked after the last class of the day when James started to turn down a different corridor. 

“Library,” James answered shortly. 

“Why?”

“To prove a point.” 

“Wha-… actually, never mind. I’ll see you later,” Sirius said with a shake of his head before continuing on his way to Gryffindor Tower. 

You weren’t difficult to find in the library. You had picked a spot near the poisons and antidotes sections. You had the rubric laid out in front of you and a few books already pulled from shelves. Rather than saying “hi” to announce his arrival, he dropped his bag on the table.

“Actually showing up for something academic? Didn’t know you could do that,” you said. 

“I’m here so you know you don’t owe me. I don’t need associations with you to go beyond this stupid project.” 

“Don’t worry, that feeling’s mutual.” You pushed the rubric toward where he stood at the edge of the table. “The sooner we divide the work, the sooner we can leave and not work together for four weeks.”

James quickly read over the portions, which Professor Slughorn had told them to read on their own time. As he went down the page, his expression got progressively annoyed.

“Did you even read this?” he asked, putting it back on the table.

“I skimmed it.”

“We can’t work separately. Everything is… entangled.”

You snatched the paper and thoroughly read it until your expression matched James’. 

“Fuck…” you muttered. You reread it again. “Look into the first half of the ingredients and I’ll do the second half. You book a brewing time and-”

“Why do I have to book it?” 

“Don’t you have quidditch and detention and whatever else you do?”

“Yeah? So?”

“My schedule’s open. Book it when you’re available and I’ll be there.”

James made a noise that was a mix of a groan and sigh. 

“And we’ll go from there, I guess.”

James sat down and pulled one of the books toward him. 

“Why are you staying?” you asked. You had expected him to leave once he knew what part of the project he had to do.

“You got the books. I’m already here.” He paused. “Can you handle me sitting here or will your world implode?”

You waved your hand dismissively. “Go ahead, Potter.” 

You worked silently for two hours. Then it was almost time to head to dinner and James gathered the books to put them away. You waited at the table until he got back.

“So book the brewing and let me know when. Got it?”

“Yeah. I’m not dense.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said and then you left him to finish gathering his things. 

“Where’ve you been?” Pandora asked when you sat down in between her and Dorcas. 

“Library with Potter.”

“With Potter?” Wilkes asked. “What happened to wanting him to fall off the face of the Earth?”

“Oh, trust me, I still want that. Slughorn assigned a partner project and he thinks there’s no reason James can’t be my partner for it.” You looked at Dorcas. “Did you know that the whole thing has to be completed together?”

She nodded. 

“Great. Thanks for telling me that,” you groaned. 

The next time James spoke to you he was telling you he booked a brewing time for 9 a.m. on Saturday. When you stared at him gobsmacked, he shrugged and said there was no quidditch game so he was open.

“And what about Hogsmeade?” you asked bitterly.

“This won’t take all day. You’ll have plenty of time when we’re done.”

“Just don’t be late then.”

“What’s that thing you say? Sooner we start, sooner we can leave? I won’t be late.”

You felt stupid for believing he’d actually be on time when you were waiting for him at 9:10 a.m. He didn’t apologize when he arrived. He just threw his bag on the bag near the station where you were sitting. 

“Let’s get this over with, princess,” he said.

“What happened to not being late?” you asked as you slid a note-taking sheet toward him before lighting a fire under your cauldron. 

“Overslept. Jinx me. I don’t care.”

“Wow, someone’s grumpy this morning. I’d ask who pissed in your pumpkin juice but you’re probably into it.” 

“Is that fresh dittany? Instructions say it needs to be fresh,” James said flatly.

You cocked an eyebrow at his lack of response to your jab.

“Yes, it’s fresh. I can read.”

He hummed and reached for a pestle to ground some moonstone. 

The rest of the brewing session was quiet. The only talking was curt directions or comments. 

“Pass the knife.” “Stir clockwise twice, then counterclockwise three times.” “Drop the shells in one at a time!”

The one time James didn’t ask you to pass something, he reached over for it. He could reach it by leaning forward and over ever so slightly in your direction. The polite thing would’ve been to ask you to hand it to him. As you had been doing for the past hour. But no. Instead, you got a whiff of his cologne, and you instantly knew that it wasn’t something you could tease him about later.

It was good. Not too pungent, not gross or overwhelming. It didn’t make you want to gag. It must’ve cost him a few galleons, but you thought it was worth whatever the cost. While it may not have been drawing in Lily Evans, it certainly wasn’t driving away second choices for him.

The potion turned a milky color. You used a ladle to scoop a sample and let it pour back into the cauldron. 

“That looks right,” you said.

“Great,” James said flatly. “Bottle it and we can leave.”

You nodded and ladled a smaller portion into a vial. You stored it in a case within you bag.

“I’ll hold onto it,” you told him.

You vanished the rest of the potion and walked out of the classroom. James picked the Saturday morning time, when you could’ve been in Hogsmeade. He could be the one to put away all the unused ingredients. 

You found your friends sitting in the area outside of Honeydukes. Pandora caught you up on what you had missed so far: nothing much. James had been right about there being all day for Hogsmeade and brewing in the morning wasn’t that big a deal. However, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him that. 

The boys decided it was time for lunch and led the group toward the Three Broomsticks. They were a decent amount ahead of you so you told the girls about the brewing session, including James’ cologne.

“Who wears cologne to potion brewing? It’s basically a study session. There’s no one to impress,” you complained.

“Maybe there is someone to impress,” Pandora said, winking at you.

“As if!” 

“Probably didn’t want you going around telling everyone he smells bad,” Dorcas said – she had a point. “If what you say is true, then I wish all guys had the same taste. Avery’s is-” She shivered. “-horrendous. I have to brace myself every time he sits next to me in the common room. Which! has increased so much this term. And he doesn’t know what personal space is. Pandora, do you remember when I was sitting on the couch with you and Evan and he decided that there was space for one more? Ugh, I swear he was trying to pull me into his lap once he weaseled his way in.” 

“Oh, yeah. That was uncomfortable. Like, I like my brother. But I was sitting a bit too close for comfort.”

“Avery’s the problem," Dorcas said, shaking her head. “What do I have to do to get him to see I’m not interested in the likes of him?” She sighed exasperatedly. 

“Or any him,” you laughed.

Dorcas hit you with her shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Tell him you prefer blondes with choppy layers. And in Gryffindor red. Oh! Tell him you love a quidditch player and if he asks which team, you can tell him ‘Not yours.’”

“Shut up!” Dorcas whined playfully as she grabbed your arm, blushing furiously. “I hint at who I like once and this is how you treat me!”

“Hint? You practically spelled it out for me. And you ogle her every chance you get.”

“It’s not my fault she’s proper fit. I mean, come ooon, her arms? Fuck…” 

“You need to freshen up before we risk running into her in the Broomsticks?” you teased.

She hit your arm again.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

The next week passed without noticeable incident. It was the usual treatment from James, except slightly less. James was over his you-limit by the time he got back to his dorm. He didn’t want you to take up any more of his time after seeing you all day, so he didn’t prank you or anything that required planning. Snarky comments and insults were on full blast, though. 

You agreed to meet in the library after classes on Friday. He had no quidditch practice since the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff teams booked the pitch; they had the weekend match. Once again, James had no problem finding in you the library. You had sat in the same spot. And once again, you had already gathered all the books the two of you could possibly need and then some by the time he arrived. As you reminded him, the sooner you started working, the sooner you’d be done. 

You exchanged minimal comments throughout the hour, only notes and pointing out sections within the books that the other might need for their section. You were amazed at his ability to hold his tongue. It was probably the most pleasant interaction the two of you had ever had. 

Saturday brought decent weather. The Slytherin section was distracted for most of the quidditch match, not paying attention nearly as much as they would have if their housemates were in the air. You rarely paid attention to quidditch even then. It was the atmosphere that you came for. You didn’t need to care about what got other people hyped to get high off of their energy. 

Plus, today it didn’t matter who won. You’d end up at a party afterwards either way. Pandora had friends in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs let just about anyone in, as long as you weren’t going to tattle on the contraband they managed to get their hands on. 

It wasn’t surprising that Pandora was more excited than any of your friends when Ravenclaw won. She grabbed Dorcas’ and your hands to drag you down to the pitch. She needed to talk to her friends. Once they figured out what time you should head up to the tower, you returned to the castle. 

A few hours later, Pandora and Beatrice were leading the group up what felt like ten thousand and one stairs.

“They gotta stop hosting their parties in their common room,” Dorcas grumbled.

“Almost there!” Pandora called over her shoulder.

She was correct. Another one-fourth turn around the spiral and you were at the top. Pandora reached up for the eagle knocker and it gave you a riddle. Your group stared blankly at each other. Then the door opened by itself. Or so you thought until what looked like a second year peered out. 

“Pandora?” she asked.

“Hi, Bethany!” Pandora said with a bright smile. “Can we come in?”

The younger girl returned her smile with a nod and let your group in. As with every party, you were met with music and the smell of butterbeer and something more alcoholic. And as always, your first stop was the drink table. You decided to play it safe with a plain butterbeer. Maybe you’d have something harder later, but right now you wanted a clear mind. 

As you were taking your first sip and glancing around the room, an arm wrapped itself around your waist. 

“Bit of a boring drink, sweetheart,” Barty said. 

“If I start with troll vodka, I’ll be hurling before the fun really starts.”

“We can’t be having that.”

You looked up to smile at Barty and he was already looking at you, smirking. It was clear that he wasn’t leaving your side tonight. His hand didn’t leave your side as you moved to stand by Dorcas and some of her other friends. The spot also happened to have a clear view of her favorite Gryffindor. Marlene was just a group over. 

When Barty did leave your side, it was when you had finished your drink and you asked him to grab you something. 

“Troll vodka, right?”

“Mhmm.”

Beatrice gave you a sideways glance. “I thought you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

“I’m not?”

She tilted her cup in Barty’s direction. 

“Looking serious to me.”

“It’s not,” you said flatly. “Do you see him talk to me when he’s not latching onto me?”

Beatrice and Dorcas exchanged a look as Barty returned, handing you your drink and wrapping a territorial arm around you. You rolled your eyes before murmuring thanks to Barty. 

You stood by what you said. There were no strings with Barty. You were… party buddies. When you wanted someone to snog or to dance with, you could go to each other, knowing the other would say yes. And you wouldn’t be upset or mad or anything if he decided to go with someone else – the same applied to you for Barty. 

Slowly, Barty moved from standing next to you to standing behind you, holding your hips. You were mid-sip when he dipped his head to ask if you wanted to dance. You lowered your drink to nod and then you slammed the rest. You moved over to where other students were dancing. As usual per these parties, the raunchier you danced, the closer to the middle you were. 

You and Barty ended up dead center. 

During your talking with friends, James and his friends showed up. If there was a party, those boys would be there. Unless it was being hosted by Slytherins in your common room; they weren’t welcome there. The boys mingled and drank, and Sirius got a group of people around him as he retold a story of nearly getting caught by Filch when he was out of bed after curfew – he was embellishing, of course. Peter and Remus disappeared to talk to some Ravenclaws that they were closer to. 

James wasn’t like you. He didn’t start the night with a butterbeer. The boys had taken a shot in their dorm before coming to the party and now James was on his second drink. He didn’t really need the extra courage that the alcohol gave him, but he wasn’t shying away from it. He didn’t need to ask anyone to dance with him. He just moved into the dancing crowd when he didn’t feel like listening to Sirius’ story anymore. 

Some girl started dancing closer to him. James didn’t know her name off the top of his head, but he knew that she was a seventh year Ravenclaw. With her, James got moved from the outskirts of the circle to a layer or two inside. He caught a glimpse of you and Barty in the middle. Every so often there were cheers and wolfwhistles. 

You were enjoying yourself to say the least. 

James couldn’t say the same. He looked away from you, tried to focus on the pretty girl in front of him. But then there’d be cheering again and he’d look at you and let his gaze linger longer than he meant to. 

It didn’t feel right to him. Something was off with your dancing. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. Was it how Barty’s hands were feeling up your body? Was it how you were pressing your body against his? Was it just a bit too much for a school party? 

James stopped trying to figure it out. The more he tried to figure it out, the more he was looking at you. In the end, he decided that it was because you were who you are. That’s why he didn’t like it. He wasn’t too big a fan of Barty’s but he also didn’t know Barty all that well. 

After a while, you tapped out. You got yourself one more drink and sat near an open window that was attempting to cool the room off. You surveyed the party as you sipped. Barty was nowhere to be seen once you stopped dancing and didn’t indicate you wanted to kiss or do anything more. Younger students had started heading to bed. Some Ravenclaws were leading their partners to their dorms. Slowly, the number of people in the room dwindled and you joined those leaving. 

There was one thing caught in your mind as you trekked down to the Slytherin Dungeons. You had seen James look at you while you were dancing several times, and it wasn’t a quick glance. You never made eye contact, but he was watching you. 

Obviously other people watched you and Barty, but it was strange that you caught James doing it so much. 

Sunday had you working on assignments you had put off. You didn’t do anything else after working on Potions with James in the library so you had a fair amount to do. At least you got to sleep in before you claimed a table in the common room. Regulus Black, Barty, Evan and Pandora joined you. You and Pandora laughed behind your hands as Barty grumbled to Regulus that he didn’t need to turn in an essay. He claimed his grade was fine and he was going to get an O on the upcoming exam. 

“Just sit down and pretend to be productive,” Regulus retorted before mumbling, “Fucking degenerate.”

You got more homework done after lunch and you called it quits, heading back to your dorm for a nap. You relaxed in your room for a while and then you went back to the common room. Dorcas had come to find you so they had another player for Exploding Snap. 

Your morning classes on Monday passed in a blur. It was just professors, lectures and turning in assignments. It wasn’t until Potions that anything amusing really happened. 

James was already sitting at the station, leaning his head on his hand and looking like he was struggling to stay awake. It was the perfect opportunity to mess with him. 

“Did you see something you liked Saturday?” you whispered in his left ear, the opposite side of where you sat. 

He jerked wide away. He took a second to gather himself, processing where he was and what you had said to him. 

“Evans was looking ravishing,” he said with a nod in Lily’s direction. 

You hummed. “You weren’t staring at her though.”

“Who was I staring at then?”

“Me.” You grinned at him with a teasing look in your eye. 

“Huh… I think you’re imagining things, L/N. You might have actually lost your mind.”

“I know what I saw.”

Rather than pay attention to what Professor Slughorn was saying during the lesson, you thought about the party. Some part of you didn’t mind that James had been staring. It wasn’t that you wanted him to be staring at you; you wanted him to have some kind of negative emotion. He was just jealous that someone was touching you, dancing with you, being with you in the ways that he wanted with Lily. How could it be that you got it while he didn’t?

You had another library session scheduled with James early in the week. You got some of it in classes, but since your comment, James was uncomfortable. When you were sat across from him in the library, you could feel it radiating off of him. He wouldn’t look at you. You suspected that he was trying to make up for staring at you during the party. 

Every time you spoke, he jumped. He reread sections like three times before anything stuck, and you could tell that he was rereading pages. You didn’t say anything about it though. You still wanted to get a decent grade on this assignment and you wouldn’t get it if James was even less focused than he was now. 

Don’t tick him off… It’s only thirty more minutes… you told yourself. 

So you worked. You passed him notes to add to his section. He took them and added what was needed to the essay. It was a tense thirty minutes. 

Thursday had you holed up in the library again. Sixth year wasn’t taking it easy on you. You had gone straight there after classes, barely left to get dinner, and then you were back at your table. No one bothered you and you liked it that way. You were exhausted from classes and endless assignments. When you nodded off into your book, you took that as a sign that you were done for the night. You packed up your things and left the library.

Despite all your yawning, you decided to take the long way back to the common room. A little bit of walking was good to clear your brain. 

It practically happened in slow motion. James turned the corner. He must’ve come from quidditch practice since his hair was damp and he was wearing a tight athletic shirt. You understood what Dorcas meant by quidditch player’s arms. You raked your eyes over James before you could stop yourself, and judging by the smirk on his face when you reached the top, he saw. 

Great.

“Did you see something you liked last night?” James teased when he sat down for Potions the next day. 

You hummed. “If it was anyone but you… maybe.” 

You weren’t going to deny that James had an attractive body. It didn’t matter though since the personality that came with it was horrendous. You had never really considered James to be attractive, despite seeing other girls drool over him. You didn’t see much of a point to considering if someone was attractive if you despised them. 

You groggily dragged yourself up to the Potions classroom. James claimed it was the best time for the second brewing portion and you could meet up with your friends in Hogsmeade afterwards. Why he moved it up an hour when he was late to the first one was beyond you. 

“Morning,” James said when you walked in at 7:59 a.m.

You blinked slowly with a blank expression. You slowly walked over to the station and put your stuff down.

“You’re early,” you grumbled. 

“Sooner we start, sooner we finish. Right?” 

You hummed and pulled out the instructions for the session’s potion. James had gathered most of the ingredients that you’d need. He reached under the cauldron and lit the fire. For the rest of the brewing, you exchanged minimal words. You brewed. You both took notes. You both marked areas of the essay portion of the project that would need to be reworked. After the plangetines dissolved, James rolled up his sleeves and lowered the flames of the fire so the potion could simmer. You didn’t let yourself look at his arms again. You wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction again. 

James sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You can leave. I’ll sit here until it turns purple, note it and clean up.” 

“And why would I trust you to do that?” 

“Because I need to pass this class just as much as you.”

“You would tell Slughorn that I sabotaged it and left before it exploded or whatever you have planned.”

You stood up to put away the extra ingredients. You weren’t stupid. You needed to be here until the brewing was done to ensure that it was done. You took a deep breath. When you turned back to the station, James was standing. 

“You don’t need to be so cynical. You know that, right?” he asked.

“I’m not cynical. I just know that I have to be cautious when I’m around someone as arrogant and selfish as you.” 

“If you got off your throne, princess, you’d see that people like me have a lot to offer. Everything I’ve done here is based off merit. My father hasn’t paid an extra knut to Hogwarts to further me or get me any special treatment or whatever you think happens.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t give you the right to be so boorish.”

“Better boorish than haughty.”

“That implies I think I’m better than everyone,” you said with a shake of your head. “I know I’m not, but I do know that I’m better than you.” 

James took a step toward you and you squared your shoulders and stood tall. You wouldn’t be intimidated by the fact he was taller and more physically fit than you. He stared at you for a moment. Then he grabbed your face and kissed you. 

Of all the things you thought James would’ve done when he stepped toward you, that was not it. The surprise of it had you frozen for a few seconds. Then you shoved him off of you and stumbled backwards a few steps – away from the simmering potion, thankfully. 

“What the fuck, Potter?” you spat. You stared at him, somewhat expecting an excuse or a harsh laugh. He just wiped his mouth. “Yeah, you can clean up,” you said before grabbing your bag and bolting out of the classroom. 

***

You were eight and holding onto your mother’s hand as you walked into a large office building. You weren’t sure where you were or necessarily why. You knew it was something for your father’s work. And that meant you had to be on your best behavior, not that you were an exceptionally unruly child.

Your father shook hands with a man dressed in a suit. Your mother smiled at him and he led you into a large room filled with other people. The thing that caught your eye was a snack table. You tapped your mother’s arm and pointed to it when you got her attention.

“Go ahead,” she said. 

You dropped her hand and went to get yourself something to eat. You figured it was going to be a rather boring afternoon. The least you could do was enjoy one of the pastries and a handful of sweets. When you turned around with your snacks, your parents had moved. You scanned the room looking for them when you saw a small group of kids. Most likely other children dragged along for whatever this was. 

“Can I sit?” you asked. 

“Depends,” a boy with glasses and dark hair said. “What do you know about quidditch?” 

You furrowed your brows and frowned. “Brooms and three kinds of balls? My dad listens to the Kites.” 

“Sit. James doesn’t control the table,” an older girl said, patting the top of the chair next to her. 

You sat down.

“Kites aren’t terrible,” James said. “Not as good as the Broomfleet, but they could be worse. At least they aren’t the Quafflepunchers.”

“What’s wrong with the Quafflepunchers?” you asked. 

“Besides their uniforms? They’re obnoxious. They don’t treat the game like the art that it is. Horrendous plays and style. I could go on.”

“Hm, don’t?” you said. 

A few of the other kids laughed as James frowned, leaning back in his chair. A different girl changed the subject and everything seemed fine. Hogwarts came up at one point, and everyone was saying which house they wanted or thought they’d be in. You didn’t know. Maybe Ravenclaw. 

James laughed. “I’ll be in Gryffindor. No question about it. Best of the houses, if you ask me.”

“I mean, I think we were asking everyone,” you said.

“So?”

“You didn’t need to say ‘if you ask me.’ That’s all.” 

“I was stating my opinion.”

“I got that.” 

There was a tense moment at the table. 

Then the older girl said, “I go next year. Both my parents were in Hufflepuff so I assume I’ll be there too. What I’m excited for is my own wand!” 

A younger boy said he couldn’t wait to go because his parents promised him his own owl and they weren’t budging on letting him get one sooner. Again, conversation continued and everything was fine. 

James got up and went to the snack table. You followed, having finished all of your snacks a while ago. 

“Are you following me?” he asked when he noticed you were standing next to him, looking over what treats were left. 

“You think you’re as important as bonbons? Please, as if.” 

James poured the rest of the plate of bonbons onto his paper plate.

“Hey!” you complained. “You don’t need all of those.”

“Who are you, my mother?” 

“Can you share? I just said I wanted some.”

“No.”

“You’re that selfish? Geez.” 

“I got here before you did. Deal with it.” 

You reached for a pastry, but before you could grab it, James snatched. 

“This is mine too.”

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing,” he said with a smile. 

“Mum would call you a wild animal. No manners…” 

James took a bite and then said, mouth full, “At leasbt I fen make frens.” 

“I have friends!” 

He swallowed. “Imaginary ones don’t count.”

He walked back to the table where you had been sitting. Your mother saw you and called your name. Apparently it was time to leave. 

“I hope that wasn’t too boring for you,” your father said as you left the building. 

You shrugged. 

“One of the boys wasn’t nice,” you said. 

“I hope you were,” your mother said. 

“I tried to be.” 

You really had tried, but James seemed to think his opinion was fact and that didn’t bode well with you. He took all the bonbons and essentially called you friendless. He was rude. Plain and simple. You hoped you’d never have to see him again. 

When James left with his parents, they asked him if he behaved. Fleamont and Euphemia adored their son, but they were aware that his mouth needed some work. James nodded. He figured he’d never see you again so he didn’t need to talk about you to his parents. He didn’t like how you always had something negative to say after he said something. He may have taken the snacks you wanted, but you were rude. 

As you both stewed on it, you both decided individually that if you did see the other ever again, you’d be sworn enemies. You didn’t need to associate with that kind of person. 

***

You didn’t go to Hogsmeade. You sat in your dorm until dinner, and even then, you ate as quickly as you could. The girls asked what happened to meeting in Hogsmeade and you told them you weren’t feeling well. It wasn’t a lie. James had kissed you. James. You didn’t know what to do with that. You loathed each other; he only proved that he really was as rude, if not worse, as he was at eight. So why was he kissing you? 

Another issue: there was a spark of something there. That brief kiss with James felt nothing like kissing Barty, nor that older Hufflepuff last year. What was that? 

James took his time cleaning up the potions after it turned purple. He made sure to take detailed notes. He slowly walked up to Gryffindor Tower to put away his things before joining his friends in Hogsmeade. He had kissed you. You. He couldn’t explain why he did it, not really. You had just been standing there, insulting him and in a huff. When he took a step toward you, he meant to intimidate you. But then you straightened your back, put your shoulders back and stared up at him. It was… hot. 

You had never been hot before. This was new. He couldn’t explain it. It was an impulse in the moment, and to make it all worse, he liked it. A lot. He couldn’t shake that feeling. 

Throughout classes on Monday, you and James can’t look at each other. To everyone else, this isn’t anything new. To Slughorn, it’s a step backwards from the progress he thought the two of you were making with the project. Sure, you still seemed to hate each other, but there was talking. He’d heard from Madam Pince that when you were in the library together, you weren’t loud or fighting. 

In Potions, you both had scooted your chairs to the edges of the station. You wanted as much space between you as you could. You’re grateful that it was a lecture rather than brewing. There was no way you’d be able to work on a potion with James. Not at that moment. 

“Library after classes, right?” you asked, standing up but not leaving the classroom once you were dismissed. 

James nodded. He didn’t look up to see you nod as well. Then you were gone. 

“Mate, you ready? I’m starving,” Sirius said, standing next to him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.” 

That class had been as close as he’d been to you since the kiss. Every shared class before Potions, and then after Potions, you made sure to be as far away as possible. It probably seemed normal to everyone else, but James knew that there was a new reason for it. At least you were still meeting in the library later. 

You were sitting at your usual table when James got there. You already had everything out. He sat down next to you rather than across from you, as he’d done the previous times. You don’t look at him. You expected him to get to work. Sooner you start, sooner you finish was the motto of this project. 

“About Friday” he started to say, but he stopped when your hand suddenly gripped his wrist. 

“We are not talking about that in the library. Not now.”

“But we’re going to-”

“No.”

“Y/N,” he said, almost pleadingly. 

“You’re a right git.” You stood up and shoved all of your stuff into your bag. “I think we have enough to get a P.”

You didn’t care that you got no work done. You thought you could handle an hour in the library with him. You should’ve been working on the project with a table in between you. You hadn’t been planning on him sitting next to you and wanting to talk about the fact that he kissed you. 

You left the library. James hadn’t taken anything out so he got up and followed you right away. With his longer strides, it didn’t take him too long to find you. 

“Wait!” 

You didn’t slow down. That just meant James had to quicken his pace to catch up. 

“Y/N!”

“What?” you spat as his hand grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to stop walking. 

“I… I just…”

You raised your eyebrows and lowered your chin, silently telling him to get it out. Except he didn’t say anything. He lowered his head and captured your lips in a kiss. It was shorter than the first one. You stepped backwards.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He took a step back and ran a hand through his hair. Then he pointed at you. “We need to talk about that.”

“Your inability to not kiss someone?” you asked, ignoring the way your heart was pounding in your chest and your lips tingling. 

“There’s…” He wagged his pointer finger at you.”There’s something there. And I don’t think we can ignore it.”

“What’s there is you not being able to keep it in your pants,” you said.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and taking a step toward you. “This is new. I haven’t felt this before.”

You scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“Please, don’t be dense. I’ve kissed someone to get my rocks off. Because I thought they’d taste good. You… It’s not that.”

“It’s an established hatred.”

“No. I thought it was, but… no.”

“No? Then pray tell, Potter, what is it?”

James should have given you an answer. That’s not what he did. He kissed you again. He brought his hand up to caress your jaw and he slowly tilted your head back. You couldn’t stop yourself. You kissed him back. There was a thud as his bag fell to the floor, and then you felt him lifting yours from your shoulder and letting it slide down more gently. His hand that wasn’t holding your face found your hip and moved your body closer to him. You didn’t know when you started holding onto the sides of his shirt. Apparently your subconscious knew that you shouldn’t actually touch him. James seemed to have no problem with touching you though. 

When he pulled back, James rested his forehead on yours, breathing heavily and letting his hand fall from your face. You gave him a few seconds to see if he would say anything. He didn’t. He was staring into your eyes like he was searching for something. You turned your body to move out of his hold on your hip and grabbed your bag. Within seconds, you disappeared around a corner and James was left alone. 

He ran a hand through his hair. You kissed him back this time, so why were you running away? You kissed him back so you must feel something too. He wasn’t imagining that there was something there. Well, he knew he wasn’t imagining it for himself, but he felt so sure that you felt something too. There was no way that this was only affecting him. 

He stood in the corridor for a few minutes before deciding to go back to the library. He could get some of the work done without you. He owed you that much, since it was sort of his fault that you left the library.

There was a change in the air between you and James. It was palpable to just about everyone. Things had been bad between you before. Tense. Unfriendly. Frigid. This was different.

Before, you always knew how to act around James. You were always preparing something snarky to send back to him. Not now though. You were terrified that James was going to try to talk to you and end up kissing you again. And it was terrifying because part of you wanted him to. 

James was trying to figure you out in a way he never had before. He wasn’t trying to figure out the best way to push your buttons. He was trying to understand your reactions to him kissing you. You hadn’t hexed him or slapped him. You left. He swore it was different than what went down with Knighton. It had to be. He also was trying to figure out how someone who used to make his blood boil on sight suddenly made him feel the need to hold you close.

“You good, Prongs?” Sirius asked when James walked into their dorm after lessons were over. 

James had been sneaking glances at you all day since you gave him no chance to talk about what happened yesterday. Sirius wasn’t blind; he noticed that James wasn’t not paying in the same way as he usually was. 

“Course. I’m brilliant. Never better,” he said, not fully meaning it, and Sirius could tell.

“You haven’t asked your dearest Evans out lately,” Sirius said as he adjusted how he was sitting on his bed. “I think I saw her eyeing you today. You might have a real shot if you do it right.”

James set his bag on top of his trunk and ran a hand through his messy hair.

“I don’t think I’m going to her out anymore.”

Remus looked up from where he sat at his desk. “You’re not?” 

“No.”

“Why’s that?” Peter asked. 

“She’s… uh, not the one, I guess. I only needed to be shot down a thousand and one times.”

“Uh-huh,” Sirius said. “So who is she?”

James quirked an eyebrow. 

“This new girl you’ve got your eye on. Must be some kind of goddess if she has you dropping Evans.”

James took his glasses off to clean them with his shirt. The boys knew he was stalling; he rarely cleaned his glasses. Then he walked back across the room to the door. 

With his hand on the knob, he said, “It’s Y/N.”

He left the room as quickly as he could. His friends didn’t waste a second jumping up and running out of the dorm. They stopped James before he reached the bottom of the stairs. 

“Y/N? As in Y/N L/N?” Peter asked, slightly out of breath. 

James nodded. 

“Wha-When did this happen?” Remus asked. 

“I’m not sure. It just did.” 

“But you hated her?” Remus said.

“I kissed her. Three times,” James said, starting to push past his friends. “Excuse me.”

Then he fully moved past them and finished going down the stairs. While they followed him into the common room, they didn’t follow him out of it. They watched him go, each dumbstruck. 

“He kissed her?” Peter asked.

“Three times?” Sirius added. “Who is he?”

“No way she kissed him back, right?” Remus finished. 

You weren’t handling it any better. You sat on your bed, picking at your nails as you replayed every interaction you had with James, how horrible he was. And then you compared those memories with how he kissed you. How you liked it. You felt disgusted with yourself. 

“Would you mind sitting in the common room?” Pandora asked.

You stopped picking at your nails. “Why?” 

“You got bad energy. Can’t focus with it in here.”

Dorcas perked up, propping herself up on her elbows rather than trying to nap. Pandora was exceptionally gifted with reading people’s energy. So if she said you had bad energy, you usually had something to get off your chest. 

“So what is it?” Dorcas asked you. “Did you get a detention we don’t know about?”

“No.” You knew that it was pointless to not tell them. They’d get it out of you anyways, or you’d have to sit in the common room, which was a far more public area than you wanted to be in. “It’s James.” 

Pandora set her quill down. You said James, not Potter. She clarified anyways.

“As in James Potter?” 

“Mhmm.”

“What did he do this time?” Dorcas asked with a sigh. 

She and Pandora exchanged a knowing look. They thought he did something perfectly normal but you’d make it sound like he murdered kittens for fun. 

“He kissed me.” 

“He did what?” Pandora gasped as Dorcas sprung up from her bed and launched herself onto yours. 

“And I think I liked it.”

Dorcas grabbed your face and held it close to hers. “James Potter, the boy whose throat you’ve had your wand at since first year, kissed you?”

“When?” Pandora asked. 

You removed Dorcas’ hands from your face and scooted toward your headboard to make more space for her on your bed. 

“Um, Saturday, and twice yesterday.”

“Saturday? That’s why you were in a funk?” Dorcas asked and you nodded. 

“Wait, wait, wait, you said you think you liked it,” Pandora said, getting up and joining you and Dorcas on your bed. “Do you fancy James?”

“I… I don’t know.” 

“How do you not know?”

“Pan, I’ve hated him since we were eight. It was always pure, unadulterated hate. And… I don’t know. Suddenly, he’s not horrible looking and he’s kissing me and it’s a hell of a lot better than Barty.” 

Dorcas pressed her lips together before asking, “Maybe Barty’s a bad kisser?”

You shook your head. “No. He’s good. Trust me. That boy knows what he’s doing. I enjoy kissing him. But James… Potter… It’s better. I don’t know how to describe it.” 

The other girls waited for you to continue, even though they both had endless questions. 

“I… I don’t even know if he hates me anymore. Which I guess raises the question: why did he kiss me in the first place? He called my cynical and haughty literal seconds before he kissed me. Who does that?”

“And what about Lily Evans?” Pandora asked. “Hasn’t he been obsessed with her since forever?” 

“I thought so,” Dorcas said. 

“If he still fancies her, why is he kissing me?” 

“Who’s to say he still does?” Pandora asked. 

A moment of quiet passed. 

“So what am I supposed to do now?” 

Dorcas laughed. “Sweetie, you know we can’t really answer that for you.”

“I’d say you need to decide if you still hate him,” Pandora said. “And that’s not something we can advise on, not really.”

So you stewed on it. You had started hating James when you were eight. You probably hadn’t changed much between eight and eleven, but you had changed a fair amount between then and now. Was there a chance that James had too? Had James changed for everyone but you because of your vowed hatred? Was there a chance that if you stopped lingering on what you said when you were actually children that something else could be there? 

Once again, there was an obvious change in the space between you and James. You were neutral toward each other. No scathing exchanges. No glares. Nothing. You entered classrooms at your usual times, and you didn’t seem to mind when James entered as well. You would go as far to say that you worked well together during your next Potions lesson. Slughorn smiled at that. While things were calm, you didn’t really talk all that much. 

Until the end of Potions on Friday. 

“We still need to finish the essay,” you said as you put your things away. “I know you have quidditch tomorrow, so I was thinking we could meet in the library on Sunday.” 

“If… if we happen to lose, we could do tomorrow.” James looked up as you stood up. “Not that I’m planning or expecting to lose. But you never know… Hufflepuff’s seeker could catch the snitch before I score twenty times.” 

“Yeah… okay.”

You turned to walk away. James’ chair scraped the ground as he pushed back from the station. 

“You’ll be at the match?” 

You turned back. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he said with a nod and small smile. 

It wasn’t a smirk nor cocky grin. It was a genuine smile, like he couldn’t hear better news than the promise of you being at the match and possibly watching him.  

For the first time since your first year, you truly paid attention to the match. You watched James as diligently as Dorcas watched Marlene. In the past, you would’ve never dreamed of telling James that he was actually as good at quidditch as he boasted. Now, you were debating it. His ego didn’t need the boost, but it could be an olive branch. 

You wanted Hufflepuff to win. It wasn’t so that James would lose though. He’d be less surrounded by people if Gryffindor lost and you’d be able to find him easier, with less people watching. That part scared you a little. What were people going to think when they saw you and James being nice to each other? Not that your image mattered that much. It was more the gossip and whispers that Hogwarts was known for that bothered you. 

To your dismay, Gryffindor won. That meant every Gryffindor and then some were going to be surrounding James. You walked with Dorcas down to the pitch. She had started talking with Marlene a little bit after classes and had more courage to talk to her. While she entered the herd of scarlet-clad students, you stayed on the side, a few steps away. You crossed your arms. 

James had been easy enough to spot. He wasn’t the tallest of the team but he had a certain energy that was reflected in those congratulating him. Marlene was nearby. When he saw Dorcas with her, he looked around. You were usually around Dorcas; he had seen you standing with her in the stands. And there you were, just outside of everyone. 

He shot a grin at you. You returned it with a tight-lipped smile and small, quick wave. James was about to start walking toward you, but you looked away before heading to the castle. His smile flickered. Then he turned his attention back to the people in front of him. 

You worked on homework and played Exploding Snap with your friends. Slytherins didn’t go to Gryffindor parties. 

James enjoyed the party. He did. He always did. He loved when the whole house was having a great time. There was butterbeer and snacks for everyone, and alcohol for the older students. People were playing games and dancing. It was loud and wonderful. James was usually in the middle of it all, taking shots with the team and being as loud and rambunctious as he pleased. But not this time. Instead, he was sat on one of the couches, nursing a butterbeer. He was still enjoying everything around him, but his mind was elsewhere. 

It was lingering on your smile, your little wave. The fact that you had come down to the pitch. If you hated him for kissing you, you weren’t showing it. He could talk to you tomorrow. 

James met you in the library after lunch. Same table as always. He walked up to the table, standing at the chair to your left.

“Can I sit here?” he asked. 

You looked up from the essay section you were reading.

“Or I can sit over there, if you’d prefer,” he added. 

“You can sit here,” you said.

He sat down and started taking his things out of his bag. He was prepared to work with you and focus solely on the project for Potions. At least he was sitting next to you and you weren’t grimacing at his presence. 

“So… last week…” you said, not looking up from the essay. 

James froze. 

“You, um, you said there was something here?”

James stumbled over his words, “Oh, um, I-I, well, yes. I did. I did say that.” 

“Do you know how to… describe it, um, without kissing me?” you asked. 

You thumbed the corner of the parchment in front of you. It was better than looking at James at the moment. James’ face tinged red. He ran a hand through hair and chuckled nervously.

“I think there is,” he said. “I, um, I kissed you to be sure. And I’m sorry about that. It’s just, with everything between us… I wasn’t sure what I was feeling.”

“Okay… And you were feeling… what?” 

“Well, it’s certainly not the hatred I was feeling for years,” he said with a soft chuckle. 

“Clearly.” 

“I don’t know when it changed exactly. It’s still a strong feeling, but… the opposite, I guess.”

“The opposite,” you repeated. 

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence between you. 

“So…” James flexed his hands on top of the table. “You did kiss me back…”

“Right. I did.” 

“So…” James repeated, except this time he didn’t say anything more. But he did turn his head slightly to see your face. Another moment of silence. “Do you… feel… something?”

“It’s… not hatred.”

“Okay.” 

You swallowed, still looking at the parchment in front of you. 

“You played well yesterday,” you said, which most certainly didn’t help James understand where you stood. 

“Thank? you?” 

“I was going to tell you yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you?” James asked, thinking back to your little wave.

“You were-“ You gave your hand a small flourish in front of you. “-in the middle of it all.”

“I could’ve come to you.”

“Right, because Gryffindor’s star chaser exchanges pleasantries with his Slytherin nemesis.”

“Nemesis… Are we still that?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if-“

You cut him off. It was one fluid motion, you rising slightly from your chair, putting your hand on his cheek to turn his face toward you and then leaning in to kiss him. James was almost immediate to kiss you back. 

After a few seconds, you pulled back and he leaned in further, trying to continue. You sat down with your gaze straight ahead, feeling mortified. Had you really just initiated a kiss with James Potter? 

You cleared your throat. “Sorry. Madam Pince will, um, kick us out if she sees.”

“Right, she would do that,” James said, adjusting how he was sitting. 

Silence. 

“I need to know. If it’s not hatred… what do you think this is?” James asked you. 

“Confusing. It’s confusing.” 

“Um. Okay… One second…” 

James quickly stacked the few things he’d taken out and put them at the corner of the table. Then he leaned over you to do the same thing to your stuff. You watched him. He turned his chair to completely face you and then he turned your chair for you, with you still in it. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s confusing about it?” 

You let out a short laugh. He had to be joking, right? 

“We’ve hated each other since the moment we met? And now we’re kissing?” You shook your head. “I can’t make it make sense.”

“Well, I feel strong emotions toward you and I think you feel strong emotions toward me. We both think the other is strikingly fit and kissing you isn’t like kissing anyone else. So, in my most humble opinion, I think we should see what happens.” 

“Those strong emotions haven’t been positive, like ever. And so what if we both hit puberty? That happens. It happens to everyone.”

“Sweetheart, not everyone looks like you though.”

“Potter.”

“Sorry.” 

“You say you want to see what happens. I don’t even know if I can like you. We’ve never been friends. If we… dated-” The word came out weird as your brain tried to comprehend the idea of you and James together. “-I’m almost positive it would go up in flames.” 

James hummed. “There’s that pessimism.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

“What do I have to do to get you to take a chance with me?” He grinned at you while taking your hands in his. “To admit that maybe we were wrong about each other all this time?”

You took a minute to think. James kept his eyes on you, patiently waiting and calculating what else he could say to convince you that he really thought the two of you could make it work. He genuinely believed that if you both felt something, it was worth a shot. Plus, he figured, you already knew each other quite well from having to learn what ticked the other off.

“After we finish this project, admit that you’re not as important as bonbons and get me the bowl of them you stole from me.” 

“They weren’t even that good,” James said. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know that, now would I?” 

He chuckled and then brought one of your hands to his lips. 

“I will never measure up to a singular bonbon.” 

tags: @navs-bhat, @faceache111

[marauroon]

˗ˏˋ ★ ──── 1 TO 100 ‼

「 “ 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘵. ” 」

eventual james potter x fem!reader; inevitable angst and annoyance as james slowly matures over his time at hogwarts. slowburn. total word count: 56.3K

2.7K | FIRST YEAR.

5.8K | SECOND YEAR.

2.7K | THIRD YEAR.

6.0K | FOURTH YEAR.

6.4K | FIFTH YEAR.

14.0K | SIXTH YEAR.

18.7K | SEVENTH YEAR.

[harrysfolklore]

misunderstood hero with a heart of gold - mv1

summary: max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before

word count: 8.2k + social media posts

folkie radio: another one of my babies finally sees the light of day 🥹 this fic is really special and i was lowkey gatekeeping it but i feel ready to share it, plss take care of it <3 i hope you like it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Max Verstappen was bored.

It was late and he was alone in his hotel room. He had a race the following day and he knew better than staying up late. His team was already on his ass for sim racing at ungodly hours of the night when he had a race, but nevertheless, he was bored and not sleepy yet.

He scrolled through his phone, not really paying attention to what popped up on his Instagram feed, Tiktok for you page or Twitter timeline.

After a few minutes, his finger landed on the YouTube app, one that he barely used if he was completely honest, but for some reason he never deleted it.

A bunch of videos showed up on his main page, most of them about F1, gaming, fitness or cats. He scrolled through the thumbnails absentmindedly until one title caught his eye: "Formula 1 Drivers as Romance Book Character Tropes."

Max had no idea how that video ended up in his suggestions page. He wasn't much of a reader—he had only read two books in his entire life, for crying out loud— but curiosity got the better of him. He clicked on the video.

The screen shifted to a bright and lively setup, where a young woman with vibrant energy and a contagious smile greeted her viewers. "Hey everyone! Welcome back to my channel. Today, we have a fun video where I'll be pairing Formula 1 drivers with romance book tropes!"

Max found himself smiling for some reason, he thought she was really engaging and funny — and really pretty—. He leaned back against his pillows, more intrigued by the second.

"As some of you might already know, books are not my only passion, I'm also a huge Formula 1 fan since I was a little kid thanks to my dad, so I thought it would be fun to do a little crossover of my two obsessions."

Max grinned again, finding himself oddly invested in this unexpected combination of romance literature and Formula 1. Or maybe just mesmerized by the pretty girl who was talking on his screen.

"Let's begin with Mercedes," she said, clapping her hands together, "Lewis Hamilton is definitely our 'Charming Prince Charming.' He's got the looks, the talent, and that air of royalty about him."

Max chuckled, thinking it was a fitting description for his rival.

"Now for George Russell," she continued, "I'm going with 'The Boy Next Door Who Grew Up Hot.' I mean, have you seen his glow-up?"

Max chuckled again, nodding in agreement. George had indeed transformed quite a bit since his Williams days.

"Moving on to Ferrari," she continued enthusiastically. Max wondered if that was her favorite team on the grid, "Charles Leclerc is our classic 'Childhood Best Friend You've Always Had a Crush On.' He's got that sweet, familiar charm, but with a spark that makes your heart race every time you see him."

Max raised an eyebrow, surprised by the change in description. He had to admit, it fit Charles quite well.

"And for Carlos Sainz," she paused dramatically, "he's either our 'Older Brother's Best Friend' or the 'Bad Guy Who's Mean to Everyone but His Sweetheart', just think about it, he's got that rugged exterior, but you just know he's a total sweetheart deep down."

Max laughed, realizing she had Carlos pegged perfectly. He watched with growing interest as she continued.

"Now, let's talk about McLaren," she said with a sparkle in her eye. "Lando Norris is our 'Adorkable Comedian Who Steals Your Heart.' He's funny, relatable, and has a way of making you fall for him before you even realize it," Max grinned at the description of his good friend, "And Oscar Piastri... he's 'The Shy Genius.' Quiet, reserved, but incredibly talented and intelligent. He might not be the loudest in the room, but he's someone you'd definitely want on your side."

Max nodded in agreement, thinking of how Oscar had impressed everyone since joining McLaren. She continued pairing each driver with a character trope, she described Daniel as the "Life of the Party with a Sensitive Soul," highlighting his infectious energy and hidden depths. Pierre was dubbed the "Resilient Underdog," emphasizing his ability to bounce back from setbacks. Yuki was described as the "Fiery Spitfire with a Soft Center" and Logan was labeled the "Rookie with Untapped Potential," suggesting a character arc of growth and discovery.

With each driver's description, Max's anticipation grew. He found himself eagerly awaiting his own characterization, both curious and slightly apprehensive about how the pretty girl with an obsession with books and Formula 1 would describe him.

When she finally got to Red Bull, he sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.

"Now for Sergio Perez," she said, "he's our 'Loyal Wingman Who Deserves His Own Happy Ending.' Always there to support, but with a story of his own waiting to be told."

Max nodded, thinking it was a pretty accurate description of his teammate.

"And finally, saved the best for last," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we have Max Verstappen."

Max held his breath, oddly nervous about how this stranger would categorize him.

"Max is our 'Misunderstood Hero with a Heart of Gold,'" she said with a warm smile. "Often perceived as cold or distant, but actually deeply caring and protective of those close to him. He's the type who shows his love through actions rather than words."

Max felt his cheeks warm significantly. This description caught him completely off guard. It wasn't the usual 'aggressive driver' or 'arrogant champion' narrative he was used to hearing. Instead, it felt... true. Uncomfortably true. He wasn't sure how to feel about being seen so accurately by a stranger.

As the video ended after she said her goodbyes, Max found himself staring at his phone screen, replaying her words in his mind, his thumb hovering over the comment section. He had never left a comment on a YouTube video before, but something about this one compelled him to break that habit.

After a moment's hesitation, he tapped the comment box and began typing, Once he was done, he paused, reading over his words. It felt strange, almost vulnerable, to acknowledge her characterization of him. But there was also something liberating about it. He added a thumbs-up emoji at the end and hit 'Post' before he could second-guess himself.

As Max set his phone down and settled into bed, a small smile played on his lips. He had a important race the following day, but all he wanted to think and dream about was the pretty stranger who had somehow seen through his carefully crafted public persona.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 10,725 others

f1gossip “I went to bed early last night. Just listened to the team’s orders, you know?”

Max Verstappen for media day today, however he left a comment on a YouTube video around 2:46 am 😭

view all comments

username1 HES SOOOOO

username2 the fact that he left a comment on a BOOKTUBER’S channel MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DONT EVEN READ BOOKS 😭

username3 he looks so pretty tho

username4 MAX WE ALL SAW YOU

username5 max was actually checking which romance trope is him according to booktubers

username6 HES SO RANDOM

username7 max’s search history: lestappen as fictional couples

liked by username1, username2 and 102,438 others

ynreadsbooks in honor of max verstappen x3 world champion commenting on my latest video (which is insane to say out loud wtf) should i do another f1 themed video?? any suggestions?

view all comments

username1 YES QUEEN

username2 that max comment was so random but so real

username3 max verstappen, the man who has read two books in 27 years watching booktubers was not on my bingo card

username4 @/maxverstappen1 you favorite youtuber will do another video about you

username5 BOOKS WITH RACING THEMES

username6 books inspired by f1 circuits would be fun

username7 @/maxverstappen drop a suggestion

maxverstappen1 started following ynreadsbooks

liked by username1, username2 and 15,836 others

f1gossip Max Verstappen was seen outside of a bookshop in Monaco today !

view all comments

username1 BABYYYY

username2 max ??? bookshop ????

username3 WHAT SHIFTED

username4 he thought it was jimmyz

username5 HEELPP what is he doing there

username6 hello i work there. he arrived with a list of books in hand that he wanted, he bought around 15 action and fantasy books

↳ username1 FOR REAL???

↳ username2 max said book girl summer

↳ username3 this is so random

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

If someone had told Max that this year he would spend his summer break reading, he would've laughed at their faces. Yet here he was, lounging by the pool in his Monaco house, a book in his hands and a smile on his face.

As he turned the page of "The Martian," the latest sci-fi recommendation from YN, Max couldn't help but reflect on how different this summer break was.

Usually, his days off were filled with lavish yacht parties, exclusive clubs, or intense training sessions and hours of sim racing to stay sharp for the second half of the season. But now, he found himself eagerly devouring books and spending hours chatting with YN about plots, characters, and everything in between.

As the weeks passed, Max found himself growing increasingly close to YN, despite never having met her in person. Their text conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from in-depth discussions about the books they were reading to playful banter about racing and life in general.

Max was surprised by how much he enjoyed her company, even in this digital form. Her wit, intelligence, and genuine interest in his thoughts beyond his racing persona were refreshing. He found himself sharing things he rarely discussed with others, and looking forward to her messages became a highlight of his day.

He also thought she was absolutely gorgeous.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a new message from her.

Max chuckled, about to reply when he heard the doorbell. He remembered Lando and Daniel were coming over for dinner. As he got up to let them in, he quickly typed a response, telling her that he would talk to her later.

"Well, well, well," Daniel's voice boomed as Max opened the door. "If it isn't the newly minted bookworm of Formula 1!"

Lando peered around Daniel's shoulder, "I half expected to find you wearing glasses and a sweater vest, mate."

"Very funny, guys. Come in," Max rolled his eyes as he stepped away from the door.

Ever since his friends noticed his brand new habit, they took it upon themselves to tease him whenever they could. As they made their way to the backyard, Daniel spotted the book on the lounger.

"The Martian?" he read, picking it up. "Isn't this a bit advanced for your reading level, Maxy?"

"Ha ha," Max deadpanned, snatching the book back. "It's actually really good. It's about this astronaut who gets stranded on Mars and has to use science and engineering to survive-"

"Whoa, whoa," Lando interrupted, holding up his hands. "Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen?"

Daniel draped an arm around Max's shoulders. "I think our boy here is trying to impress a certain bookish YouTuber. What was her name again? YN?"

Max felt his cheeks warm. "It's not like that. We just... talk about books and stuff."

"And stuff," Daniel repeated, wiggling his eyebrows. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Max rolled his eyes, trying to brush off their teasing. "Seriously, it's not like that. We just have a lot in common."

Daniel and Lando exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter.

"Sure, mate," Daniel said, patting Max on the back. "Whatever you say."

They settled by the pool, beers in hand, and started chatting about the upcoming races and their plans for the rest of the summer. Despite the playful ribbing, Max found himself genuinely enjoying their company. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his friends.

As the evening wore on, the conversation eventually circled back to Max's books and his little friend on his phone.

"So, Max," Lando started, a mischievous glint in his eye, "have you color-coded your bookshelf yet? Or are you more of a chronological order kind of guy?"

"Nah, mate. I bet he organizes them by how many times YN has mentioned them," Daniel chimed in, "Top shelf is probably her favorites, right Maxy?"

Max felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn't help grinning. "You two are impossible."

"When are you finally going to meet her in person anyway?" Lando said, sipping from his beer.

Max shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the slight flutter in his chest. "I don't know. That's not something I've really thought about,"

He lied. In truth, the thought of meeting YN had crossed his mind countless times. The idea of finally seeing the girl who had captivated him with her intelligence, humor, and beauty made his heart race. He'd catch himself daydreaming about her smile, wondering if it was as warm and infectious in person as it seemed in her videos. But he wasn't ready to admit that to his friends just yet.

Lando and Daniel exchanged a look, clearly not buying Max's nonchalant act.

"Oh come on," Lando scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You expect us to believe that? You've been glued to your phone for weeks, mate."

"I bet he's already planned their first date," Daniel leaned in, "What'll it be, Max? A romantic book reading by candlelight? Or maybe a visit to the library?"

Max felt his cheeks heating up again. "It's not like that, guys. We're just friends."

"Friends who talk every day and have you blushing like a schoolgirl," Lando teased, nudging Max with his elbow.

"I do not blush like a schoolgirl," Max protested, knowing full well that his face was probably bright red by now.

"Sure, sure," Daniel said with a wink. "Just friends. So, have you at least thought about inviting her to a race? You know, show her what you do when you're not reading about Mars?"

"Why would I invite her to a race, that would be weird," Max protested again, "And she already knows what I do, she's a fan of the sport."

"Man, you're so stubborn sometimes," Lando rolled his eyes at him, "If you like this girl, why don't you invite her to a race? It could be a great way to finally meet in person."

"And who said that I liked her," once again, Max's defensive self came through.

Daniel and Lando shared an exasperated look before turning back to Max.

"Come on, mate," Daniel said, his tone gentler now. "It's pretty obvious. We've never seen you this invested in someone before. Not to mention, you're reading books voluntarily for the first time since... well, ever."

"It's written all over your face," Lando said, shaking his head. "You like her, and there's no shame in that. You light up every time your phone buzzes. It's kind of adorable, actually."

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew his friends were right, but admitting it out loud felt like a big step. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do like her. But it's complicated, you know? We've never even met in person."

"That's exactly why you should invite her to a race," Lando insisted. "It's the perfect opportunity. She gets to see you in your element, and you get to finally meet face-to-face."

"Plus," Daniel added with a mischievous grin, "if things go well, you can always show her your trophy collection. I hear that's a great way to impress the ladies."

Max couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Maybe," Daniel shrugged, "but I'm also right. What have you got to lose?"

Max pondered this for a moment. The idea of meeting YN in person both thrilled and terrified him. What if they didn't click in real life the way they did over text? But then again, what if they did?

"I'll think about it," Max finally conceded.

Lando and Daniel exchanged triumphant grins.

"That's our boy," Lando said, patting his back.

After a few more beers and food, Lando and Daniel left.

As the night deepened, Max found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Lando and Daniel kept replaying in his mind. His phone sat on the nightstand, silent but somehow still demanding his attention.

Max's thoughts raced. Should he text YN? Invite her to Zandvoort? The idea made his heart beat faster. He imagined seeing her in person for the first time, wondering if her smile would be as pretty as it was in her videos. But doubt crept in too. What if things were awkward? What if the chemistry they had online didn't translate to real life?

He rolled onto his side, eyeing his phone. The urge to reach out to her was strong, as it always was. Max realized that Lando and Daniel were right - he did like her. A lot. The thought of meeting her filled him with equal parts excitement and nervousness.

Taking a deep breath, Max grabbed his phone. Before he could overthink it, he started typing.

Hey YN, hope I'm not messaging too late. I was wondering if you'd like to come to the Dutch GP at Zandvoort? It's the first race after the summer break, and my home race. Thought it might be fun if you could make it.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. The wait for her response felt eternal. When his phone finally buzzed, Max's heart leapt.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and 286,375 others

ynreadsbooks this week’s video will be delayed for some ~personal reasons ☺️

view all comments

username1 GIRL

username2 ARE YOU GOING WHERE I THINK YOU’RE GOING

username3 f1 x books this is literally me

username4 hot girls support max verstappen

username5 ahh if she’s going to the gp i’ll be so happy bc she’s a huge fan

username6 the way roles reversed and now max is his fan 😭

redbullracing We can’t wait 💙

↳ username1 REDBULL???

↳ username2 AHHH THEY PROBABLY INVITED HER

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

As Max headed to Zandvoort Circuit for the Dutch Grand Prix, he felt the familiar weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.

The second half of the season loomed ahead, and the pressure to maintain his championship lead was on. He knew the team was counting on him to deliver strong results, especially at his home race where the orange-clad fans would be out in full force.

But amidst the pressure and responsibility, there was another emotion bubbling up inside him - a giddy excitement that he couldn't quite contain.

The thought of finally meeting YN in person after months of texts, calls, and shared book recommendations made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with driving at a car at a very fast speed.

As he drove to the track, Max found himself smiling at random moments, his mind drifting to imagine what it would be like to see her smile in person, to hear her laugh without the filter of a phone call.

Max realized that for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to a race weekend for reasons that extended beyond the track.

Unfortunately, his busy schedule kept them from meeting right away. Media commitments, team briefings, and practice sessions consumed his time, leaving him feeling frustrated and guilty for not being able to see her sooner. He sent her a quick message apologizing for the delay, promising they'd meet after qualifying.

As he made his way to the garage, a familiar voice called out behind him.

"Oi, Max! Ready for the big day?"

Max turned to see Daniel jogging up to him, his trademark grin in place.

"Yeah, should be a good quali," Max replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about qualifying, mate. Your special guest arrives today, right?"

Max felt his cheeks warm. "How did you even remember that?"

"Please," Daniel scoffed. "It's all you've been talking about for weeks. So, have you met her yet?"

"No, my schedule's been packed. We're supposed to meet after quali."

"Ah, saving the best for last, eh?" Daniel's grin widened, "Smart move. Nothing like the adrenaline of a good qualifying session to make a great first impression."

"Or to completely mess it up," Max muttered.

"Hey, none of that," Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself. She already likes you for who you are, remember?"

Max nodded, feeling a bit reassured. "Thanks, Dan."

With a deep breath, Max headed into the garage, Daniel's words echoing in his mind.

Qualifying went smoothly, with Max securing a front row start to the delight of the Dutch fans. The cheers of the home crowd were deafening as he climbed out of the car, but his mind was elsewhere.

After the post-qualifying interviews, Max sent YN a quick text letting her know that he was free now and she let him know that she was around the hospitality area.

As he walked towards there, Max spotted YN standing near one of the motorhomes, looking around with wide eyes. She hadn't seen him yet, and for a moment, Max just watched her, taking in the sight of the girl who had been on his mind for months now.

She was even more gorgeous in person than he had imagined.

Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the bustling paddock around her. The way the sunlight caught her hair, the gentle curve of her smile as she observed everything with wonder - it all took Max's breath away.

He noticed little details he couldn't have seen through a screen: the way her eyes sparkled, the subtle freckles across her nose, the graceful way she moved as she looked around.

Taking a deep breath, Max walked over, his heart pounding. "YN?"

She turned, her face lighting up with a radiant smile that made Max's breath catch. "Max! Finally!"

They moved toward each other, and without hesitation, Max pulled her into a hug. The embrace felt natural, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. He was aware of how perfectly she fit in his arms, the subtle scent of her perfume, and the warmth of her body against his.

"It's so good to finally meet you," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so sorry it took so long, this weekend's been crazy."

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "It's okay, Max. That qualifying was amazing! I've never experienced anything like it."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Come on, let me show you around."

He took her hand and he was struck by how natural it felt. Her fingers intertwined with his perfectly, and a warm sensation spread from their joined hands throughout his body.

They strolled through the paddock, Max pointing out the various team motorhomes, the garages, and the media center. YN was all wide-eyed fascination, asking questions and soaking in every detail. As they walked, Max found himself relaxing more and more, his previous nerves about their chemistry being gone fading away.

As they rounded a corner, they nearly bumped into Lando Norris. Who couldn't help but smirk at the sight of their hands intertwined.

"You guys met already!" he cheerfully said, "You must be YN."

Her cheeks flushed, clearly surprised that Max had mentioned her to his friends. Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her reaction.

"Yeah, this is YN," Max said, unable to keep the smile off his face, "Meet Lando, the perpetual pain in my ass."

"Nice to finally meet the girl who's got Max reading," YN laughed, and Lando extended his hand, "Quite the accomplishment."

"Nice to meet you too, Lando," YN said, shaking his hand. "I've enjoyed watching you race, I'm a big fan. Congrats on the pole position."

"Cheers," Lando replied, then turned to Max with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, has he bored you with car talk yet, or has he actually remembered how to discuss books?"

Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you be preparing for tomorrow, Lando?"

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Lando chuckled. "Enjoy your tour, lovebirds!"

As Lando walked away, Max felt a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. He glanced at YN, relieved to see her smiling.

"Sorry about him," Max said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Lando has a way of making everything awkward."

YN laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "It's fine. He seems like fun."

They continued their walk, finally making their way to the rooftop terrace of the Red Bull hospitality area. The view was stunning, offering a panoramic look at the circuit and the sea of orange-clad fans below.

"This is incredible," YN said, leaning against the railing and taking it all in. "Thank you for showing me around, Max."

"Of course," Max said, standing beside her. "I'm really glad you could come."

They stood there for a moment, enjoying the view and each other's company. Max felt a sense of contentment wash over him, the stress of the weekend melting away in her presence.

"Max," YN said softly, turning to face him. "I know this weekend is important for you, and I don't want to be a distraction. But I'm really happy to be here and to finally meet you."

"You're not a distraction," Max replied, reaching out to take her hand again. "You're the best part of this weekend, honestly."

They shared a smile, Max was well aware of the butterflies that fluttered on his stomach and the high school girl blush his friends teased him about, but he didn't care. He felt happy with the pretty girl who had been his source of comfort for months, finally face to face.

"You know," YN said softly, "when I made that video calling you a misunderstood hero with a heart of gold, I never imagined I'd get to see it firsthand. But being here, seeing how you are with your team, with the fans… I was right about you, Max Verstappen."

Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. He had always been guarded about his public image, but hearing her perspective meant more than he could ever imagine.

"I'm glad you think so," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You know, that video... it changed things for me. Not just because it led to us talking, but because it made me reflect on a lot of things."

"Who would've thought," YN said with a smile, "When I recorded that video, I never thought you would ever see it, let alone have an impact on you and let alone lead us to talking and me being here."

"Everything happens for a reason, right?"

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 301,257 others

ynreadsbooks best experience ever. thank you, thank you, THANK YOU 🥺💙

view all comments

username1 OMFGGGG

username2 no one deserved this more than her for real

username3 SHE MET MAX TOO?? DESERVED

redbullracing Come back soon! 😉

username4 red bull finally inviting people who actually love the sport

username5 GIRL WE NEED A VLOGGGG

username6 omg how did this happen spiiiill

↳ ynreadsbooks let's say i got invited by the world champion

↳ username1 WTF

↳ username2 so MAX invited her not redbull help he really did become a fan after that video

danielricciardo Hope to see you around soon, love ! 👀

↳ username3 how do i sign up for this

username7 THAT PIC OF MAX IS SO BOYFRIEND CODED

maxversteppen1 Thank you so much for coming and making this day special ☺️

↳ username1 OMG MAX

↳ username2 i'd be screaming if i was her

liked by charles_leclerc, ynreadsbooks and 1,028,479 others

maxverstappen1 Enjoyed every moment in Zandvoort with this amazing atmosphere and the best company 🧡

view all comments

username1 KIIING

username2 how can a man be so babygirl

username3 all smiles even tho he finished p2

danielricciardo 🦁🦁

landonorris Simply lovely

↳ username1 menace

username4 bro who got you smiling like that

ynreadsbooks ❤️

↳ username2 biggest max girlie

↳ username3 WE NEED THAT VLOG

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When it came time for YN to leave the Netherlands, Max insisted on driving her to the airport himself. The car ride was filled with comfortable silence and soft conversation, both of them trying to stretch out their remaining time together.

Despite their short time together, Max found himself completely smitten, captivated by YN's intelligence, humor, and the way her eyes lit up when she talked about books or reacted to the thrill of the race.

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was head over heels for her.

As they stood in the departure terminal, Max felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He hesitated, his heart racing, but ultimately settled for a long, warm hug, breathing in her scent and committing it to memory. As he watched her walk through security, he already found himself missing her presence.

Now, a week later, Max was in Monza for the Italian Grand Prix. The day had been busy with media commitments and team meetings. Finally back in the quiet of his motorhome, Max flopped onto the couch, feeling drained but content. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and hit the FaceTime button next to YN's name.

Her smiling face appeared on the screen, and Max felt an immediate surge of warmth.

"Hey, you," she said, her voice soft and welcoming even through the phone's speakers.

"Hey," Max replied, unable to keep the grin off his face. "How's your day been?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Editing videos, reading, missing the excitement of the paddock," YN teased. "How about you? Surviving the media circus?"

"Barely," Max groaned dramatically, "I swear, if I have to answer one more question about RedBull and their big mess, I might go mad."

YN laughed, the sound making Max's heart skip a beat. "Poor Max. Whatever shall we do to take your mind off your beloved team?"

"Well," Max said, shifting to get more comfortable, "I've been reading that new sci-fi book you recommended. 'The Martian-like Odyssey to Titan,' or whatever it's called."

"'Project Hail Mary,'" she corrected, "And? What do you think so far?"

"It's incredible!" Max's eyes lit up, "I mean, the science is fascinating, and the way the main character problem-solves is just... I don't know, it reminds me a bit of what we do in racing, you know? Constantly adapting, finding solutions on the fly."

"That's exactly why I thought you'd like it! The way Andy Weir writes about scientific problem-solving is so engaging."

They dove into an animated discussion about the book, Max marveling at how easily conversation flowed between them, how YN's passion for books was infectious. As they talked, a thought that had been brewing in Max's mind for days suddenly surfaced.

"YN," Max said, his voice softer than before. "There's actually something I've been wanting to ask you."

"Oh? What is it, Max?" she tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression.

Max took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like he was about to qualify for a crucial race. "Well, I was wondering... have you ever been to Monaco?"

"No, actually, I haven't," YN's eyebrows raised in surprise, "It's always been on my travel wish list, though. Why do you ask?"

Max felt his heart rate pick up. He'd rehearsed this moment in his head countless times over the past few days, but now that it was here, he found himself fumbling for words.

"Well, you see, I have a two-week break coming up before the Baku GP, and I was thinking... maybe... if you're free, of course, and if you'd like to... you could come visit me in Monaco?"

The words tumbled out faster than he intended, and Max felt a blush creeping up his neck. He watched YN's face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. His mind raced with possibilities - what if she said no? What if this was too forward?

YN's eyes widened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. "Oh, Max, that's... wow. That's really sweet of you to offer."

Max, sensing a hint of hesitation, quickly added, "You could stay at my place. I have plenty of room, and it would be great to have you around. Plus I have two adorable cats that I'm sure you'd love."

YN's expression softened, a mix of excitement and uncertainty in her eyes. "That sounds amazing, Max. But… are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose on your personal space or your time off."

Truth was, Max wanted to spent every free moment he had with her, but he wasn't sure how to let her know without sounding too forward or like a creep, so he just pressed on.

"You wouldn't be imposing at all, I promise. I really want us to spend more time together, away from the craziness of the race weekends. And I'd love to show you around Monaco."

He watched as YN bit her lip, considering his offer. The silence stretched for a moment, and Max found himself holding his breath.

"If you're not comfortable staying at my place," he added quickly, "I could book you a hotel room, or there are some great Airbnbs with amazing views of the harbor. Whatever makes you feel most at ease. I just… I really want to see you again."

As he spoke, Max realized just how true his words were. The thought of having YN in his space, sharing meals, exploring the city together - it filled him with a warmth he couldn't quite describe. It was more than just attraction; there was a comfort in her presence that he craved.

YN smiled, a warm look in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do. Look, I know it might seem like a big ask, but I just... I can't stop thinking about how much fun we have together. And Monaco is beautiful this time of year. We could go for drives along the coast, have dinner at some amazing restaurants, or just relax by the pool if you prefer. No pressure, just... us. And well, the cats."

Max held his breath, waiting for her response. The thought of having YN in Monaco, of being able to spend uninterrupted time with her away from the pressures of the race weekend, made his heart soar. He imagined showing her his favorite spots in the city, maybe taking her out on his boat, or just lounging by the pool and talking for hours.

"Alright, Verstappen, you've convinced me. But I have one condition."

"Name it." Max grinned, relief and excitement washing over him.

"If I'm staying at your place, you have to let me cook my infamous waffles for breakfast. They're a secret family recipe, and I guarantee they'll be the best you've ever tasted."

"Deal," Max's smile widened, a burst of joy exploding in his chest. "But I warn you, I take my waffles very seriously. They better live up to the hype."

"Oh, they will. And I can't wait to meet the cats."

As they continued to chat and make plans for YN's visit, Max felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The prospect of having YN in his home, of waking up and knowing she was just in the next room, of being able to spend lazy mornings together over homemade waffles - it all seemed almost too good to be true.

He found himself imagining what it would be like to have her there. Would she curl up on his couch with a book? Would they watch the sunset from his terrace? Would he finally get the courage to kiss her?

The thought made his heart race. He remembered the moment at the airport when he had wanted so badly to kiss her goodbye. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass by.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

ynreadsbooks has added to their stories

maxverstappen1 replied to your story

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The day of YN's arrival in Monaco had finally come, and Max felt like a giddy teenager preparing for his first date.

In the days leading up to YN's visit, Max had found himself unusually preoccupied with preparations. He wanted everything to be perfect for YN's stay. He'd bought new sheets for the guest bedroom, making sure they were the softest he could find. He'd stocked the fridge with an array of foods, unsure of her preferences but making sure to have options. He'd even gone so far as to buy a small collection of books he thought she might enjoy, arranging them carefully on the nightstand in her room.

The morning of her arrival, Max woke up early, his stomach a knot of excitement and nerves. He double-checked everything one last time - fresh towels in the bathroom, extra toiletries in case she forgot anything, a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen counter to brighten up the space. He felt almost silly with how much effort he was putting in, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted everything to be perfect for the girl he was smitten with.

As the time to leave for the airport approached, Max found himself pacing, checking his watch every few minutes. He'd planned the route to the airport meticulously, factoring in potential traffic to make sure he'd be there in plenty of time. Just as he was about to grab his keys and head out, the doorbell rang.

Confused, Max paused. He wasn't expecting anyone - he'd made sure to clear his schedule completely for YN's visit. Frowning slightly, he opened the door to find Lando standing there, a wide grin on his face.

"Lando? What are you doing here?" Max asked, glancing at his watch.

"What, can't a mate drop by for a visit?" Lando replied, trying to peer past Max into the apartment. "Thought we could hang out, maybe play some FIFA."

Max shifted awkwardly, blocking the doorway. "Lando, mate, I'm actually just about to head out. I can't hang out right now."

"Oh, come on," Lando's grin faltered slightly, "Just for a bit? We haven't had a proper catch-up in ages."

"I'm sorry, I really can't," Max insisted, glancing at his watch nervously. "I have to pick up a friend from the airport."

Lando's eyes narrowed suspiciously, a mischievous glint appearing. "A friend, huh? Is it that your book dream girl? You're flying her out over here?"

Max felt his face heat up, a blush creeping up his neck. He tried to deny it, but his reaction gave him away.

"It is! Oh man, this is brilliant," Lando's eyes widened in delight, "Max Verstappen, blushing like a schoolboy over a girl."

"Shut up," Max grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. He couldn't help but smile.

"So, YN is finally gracing Monaco with her presence," Lando teased. "No wonder you've been so distracted lately. When do I get to hang out with her?"

"You don't," Max rolled his eyes, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go."

"Alright, alright," Lando stepped aside, still grinning. "But I want details later, yeah? And tell YN I said hi."

Max waved him off, hurrying to his car. Despite Lando's teasing, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The excitement was bubbling up inside him again as he drove to the airport.

As he parked and made his way to the arrivals area, Max felt his nerves almost making him want to throw up. He found himself fidgeting, alternating between pacing and sitting, his eyes glued to the arrivals board.

Finally, he saw that YN's flight had landed. His heart rate picked up as he watched the doors, scanning the crowd for her familiar face. And then, suddenly, there she was.

YN emerged from the arrivals gate, looking a bit tired from the journey but still radiant. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and when they landed on Max, her face lit up with a brilliant smile.

Max felt his breath catch in his throat. He raised his hand in a small wave, a grin spreading across his face as he walked towards her.

"Hey, Max," she said as she reached him, her voice warm and slightly breathless.

"Hey," he replied, suddenly feeling shy. "How was your flight?"

Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. As he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair, he felt a sense of rightness wash over him. It was as if all the pieces were falling into place.

"It was good, just long," she hugged him back tightly. "I'm so glad to be here though."

As they pulled apart, Max found himself reluctant to let go completely. He kept one hand on her back as he reached for her suitcase with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."

"Always the gentleman," YN teased, but her smile was soft and appreciative.

As they walked towards the exit, Max found himself stealing glances at her, still hardly believing she was really here. "So, um, I thought we could grab some lunch if you're hungry? Or if you're tired, we can head straight to my place so you can rest."

YN considered for a moment. "Lunch sounds great, actually. I'm starving, and I'm too excited to sleep just yet. I want to see Monaco."

Max chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at her enthusiasm. "Lunch it is then. I know just the place – it has a great view of the harbor."

As they made their way to Max's car, chatting easily about YN's flight and Max's plans for her visit, Max felt a sense of contentment he hadn't experienced in a long time. The nervousness from earlier had melted away, replaced by pure happiness.

Loading YN's suitcase into the trunk, Max caught her eye and smiled. "I'm really glad you're here, YN."

She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling. "Me too, Max. Me too."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 276,488 others

ynreadsbooks roomates for the week 🥺

view all comments

username1 AWEEE

username2 those are cute kittens

username3 those look like max verstappen's cats

username4 JIMMY AND SASSY VERSTAPPEN??

↳ username1 how CRAZY would it be

danielricciardo Don't hesitate to shout if he's much trouble

↳ username2 HOLD ON??

↳ ynreadsbooks he's just fine don't worry 😅

↳ username3 IS SHE REALLY WITH MAX??

↳ maxverstappen1 I'm not trouble...

↳ username1 OMFGGG

↳ username4 THIS PLOT TWIST

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Three days had passed since YN's arrival in Monaco, and Max couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier.

True to her word, YN had cooked her infamous waffles for breakfast on the second morning of her stay. As Max had taken his first bite, his eyes had widened in surprise and delight. The waffles were light and crispy on the outside, yet fluffy on the inside, with a perfect balance of sweetness and a hint of vanilla. He'd declared them the best he'd ever tasted, earning a proud smile from her.

The days that followed had been filled with laughter, conversation, and exploration. They'd spent hours by Max's pool, talking about everything and nothing. YN would often bring a book, reading aloud passages that she found particularly interesting or amusing, while Max listened, content to hear her voice and watch the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved.

They'd explored Monaco together, with Max showing YN his favorite spots and discovering new ones together. He'd taken her to the Monte Carlo Casino, where they'd marveled at the architecture and people-watched. They'd strolled through the streets of Monaco-Ville, the old town, where YN had been enchanted by the colorful buildings. They'd even spent an afternoon at the Oceanographic Museum, where YN's enthusiasm for learning had been infectious, and Max had found himself just as excited as she was about the marine life exhibits.

Throughout it all, Max felt himself falling deeper for her. It wasn't just her beauty or her intelligence that captivated him, but the way she saw the world. Her curiosity, her kindness, her ability to find joy in the smallest things - it all made Max see his surroundings through new eyes. He found himself noticing details he'd never paid attention to before, appreciating moments he might have otherwise overlooked.

What struck Max most was how easy and right it all felt. There was no pressure, no awkwardness. Being with YN was as natural as breathing. They could talk for hours without running out of things to say, but they were also comfortable in silence, simply enjoying each other's presence.

As they returned from another long day of exploring the city, both Max and YN retreated to their respective rooms to change into more comfortable clothing. Max opted for a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, relishing the feeling of being relaxed and at ease in his own home.

When he emerged from his room, he found YN already settled on his couch, her legs tucked under her, a book in her hands and one of his cats curling beside her. She was wearing one the t-shirt she picked the night she arrived when she realized she forgot to pack pajamas. It was too big for her frame but Max felt like melting knowing she was wearing his shirt.

The sight made Max's heart skip a beat. There was something so intimate and domestic about the scene - YN looking completely at home in his space, in his clothes, absorbed in a book as if she'd always been there.

Max couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest. He found himself wanting this view in his life every day - coming home to find YN there, comfortable and content. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, never wanted to intertwine his life so completely with another person's.

YN looked up from her book, catching Max's gaze. Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Hey. Want to join me?"

Without hesitation, Max crossed the room. Instead of sitting next to her, he surprised both of them by lying down on the couch and resting his head in her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes vulnerable. "Would you read to me?"

YN's expression softened, her eyes twinkling with affection. "Of course," she said, her free hand moving to gently run her fingers through his hair.

Max closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation. He felt her shift slightly, getting comfortable, and then her voice filled the air, soft and melodious as she began to read.

Max's lips curved into a smile. "Emma," he murmured. "I remember you mentioning it was one of your favorites."

YN paused her reading, looking down at him with surprise and pleasure. "You remembered that?"

"Of course," Max opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I remember everything you tell me."

A huge grin appeared in YN's face, and she bent down to press a soft kiss to Max's forehead. The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it made Max's heart flutter.

As she continued to read, her fingers still combing through his hair, Max found himself only half-listening to the words. Instead, he was acutely aware of every point of contact between them - the warmth of her lap under his head, the gentle touch of her fingers, the soft cadence of her voice washing over him.

In that moment, Max realized with startling clarity that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life. Not just the glamour of racing or the thrill of victory, but this - quiet moments of intimacy, the comfort of being with someone who understood him, who made him want to be better.

He reached up, gently taking YN's free hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. She paused in her reading, looking down at him with a question in her eyes.

"YN," Max said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm really glad you're here."

She squeezed his hand, her smile radiant. "So am I, Max. So am I."

As she resumed reading, her voice mixing with the soft sound of the Mediterranean breeze outside, Max closed his eyes again, a sense of peace settling over him. Whatever the future held, he knew that this moment, this feeling, was something he'd cherish forever.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 302,479 others

ynreadsbooks monaco you're the dream 🤍

view all comments

username1 GIRL

username2 THIS ESCALATED QUICKLY

username3 how do you go from max randomly commenting one of your videos to this

username4 girl we can tell that's max dw 😭😭

username5 YOU OWE US A TWO HOUR STORYTIME VIDEO

username6 anything you want to tell us best friend?

username7 she just had a book and a dream fr

landonorris Has he bored you yet?

↳ username1 IM DYING

↳ username2 she really masterminded her way into the f1 circle

↳ ynreadsbooks he's nice, makes good smoothies 😉

↳ maxverstappen1 Good to know that ❤️

↳ landonorris I'm disgusted

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

As the final day of YN's stay in Monaco dawned, Max found himself feeling so many bittersweet emotions. The past week had been nothing short of magical, and the thought of it coming to an end left a hollow feeling in his chest. She hadn't even left yet, and already he missed her.

For their final day, Max had decided to take YN out on his yacht. He wanted their last hours together to be special, just the two of them away from the bustling streets of Monaco. As they prepared for the day, packing a picnic and gathering sunscreen and towels, Max couldn't help but reflect on the past week.

Daniel and Lando had teased him mercilessly about his sudden disappearance from their usual hangouts. They'd made jokes about Max being "whipped" and how he'd fallen hard for his "YouTube dream girl." But Max didn't care. He was too happy, too caught up in the bubble of joy that surrounded him and YN.

As they boarded the yacht, the Mediterranean stretching out before them in shades of turquoise, Max felt a pang in his chest. This perfect week was coming to an end, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face reality again.

Once they were out on the open water. YN leaned over the railing, a look of wonder on her face.

"This is incredible, Max," she said, turning to him with a dazzling smile. "I can't believe I'm here, experiencing all of this."

Max moved to stand beside her, their shoulders brushing. "I'm going to miss you," he said softly, "This week has been… I don't even have words for it."

"I'm going to miss you too, Max. So much. But you know I have to go back home. I have videos to make for my channel, work stuff to catch up on…"

Max nodded, understanding but not liking it. "Maybe you could make a video about 'A Week with an F1 Driver'? I'm sure your subscribers would love that."

YN laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. "Oh yes, I'm sure that would go over well. 'Day 3: Watched Max eat his bodyweight in pasta. Day 5: Learned that F1 drivers are actually big babies when they lose at Mario Kart.'"

"I am not a baby!" Max gasped in mock offense. "I'm just… competitive."

"Uh-huh, sure," she teased, her eyes twinkling. "Is that why you pouted for an hour after I beat you?"

"I did not pout," Max protested, but he was grinning.

"You know, it's still surreal to me that a random video I published got us here. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending a week in Monaco with Max Verstappen, I would have laughed in their face."

Max reached out, caressing her cheek softly. "I'm glad you made that video," he said softly. "I'm glad I stumbled across it. I can't imagine not knowing you now."

As they stood together on the boat, the gentle rocking of the waves mirroring the tumultuous emotions within them, Max found his gaze drawn to YN's lips. They were slightly parted, soft and inviting. His heart raced as he lifted his eyes to meet hers, a silent question in his gaze.

YN's eyes, warm and full of affection, met his. A small, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth, and in that moment, it was all the permission Max needed.

With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back while the other cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the space between them. And then, finally, their lips met.

The kiss was tender at first, a soft exploration. But as YN's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, it deepened into something more passionate. Max poured all of his pent-up emotions into the kiss - his joy, his longing, his hope for what they could be.

When they finally parted, YN's eyes were sparkling. "You know," she said, a playful tone to her voice, "I've been waiting for you to do that all week."

Max couldn't help but laugh, a mixture of relief and happiness bubbling up inside him. "Really? All week, huh?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded, her smile widening. "I was starting to think I'd have to make the first move myself."

"Well," Max said, his voice low and teasing, "allow me to make up for lost time."

With that, he pulled her in for another kiss. This one was different from the first - more confident, more passionate. His hands roamed her back, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his hair. The world around them faded away until there was nothing but the two of them, the taste of salt on their lips, and the warmth of the setting sun on their skin.

When they broke apart this time, both were slightly dazed. Max rested his forehead against YN's, unwilling to put any distance between them.

"I really like you," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "More than I've ever liked anyone before. This week with you… it's been incredible. I don't want it to end."

YN's hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. "I really like you too, Max," she replied, her voice equally soft. "These past few days have been like a dream."

Max pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. "I know you have to go back, but… I want to make this work. Us, I mean. If that's something you want too."

"I do want that. Very much. It might not be easy with our schedules and the distance, but I think you're worth it."

"We'll figure it out," he said, determination clear in his voice. "I'll come visit you when I can, and you can come to some of my races. We'll make time for video calls, and I'll text you so much you'll get sick of me."

YN laughed, the sound like music to Max's ears. "I don't think I could ever get sick of you," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But I'm holding you to that promise about the races. I expect VIP treatment, Mr. Verstappen."

Max grinned, pulling her close again. "For you? Always," he murmured, before capturing her lips in another kiss.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

ynreadsbooks has added to their stories

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The month following YN's stay in Monaco had been blissful happiness for both YN and Max. Their parting at the airport had been bittersweet, filled with lingering kisses and tight embraces. They had spent a good hour cuddling in Max's car in the airport parking lot, neither wanting to let go.

"I'm going to miss you so much," YN had whispered, her face buried in the crook of Max's neck.

Max had tightened his arms around her, breathing in her scent. "I'll miss you too. But we'll see each other soon, I promise."

When they finally managed to separate, their goodbye kiss had been passionate and filled with promise. As Max watched her disappear into the airport, he already felt a piece of his heart leaving with her.

In the weeks that followed, they took every opportunity to be together. Max would fly to YN's home during his breaks between races, often arriving exhausted but immediately revitalized by her presence.

Their reunions were always intense, filled with desperate kisses and roaming hands as they made up for lost time. But it was the quiet moments that Max treasured most - waking up with YN in his arms, her sleepy smile the first thing he saw; cooking breakfast together, stealing kisses between flipping pancakes; or simply sitting in comfortable silence, each lost in their own tasks but finding comfort in the other's presence.

Now, as they walked hand in hand through the paddock in Austin for the USA Grand Prix, Max felt a sense of pride and joy unlike anything he'd experienced before. Having YN by his side at a race weekend, this time as more than just a friend, felt right in a way he couldn't fully express.

"This is incredible, Max," YN breathed, squeezing his hand. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

Max grinned, his heart swelling with affection. He loved seeing the paddock through her eyes, rediscovering the magic that he sometimes took for granted.

"Wait until you see the track," he said, pulling her closer. "And the sound when all the cars start up… there's nothing like it."

They paused for a moment, watching as a group of mechanics wheeled a set of tires past them. Max took the opportunity to really look at his girl. She was radiant in the sunlight, her hair catching the light and her eyes sparkling with excitement. He couldn't resist leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

YN turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. "What was that for?"

"Do I need a reason to kiss my girl?" Max replied, his voice low and teasing.

She laughed, the sound music to his ears. "I suppose not. But maybe save some for later? We are in public, after all."

"You're killing me," Max groaned dramatically. "How am I supposed to focus on racing when you look like that?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," YN teased, patting his chest. "After all, I hear you're quite good at this driving thing."

Their playful banter was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out. "Oi, Verstappen! Finally decided to grace us with your presence?"

Max turned to see Daniel approaching, his trademark grin in place. Lando was close behind, an equally mischievous look on his face.

"Hey guys," Max greeted, unconsciously pulling YN closer. "You remember YN, right?"

"Ah yes," Daniel's grin widened. "Nice to see you again, love."

"It's great to see you too, Daniel," she smiled warmly. "And you, Lando."

Lando's eyes darted between Max and YN, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "So, Max, finally managed to seal the deal, huh?"

Max felt his cheeks heat up, but before he could respond, YN jumped in.

"Oh, he did more than that," she said, her tone light but with a hint of something that made Max's pulse quicken. "He's been quite… impressive."

Daniel let out a low whistle while Lando burst into laughter. Max couldn't help but join in, marveling at how effortlessly YN fit into his world.

As they chatted, Max couldn't keep his hands off YN. He found himself constantly touching her - a hand on the small of her back, playing with her fingers, rubbing her arm softly. Each touch was like a spark, reminding him of their passionate reunions over the past month.

He thought back to their last meeting, just a week ago. He had flown to her place straight after he was done with some meetings in Monaco, exhausted but desperate to see her. The moment he stepped through her door, all fatigue had vanished. They had barely made it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. The memory of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasps and moans… it was enough to make him want to whisk her away to his motorhome right now.

Max was pulled from his thoughts by the approach of another familiar face. Charles Leclerc was walking towards them, his trademark charming smile in place.

"Max! Good to see you, man," Charles said, clapping Max on the shoulder before turning his attention to YN. "And who might this lovely lady be?"

Without hesitation, the words tumbled from Max's lips: "This is YN, my girlfriend."

He felt the girl stiffen slightly beside him, and for a moment, panic flared in his chest. Had he overstepped? They hadn't explicitly discussed labels yet. But when he glanced at YN, she was smiling warmly at Charles, her hand still firmly in Max's.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charles," YN said, shaking his hand.

Charles raised an eyebrow at Max, a hint of surprise in his expression. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you're enjoying your time in the paddock."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they parted ways. Max led YN towards his driver's room. Once inside the relative privacy of the small space, YN turned to him, a playful glint in her eye.

"Girlfriend, huh?" she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something Max couldn't quite identify.

Max felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "I… yeah. I mean, if that's okay? I know we haven't really talked about it, but…"

YN stepped closer, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "It's more than okay, Max. I was just surprised. We've been in this beautiful bubble, and hearing you say it out loud… it made it feel real in a way it hasn't before."

Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His hands found their way to YN's waist, pulling her closer. "It is real," he said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Feels like you're everything."

Her eyes softened, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You're everything to me too, Max. I love you."

The words hung in the air between them for a moment, both realizing it was the first time either had said it. Then Max surged forward, capturing YN's lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and passionate.

When they broke apart. Max rested his forehead against YN's, his eyes closed as he savored the moment.

"I love you too," he whispered. "God, YN, I love you so much."

YN's answering smile was radiant and she pulled him in for another kiss.

"So," he said, his voice husky, "ready to watch your boyfriend win a race?"

YN laughed, the sound filling the small space and Max's heart. "Always," she replied. "My misunderstood hero with a heart of gold."

[spider-stark]

SPIDER-BOY

Pairing - Peter Parker x Reader

Summary - Thinking he has no chance with y/n as himself, Peter begins approaching them as Spider-Man.

friendly reminder - the best way to support writers on Tumblr is to reblog their work or comment <3:)

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Two months. 

That was how long it had been since Peter first indulged in his ridiculous idea of talking to you under the guise of Spider-Man. Of course he hadn’t meant for it to last this long, promising himself that it was just to help him build his confidence–maybe even learn a bit about what kind of things you liked–so that he could actually ask you out as himself. Unfortunately, though, things hadn’t gone quite as he had planned. 

Spider-Man offered him a type of courage that he just wasn’t able to muster as Peter Parker. Under the cover of his mask he was able to come across as easy-going and flirtatious, never failing to leave your cheeks a deep crimson from the playful banter. Yet, when he did manage to speak to you as plain ole’ Peter, all of that was suddenly lost on him, leaving him a complete and total bumbling mess. As far as he was concerned, Peter Parker had no chance to be what any girl wanted, especially you. But Spider-Man was a different story.

And so he continued to exploit Spider-Man, using the masked hero as a means to continue getting closer to you, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hide behind his secret identity forever. To be fair, he would rationalize to himself, Spider-Man had taken a lot from him, it was only fair that he got something in return. 

Plus, the interactions had been mostly innocent. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, opting to ignore the many times that coy attitudes began to border on actual sexual attraction. He tried not to think about those times (though there had been many nights where he purposely let those interactions slip into his mind, reliving them from the privacy of his bedroom), instead just promising himself that he wouldn’t let his romantic escapades as Spidey go too far. 

“So,” your voice filled his ears, his heart skipping a few beats at the sound, “at what point should I start to wonder if you’re stalking me?” 

Peter chuckled at the question, his fingers gripping the railing of the balcony to your apartment, effortlessly hanging from it. “Do you feel like I’m stalking you?” 

“Hm,” you placed a finger against your chin, pretending to be deep in thought, evoking even more laughter from the boy. “Maybe a bit.” 

“Oh yeah? What did I do to give that impression?” 

“Well, to be fair, you’re currently dangling a couple hundred feet in the air off the side of my balcony.” You told him matter-of-factly, gesturing to where he was still hanging from the railing. 

His brows furrowed beneath his mask, an expression that was barely noticeable due to the fabric covering his face. “And that makes me a stalker? I thought you’d find it romantic, a sort of Romeo-and-Juliet moment.” 

“Romeo threw pebbles at her window, he didn’t scale an entire apartment building dressed in spandex.” You reminded him, “But, actually, it’s more so that I don’t remember ever giving you my address.” 

Peter froze for a moment, having not thought about the fact that your previous run-ins with Spider-Man had always been in public spaces–catching you after work or just happening to bump into you on the street while patrolling–never at your home. He only knew where you lived because you had told him, but as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, when the two of you were assigned to a project together last week. He mentally face-palmed at his own ignorance. 

“Superheroes keep up with where all the pretty girls live. One of the lesser-known parts of the job.” He quipped, hoping that flattery would keep you from thinking too much into it. You only rolled your eyes at the comment, luckily not pressing any further. 

“So what did I do to deserve a surprise Spidey visit this time?” You hummed, leaning back against the cold brick of your apartment building.  

Peter hoisted himself over the edge of the balcony so that he was standing across from you, his arms finally beginning to ache from holding up his bodyweight for so long. “What, I’ve gotta have a reason to stop by and see my favorite civilian?” 

“Civilian?” You snorted. “And here I was thinking you and I were friends.” 

He dramatically placed his hands on either side of his face, feigning shock at your words, “Oh God no! You and me? Friends?” he let his hands fall to his waist, an exaggerated breath leaving his mouth, “No, not at all. I think that would be a conflict of interest.” 

You cocked a brow at him, “How so?” 

“I mean–I just think it would really interfere with our whole superhero slash damsel-in-distress routine, ya know?” 

“Damsel-in-distress?” You gasped incredulously at the claim, though the corners of your mouth were still quirked up in a smile. 

Peter nodded, “Uh, yeah. That’s literally our whole thing, isn’t it? You constantly running into trouble, me swinging in and saving your life.” 

“You haven’t had to save my life once Spider-Boy.” Peter scoffed at the name, acting like he was insulted. 

“Oh c’mon!” Peter dragged the word out, practically whining as he took a fraction of a step towards you, the movement enough to leave only a few inches between the both of you due to how small the balcony was. “You are literally always getting yourself into danger.” 

“Okay,” You crossed your arms over your chest, craning your neck so that you could actually look up at him, the masked vigilante having several inches on you, “give me an example then.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, a gesture only evident by the dramatic way his head moved along with them. He reached a gloved hand to your face, letting his fingertip gently brush against the semi-healed cut along your forehead. “You literally got this by tripping over your own shoes and banging your head against the counter at a coffee shop. Not to mention the fact that you spilled your entire coffee on yourself in the process.” He trailed away from the cut, moving to brush a stray hair behind your ear. He didn’t take his hand away, though, letting it rest against the side of your face. “You are always in danger because you are the danger.” 

Your eyes widened for a moment, so quick that he didn’t even notice the reaction. He was right, you had done that, an unfortunate consequence of being the clumsiest person alive. But, still, his words left you confused; remaining silent for just a moment as you turned them over in your head. When you finally opened your mouth to speak you were cut off by the sound of distant sirens, a groan immediately coming from him, knowing that your interaction would now be cut short. 

His thumb brushed against your cheek, acting as an unnecessary silent apology. 

“Sounds like somebody needs Spider-Man.” You told him as he let his hand fall from your skin, forcing himself to the railing. If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t leave at all. “You better hurry, it could be one of those pretty girls you keep tabs on.” You shot a teasing grin in his direction, referencing his earlier comment. 

“Ugh, they just never give me a day off.” He joked, swinging his feet over the balcony railing before gripping onto it and allowing himself to once again hang from it. “Try not to trip into anything dangerous until I’m back.” 

He turned his head and reached one hand out, likely to shoot a web at the building across from yours, but hesitated when he heard you speak again, a sudden panic filling his body at your words, “Be safe, Parker.” 

The sirens continued blaring, growing closer with each second, but all he could hear was the sound of his own heart wildly thumping against his chest. “What?” He sounded completely dumbfounded, his head slowly turning back to look at you, only to find you standing with your own finger pointing to the cut he had traced on your forehead, a wide grin on your face. 

“Spider-Man wasn’t there the day that I fell.” You shot a knowing glance in his direction, one that had his cheeks heating up. He had never been more thankful to be wearing a mask, aware that his face was likely beet red. “I asked Peter to meet me there so I could borrow his biology notes.” 

Peter didn’t speak, too stunned by his own stupidity for slipping up and not thinking about how he was there that day as himself, not Spider-Man. This time you were the one to take a step forward and close the gap between you, having to lean down just a bit in order to be face-to-face as he dangled from the railing. 

“You’re a lot more confident in the suit.” You mused, your hands finding the base of his mask, lightly tugging the material up to reveal his face. Even though it was dark out you could still see that he was blushing. “But I prefer you without it.” 

His jaw fell slack, words getting caught in his throat as a million thoughts raced through his mind, though one thought in particular was a lot louder than the rest: I prefer you without it. 

“You should definitely go.” The sirens were now close enough that you could actually see the faint red-and-blue lights a few streets over. He looked in the direction of them but still didn’t make a single move to leave. You seemed to recognize his hesitation, tugging the mask back down over his face. “If you ever remember how to talk then you can come back when you’re done. But ditch the mask.” 

Peter nodded at your words, his eyes remaining glued to you as you straightened back up, turning your back to him to go back inside your apartment–leaving him to go off and be a hero. Once you were inside he couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he forced himself to get into motion, swinging in the direction of the police lights. 

Turns out Peter Parker did have a chance.

[thebestofoneshots]

No Sweeter Innocence than Our Gentle Sin Pt.1 | Remus Lupin x Reader

Pairing: Priest!Remus x reader

Word Count: 8.6 k

Prompt: You did not want to go to church that day, but your spirits are uplifted when you meet Father Remus, and your mind starts creating a mischievous scheme, to both retaliate over those years of being forced to go and take something from them.

Alternatively, R is really mad at the church and decides to steal one of their priests for it (but also kind of falls for him).

Warnings: SMUT, Non-apt for Christians(?). Reader is a little cynical (or maybe cynical Af). Suggestive talks, touching oneself, fingering. Reader seduces a Priest (so whatever you might expect from that), hierophiIia, corruption!kink, praise!kink (if you squint). Consent is sexy!

 Proofread by lovely @aremuslupinsimp

Part 2 is out now!

♡ NSFW: Smut under the cut

ACT I: Remember to keep holy the LORD’s Day

You really didn’t want to go to church. You had one hell of a week and you were incredibly tired so when you got the phone call with your grandma inviting you to go, you were about ready to say no. 

But your grandma has always been extremely catholic, and while you weren’t anymore, you hadn’t seen her in a while, and you missed her. Her being in town for your short vacation was a good enough reason to visit her more often (she was staying with your parents) and if you’d have to live through a whole hour of some boring priest talking about all the things that are wrong with society nowadays, then you would. Even if you didn’t want to. 

That didn’t stop you from being cranky over the fact that you’d have to wake up extra early to take the 40-minute ride to the church she claimed “was the best one in the city,” according to her priest back at home (of course she couldn’t just ask you to the nearest fucking church). 

Breathe, you told yourself. This is for your grandma, you repeated as you sat on the narrow seat of public transport, next to the gym bro that smelled like he could use a shower and whose massive arms would bump into you whenever the bus went through a pothole. 

When you finally reached your spot, you had to wake him up so he would move his massive legs to the side and you could fucking pass through, walking down the bus in the sea of people that for some reason had taken the same one. Once outside you took a deep breath and tried to relax again. You didn’t want to look as pissed as you felt when you finally saw your grandma. At least it was a fucking cloudy day and you wouldn’t have to deal with the sun as you walked the 4 blocks left you had until you arrived at the church. 

Who the fuck would invent a church so goddamn far from everything important? You wondered as you approached. 

Oh, you thought once you saw it. Someone who wanted a lot of space then. 

The church was massive. And while you might have been prone to exaggerate when you were pissed, you were far from exaggerating now. It was almost a small castle, maybe the largest church in the city, certainly the largest one you had seen in your life (not that you had seen a great many but certainly a few). 

On the outside, there were very many intricate details carved, a few gargoyles at the top in a very Notre Dame-esque sort of way. Except while Notre Dame ended in a very square and neat way, the towers of this one extended far above the roof and ended in a pointy, almost menacing sort of way. You had been so absorbed by the intricate details of the tower, that you didn’t realise you were walking straight into someone. 

“Uhh sorry,” you said as you stumbled back, pulling your gaze from the structure and towards the person right in front of you. You were absorbed by him the second your eyes met his: golden brown, almost shining with the way the sun was hitting them. You weren’t sure you had ever seen a more perfect person in your life, they were exactly your–

“I see you’ve met Father Remus!” Your grandma said as she grabbed onto your arm and pulled you back from him a couple more steps. 

Father? He’s married? You wondered until you noticed his clothes, all-black suit, white necktie, she meant Father as in Priest?!?

The man –Remus– smiled, gentle, sweet and caring. “Nice to meet you…” there was silence. It took you a second to realise the man was expecting your name, and you gave it to him, fast and still slightly disoriented. 

“Come on, angel,” your nan said as she pulled you towards the entrance. “We can talk after the mass.” 

“Nice to meet you, Remus,” you said, turning up your most charming smile as you waved goodbye to the man. His eyes seemed to trail on your hand, but your grandma pulled you again, and you were forced to turn around. 

“It’s Father Remus,” your grandma corrected. 

“Right, sorry,” you said, almost carelessly, not carelessly enough for her to notice, though. 

“I’m glad you came, I don’t think any of your cousins made it.”

“Oh, it was nothing, Nan,” you said as you turned around to see if Remus was still around. He was not anymore, you turned back to her. “It’s lovely to be here with you.” 

That wasn’t entirely a lie, you liked spending time with her, she was lovely. But you did not like going to the church, you had long parted with the catholic ideals and you weren’t interested in most of the archaic teachings of the church. Especially the homophobic ones, you thought the closed-mindedness of the church was a terrible thing, and that it stopped many people from being who they truly were, not to mention how it affected a lot of people you knew. It was because of that close-mindedness that some of your friends had to hide themselves from their parents. Because god forbid their children were gay.

Now, not everything about the church was bad, some values were good and important, but at this point in the progressive world, perhaps the bad outweighed the good. And in the end, religions were just a way of controlling the masses, no surprise the church service was called “mass”. 

You could have made a list of everything that was wrong, in a very Lutheran manner, sent it to your grandma and never attended again, but she was old and you knew there was no way she’d understand, especially when she’d been conditioned to think a certain way for far more years than you’d been alive. So instead, you decided to sit through the service with her, and make her happy, rather than be the rebel you sometimes wanted to be.

Ah the service, it was boring until Remus came out. If you thought he’d look handsome in the cassock, you could have been awestruck when you saw him wearing that white alb. Yes, those Sunday school days had taught you enough. He wore a cincture around the waist that matched the alb, and you’d swear you deserve hell when you pictured yourself pulling the entire thing off him in a secret corner of the massive church. In the middle of mass, while the head priest kept talking about things related to Jesus and how he saved someone or whatever, you were thinking of calm and collected Father Remus, losing control and giving in to the lust of the flesh, and all of it for you. 

A small smirk played on your face as you thought of all the things you’d like to do to Remus, of all the sounds you’d have him make. Was it sinful? Perhaps. Did it warrant hell? Most likely. Luckily, you didn’t believe in hell any more than you believed in heaven.

And then it came to you. The idea that would certainly warrant a hell of a lot more than your lewd imaginings. If stealing was a sin, then how sinful would it be to steal something from god? To pilfer one of his men for yourself?

What an ungodly thing to do, so devilish that perhaps you wouldn’t be in hell to be punished but rather to punish. Was it perhaps a revenge for being forced into church for so many years, for having to sit through hours of Sunday School and the indoctrination you had to put up with but somehow managed to see past? Yeah. But at this point, you weren’t sure you cared. Something about Remus had sucked you in like a moth to a flame and you wanted to cling to whatever that was. Otherwise, you might have not be able to go through with your plan. 

It wouldn’t happen all in one day, it couldn’t happen all in one day. It had to be slow, steady, and repetitive, like the snake tempting Eve, like Eve tempting Adam. You hadn’t seen yourself as a sexy woman throughout your life, at least not the kind of Sexy Femme Fatale that men seemed to live and diе for in movies. No, you had never been like that, and you wouldn’t start today. But you would perform the most outrageous and strong act of seduction you had ever thought of and it had to be done perfectly, or you wouldn’t get what you wanted.

What was it that you wanted again? Right, you wanted Remus Lupin.

ACT II: Thou shall not steal 

“When was the last time you confessed?” Your Nan whispered as she leaned onto you, people were already standing for communion. 

You hesitated. “I’m not sure, Nan.” 

She hummed in return, clearly disapproving of your distancing from the church. You were sure she would have called you heathen if you said the truth, it had been years. 

“I could go up and confess now,” you said as you looked at the confessionary in the back, you had seen Remus enter it, but you suspected it was too soon to start with the plan. 

“No darling, repent for your sins and you can confess later. Perhaps after mass.” 

“Or during the week,” you said with a knowing smile. 

“Isn’t it a long way from your apartment?” 

“I’m sure it’ll be worth it anyway.” 

She stood up and took the communion, leaving you sitting on the chair and looking at the way people would walk toward the altar. Judging them, if that made sense. There was a woman who accommodated her breasts back in her seat before standing up, she threw a look at one of the other priests as she took the host. You gave her an approving sort of glance before you turned to someone else. Now you didn’t exactly consider her way of seducing appealing, but then again, yours wouldn’t be much better either. So to each their own. The man behind her had been touching himself in the very back of the church and had stared at her ass throughout the entire line, probably for more material. 

Sinners, the church claiming to be so saint, and it was full of them. 

You weren’t much better than them either, the difference is that you didn’t harbour the same hate towards yourself for it. No, you knew what nature was and you knew that despite how much we humans pretended to be better, we still were all animals. And there are a few things that animals want and need. Love, or the act of love, was one of them. That’s what you’d be using to your favour. 

When your Nan came back, you helped her kneel and do her praying; all the while you attentively looked around. Remus had left the concessionary already and he was at the front with the rest of the priests. He spotted you looking at him and you smiled kindly, innocently at him. The kind of smile someone with the thoughts surging in your head wouldn’t be able to give, and yet, you accomplished it seamlessly.

He gave you a courteous nod and you reciprocated it. The rest of the mass was as boring as you’d expect it to be; except for the fact that Remus was looking at you rather often, either he was curious about their new parishioner, or he was interested. Either way, you were sure you’d be able to use that in your favour. 

When the mass was over, you had to wait for all of them to exit the church first and then you helped your Nan stand and walked with her towards the entrance. Remus was there, giving short blessings and handing out some pamphlets about donations and other similar stuff. Your grandma was the one to pull you towards him. “What a wonderful mass,” she said. “Father Ernest was onto something when he told me to come here while I was in the city.” 

“Thank you,” Remus said bashfully, you could almost see him blush at the praise. What would a real blush look on him? You were dying to know. 

“Wonderful indeed, although I would have liked to hear your interpretation of the verses, Remus,” You said. 

“Father Remus,” your grandma corrected. 

“Oh, it’s fine. If it feels more personal you may call me just Remus, dear one.” 

You tried to hold back the snide smile you would have thrown your Nan had it been any other woman. You could call him Remus. You were a dear one. 

“Right, perhaps another day,” you added with a smile and pulled your grandma to the side so the next person could take the blessing. 

“I preach on Wednesdays,” Remus said, tone borderline desperate, as he raised his head over the people and women piling around him. Clearly, you weren’t the only one to harbour a little crush on Father Remus. It didn’t matter though, because you’d be the one to have him. 

Next Wednesday you didn’t make any plans, and you put on something simple but elegant. A squared-neck shirt and a pair of jeans. When you arrived at the church, you didn’t waste as much time admiring it, instead, you decided to walk straight inside. His mass had started already, and you sneaked in through the side until you reached the third row of seats. There weren’t as many people as you’d expect on a Wednesday, but Remus was preaching like there were hundreds. He was wonderful.

He had a way with words that made you want to listen, perhaps if you weren’t so cynical, it would even convert you. But rather than thinking of his prayer, you were thinking of how incredible he would be as a teacher, you imagined the students, squirming for him and his words in their seats. You imagined the older, more daring girls going after him. You were lucky that wasn’t the situation, the kind of woman that could seduce any man had the benefit of practice that you didn’t. You wouldn’t have stood a chance against them. 

But the kind of woman that went to the church, the kind that flocked to him at the end of mass, they weren’t a threat. They were too pious to try anything even remotely similar to what you had in mind. In fact, you even dared to think you were lucky that he had been a priest and not a teacher because then he would have perhaps been married, and while you were willing to take a man from god, you would never take one from another woman. You had limits. 

After the mass was over, you waited a few minutes before leaving the church “accidentally” bumping into him again. “Remus,” you said with a smile. “We seem to continue bumping into each other,” you added as you leaned closer to him and pressed your cheek to his, making a low smacking sound, and then repeating on the other side. He looked bewildered at the contact. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable? I got this habit while I was in France and I still haven’t shaken it off completely.” 

“Oh… No, no,” hesitant, bashful, you loved every bit of it. “Not at all, it’s fine. You can greet me however you like.” 

“Is that privilege reserved to me, or does every other parishioner have it?” He seemed taken aback by your words. “I’m joking, Remus,” you added and placed your hand on his arm, before pulling it back tentatively. “Your mass was wonderful.” 

“Thank you, I’m lucky to work at Saint Gryffin.” 

“The way I see it, Saint Gryffin is lucky to have you. I mean lots of women come here to see the beautiful priest Remus.” 

“You think?” he asked. Remus didn’t exactly consider himself handsome, he thought his scars would scare people away rather than attract them. But he sometimes failed to see past them and didn’t pay attention to his beautiful eyes, to his charming smile, to his long lashes, or to his well-toned frame. It was as if he had been carved by Michael Angelo himself, from your perspective.

“For sure,” you replied. “Take a closer look at the way they look at you on Sunday and you’ll see.” He blushed, a deeper shade of red than your Nan had pulled out of him, you resisted the urge to bite your lip and smiled instead. “Today was lovely, I’ll see you around,” you said before waving goodbye and exiting the church. 

You went again a week later, Remus would sometimes lose his focus on the bible and look at you instead. That day you had chosen a skirt. Nothing too short or indecent, but certainly short enough to allow your legs to be seen and admired. An older man hadn’t stopped staring at you throughout the mass, and you would have perhaps told him off if it hadn’t been for the fact that Remus had been in a similar position.

Remus’ distraction, his hesitance and his constant turning to you were enough to drive your attention away from the man and onto him. You would smile, and you would nod, and you would pretend to be a supportive little lamb. Innocent, and meek and kind. Just what he expected from you. And it was that Wednesday, the third time that you’d met him, that you realised you had him right where you wanted him to be. 

He for sure had a thing for you, be it curiosity, admiration, or a small crush. You had gotten his attention, and you had gotten into his mind. Now all you needed was to have him. 

ACT III: Thou shall not Covet someone else’s property 

The next Wednesday you had been late, you had allowed your hair to be slightly dishevelled and your cheeks were warm, despite the autumn getting colder. You had bitten your lips and you looked like you had just gotten away from a dire situation. You’d done it on purpose. When his gaze fell on you he almost stopped talking completely. He staggered to complete his words and you nodded for him to go on. When he was done, he rushed out, and you stayed in your seat. Eyes closed and hands clasping each other, pretending to pray. 

That’s when you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder, he whispered your name. “Are you okay, Little Lamb?” 

It took a real effort not to laugh at his nickname. Not because you thought it was stupid, but because you were so far from a lamb that you might as well have been the wolf that ate it. You turned to him, fake distress clouding your features, “I’ve done something terrible, Remus.” 

He was kind, almost impossibly so, it almost made you want to stop your plan and leave him the pure man he was. 

Almost.

“I’m sure there’s nothing you could do, that was as bad as you’ve described.” 

“I’d like to confess,” you said. “Would you take my confession?” 

Remus seemed hesitant, biting his lip. He knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t hear your confession, not when he wanted to maintain a personal relationship with you, not when he’d develop a crush. But it was in your preoccupied gaze, in the small frown that etched your features, in the way your lips curved down and in the bobbing of your throat as you swallowed. How ever could he deny you? 

Oh, those thoughts would be the ones that would drag him into sin, nay, not drag, but rather, waft him into it. If Remus hadn’t been so enamoured by you, perhaps corrupting him would have proved a harder task to accomplish for you. 

“Okay,” he said simply. And helped you stand. Guiding you towards the empty confessionary and sitting in his spot as you opened the door to the other one. It was a narrow place, enough for you to sit. There was a screen dividing the two of you, you couldn’t see him, but you suspected he could see you. And there was a small, square hole in between, enough to fit perhaps a hand. You assumed it was there in case you’d like to give something to the priest, as a thank you. 

Remus cleared his throat, and in the most professional way he could muster he said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. My child, what brings you to the sacrament of confession today?”

His voice had been different, stronger as if he was trying not to be himself. You loved it. “Father, I come seeking forgiveness for my sins. I have strayed from the path of righteousness and I seek reconciliation,” you let your voice bend and crack near the end. 

 “I am here to listen, my child. Let us begin with a moment of reflection. Take a moment to examine your conscience and bring to mind the sins you wish to confess.” 

You held back the smirk that threatened to appear when he said that, just in case he was actually able to see you. “I have fallen in love with a man I cannot have.” 

“Oh, darling,” he said, that was Remus, not Father Remus. You had cracked through his façade and you hadn’t even started. “That is not a sin. It’s happened to the best of us.” 

“But it is a sin the way I think of him, Father,” you responded. You heard a sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t speak further. “I have dreamt of him, of his lips, of his eyes with long lashes, the way his hair frames his face, of his beautiful and strong hands–” Remus tried not to be jealous of the man you described, but everything about him seemed perfect, and unlike himself, he probably could have you. Your beautiful lips, and eyes, focused solely on him. He hated the guy already. “–sliding between my legs, and touching me.” 

“Do not speak further,” there was an edge of alarm in his voice. A bit of a broken end to it. 

“Oh but Father I must,” you said. “If I don’t I’m afraid I’ll act upon my feelings in the same way I did today while thinking of him.” 

“You…” he hesitated. “You touched yourself… Is that why you’re here?” 

“Yes,” you replied with a frown, almost a wince, all of it an act, of course. 

“Pray Our Father 10 times and–” 

“No! Allow me to relate my story, Father,” he tried to stop you. “I must, I must, or then I might go to him and offer myself in a terrible, ungodly manner and then I won’t ever be deserving of the church ever again.”

Frankly, you didn’t even know how you’d gotten so inspired, but Remus relented, nodding and when he realised you hadn’t heard, he bit his cheek and said. “Go on then.” 

You sighed, that was a real sigh, you weren’t sure you’d get this far. “I had a dream of him, Father. He was handsome as ever, and he looked at me, with such kind eyes, with such loving eyes, that when he leaned in to kiss me, I didn’t stop him.” 

Remus was already praying for himself. He did not want to imagine you in your bed, your hair sprawled over the pillow and your mind away in a dream, kissing another man. 

“I didn’t stop him when he pinned me against the wall, and I didn’t stop him when his hand dug under my shirt. I said nothing when it travelled to my breast, and I all but moaned when he pinched my nipple.” 

“That is enough, I get the idea.” 

“But that’s not the whole dream,” you protested, you sounded mortified. How could he stop your repentance for his own misguided thoughts? A man of God wasn’t supposed to harbour this kind of feelings for a fellow human, he was not meant to like you so much, and his pants were not meant to be as uncomfortable. 

“You don’t have to go onto the details–” 

“But Father, I must repent for all of my sins.” 

Remus sighed, “Go on then.” 

“And then when he reached down, oh Remus, I spread my legs for him rather than shut them close…” you didn’t say a thing. You could hear his breathing had gotten a lot more ragged. “He slid this hand through my knickers and touched me, that place that should only be touched by your husband. And… it felt good. I moaned his name until my voice went hoarse in the dream. I saw him pump himself and woke up as he rubbed his cock onto my folds.” 

There was a sigh of relief when he thought the story was over. “It is good that you repent–” 

“The worst part is yet to come.” You said, and you breathed. “When I awoke, I felt a wetness between my legs. My underwear was moist and the stickiness had rubbed onto my legs. I know I shouldn’t have done it, Remus, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. I wanted to know if it would feel as good as in the dream.” 

“Child.” 

“I reached down and repeated the actions the man had done to me. My fingers weren’t as strong or secure, but I found a spot that felt incredible, and I kept touching it, rubbing it, circling around it.” 

Remus’ boner was straining against his pants in an almost painful way. He wanted to let go, he wanted to set him free and chase his own pleasure at your words. At how he pictured you in your bed, sweaty and sighing as you touched yourself. You were so beautiful, he found innocence even in the way you sinned. 

“And then there was bliss, I thought I was dеad and had gone to heaven, but I came back, vision cloudy and disoriented. My bedsheets were sticky with my juices and I had to change them. I’ve been in a permanent state of shame ever since then.” 

“Let us pray for your forgiveness,” Remus said. And my own, he thought. Now not only your sheets had been stained, but so had his pants, just from hearing you. You would have relished on the knowledge if you’d had it. 

“Thank you, Father,” you said as you stood. 

“Pray tell me child, whoever is this man that has you in such an altered state of mind?” 

Got him! you thought as you turned your gaze to the confessionary. And almost in a whisper, you murmured. “Well, it’s you, Remus.” 

ACT IV:  Thou shall not commit adultery

Remus couldn’t stop thinking of you since that day. He’d get boners with the mere thought of you, with the idea of you going back to his confessionary and telling him all the lewd things you had done while thinking of him again.

He thought of you in the shower, and he thought of you in bed, and he thought of you while praying to try and take his mind away from you as well. He knew he was in deep trouble and he had no one he could talk to about his problem. 

He had avoided touching himself, but it was hard and it was painful to ignore the throbbing sometimes, and he had to give in. Gently brushing his hand on top of his trousers until either it subdued or he came, completely forgetting who he was and thinking only of your hot lips in his and your legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed you in the exact same way he’d had you in your dream. A dream that had now become as much his as it had been yours. 

The next Wednesday he was nervous. Bouncing his leg while he had breakfast and playing with his nails while he read the verse he’d have to give that day. His breath was stuck in his throat as he started to preach and he waited. And waited as he spoke and looked at the door and then back at the bible held between his hands and then back at the door. 

You didn’t go to church that day. 

Naturally, he was mortified. Thinking he had done something wrong, thinking he had scared you and thinking he’d pushed you away somehow. Thinking you were too scared to see him again after those lewd dreams, thinking –God forbid- you had chosen a different church to attend. 

So when the next Wednesday you showed up with a small skirt (the smallest you had ever gone to church with) and a simple preppy-looking sweater he couldn’t help but be both relieved and terrified, all at the same time. You had tinted your lips red, not enough for it to be lipstick, but enough for them to look raw and bitten, and while your hair was perfectly put together, and your makeup right in place, there was something about you that screamed danger. 

You sat right in the very first row. There were like 5 other people in the massive church that day. Someone sitting in the middle. A couple of old people in the back and a few others scattered around. No one young, and no one near the front either. 

Oh, what a terrible thing it was that you were about to do. 

Remus was quick to dismiss his deacons, asking them to go fetch something while he preached mass and they gave him a courteous nod while he started talking. As per usual, you listened attentively, paying close attention to the things he said, and despite yourself, often finding the things that you disagreed with. You realized he could barely take his eyes off you, and you slowly, spread your legs. Only a little, only enough to get his attention. You saw the way he licked his lips, and went back to talking. And you smiled. You pulled your ass back and opened yourself a little wider before crossing one leg over the other. You accommodated your skirt with your hand, slow and steady. Pulling your skirt up to show more skin before pulling it down and settling it in place, but only after he’d noticed, and seen as much of skin as possible, all the while, pretending to be doing it all innocently. Like you hadn’t worn that small skirt on purpose and like you hadn’t taken off your knickers and placed them in your bag in that public loo before walking inside the church. 

When the mass ended, you saw Remus disappear into the confessionary. Onto the confession side. You saw him look around and then get inside, nervous as if scared to be seen. Probably trying to run away from you. When you made sure that there was no one left, you walked inside the other side. He was hunched, elbows leaning on his knees and head hidden between his hands. You thought you had gone too far since he looked like he had been crying, but you quickly realised he had been praying instead. 

Sure, he’d have complicated thoughts, but your plan was meant to be fun for the two of you, and you wanted him to enjoy being corrupted as much as you enjoyed corrupting him. 

“Remus,” you said tentatively. “Are you okay?” 

He gasped and turned to the small division, he couldn’t see you, but you could see him perfectly. “It’s you.” 

Rather than replying you cocked your head to the side. “Take a moment to examine your conscience and bring to mind the sins you wish to confess,” you joked. He gave you a stern look from the other side, a reproaching sort of look as if he wanted to tell you how terrible it was for you to impersonate a Priest, but he didn’t speak. “Or should I speak of mine first?”

“Please don’t.”

“Then sing, little bird.” 

Remus huffed. “I’ve been thinking about a woman, non-stop.” 

“A church woman?” 

“I’m not sure if she really is a church woman anymore.” 

“A devil?” 

“No.” 

You smiled, “Then, what’s so wrong about thinking of her?” 

“I’m no ordinary man. It’s against my beliefs.” 

“To think of a woman is against your beliefs?” 

“To think of her in the way I’ve been thinking of her.” 

“Which is?” 

“As terrible as your dream, my darling.” 

You smirked at that, biting your lip so hard you might have drawn bIood if you hadn’t stopped to say something else. “So you’ve been thinking of kissing me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Of touching me?” 

“Yes,” he said, strained. 

“Of fucking me?” 

Silence.

“Have you thought of the sounds I would make, of the sighs and moans and groans?” 

He closed his eyes, a deep frown etched on his features. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I used your confession to fuel my imaginations, to satisfy my carnal desires to–” 

“That’s okay.” 

“It is not!” he responded, distressed. 

“Remus,” you said simply. “I wanted you to think of me,” you admitted. “I wanted you to think of me while you touched yourself the same way I thought of you while I did it. The same way I’ve been thinking of you while doing it, in fact.” 

His head snapped your way, he seemed mortified, but you could also see one of his hands being brought down, adjusting his pants. 

“Do you want me to tell you how I do it?” 

“No,” he lied. 

“Are you sure? I won’t ask again.” 

He looked to the side, red from shame. He bit his lip. “Tell me.” 

You smiled, “I lay in bed, and then these images come to my mind, I think of you, of your hands. They’re touching me, they’re everywhere. I don’t know where you ended and I start and I love every bit of it. It’s my hands that travel down my thighs but I think of them as yours. It is my fingers that slide in between my folds but I believe they’re yours.” 

“Fucking hell,” he said, his grip on the wooden latch, grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. You peered through the blinds and realised the tent in his pants. 

“Remus,” you said quietly. He turned to the wooden division, gaze strained, eyes filled with guilt, he was looking for you, but he couldn’t see past the squares and the small, shadow of you that got through.  “Touch yourself.” 

It was soft, the way you said it. Soft like a suggestion more than a command, but neither of you doubted it was the latter. And as if it had been a command from God himself, he listened and did what told. He patted himself over his black pants and hissed at the strain he’d been on. It was almost painful, how constricted and trapped his cock had been. 

“Soft,” you said then, watching, resisting your own temptation to dig your hand under your skirt. “Be kind to yourself, Remus, you deserve it.” 

He listened, and continued to rub himself, passing his hand back and forth and allowing it to help with the strain. “Te” –he stuttered– “tell me how you feel.” 

“The inner side of my legs is soft, incredibly so,” you said. “I get chills when I run my hands close to my core.”

 “It’s wet,” you said then. You had dug your hand under your skirt now. “Really wet.” 

He could hear your breaths getting sharper, he assumed you were also touching yourself on the other side and he could barely think properly, barely command his hand to do what it needed to do to help himself. 

“That looks painful,” you said as you saw him continue to rub himself over his trousers. “Take yourself out.” 

“What?” he asked, confused. 

“Touch yourself with your bare hand, Remus.” 

He seemed like he would protest, so you decided to give him some encouragement. You placed your finger between your folds and brushed over your clit, emitting a soft moan, “Please.” 

Just like before, Remus followed your command, unbuttoning his pants and pulling his boxers down enough so he could pull himself out. You smiled. “So beautiful, aren’t you?” you praised from the other side. He was long, thick and standing proud. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually placed his hand around himself. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I’d forgotten how good it feels.” 

Of course, he had been a teenager once, of course, he had touched himself while feeling terrible for doing so and having grown up in a Christian household. 

“Remus?” 

“Yeah?” he asked, as he pumped. Slow and steady, as if he didn’t want to go too fast and show you how easy it was for him to cum at the thought of you. 

“You’re making me insanely wet, I might have ruined your comfy little chair here.” 

“Are you teasing me?” 

“No, I’m being a good little lamb that tells no lies,” you said in response. “Ah… fuck.” 

“What was that?” 

“Just thinking of how incredible your hand would feel if it were doing what mine is?” 

“Which is?” 

“Shhh…” you said. He stopped moving. “You hear that?” you asked. It was a lewd wet sound. “It’s my finger, coming in and out of myself.” 

Remus moaned your name and bit his lips. He came in his hand before he had time to really visualize you. “Ugh,” he said as he looked at the mess he’d made all over his hands, some of it also on his pants. 

You took a handkerchief from your bag and passed it over your legs, collecting some of the sticky stuff between your folds and then you passed it through the small, opened section. Crossing your hand, the one with still glistening fingers over. 

You knew he’d noticed the second his eyes opened wide. “So you clean yourself, I used it for myself too.” He bit his lip and carefully took it from your hands, and cleaned your fingers with it as if he tried to wash his sin by cleaning your equally sinful fingers. But he didn’t bring his cum covered hand even close to it. Let alone his cock. “What? You think it’s gross?” 

“I don’t want to ruin it,” he said as he brought it close to his nose and sniffed, stifling a moan with the fabric. Now you were the speechless one. “Do you have a napkin?” 

You somehow managed to pull a napkin from your bag and handed it over to him through the same place. He used that to clean himself and placed it neatly folded in one of his pockets. 

“Can I keep this?” he asked as he held the handkerchief between two fingers. 

“Yes,” you almost stuttered. You had never seen a man do something as ridiculous –and hot– as what he’d done. 

“Will you disappear again, angel?” 

“Angel?” you asked with a smirk, “I would think you’d see me as something else, a devil, perhaps.” 

“Impossible, a devil wouldn’t be able to show me heaven like you did today.” 

Speecheless, again. This man really could bring you to your knees. “Do you even want to see me again?” 

“More than anything on this earth.” 

“Fine then, I’ll come to confess tomorrow, how does that sound?” 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

ACT V: Thou shall honour your Mother and Father

After the heat of the moment, Remus felt the sudden urge to repent, to throw away the handkerchief and to pray in bed until his knees were raw from how much he’d been kneeling. And he tried, but even as he prayed he knew how pointless it was. The act of repenting, of praying and being forgiven for your sins, only worked if you actually felt regret over what you’d done. 

But Remus was far from feeling remorseful. He had repented a great many things throughout his life. Not trusting his innocent best friend and blaming him for things that had happened, not doing more for the world when he had the chance and smaller, pesky things that most people wouldn’t bat an eyelash about but that he constantly put himself down for. 

But having done what he did on the confessionary, hearing your small moans and the lewd sounds that you’d made for him, telling him what to do and how to do it, that he didn’t regret. On the other hand, he wanted to do it again. You had taken him to heaven and he was eager to see it again. And he did it, repeated the same actions, it was cold and dark and there was no one even close to his room when he pulled that handkerchief out and placed it on his face. Smelling the scent of you while he pulled himself out of his pants and jerked himself for the second time that day. He came with the thought of you at the confessionary and your name muffled by the handkerchief that he refused to move from his mouth. By the end, he was sore and delicate and he felt like he had pushed himself too hard, but he found the most peaceful sleep afterwards. 

When he woke up again, he was still covered in his own cum and he had to wash the sheets of his bed in his sink before anyone noticed what he had done. The shame he felt diluting as the sun rose, and he imagined you coming back to the church. He pictured you in that small skirt you’d worn yesterday, or in the simple dress you’d taken the first time that you went to hear his mass. But he was not expecting to see you walk in the clothes you’d worn. 

A white dress, long enough to reach mid-thigh, and made of soft sheer fabric layered one on top of another. He might have been imagining things but he would have sworn he could see your nipples perk through the thin fabric when you turned to him, a small, innocent smile on your face as you threw him a look and walked inside the confessionary. An angel, you really were an angel. 

“Pretty thing, you’ve come back,” he said as he too walked in, this time taking the side that belonged to him, he loved that he could see you. 

“I promised, Remus.”

“I know, angel. But I’m always scared I’ve dreamed you up, that you’re not real and that I was just imagining you all along.” 

You smirked and pushed your hand through the small hole connecting the two of you, “I’m very real, Remus, you can touch me.” 

He did, he placed his hand on top of yours and you heard a sigh of relief when his thumbs pressed onto your hand. He was careful and kind, passing his fingers over your knuckles and under your palm in a soft, gentle manner that was sending shivers down your spine. This poor man was breaking down for you, and yet he was the gentlest of them all.

“You really are,” he breathed. He didn’t know if he should be happy that you were real, or horrified by the things he’d done for you, of the things he’d do. His faith? He might have been willing to throw it all away for another chance to see you, for another chance to feel your hands, for your lips, your kisses. How could he believe in a God that had given him nothing, when you were here, willing to give him everything? 

“Yesterday I saw it all and you barely got to hear me, I thought of showing you my sins rather than describing them to you today, is that okay, Father?” That last bit was a taunt, in the same way you’d been taunting him since the very beginning.

“Yes,” there was no hesitance, if anything, you would have only described the waver in his voice as excitement. 

You couldn’t hold back the smirk that pulled from your lips, Remus’ breath hitched as you accommodated yourself in the chair. Leaning back and spreading your legs for him, letting the soft fabric of your dress fall in between your tights and slowly show the outline of your legs. 

“When was the last time you saw a woman naked?” 

“In real life? Never.” 

Your head snapped to him, although all you could see was the outline of a shadow through the dark-edged wood, “Never?!? Pictures?” 

“When I was around 15.” He admitted. “My best friend Peter once took a few magazines to school after the break. He said his father had gotten them for him on his 14th birthday and that he told them to take them back before his mother noticed. I barely remember them.” 

“Did you jack off to them?” 

“I stole a page,” he admitted with a bitter laugh. “It was this girl with a forest-green, transparent robe. I took her home with me, my father found it and he was enraged. He called me a monster and drove me straight into church.”

“The priest there took a look at the image, and made me kneel down on the rocky floor and pray for forgiveness. I don’t know if he forgot, or if he did it on purpose, but he said not to stand until he came back and he didn’t come back until 7 hours later.” 

“My god,” you said. Remus didn’t even think of reprimanding you for taking his name in vain. “That must have been awful. Your parents were terrible.” 

Remus shrugged, “It’s what I was used to,” he added when he remembered you couldn’t actually see him, although you could feel his hands tense at the thought. 

“That means, since then… you’ve never even–?” 

“No,” he admitted softly. “I guess it’s easier not to do something when you don’t know how it feels. Although my best friend was always eager to tell me how good it was.” 

“Worry not, you won’t have to use your imagination anymore,” you said as you pulled your hand back into your area and moved it to the thin strap of the dress, slowly sliding it down, he could barely see the valley of your breast, and yet he felt himself start to tense, his cheeks heat and bIood rushing south. 

“You don’t have to–” 

“But I want to,” you said, turning your gaze from your bare shoulder and towards him, he could see the mirth shining in your eyes, he could see the mischievousness and the licentiousness reflected on your pupils. You pulled the other strap down and then moved both of your hands to the fabric at the top of your breasts, pulling it down and letting them in full view. 

Remus breathed sharply when he finally saw them. Of course, he knew what they looked like, the girls in Peter’s magazine had shown him. James had described them, but that was nothing compared to seeing them in real life, it was nothing compared to seeing yours in real life. 

You smiled at the little to no sound he was making from the other side. You leaned your back on the stunningly carved wooden wall of the confessionary and squared your shoulders for him. “They look like this for you,” you said as you slid your hand over one of your nipples. “They turned hard the minute I spotted you at the door.” 

Silence, nothing more than a ragged breath. 

“Cat got your tongue?” You teased. 

“I had never seen a prettier thing in my life,” he said. “Except for your angelic face, that is.” 

You laughed in return, a sweet and soft laugh that he would have done anything to hear again. “You’re good at this for someone who’s never done it.” 

“Good at what?” 

“At making a woman blush.” You said. “But I’m just as good,” you added as you pulled one of your legs up on the small seat, your dress fell over and bunched up covering your core, but Remus barely even cared, he was immersed in the plushness of your thigh, imagining how it would feel wrapped around his waist. 

You heard him swallow thickly. 

“In my dream,”  you started, “In my dream, we weren’t here, we were hiding somewhere in the church.” Your breath had slowed down, one of your hands was playing with your thigh, the other one on your breast. You didn’t usually pay much attention to them, but it was that you knew his eyes were on you, that touching them, knowing how it must have made him feel, was turning you on even more than before. “You were kissing me –ah– you were touching me.” 

Remus was, by now, having to adjust his extremely uncomfortable pants.

“How?” he asked, almost in a whisper. “Show me how I was touching you.” 

You couldn’t even hold back the smile from your face. “You traced your fingers over my thigh,” you placed your hand on your bare knee, and then started to move it downwards, towards yourself. “You were kissing me here,” you added as you leaned your neck to the side for him to see better. And then… you touched me here.” Your hand was already in your core. You moved the ruffles of the dress to the side, allowing him to see, to see all of you. You heard a small gasp, when he noticed you had worn no knickers. 

“You slid your hands on my slit,” you said and followed your own instructions, “Soft and gentle, like you are when you’re preaching. In the same way that you moved your delicate slender fingers over the bible,” you breathed, a little more ragged now. “You slid one of your fingers in between my folds, and looked for my clit. You found it almost instantly, and you rolled your finger over it gently, you loved my whimpers.” 

“I do,” he agreed. “I imagined them while touching myself last night. Those wet little sounds you make when you–” 

“Ah,” you breathed as you dug your fingers inside yourself, your walls tightening around it involuntarily. “Like this?” you asked and smiled, biting your lip before you did it again. You brought the hand on your breast downwards and leaned back a little so you could spread your legs even further. Remus’ mouth watered, he wondered how wrong would it be to taste you?

To bury his head in your legs and lick all of the wetness that coated your fingers, to be so close that the smell of you got everywhere, that he wouldn’t need the handkerchief to feel you close. You continued to touch yourself. Breathing heavily, sighting and moaning softly, he wondered what that would feel if it were directly whispered into his ear. 

You were so lost in yourself for those first few minutes, so wrapped in the feeling that you hadn’t realized the lack of beautiful moans from his side. 

“Remus–” you said breathily, “Why aren’t you touching yourself?” 

“Yesterday at night I– I did it again… a couple of times. I’m, it’s a little painful,” he admitted shamefully, but your eyes shone with lust so intense at his words that he continued talking. “It was your little handkerchief’s fault. I was going to wash it, but I got its scent and it made me feral.”

“Aha?” you asked, as you continued to touch yourself.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you. Shut my door and laid on my bed with it over my nose.” 

You hummed contentedly, half a moan, half a hum. 

“I was so hard it was ridiculous. I had barely even smelled you. I hadn’t even gone through the images of that wonderful dream of yours.” 

You sighted in bliss, breath ragged as you slid your finger out of yourself and turned to him with a smile. 

“I have an idea,” you said and then let out a breathy laugh.

Want to support me? Like and reblog this post. Comments are my life fuel, so send them out if you have any. I've also got a Kofi if you're interested.

TAGLIST: @msblacklupin @lupinslvt @nperoconelcositoarriba @peteslovr @kissmeunicornbaobei

Part 2 is out now!

Read more Marauders Fiction

[luveline]

everything with you | james potter x reader

summary four times james almost kisses you and one time he does. [9k]

warnings fluff, mutual pining, getting together, first kiss, idiots in love, first date, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, suggestive language/theme, late 90s au, rugby player!james

<3

James Potter is a little obsessed with you. In a cool, extremely chill and normal way, he thinks. It's hard not to be, here, at some random party half drunk and pushed into your side with your perfect hand held protectively over his head to shield him from the hubbub of partygoers.

"Still feeling poorly?" you ask, pushing the hair from his eyes.

"I need a haircut," he says, distracted by your touch.

"No!" you protest in a whisper. "No, James. Your hair‘s lovely, please don't cut it. What would I run my hands through if you did?" You say all this with a lopsided smile, one corner pulled up higher than the other, and a conspiring tone.

He blinks rapidly. Maybe he doesn't need a haircut after all.

Your fingertips push into the thick tresses at his hairline and scrape back. He shivers in light pleasure and reaches out to grab your thigh where his head is resting, indulgently absorbing the warmth of your body.

You barely notice, pulled back into a conversation with a girl on the sofa opposite. James feels his phone pulse in his pocket and is reluctant to retrieve it, worried you'll pause your ministrations. He watches you take a sip of your drink and almost spit it out laughing and deems you distracted, struggling with his phone, just drunk enough that his motor skills are fucking with him as he snaps it open.

Sirius told me to tell you that you look pathetic. Love Remus.

James scowls at his phone and lifts his head from your leg to look towards where he thinks his friends are located. Sure enough, they haunt the kitchen doorway with equally humorous looks on their faces, Sirius smug to Remus' pitying. James flips Sirius off and finds it returned, a perfectly painted and manicured finger held aloft.

You giggle by James' ear. "I hope that's not for me."

"Definitely to me. You'll have to forgive him. He was dragged up," he says, groaning at his embarrassing mates.

"Don't be cruel," you admonish, nudging him with a naked elbow.

His phone chirps again.

I also think you look pathetic. It's cute. Do you want food? Love Remus.

Moons u rly don't need to sign off every txt. Not hngry. Luv u

OK. Love Remus.

James laughs at his friend's hopelessness and tucks his phone away.

"I'm never cruel," he tells you.

You neaten the rolled up hem of his short sleeve unthinkingly and he can't help how much he wants to kiss you. It's all in the little things, he knows. You put your fingers in his hair and he's happy to lie in your lap like a dog; you fix his clothes and he wants to kiss you stupid; you smile at him sweetly, asking if he still feels sick, and if he is does he want you to go sit with him outside for a bit? He's ashamed of the heat in his chest.

James finds himself at your side with an inch between your legs, a porch bench swinging underneath you.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," you say tentatively. He feels an alarming rush of vertigo at your words, until you continue, "But I think you could benefit from some mild temperance."

He scrubs his face, nausea ebbing as you clarify. He thought for a moment you were going to reject him before he even confessed.

"Yeah, maybe. Wouldn't have any reason for you to take care of me then," he says, startled and sounding it. He winces before he's done. You make a humming sound.

"You hardly need to be drunk for me to take care of you."

He sits with this and looks out over the garden. It's a nice space, the home in a wealthy neighbourhood, twinkling fairy lights strung up over the porch and solar powered lamps peppered down a keenly landscaped stretch of green grass and flowerbeds. There's a pretty stone path leading down to the end of the garden where a grey-white fountain spurts water. It sounds calm if you can ignore the sound of the party, which he finds himself more and more able to do as your knee creeps closer to his.

He wishes, and hates himself for it, that he'd worn shorts. Craves that tiny skin on skin contact when your thigh touches him. You must be cold in your skirt, a midi slit up one side that shows the smooth stretch of your outer thigh, colder on your top half in a spaghetti strap shirt and a loose knit cardigan.

If he thought you'd accept it he would offer you his jacket, but you won't. He's tried before. I don't want you to get cold, Jamie.

"You really don't think I should get a haircut?" he asks self-consciously, tugging a hand through his unruly waves.

"No," you say seriously, turning your torso towards him.

"It's a little long," he complains.

"James, please." You lift your hand up to replace his, pushing his hair back.

"I'll look like Sirius soon enough."

You shift. The bench sways. You push your second hand in his hair and pull it all away from his face gently. He can feel the cool breeze on his bare, clammy forehead as you sit there with your hands in his hair

You run your hand through his dark mop one last time, then stop with your hands braced at the back of his head, a big smile on your face.

"Don't cut it," you implore him seriously, looking into his eyes.

He deserves a medal for not leaning into your arms right then and there.

"How do you keep it so soft even though it's this thick?"

He doesn't understand how you can continue a conversation like this without melting. He's melting. You're talking like everything is normal, fingers twined between ink dark strands and fingertips massaging his scalp.

"I… I oil my roots before I wash it." He doesn't share how his mum insists on doing it for him most of the time now he's back home from school.

"You can definitely tell," you murmur.

His eyes shut. He blames it on his drunkenness and not the feeling of your hands.

"James?" you ask quietly.

"Yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like an unintelligible hum.

"Are you tired? D'you need to go home?"

"Maybe." He does feel suddenly like his limbs are made of stone.

"Who are you going home with?" you ask.

You stand. The bench wobbles. One hand falls out of his hair to rest on his shoulder and his skin warms where it lands, the other tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He opens his bleary eyes and is met with a silver of your midriff, promptly closing them again to push evil thoughts from his mind in which he kisses stripes over that naked skin for hours.

"Sirius is driving me home," he admits reluctantly.

"Let's go look for him."

James reluctantly follows you with a little wobble. His inebriation has faded as the night progresses but a general tipsy dizziness prevails. You press a hand to his lower back and he narrowly avoids trodding on your strappy sandals.

"I don't see him anywhere. Can you text him?" you ask.

James grabs his phone. You both press your backs to the wall to make way for some passersbys. He doesn't bother with texting Sirius: Remus always answers.

Where r u??

Went to get food. Love Remus.

When will u b back?

Sirius wanted Molly's Kitchen. Love Remus.

Molly's kitchen in MILTON KENYES?

Sorry. He is very convincing. Love Remus.

I know he is… luv u see u never when i die here abandoned & cold

See you tomorrow. Love Remus.

It takes him so long to type this all out he's surprised when you're still by his side. You're looking at the picture frames hanging on the wall with the patience of a Saint.

"They ditched me."

"Oh," you say.

"Yep."

"Well, you'll just have to come home with me," you say breezily.

He gawks. You fish your keys out of your cardigan and brandish them like a lump of gold. "I have leftover pizza. Or we can order in. If you're hungry?"

He's not. "Sure. Whatever you want."

"We can walk. It's not that far. If you can walk?"

"I can walk."

Barely. He knows it would've been a lovely stroll with you in the lazy summer air, sun still ligphting the sky despite the time, gauzy pinks and blues skimming the white-gold horizon, if only he hadn't been half cut. Your skin is shiny as finest silk and a gentle breeze floats your perfume towards him and he's close to admitting maybe he's obsessed with you in a way that isn't cool at all by the time you make it to the front door.

It's a mostly silent journey until you're shutting your bedroom door behind you and he's wondering how he got here, sitting at the end of your bed. Your room is an extension of you that he can't take in fast enough. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

You lean down and unstrap your sandals and he toes off his own shoes, trying not to look at how you're bent over, at the silhouette of your legs in your light skirt. Next is your cardigan. He feels like a bachelor in the 1800s, hungry and guilty at your naked skin.

Your silver anklets click together as you weave past him to your bedside table. You flick on the glass shade lamp and an array of multicolour sprays up the wall and your hands. He's mesmerised.

"Pizza," you mumble to yourself, and then looking up at him, "James, I don't have any pajamas for you. Um… oh, and your jeans are gonna be uncomfortable. Do you wear boxers?"

"I- I- yeah. Yes." When he tells this story later, much later, he will not recall stammering here.

"Well, if you wanna sleep in your boxers I don't mind. Better than those awful jeans. I'm gonna heat up the pizza. Bathrooms right there," you point at the door, "if you need it. Are you still feeling sick?"

"No," he says, a smidge overwhelmed.

You reach out and cup his cheek for a second as you pass. He sits in your aftermath and worries he may not make it through the night.

Watching you eat is a strange pleasure. To get to watch you eat is the first, and then the face you make trying to catch a string of cheese is a close second. Now, lying shoulder to shoulder with you, too hot for the duvet and in his boxers he can't get the image of you out of his head. He's too afraid to turn and see the real thing in case you think he's trying to cop a feel.

He'd insisted on sleeping on the floor and you'd laughed so much you went warm in the cheeks. "No, James, that's okay. You're with me."

You'd swapped your skirt for a pair of loose cotton pants. The fabric of which brushed against his calf as you squirmed restlessly.

"It's too warm," you complain.

He's so tired he can barely answer. "Yes."

"I'm gonna open the window," you declare. You climb over his legs and there's so many points of contact he thinks he might go blind.

Window opened, you stand at the sill and pick your vest away from your skin, looking over your shoulder at him, catching him mid-heady gaze. If you care you don't show it, smiling at him with your big hoop earrings still in, your necklace, your bracelets. He frowns to himself. Are you supposed to sleep with jewellery?

You climb back into bed, standing at the edge and flopping down much closer to him than you had been before. It wafts a ridiculous gust of your intoxicating smell over him.

"It's supposed to be this hot all week," you say morosely.

"The miraculous nature of British summer time," he murmurs.

You laugh breathily. "How awful. When it's cold I want the sun to come out and when the sun's out I miss the rain."

He turns his head to watch you talk.

"I like the sunshine." You tilt your head up, in a deep debate with yourself. "It's the humidity I can't deal with. It makes my hair so frizzy. I want soft hair like you, and-" you pause. "Watcha doing?"

"Do you sleep with these?" he asks, poking at the hoop hanging from your earlobe.

"Oh. Sometimes. You're not supposed to, 'cos they're big and all, but I forget."

"Can I?"

"Sure, yes. Please."

He nods and brings his other hand up, pulling the latch off your hoop and sliding it from your ear. He climbs up onto his elbow and presses his fingers to your jaw, turning your head into the pillow so he can reach the other. You're decidedly pliant and quiet under his touch as he pulls the second out. He puts them down by your shoulder and pulls on your necklace until the clasp is in sight.

He's holding his breath. You're looking up into his face with wide, soft eyes, and he catches the tremble you resist as he pulls the necklace free from your neck.

"Tickles," you say sheepishly. He's close enough to feel the warmth of your exhale on his skin.

He drapes the necklace next to your earrings but can't bring himself to move. Your eyelashes twitch. Your lips part and he can see the tiniest sneak of your tongue.

The way you're looking at him is dazzling, dizzying. He smooths down the hair closest to your neck that he'd disrupted while detangling your necklace, ignores the unsteadiness in his hands, presses his fingers to the side of your throat.

Your eyelashes kiss as your eyes drift shut, and he leans down just as you turn your face from his.

"You're drunk, Jamie," you whisper, covering his hand with your own.

He knows you're right. Though drunk seems dramatic at this point, admittedly there's alcohol in his system, and he lets himself fall back into your sheets.

"Sorry," he says.

You bring your arm across your front to grasp his shoulder in your palm. Time moves slow.

"James?"

"Yeah?"

You brush the tousled hair from his face, your touch featherlight and familiar now against his temple. His heart soars as you cuddle in closer, skips when you touch your lips to the muscle of his bicep. "Sleep well," you say warmly.

You break the kiss and stroke the skin there gently with your thumb before turning on your back.

-

so u didn't kiss her?

u r exacerbating my pain, Black

Good. Ur pain SHOULD be 'exacerbated' idiot.

i was tipsy. she didn't want me 2

and in the morning when u were sober ??? couldn't have kissed her in between waffles????

she acted like it didn't happen so I did 2

oh my god! U r so dumb !

James dropped his phone in his lap, feeling the humiliation of his defeat tenfold. Sirius was right, James should have kissed you at breakfast. Maybe. Or at least made his intentions with you clear. He wasn't trying to kiss you because he was drunk or because you were there, he was trying to kiss you because he was hopelessly endeared to you and hoped you might want to put up with him for a bit. Or years. Whatever, it's not like he was planning the wedding or anything. Yet.

He very much hadn't kissed you the next morning. You'd gotten up before him, an angel in your new fresh clothes and your hair out of your face, skin dewy and fucking hell was he lovelorn. He'd been sick as a dog at the table and you'd mistaken it for a hangover, pressing a cup of water into one hand and two ibuprofen in the other, smelling like sweetness behind him.

"Temperance," you'd said encouragingly, lips by his ear.

He relayed this all to Remus over the phone on the bus home, who had listened without judging for the most part up until that point.

"Oh, James."

"You think that's bad?" he'd asked.

"James."

"Just. Don't tell Sirius?"

"I won't." A lie, evidently. At least I can be mad at Remus' blather mouth rather than my own pussy footing, James thinks happily, pulling a throw cushion over his face.

"I'm an idiot," he says into the cushion. It doesn't say anything back.

-

James Potter isn't your boyfriend to your whimsy disappointment, but you think he might want to be.

You'll admit that his tipsy almost-kiss was a speed bump where you worried that awkwardness would wedge between you ruthlessly, but the next morning he'd made enough jokes to have you tearing up and looked at you so adoring you assumed that point moot.

You dress extra pretty tonight, a million different trinkets, silver thin bangles that jingle. Please, you think. Please, James, just ask me on a date.

You're sick of motives. These days you only go so you can see James, tired of party drugs and alcohol and sweaty guys looking at you in that way where you know exactly what they're thinking.

You spy him now, pressing through the doorway with his entourage behind him. You think this with love. His two tallest friends are always right by his side, and a smaller girl trails behind them that you think is called Emmeline.

The first half of his friends that you knew of had arrived earlier in the evening along with your only mutual friend, Mary. You give her a saccharine smile as you peel away, not bothering to hide where you're planning on going.

She smiles indulgently and turns to the short-haired girl, Dorcas. Guilt-free, you wheedle past people you don't know and some that you do, giving pause when one of your friends from school appears. By the time you've finished menial well wishes you can't see James anymore.

"Looking for someone?"

You jump and spin on your flat shoes.

A relieved smile works its way across your mouth.

"James, you startled me," you say, voice light, pressing your fingers to your sternum.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Here." He gestures his big hand to you.

A flower. You take its stem between your fingers gingerly.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Saw it on the way."

You twirl it around and watch its petals dance before passing it back to him.

You smile despite yourself at his crestfallen expression and take a step closer.

"Put it in my hair?" you ask.

His brown eyes lighten, hot amber tea steeped in his irises. He's careful as he sews the flower's delicate stalk into the hair closest to your ear, his mouth hovering just over your forehead. You half hope he's going to press a kiss to your skin before he steps back. He doesn't, though his fingertips give you almost the same pleasure as he flattens what are already well tamed baby hairs.

You want an excuse to stay close to him. He'd done it all by himself the last time by participating in a drinking game he had no chance of winning and needing somewhere to lie down. Your lap had been open. You'd prefer he stray from any recreation of this tonight, and are saved from thinking up a new excuse when he taps the toe of his shoe into yours.

You look down at the rubber toes and then up at his face.

"Want a drink?" he asks.

You pull your shoe back just enough to hit his again. "Depends. What kind?"

"We brought a keg, not that I think you're interested in that."

"Nope," you agree, wrinkling your nose with a grimace.

His answering smile is ridiculously contagious.

"You don't strike me as someone so picky."

"I know what I like," you say, demure. "But I'll try anything once."

His eyes darken, sticky sweet; a playfulness edged in something like I dare you.

"Let's hope I can get you something that sticks," he says back, twice as smooth.

An immeasurable pleasure eats up your spine as his hand comes between your shoulder blades, steering you into the kitchen. He exchanges hellos with guys you don't know huddled around the kitchen table playing cards. One of them lights a cigarette and James stands between you and the twisting smoke, opening his arm out to the countertops covered in drink.

"What do you want, baby?"

You cross your legs and lean forward, pretending to read labels.

"How about you pick for me?" You turn your head to the side and enunciate each word through lips barely parted, eyes tracking his hands where they hang at his sides. His left hand twitches.

"And if you don't like what I choose?"

You straighten up slowly, "Then you'll make me another."

He laughs and you know he can see through all the aloof confidence you carry around you, can see you for who you are, but it doesn't read as cruelty so much as a kindness. You feel the layer of coolness you'd layered on slip away and smile at him with too much teeth, pleased when his hand claps your shoulder and he steps forward to make you a drink.

The concoction he makes is a little too sweet for you but you drink it without complaint, sitting up on the counter where there's room.

He leans with his hand braced behind him next to your thighs, face close to your own and beautiful as he talks to you, brown skin cooled by the white fluorescents and eyes shiny. You can see the smattering of dark stubble coming in if you look, which you aren't. Except that you are. Hungry, you soak in his little details. Tiniest scar by his mouth. Beauty spot not far from it under his nose, almost invisible against his skin. Wavy hair in tighter curls tonight and smelling of coconut or almond or something, fresh and fragrant and thick. His glasses, black wire frames, slide down his nose so often it drives you crazy to watch him push them back up.

Eventually, unable to resist the temptation, you straighten them on the bridge of his nose mid-sentence. He pauses to blow air out of the side of his mouth, warding off a curl dipping close to his eyebrows as you do, and the silence stretches even when your hands are safely returned to your lap.

"You look…" You press your lips together in an attempt to fight off a nervous giggle that slips out anyways as you continue, making the words less serious than they're meant to be, "Pretty. Or handsome. If you prefer."

He puts his drink down on the countertop. You knead your own fingers.

"You look pretty too. Handsome, if you prefer," he returns, creeping closer still. Your chest burns with the pleasure of being complimented. "So much jewellery tonight, you're a mirror ball."

"You don't like it?"

"Didn't say that."

You lift a hand, let all the bangles drop down your arm. "I may have bordered on excessive," you admit, abashed.

"Don't worry, I know all about excessive," he placates, picking his drink up pointedly. The image of him plastered and poorly pops up in your head.

"Yes, well, I was hoping you'd stay sober." You run your finger over the rim of your glass, unable to look at him. "In case I need some help."

His hand reaches out, a finger hooking under one chain bracelet and tugging gently. You can feel his gaze on your face, feel as he puts his drink down again with a final clink. His hand closes around your bracelet.

His fingers are gentle as his other hand slowly, slowly works up your face, fingertips pushing over the delicate, smooth skin of your cheek. His thumb finds a home at the bottom of your chin and he uses it to guide your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

It's intense because you want it, because he's handsome, because he's funny, because he's awfully, terribly kind. Because something between you both fits together like it's meant to, and you just know that if he kisses you everything is gonna work out like it should.

His eyes are on your lips. You follow his eyes with sick excitement and miss when he slips your bracelet off of your wrist.

You look between you both. He holds the silver links between his fingers. It's the only one he would've needed to unclasp, the rest are seamless bangles. This one, silver with small blue cut gems, is just his style.

You hold your palm out, mourn his hand as it falls from your face. You both look down between you as you wrap the tennis bracelet around his wrist and click it into place.

"There," you say, so quietly you're worried he might miss it. "Something for me to take off'a you."

His hand finds your face with purpose now, almost pulling you toward his own beaming face and he's opening his mouth, about to say something with a laugh already on his lips when a shattering crash echoes from the living room and into the kitchen. James stills, hand moving down to squeeze your shoulder protectively as he turns to the door.

A barking laugh. James turns back quickly, apologetic, murmuring a "Jump down?" and pushing his forearm under your armpit to help you down off of the counter.

As soon as your canvas shoes touch down, he takes a light hold on your wrist and pulls you along, following the guys who'd been playing cards. In the living room, Sirius sits at a coffee table with a knife in his hand. Sticking into his hand, blood already pooling around it in a black crimson horror that has half the room in morbid silence and the other half panicking.

Remus, at Sirius' left, is laughing with tears running down his cheeks, sounding like he's one guttural guffaw from throwing up. Sirius looks pretty cool about the whole thing, cooler when he spots James in the doorway.

"Prongs! Come and pull this out, would you? I'd do it, but I can't seem to make myself grab it."

Remus let's out another sobbing laugh. You can't help but giggle from behind James' shoulder, and Sirius zeroes in on this.

James drops your hand, walking forward and bending at the waist.

"Hey, don't think because you're his girl now that means you-fuck! Oh fuck, what the fuck-" Sirius presses the open sleeve of his dress shirt hurriedly into the wound, freshly opened. James holds the knife he'd just pulled free in his hand distastefully.

"Alright, hotshot, run your mouth in the car. You need stitches."

"Fuck's sake."

James drops the knife on the table and shoves the wounded boy's head with the flat of his palm, earning another curse. Remus, finally extending some friendly generosity, pulls the dark shirt he's layered over a t-shirt off and encourages Sirius to wrap it around his hand.

Sirius protests. "This'll give me an infection."

"Fuck off and die, then," Remus suggests lightly, wiping at his eyelashes with the side of his pinky finger.

Sirius wrinkles his nose. James tries to shepherd them both from the room, which has once again grown loud with laughing, most of it at the absurdity of Sirius injury.

"What did I tell you about pinfinger?" James asks scornfully.

"Not to play it," Remus supplies, stepping over people's feet with little apology.

You watch the sorry threesome make their way to the door, a disheartened feeling creeping in.

James opens the front door and pushes Sirius through it, torn looking back at you.

"Remus can't drive, so I'll have to take him," he explains.

"You still have my bracelet."

A weak argument. He can hear your disappointment. He smiles, eyebrows pulling up in… sympathy? Empathy? Apology? You can't tell what, only that he looks soft as butter as he says, "I'll call you? We can arrange a time for you to take it back."

"Okay," you agree, much too happy, just as he's pulled out the door by a bloody hand.

-

James doesn't have your number. He realises this in A&E, close to midnight with Remus asleep on one shoulder and Sirius slouched in the other, waiting for the plastics to come and assess if Sirius has done any permanent damage to his finger.

"I don't understand how you can stab yourself in the hand and fuck up your finger," James mutters for what's likely the fifth time.

Sirius sighs unhappily. "It's ligaments or tendons or something. I might very well have cut through a cord that needs to remain uncut."

"You're an idiot."

"Thanks, James."

"Yeah, you're welcome." James slouches a little lower in his chair to take the strain off of his best friend's neck in a show of genuineness. He does love him, after all, even after shocking displays of public stupidity.

"Sorry for cockblocking you," Sirius says.

"Vile. Wasn't gonna turn out that way. Though I was hoping I might actually make a real move tonight. I did make a real move," James shakes his head, disgruntled. "I was seconds away from kissing her. Your idiocy couldn't wait 30 seconds?"

"Wasn't exactly timing it, mate."

"Yeah."

James digs through his pocket for his phone. He never knows where the damn thing is. Your bracelet is tight to his skin and he looks at it with keen longing, imagining your nicely shaped nails running under it.

He shakes it off, goes to unlock his phone, and this is where he realises he doesn't have your number.

"Do you have Y/N's number?" he asks Sirius.

"No." It sounds like why would I?

"Fuck."

"She's Mary's friend, isn't she? Ask Mary."

He sighs and does as he's told, scrolling through contacts until he finds Mary MacDonald's.

Hi mary was wondering if u have Y/N's phone #

And why should I give it to you, Pots? :3 :D <3

pls mary I am not above begging u

While that would be a sight, I meant why do you want it? But please tell me more about the begging part!!! <33

mary

What are your intentions with my Y/N? She's much too sweet for you to manhandle <33

James blushes at her wording and groans aloud. "Girls are impossible."

"Yep," Sirius says tiredly.

James doesn't want his or your business passed around, and if he tells Mary, Mary will tell Dorcas and Dorcas will tell Marlene and Marlene will tell everybody she knows and will find it very, very entertaining as she does. He doesn't plan on awarding her the pleasure. He tells a white lie.

I found her bracelet and want to give it back :]

I'll give it back for you ;) <3

not that I don't trust u M but its super nice, id prefer to give it in person myself

OK OK I'll stop yanking your chain now Jamesie dearest hahaha. Her number is +44 XXXX XXXXXX. I trust the bracelet gets back to her in one piece. btdub, how's siri? <3

crying and shaking like a lamb, thanks m xoxo

He adds your number to his contacts and then stares at it until the nurse calls for Sirius and they get up to meet her, leaving Remus to blink awake confused at their departure.

-

hi Y/N, this is James

You look down at your rarely used phone and feel a warmth like sunshine unfold in your tummy. You don't use any emoticons, though you want to.

Hi James, how are you? How is your friend?

im amazing how r u? doctors are hopeful that he'll live, but it's up to him now :,(

James

kidding. he is fine. R u busy right now?

no I'm not busy why?

can I call u?

You call him rather than answer. He picks up straight away.

"James," you say quietly.

"Sweetheart," he says back. "Hey, hi. I had to get your number from Mary Magdalene."

"Wow, what was she like?"

"Uh… bloody? Which one was she?"

"I don't know, James," you say, laughing behind your hand.

"What are you doing today?" he asks.

You preen though he can't see. "Nuthin," you say, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. "Why'd you ask?"

"Trapped you there, baby. Don't you know you're supposed to wait until after I tell you what I'm planning before you say you're not busy?"

"Oh, weird. Something just came up."

"Uh-huh. Anyways, busy or not, if you want to: I've got a match later. If you want to come." He sounds nervous. It's a new look on him.

"Do I get to sit pretty on the sidelines with the other girls?"

"You can stand, if you like. But yeah, otherwise. Oh, unless you have some kicks. I doubt it would take much convincing to get you on the team."

"How's that?"

"Well, you know. They aren't blind. Dumb, sure, but we play rugby. Not exactly a honeypot of intelligence, all it would take for half those guys is your pretty smile-"

"You're plenty smart," you cut off his compliments.

James gags. "Keep it to yourself. It starts at six, but come whenever. Oh- do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, that's okay. I'll walk. It's warm out."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It'll be nice. I'll wear team colours." You're almost afraid to suggest it until he makes a very happy noise that he coughs to hide two seconds too late.

"See you at six, then?"

"Definitely. You owe me a bracelet."

"It's a date." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. Good thing, because you spend the next ten minutes with your face in your hands, smiling so wide your cheeks ache.

It doesn't quite feel like a date on the sidelines but you're too busy walking on sunshine to care. You watch as James throws the ball behind him, torso twisting, bulky arms flexing. His shorts and socks are stained green and his shirt grips tight to his chest.

You can see why he wanted a haircut; ink dark hair falls in his eyes as he sprints after the team and he has no hands to tuck it back.

You'd been a little late, trying too hard to look effortlessly radiant at home and forgetting the time. As soon as you'd arrived, out of breath and half-dressed, you stood at the side of the pitch close to watchers but maintaining a small gap trying desperately to catch his eye. It was obvious when he saw you - he smiled beatifically and raised a wide palm in greeting before getting into position for a scrum.

After a while there's a halftime break where he comes bouncing off the field to your side. He goes straight in for a hug, brave, warm, exactly what you wanted, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground half an inch with the force of it.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pretend it's all an inconvenience, wobbling on tiptoes. "You're getting grass all over me."

"Oh no," he says, faux worried.

He smells like so many things. Deodorant and sweat, grass and dirt and salt. You press your nose into his hair and smell the almond oil there with a lopsided smile.

He lets you down, holding you at arms length.

"You're so fucking pretty."

You try not to burst into tears, turning your face so he can see the heart on your cheek made up of glitter in his team colours. "It's the team rep."

"No, it isn't," he says, running his hand down your face to straighten your head, pausing with his fingers under your chin.

Your bracelet is still on his wrist. You can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the lovesickness you're feeling.

You push his hair from his face. He, reminded of this affliction, levels you with a squinting glare. "This is all your fault."

"Sorry, Jamie," you say, biting back a guilty smile.

"It's fine," he concedes immediately. You're suddenly overwhelmed by the power you have over this poor boy.

"How long is the break?"

"Halftime? About ten minutes left."

You nod, thinking to yourself. "Well, um. You can say no, but. I can plait your hair back, if you want. Out of your eyes."

"You can?" he asks, brightening.

"Yeah, I can."

James sits on the bottom bench of the stand and you stand behind him, your fingers raking through his windblown curls in lieu of a comb. He sits strangely still, more controlled than you thought possible of him as you braid back the longest strands at the front of his scalp, sliding your fingers through his hair as kindly as you can. The small intimacy of it all has your heart racing.

Securing the dark braid with a bobble, you take in the back of his head. His soft shiny hair is oil black in the sun, his skin painted with gold. His neck begs to be kissed.

You rub your hands down the back of his neck, across the curves of his trap muscles and then down his chest, leaning on him so you can press your lips to the highest point of his cheek in a shy kiss. He tilts his head to catch your eye as you pull back.

"Done?" he asks, something indistinguishable in his voice.

"Done," you confirm.

His face is close enough to spot the beauty mark adjacent to his cupid's bow. You resist the urge to kiss that, too, and stand at full height. He copies you. You find that the stands underneath you makes you taller, his eyes are level with yours.

"How's it look?"

"I did alright," you say modestly. "Though maybe a haircut isn't the worst idea."

He laughs and looks down, reaching for your hands. He's different without his glasses, not more or less handsome, but different. The focus of his face changes, and you find yourself distracted by his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

He holds your hands like a prince, brushing his thumb over your fingernails. Then, in true royal fashion, he brings your hand to his mouth. A kiss pressed to your knuckles. One kiss becomes two, two to three, a peppering of pecks up your hand and over your pulse and up your arm. He reaches your sleeve. His hand follows his mouth until he's holding your elbow in his hand like you're a sacred being, pulling you in.

You drift together. His hands cup your upper arms and guide you slowly to the left as he ducks in.

A piercing whistle leaps through the air. You flinch apart like guilty kids, his hands a searing heat through your shirt sleeves as the call for halftime's end rings. Loudly.

He grimaces bitterly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know why this keeps happening to us, I'm-"

"Going to get in trouble," you finish, peeling his hands off of your body. "Go on, before they get mad."

"Your bracelet-"

"Keep it. It looks good on you, anyways."

He leans in and holds you by the neck. Your heart is a hammering racket for no reason - all he does is peck your forehead, quick and firm. Then he pulls back all sorry looking and scrambles over the bench and the kit to get back into position.

You sit down heavily on the cold metal seat behind you and cover your chest with your hands, taking deep breaths through your nose.

He catches your eye from the pitch and winks.

-

"Be thankful it was your mouth and not your nose."

"Explain what you mean," James demands, wincing at his split lip.

You match his stride. James, having been hit in the face with the rugby ball hard enough to bruise and cut his top lip, had refused to let you look at him, despite the horror it had provoked, and then had refused to let you walk home alone. I'm not getting in your car until you see a doctor, James, I mean it.

Fine, then we'll walk.

So you walk. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of white-pink and light blue, a bleeding yellow light throwing big shadows every which way. You step out of the shade of a towering, green leafed tree where the main road began. Before James can stop you, you jump up onto the small metal barrier that stops cars from driving on the pavement and walk across it like a balance beam.

"Please don't," James says.

You ignore him, using your arms to stop yourself from toppling into the road. A small revenge considering he had ignored your medical advice. James lets you do this for around 10 seconds before he grabs your hand in his. You wobble along the last meter of barrier with your joined hands held aloft and tight before you finally let him pull you back down onto the pavement, giggling breathlessly. Cars careen past, each one wafting a breeze of petrol and fallen leaves towards your legs.

Fingers interlocked, you walk. You take in the relative beauty of your town in its approaching dusk, meandering past roundabouts and roads, back gardens and a corner shop.

You persuade James inside the shop and beeline for the cold drinks at the back. The open fridges cool your clammy skin.

"What one do you want?" you ask him.

"Anything. Whatever you're having."

You grab three identical cans and ignore his raised eyebrows as you bring them to the front of the store, the cashier hidden behind lollipop stands, magazines, a plastic shield plastered in leaflets for upcoming events. There's a small TV in the corner blaring summer music that you can't help but hum as you emerge from the shop, swaying your hips in time.

"Who's the third for?" James asks, accepting his can. You tuck your own in your bag and grin.

"You! For your lip," you say. "It's swollen."

"Doesn't hurt."

"Don't believe you."

He reluctantly takes the can from you and complains loudly, exasperated at having two full hands, one pressed to his face. You wiggle your empty one at him in bad sportsmanship. Before long you're standing outside your home and James is hesitating.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, half-hopeful.

He shakes his head. "I can't, I have to take Sirius to get his hand looked at again by plastics."

"Too bad," you murmur, looking at his chest and then his face. "Thank you for walking me. I know it's out of the way."

"You're never out of the way," he says seriously.

You slide your fingers into the loose hair behind his neck, rub your thumb across the line of his jaw.

"Get home safe," you murmur as you lift up on your toes, shoes creasing. You press a half-open kiss to his jaw where your thumb had been moments before and close your lips over his skin slowly. You linger, pressing a second on top.

There's an unspoken acknowledgement between you both when you pull away. A promise.

He looks a picture of defeat walking down your front path. Covered in dirt and grass and sweat and blood, hair messy and chased by the last rays of sun. You watch until he's at the end of your street, butterflies thrashing in your tummy as he presses his index and middle finger to where you'd laid your kisses, as though checking his pulse.

-

James' parents own a restaurant. He knows, in his right mind, that this is a lame place to take you on a proper first date, only it's the hottest week of the year and everywhere else with outdoor seating is fully booked.

"I don't mind, James. Actually, I'm excited. I've never seen Sirius in a uniform," you say.

He scowls and scoffs melodramatically over the phone until you apologise to him for your terrible, awful, sick joke.

Technically, the Potter's restaurant is fully booked too, and he watches the books like a hawk for a week while his lip heals until he catches a cancellation. He instantly jots down his name. He's caught in the act by Euphemia.

"James," his mum had said, words drawn out. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

So really, he isn't sure why he thinks this date will go well. Everybody who works here knows him, and even as he waits outside for you under the dark wood porch a server comes up to him and nudges him with his elbow emphatically.

You turn the corner and he stops breathing, a vision in your sundress and sandals. He watches your anklets dance as you approach, eyes roving up your body devotedly until he finds a smile that matches his own in tenacity playing on your glossy lips.

He wants to kiss you then but wants more to foster a perfect, romantic evening first, so he's careful as he brings his hands up to your face appreciatively. Your hands hook around his elbows, an excited glaze in your eyes.

"Hi, pretty girl."

"Hi," you say, hushed by shyness.

He caresses your cheeks lightly, worried about smudging your makeup. Your eyes close when his hands move up, sliding over your hair to rest behind your ears. Sparkly earrings hang from each earlobe.

"You look beautiful," he says, because fuck it if James hasn't got game.

Your smile turns pouting at his words. He wants to record your voice and play it back when you say, "Thank you, James," in the softest tone he's ever heard from you.

He wants to stay like this. He swears he could happily stand in this bubble of the world with you and count your eyelashes, memorise the flecks of colour that surround your pupil, but you shimmy out of his hands and prompt him inside.

"Come on, handsome, I'm hungry." And then, inside the restaurant. "Oh my god. It smells amazing. What smells amazing?"

He has no clue. He's reluctant to go to the bar with you only because he knows exactly who stands behind it - Sirius, in his neat uniform, a towel thrown over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand.

He's well-behaved when he sees you, though a few things he says has James reaching to wring his neck.

"How's your hand?" you ask.

Sirius sets down James' pint and grabs for another glass, shovelling ice and pouring juice. "It's alright. The bandage is for health and safety, not because it's actually injured anymore."

"Plastics said he's fine," James interjects, raising the dark ale to his lips.

"Perfect," Sirius amends cooly, "is what they said. Head to toe."

James corrals you out onto the mezzanine before you can fall in love with the uppity bartender.

It gets worse from there. A server who's known James since he was in nappies takes your orders, an extremely handsome server with a deep dusky voice and black skin so smooth he's practically carved from stone.

"And what's for you, babygirl?" he asks after airing out every embarrassing thing James has ever done on restaurant grounds.

You're still laughing, but you turn to James with all the confidence in the world as you ask, "What do I get, James?"

He feels a little better after that.

The patio is perfect. The sun's out, the breeze is light. Every now and then he has a hint of your smell, sunscreen and perfume. Your leg bounces under the table, a tinkling sound of silver, and you lean forward. He doesn't look at your chest where the necklace hanging over your collar bones disappears, thank you very much, but you're so obviously perfect and he's attracted to everything - your body and your gorgeous face, yes, undeniably, but your voice! Your laugh, your smell, the way your hands move. The way your every word about him drips adoration. The pride in your tone as you recall what should've been his perfect match (if he hadn't been hit in the face).

After a lazy dinner and a second round of drinks he's buzzing and you're lovely, like a flower, bloomed and prettier than anything he's ever seen.

You leave the table and walk along the woodchip path and kids play area to look out over the lake, a dark shimmering sheet split in half by twisting white light, the sun falling from the sky.

The evening grows marginally colder, especially at the lakefront. At the first sign of discomfort he works his arm over your back, hand pressed to the dip of your shoulder

He's waiting for you to look at him before he kisses you.

"It's so pretty," you sigh happily.

Across the lake is a backdrop of green trees and a small, rustic boathouse. A family of ducks swim past, shepherded by a squawking swan.

"Bully," he mutters.

You hum. "Why is there only ever one nasty swan per lake?"

"Gotta fill their quota."

"The poor duckies," you sympathise. "Look, there's one of the fancy ones with a green head over there."

He follows your finger but gets distracted by the bracelets adorning your wrist, can't help but think about how you'd asked him to take them off.

"James, this is… it's really perfect. It's amazing."

He pulls you in a little closer. "I'm glad," he says, though he's finding it hard to respond - he can barely open his mouth. "I wanted it to be."

You finally turn to face him. He guesses his change in tone is what does it, because you sound similarly low and love-sticky when you murmur back, "Everything. It's all been so perfect. Everything with you."

He can't take it. He darts forward, so close to kissing you that the air between you is charged with it. When his nose grazes yours he gives pause, tries to work out what you're thinking as your tongue wets your lips.

Your eyes are closed. He shuts his own and-

"James! James Fleamont Potter! You come up here and help your mam!" his father's voice calls.

He drops his forehead against yours and lets out a pained exhale.

"Dad," he calls back, refusing to move. "I'm a little preoccupied."

"What? James, look, I don't have my glasses and your mother needs someone to write tomorrow's daily special!"

He pulls away from you and sends a heated look over his shoulder, one he's sure could melt metal and that his father can't even see. "And tomorrow's daily special, this couldn't wait until TOMORROW?"

"James, I've no clue what's turned you into such a sour puss tonight and I don't have time to work it out. All I'm asking is that you do this chalkboard for us and then you can get back to-"

"Dad! Dad! Alright, I'm coming!" he hollers back, cutting his father off before he can blow a gasket. "Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, defeated. You frown sympathetically at his embarrassment.

"You should probably go help your parents," you say, sounding similarly disappointed. He nods, unwilling.

"Just, don't move," he pleads.

You smile, total understanding on your face, and he's only taken a few steps from you when you turn back to the lake and your shoulders fall.

Fuck it, he thinks.

He turns your body with his palm on your shoulder and soothes your surprised flinch with a hand on your neck, your eyes meeting for a startled, excited handful of seconds before he's finally, finally, surging forward. You gasp into his mouth and his fingers tighten on your neck, lips aligned with your lips and searching deeper, parting to invite you in. You follow, a dance, a hand pulling you out of the road, a tether, and you taste like everything he's ever thought you might all at once.

You press your spread fingers over the fine material of his dress shirt and moan when he catches your top lip between his. He kisses, again and again, feels you slip through his hands like water. He hooks his arm around your head to keep you in place as he wades into you, slowing, softening, pulling away to plant one, two, three gentle kisses over it all like a balm. You respond to each one amorously. His chest rears to explode at your dizzy, pretty panting when it's over.

He loosens his arm to pull back and take in your entire face. Your eyes are shimmering, lips wet. He wipes his thumb over your bottom lip, finds it burning hot.

"Oh," you whisper.

"Oh?" he asks, endeared and amused and insanely happy.

"I didn't think it would feel so different to all the little kisses from before."

"Good different?" he asks, the damp pad of his thumb smoothing over the warm hill of your cheek, stolen bracelet scraping your skin.

Any anxiety he has unfurls and dissipates into nothing when you smile and lean in for a second kiss. "Good different," you confirm against his open mouth, "everything with you…"

He pulls you as close as any person can be to another person. He has a pretty good picture of what you were going to say, anyways.

<3

my masterlist

marauders tag list @marimorena06 @glimmering-darling-dolly @siriuslystfu @thatblackravenclaw @thatonecomfyjumper @lupinlust @touchdeprivedwh0re @vi0letblu3s @mooncalvin @gaysnowrose @set-myself-on-fire @decafcoffew

[dwindlinghaze]

lover in the foyer

(remus lupin x reader)

summary: remus lupin loves you, but his best friend 'likes' you too. so you both ended up fake dating.

contents: fluff, hurt/comfort, protective remus, r and remus are totally in love fr.

　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

it was a secret that you have a little crush on remus lupin. you kept that information to yourself 'cause you couldn't let the others know- it would be too embarrassing if they do. for years you've been hiding your feelings. burying it deep inside your heart.

well, that was until one day on the marauder's dormitory, a conversation was spoken.

"i've got something to tell," james started, sitting up right on his bed.

"what is it?" remus replied.

"promise you won't call me crazy?" he asked.

"we promise!" the other three said in unison.

"i'm starting to like a girl... and it's not lily," said the boy.

"what?" sirius asked, not believing what his mate just said. it was globally known that james potter loves lily evans. no one else. it has been six years since.

"yeah... it's y/n,"

a ringing silence filled the room.

you weren't super close with them four. although you are kind of friends with remus. you two talked occasionally when passing through the hallways or in the great hall.

during those small little encounters, remus might've caught some feelings. something different bloomed in his heart. hearing james saying this made his heart burn.

"i feel like she'd be a good distraction- i mean from lily. maybe that way i can make lily jealous and then she'll confess to me. even if lily-flower didn't, y/n would still be decent as a girlfriend i guess. no harm," james continued.

remus frowned, his skin burning. how could someone do that? having you as a second option? total bullshit. he wouldn't let you get treated like that. he wouldn't let james pick on your self esteem like that.

you're too good for anyone. he knows. being a substitute for someone because their crush doesn't like them back is not morally right. your soft heart is too precious to be crushed that way.

"prongs- i think that's a good idea! by then you can get lily to confess to you! you'd be everything!" sirius encouraged james, much to remus' dismay.

"moons?"

"moony has been real quiet-"

"i don't think that's a good idea," remus said sternly. he would be flaring laser beams from his eyes at james if he were a cartoon character.

james' mouth dropped, "why?"

"because- cause she's my girlfriend!" remus spoke abruptly, not knowing what he had actually said.

"your what?" all three of them screamed in shock. remus never said anything about a girl.

"how long?"

"how did that happen?"

"why didn't you tell us?"

"stop!" remus yelled, making them shut their mouth. he was panicking now. you are not his girlfriend. you'll never be. not now. not even tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.

"i started to date her like... two weeks ago," remus said before standing up, grabbing his bag before he headed out of the room. "i have to go, she said something about wanting to meet me in the library."

he fumbled with the hem of his sweater. it was cold, but he was sweating heavily. he has to find you.

thank god the marauder's map was on his bag or he would be caught lying. he saw your name- beautifully written- you were on the clocktower field, sitting alone.

remus ran to where you are, panting when he arrived.

"oh y/n!" he said, taking heavy breaths.

"yeah? remus?" you looked up from your book, gazing at him with the softest yet confused pretty eyes.

"i made a big mistake- i'm so so sorry!" remus said hurriedly. his sweat trickling down his forehead.

"calm down rem, i'm sure it wasn't that horrible! sit beside me, we can talk," you sent him a comforting smile, patting the empty seat beside you.

remus sat down, wiping his palms on his trousers. how does he say it? when does he start?

"you okay?" you asked.

"noyou'rereallyprettyandkindandlovelyandsweetandiknowyouwillneverlikemebackandyouwillhatemeforthisbecauseiclaimedthatyouaremygirlfriendfortwoweeksandimsososorry."

"say that again?" you laughed, pulling out a napkin to hand it to the poor nervous boy before you.

"i may or may not have said that you are my girlfriend in front of my friends."

"why would you say that?" your heart skipped a beat, taking in the words remus has spoken. you'd be lying if you said that you've never dreamed of this- being called remus lupin's girl.

"because- it's kind of stupid really. i got it out before i even know what i was talking about that moment," he scrambled with his words, finding it hard to form a sentence right now.

"basically, james told me that he likes you but i know he does not like you. he said he wanted to go out with you just so lily can realise that she is in love with him. and i would never let him do that to you. putting you second, you deserve so much better than that. and long story short, i said that you are my girlfriend... yeah."

remus lupin was doing this for you. so that you don't get played. how sweet.

"uhm," you looked down, playing with the hem of your skirt.

"uhm- would you be in for- y'know fake dating... me..?" remus said awkwardly. "it's alright if you don't want to, i'll make some excuses. but please don't agree on going out with james. i don't want you hurt," he whispered the last words. it was half self-indulgent in his part. seeing his the girl he's been pining for years dating his best friend is not a good feeling. but he also doesn't want you to be a second choice. it feels horrible to be. knowing that feeling all to well.

"okay- i guess i can date you," you said shyly. cheeks turning crimson.

"okay- great. we can stop if you don't feel comfortable. don't wanna pressure- just for a few weeks," he said once more.

"it's fine rem, or should i call you honey? or darling? or-" you laughed, seeing his flushed face. he is so adorable. how lucky you are to have him as your 'boyfriend'.

"how can i be a girlfriend?" you asked as you two walked back from the field.

holding hands.

it wasn't in his mind that you would ever hold his hand but you are now. dreams really do come true huh.

"we just keep it normal- i mean like we hold hands, and maybe i will hug you more often, those pda stuffs. remember, only if you're comfortable." such a gentleman he is. he always makes sure that you are comfortable everytime. gosh that gave you the fluttery butterflies.

"okay, i can manage," you giggled.

"y/n- darlin'', can i sit with you during breakfast tomorrow?" remus whispered. you both were sitting on the common room in the corner, the other marauders sprawled a few feet away.

"sure, you can," you smiled softly at him.

he squeezed your hands, resting his cheek on your shoulder. this small action gave you butterflies, the pretty sparks. his face was pressed against the fabric of your soft cardigan, with one of his arm around you.

it's just been three days and you have fallen more in love.

remus on the other hand is trying not to get this too much in his head or he'd go feral. being this close to you and basically cuddling on the couch felt like a fever dream. one that he doesn't want to wake up from.

your silky skin, that periwinkle smile, those wonderstruck lips, angelic face, your incandescent touch, those misty eyes. he loves them all. how could one not? he felt the luckiest in the school for having this. having you with him on a cold friday night under the same fluffy blanket of yours. the smell of you intoxicating his nose. he isn't bothered by it. he enjoyed it.

the most obvious thing in a relationship is display of affection. though it wasn't hard for any of you to do that. remus held your bag, your books, your papers, even the things you can do yourself. he insisted that he had to help you bring them.

and that goes for days. you and remus fake dating.

james was still skeptical about remus sudden relationship. remus was never the one to look for love in his life. well- at least that's what sirius observed.

he couldn't help but look more into details of remus' 'relationship'. he noticed how remus never kissed you in public. or at least when he's in the same room as you and remus are.

"if you've been dating for three weeks now, why haven't you two got in the next step yet?" james squinted his eyes at the both of you. holding hands while studying.

"whatever do you mean by that?" remus questioned.

"like- i don't know kissing..?"

"i do kiss her often," remus replied, shrugging before he squeezed your knuckles, rubbing soft circles.

"how come i've never seen it?" james asked childishly.

"well here. maybe because you don't have to see or know or hear everything about my personal life," remus replied rather coldly.

"i'm starting to think you two are f-"

james' words were cut short as remus' lips locked to yours, wrapping them in a deep kiss.

james let out an "o" sound, walking outside the common room because the tension would be awkward for the three of you.

the moment he stepped out of the room, remus pulled away. eyes brimmed with fear and embarrassment. "sweetheart, i'm so sorry," remus said.

"it's okay remus..." you still haven't processed what had just happened but you sure did kind of enjoyed it.

"um we- we should do that more often. i mean- to make it more real y'know..." he said stiffly. it's not actually about 'making it more real'. he just wanted to kiss you, feel you. he really liked kissing you.

you didn't know what you're getting yourself into. you thought whatever this thing is would only last for two days and then you'll be back in your daydreaming days. but it wasn't. remus is still there.

that goes on for months. the both of you went from holding hands, to kissing, to lean on each other, to more boyfriend and girlfriend things. if you didn't know better, you'd think he's not faking all of this.

hogsmeade trip is coming up, that's the only thing the students are talking about right now. visiting new shops and doing early holiday shoppings. you'd be lying if you said you weren't excited. not only will the village be like a winter wonderland with the snow all over the ground and the roof, but also since remus is going with you for the day.

"you excited, dove?" remus smiled when he met you halfway on the walk to the carriage. he pulls out his gloved hand from his pocket to place it around your back.

you pressed yourself against his warmth, giggling in content. you didn't really have to speak, remus knows.

he kissed the top of your forehead, then guide you to the carriage with some random students.

as the thestrals pulled, you beamed when the snow starts falling down. perfect. everything is so perfect right now. snowflakes fall down your lashes and hair, a sight remus wanted to tattoo in his mind forever.

you had worn make up today, he can visibly see the pinkish shadow in your eyelids. remus couldn't help but admire how pretty your make up looks. how you're so good at doing anything.

your lips were a pink shade close to your natural ones, he wanted to kiss them- give your lips warmth. he was staring at you for so long to the point where he didn't realise that the carriage had arrived.

"it's pretty here! i always love seeing snow on the roof," you smiled brightly at the snow-covered roofs, inhaling the smell of fresh snow falling from the sky.

"they sure are," he agreed, "do you want to go to the cafe for a bit? the ride was cold," he blew his palms.

"of course!"

smell of fresh baked goods filled your nose, contrast to the outside. you two chose a spot near the fireplace, ordering a cup of hot cocoa.

there was a comfortable silence between the both of you. neither really have to talk. you just smiled at each other occasionally, looking around the room after. times like these make your fake relationship feels real.

when you finished your cups of hot cocoa, you two went to honeydukes, buying lots of sweets for the holiday stocks.

remus paid for your chocolates. you insisted on paying them yourself but he refused. dumping his handful of sweets over yours so they were mixed, making it impossible for you to pick yours up.

"rem, you know you can't do this right?"

"why not?" he pouted, "i want to be a good boyfriend after all."

he gave butterflies to your stomach, you hide your visibly burning cheeks on his shoulder, hugging his arm.

he loved that, so much. it feels so real, like you actually love being with him.

then you walked in a bookstore, choosing your read for the month. this time you were paying for him. "you're being so kind, and i love that but let me reciprocate that too!"

remus just nodded in defeat, kissing the crown of your head.

you and remus had a wonderful trip, one that will always be remembered. just before you part your ways, you said, "i've enjoyed the trip a lot. thank you remus for spending the day with me." you yawned, rubbing your eyes. then you kissed him. it was remus who initiates the kisses first, but this time it's you.

he cant help but feel those butterflies inside him again, holding your figure securely. "i'm getting tired, i'll see you tomorrow, love." you kissed him once more before climbing up to the girl's dormitory. leaving remus in utter shock.

maybe you guys aren't fake dating after all. maybe this is real all along. the last time the two of you ever said 'fake' was so long ago. that made him realise that this is real.

oh he can't sleep that night.

the next morning remus was skipping down to the great hall for breakfast with an uncontrolled smile on his face. this morning he woke up earlier, took a warm shower, brushed his hair, and do all things that james potter does.

"you look extra happy today hm?" james questioned, quirking one of his eyebrows up.

"just had a really good date yesterday, so good," remus replied, grabbing a plate of waffles with yoghurt and a bunch of other fruits.

"i didn't know you like kiwis," sirius snorted.

remus rolled his eyes, scoffing, "it's for my girl, look she's coming!" he said shyly, waving his hand for you.

you sat beside him greeting the students around a good morning. "you look- different, did you cut your hair?"

remus laughed, shaking his head.

"oh," you giggled, scrunching your face. remus loves that sight. you look so pretty and adorable every single day, he was so lucky. "you're handsome, y'know," you opted, making his cheeks redder.

"ugh lovebirds," sirius gagged, stuffing his mouth with potatoes.

remus smiled to himself, then he grabbed your fingers, intertwining them together. "here, your breakfast, i cut the waffles so you can eat easier. not that i think you'll have a hard time cutting waffles- you are perfectly capable of doing anything by yourself."

your heart fluttered at his words.

how much of a gentleman he is being! you wished he is your actual boyfriend. the girl that ends up with him must be so lucky.

"thank you so much," you said.

christmas is coming, and there was a party thrown at the gryffindor's common room.

"it's not even christmas yet padfoot," remus stated.

"i know, that's why it's called a pre-christmas celebration party!" sirius cheered as he wrote a letter to one of the firewhiskey store at hogsmeade, ordering boxes of the drink. he also ordered some butterbeer for those who don't drink.

"well you better celebrate cause this is the day where i'm asking lily flower out!" james said happily.

"sure prongs," remus nodded unconvincingly.

"are you enjoying the party?" he came up to you right after your friend was leaving to the bathroom.

"i am! loving the option of butterbeer," you replied.

"you haven't got any drinks?" remus asked.

"nope, i just had a chocolate cake and a butterbeer," you said.

"good good, you don't want to be like sirius or james," he pointed to the both of them. they were dancing on the sofa, jumping like rockstars, holding nonexistent guitars.

you laughed at them before grabbing his hand. "hope you don't mind, getting crowded here."

remus squeezed your knuckles, "i don't mind, you can hold me whenever you'd like."

the the two of your heard a joyous yell from james potter. "lily said yes!" he said to everyone. you can already sense lily's eye roll from there.

"finally!" remus laughed.

but you didn't. what happens now? are you and remus going to stop dating because james will not pick on you anymore or will this be continued.

that night ended with you staring at the ceiling, frowning of whatever's coming.

remus was still his lovely self, he still gives you kisses, hugs you, gets your breakfast ready, and all that sweet things he does.

you on the other hand was sceptical. maybe he just forgot or maybe he didn't know how to tell you. so you did the only thing in your mind. avoiding him little by little as days passed. it's the only way to get this over with as soon as possible before you completely fall for him more and more. like people say 'you've got to leave before you get left'.

remus noticed as days passed. you don't kiss him back anymore. you don't hug his arm. you rarely touch his hand. it was frustrating.

did you really stopped liking him? or was everything just in his head. he couldn't get those thoughts out of his mind. he was feeling less joyful as he usually does.

one evening you saw him alone in front of the fire place, a book open but he was staring at the burning fire. you couldn't help but saw how his beautiful face was forming frown, forehead crinkling and sorrow eyes.

you approached the boy, placing your hand on his shoulder gently.

remus flinched, turning around, "i didn't know you're there." his voice was croaky.

"it's okay, i just got here. are you feeling alright?" you sat beside him, knees touching.

"um i- don't know..?" he replied, his eyes averted back to the fire.

your heart sunk, a part of you knew that this is maybe your fault. you were doing this to him.

"rem, talk to me. maybe i can help."

"you've been distant," he replied. he cringed at how stupid those words sounded.

"i uh-"

"did i do something? i'm sorry, i'm sorry for making you feel that way. if you don't want to be together that's fine and-"

"what are you talking about? remus you didn't do anything wrong!"

"well why are you avoiding me as if our relationship means nothing."

"remus-," you paused, trying to find the words. "we are faking all of this remember?"

"what?" remus asked. you could see the pure shock in his face also a tint of sadness . "i thought we were dating- not fake dating."

"huh? since when?"

"after our hogsmeade date... i'm so sorry for jumping on to conclusions way too fast. i just thought we were together because it felt so real. like just- you and me- we-"

your heart clenched, "what if i told you that it felt real too?" you whispered.

"what do you mean?" he avoided eye contact.

"i love spending time with you. you made that hogsmeade trip so memorable for me. no one has made me feel so- so content. it felt like you- you like me."

"i like you," he replied.

"i like you too," you replied.

he relaxed, a soft smile on his lips. "so you thought we were faking all of this while i'm over here thinking that we are mutually in love?"

you giggled, trying to ignore the part where he said love. "you never asked me to be your girlfriend, how was i supposed to know?"

"okay yes that was my fault, so would you like to be my absolutely-real-not-fake-long-time girlfriend?" remus asked with a cheeky smile.

"i accept your offer as your absolutely-real-not-fake-long-time girlfriend," you replied.

you both laughed, and remus pulled you to his chest as he rest his chin over your shoulder. "remember earlier when i said i like you? scratch that- i love you."

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

hi!! this is the same anon from earlier and i saw you wanted to write for james potter. and i’m so sorry if you’ve done something similar. so maybe after a quidditch match, win or loss, all james wants to do is lie and bed with reader and hug her. but they’re not dating and he ends up confessing too, still tired, he doesn’t even realize he’s admitted his feelings

thank you again for your time:))

-can i be ‘🎀 anon’? lolol

hi lovely 🎀! thanks for your sweet words and adorable requests 😊 i hope you like it!

pairing: James Potter x reader tags: fluffy fluff, some angst, gn reader if you want word count: 1.9k

Cuddles and Confessions

So close. So bloody close. And to bloody Slytherin to top it off? The defeat stung worse than any other James could remember. 

As he lumbers back up toward the castle after the match, frustrated and furious, some Slytherin fans jeer at him from across the lawns. It pushes him over an edge, and he turns to — well, he’s not sure to what; berate them? beat them up? — a strong hand grabs his shoulder and turns him back around.

“Easy, mate. They’re idiots but they’re not worth it,” Sirius says easily. Sirius of all people being the voice of reason has James realizing maybe he needs to calm down. 

James falling into step with Sirius without a word, the two make their way back up to the castle. 

When they get to the common room, it’s packed with mad and sad-looking Gryffindors consoling each other, complaining about bad calls, bad-mouthing the Slytherins: a typical post-match defeat. 

“Thank Godric,” Sirius sighs, heading immediately to a small table stacked with firewhisky. He grabs two glasses, but James stops him before he fills the second one.

“No thanks, mate. Don’t really feel like the company,” he says, scanning the room. He admits to himself there is one face that would have made him stay, one person whose company was actually the only thing he wanted right now. But he doesn’t see you. So he stalks off, bounding up the stairs to his currently empty dormitory. 

He’s lying on his bed, tossing a ball up and down when he hears a soft knock. 

“What?” he yells, the harshness of his voice even surprising him a bit. Surprise shifts to horror when your beautiful, blushing face peeks around the door. 

“Hi, Jamie,” you say shyly. “I’m sorry. Sirius said you wanted to be alone. I should’ve listened. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I’ll just —” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he rushes, going over to you and pulling you into his room. “I’m so sorry, love. Please don’t go.” 

You smile a bit at this, looking down at your feet before nodding slightly. 

“Ugh, I’m a prick. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” His voice is soft now, warm and enveloping as you look into his pleading eyes. 

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. “I get it. Rough night, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, smiling for the first time all day. You had a way of bringing that out in him. 

“Want a hug?” you offer. He nods immediately, internally cringing for being so uncool in front of you.

“Yes please,” he half laughs. 

You step close to him, and even this increased proximity has him reeling. He can’t wait to feel your warmth around him, to smell your hair as he nuzzles into you. 

He’d been hoping to win tonight’s match for more reasons than one. He hated Slytherin for starters. He loved winning for seconds. But also, he had been hoping a Gryffindor victory party could be the perfect place to finally tell you how he feels about you. Firewhisky flowing, adrenaline pumping, maybe he’d finally have the courage he was supposed to have as a Gryffindor and tell you the truth. 

You bring your arms up around his shoulders, pulling him close to you, bringing one hand to his messy hair and scratching comfortingly. James’s large body immediately melts into yours. He hums into the crook of your neck, and you giggle. 

“Thanks for coming to check on me,” he whispers into your shoulder, holding you close. 

“Why would I want to be downstairs wallowing with everyone else when I could wallow with you?” you tease, pulling back slightly to be face to face again. He hates how much he just wants to pull you back into him. 

“Oh, I’m much better company than those wankers,” he plays along. 

“Yes, I’m sure. Seems you’re quite chipper from your greeting.” 

He cringes and whispers “sorry” again. You shake your head quickly, wanting him to know you’re only teasing. 

The silence stretches a bit too long, neither of you knowing what to say. It’s especially awkward because your hands are still on his shoulders, his on your hips. 

“So what were you doing?” you ask, coming up with nothing better. 

“Just lying in bed, wallowing,” he confesses. 

“Sounds fun,” you chuckle. You break apart from him, the tension becoming too much and head over to his bed, plopping down onto it. He laughs and follows, sitting close next to you. “What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice low. “I came to cheer you up, but I think I’m doing a bang up job so far,” you chuckle, scrunching your nose. 

Before thinking about it, James brings his hand up to your face, lightly tracing his finger down your nose for you to relax it. 

“You’re not,” he says earnestly. “I’m already better, just having you here.” He thinks he feels your face warm where his hand still caresses it but pushes the idea down, not wanting it to be wishful thinking. 

“So what do you want to do?” you ask again gently.

“Honestly?” he asks shyly. Nervous was a weird look on him, usually so cocky. 

“Of course,” you giggle in your warmest tones, wanting him to be open with you, relishing in the intimacy you seemed to be building. 

“I want to keep lying in bed wallowing.” 

You stiffen immediately, chiding yourself for misreading his nerves. He wanted you to leave; that’s why he seemed shy. 

James sees — and feels — you tense at his words, and luckily for him, he realizes right away what you’re probably thinking. He continues before he can stop himself, dreading your leaving more than dreading saying something stupid. 

“With you,” he adds hastily. He feels himself blush, hates it, but pushes on. “I want to lie in bed and wallow… with you,” he repeats more softly. 

“Oh,” is all you can think to respond.

“I mean, just hang out, you know. I just… you just… I just like hanging out with you. And even just your hug made me feel better,” he rambles sweetly. 

You smile and pull away from him a bit. Before he can be disappointed, though, you’re pulling him with you as you shuffle further back onto the bed, lying down and bringing him horizontal with you by the shoulder. 

You’re lying next to each other, both tense, facing the ceiling, your sides grazing but nothing more. You look over at him, and he looks at you, and you both look away like idiots. 

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself he literally just told you he wanted to be here with you, clinging to that to give you the courage for what you were about to do. You turn toward him and bring your hand up to his hair. His eyes snap to yours. First they show shock but that quickly melts to adoration. Then they show nothing at all as they close in comforted bliss. You chuckle softly and see the corners of his mouth tug up at the sound. 

“Feels nice,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” you whisper too. He just nods. 

You shuffle closer to him, and he turns his body towards yours. Your arm is cramped now between your two close bodies, so you do the reasonable thing for comfort, you tell yourself, and wrap your arm under his shoulders. His face coming to the crook of your neck, you miss the huge smile that breaks out on it at the contact. 

He’s lying on your shoulder now, the rest of his body flush with yours. Your arm is around him, your hand coming up to continue playing with his hair. James brings his arm over you, hugging you close, and you place your arm on top of his. 

It crosses James’s mind that friends don’t cuddle. But he stops his internal monologue in time to savour the moment rather than over-analyse it, which he’s bound to do later.

You just lie there in silence for  a bit, the tension having eased considerably. 

In your warm, comfortable cocoon, you bring your face closer to the top of his head on your shoulder and nuzzle him a bit. He just hums in response. 

“You’re comfy,” he says. It sounds muffled, his mouth squished against your shoulder. You laugh, and it shakes him up and down the slightest bit. 

James loves the feeling of your vibrating chest just below him. He can’t help himself and tickles you where his hand rests near your ribcage. You laugh louder. You hold down his arm to stop him and playfully shake him off a bit to protect yourself from more tickling. His grip tightens in response, and he’s almost on top of you by the time he’s done adjusting himself. 

“No, no, don’t go,” he chuckles. “I’ll stop.” 

Your laughter has mostly subsided, but your voice is raspy as you respond, “Promise?” He nods into your shoulder. “Fine. I’ll stay if you behave.” 

He laughs, squeezes you, whispers, “Promise.”

Any tension that had been left has dissipated completely, and you fall into easy chat as you hold each other close. Your hand continues playing with his hair, tugging it when he says something stupid. His arm draped over you occasionally squeezing you more tightly whenever either of you says something nice. You go over the highlights of the match, lamenting the result. Without realizing it, you start talking about any and everything else, and by the time the conversation lulls for the first time, both of you chuckling lightly, James wonder how much time has gone by. Not enough, he thinks to himself, wishing this would go on forever. 

The quiet, your hand in his hair, your warmth radiating around his body, it all soothes him into a half slumber. It washes over him how exhausted his body is from the match, how tense it had been from the fury at its result.

“This is nice,” he slurs. 

“Mmhmm,” you hum. 

“I’m not even mad anymore.” He sounds astounded even in his sleepy tones. You chuckle. 

“Good.” 

“Mmmm. We’ll prank the Slytherins tomorrow. And I’ll think of another time to tell you how I feel.” Your hand halts its motions. James is still completely relaxed, and you realize he’s pretty much half asleep, not truly realizing what he’s saying.

You don’t want to take advantage of him in this state, but you want to be honest with him too, and he clearly wanted to talk to you about whatever this was. 

So, you warmly whisper, “How do you feel, Jamie?”

“I love you,” he mumbles. You’re melting at his words, and you can’t wait till tomorrow to say them back. You shift your weight so you’re more facing James than under him, and this rattles him a bit more awake. His drowsy eyes are heavy initially but then they startle slightly. Before he can worry or regret, you hold his face gently in both your hands, your thumbs caressing his cheeks. 

“James…” He just looks deeply into your eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, not saying anything. “I love you, too.” 

His face shifts as if in slow motion. His eyebrows rise; his lips smile widely; his eyes crinkle.

“You love me?” He sounds equal parts giddy and disbelieving. 

“Yeah, I love you, you grump.” He chuckles. “You love me?” you echo.

He takes his time responding. Scanning your features adoringly. Eventually, finally, calmly and assuredly he says again, “I love you,” nodding as he closes the little distance between you. 

Your kiss is slightly awkward at first, your lips smiling automatically at his words before realizing they’re being called on to take on new, intoxicating shapes. 

[pretty-little-mind33]

Begin Again

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: James has been persuing you for years and you've never said yes, until now?

Genre: Fluff 😇🎉 (bc i love happiness, ur welcome)

Warnings: misunderstandings, lovesick!James <3

It's not James's fault he's been head over heels in love with you for longer than he can remember. And it's really not his fault either that he's spent years acting like a complete and utter fool just to have a sliver of your attention. 

Talking the loudest in any room you're in? Easy.

"Accidentally" flying too close to where you're sitting in the Quidditch stands while he's supposed to be playing just so he can flip around obnoxiously? He's done that over three times now. 

So, when he hears you'll be at the Three Broomsticks this evening, it isn't surprising to anyone that he convinces Sirius and Remus to accompany him.

The moment they walk in, their loud demeanor makes everyone turn their heads. It's no secret James, Sirius, and Remus are the handsomest guys in your year — so no one could blame you when you look up too. 

Your friend digs her elbow into your side when James sees you looking and struts to your table. You sit up, taking a long sip of your pumpkin juice as James leans in and crosses his arms.

Sirius and Remus stand behind him, amused. "Ladies," James winks, his eyes focused only on you. "What brings you here on this lovely Friday evening?"

You turn your head, avoiding his gaze with a small smile that makes James lose his mind, "Nothing that concerns you, Potter,"

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks, unfazed by your bluntness as he motions to your empty glass. 

When you stand, James smoothly moves out of the way and you send him a look behind your shoulder. "Mm, no thanks. But if you want you can walk with me to order my own drink," you joke, not thinking he'll actually want to.

But, if James was a puppy, he'd be your puppy. You have him wrapped around your little pinky and the only person who doesn't see it is you. 

"Gladly," The boy smirks and his arm brushes yours as he walks next to you. You frown a little but don't say anything. You've never minded James's attention, and you know he's been after you for years now, but still you can't wrap your mind around him being serious about it.

In your mind, the attention was always bound to fade with time, and you wouldn't be caught as the fool who'd fallen for it.

However, as you lean against the bar to order another pumpkin juice and you feel James's eyes glued on you, you start to wonder. 

"So, when's the expiration date for this little game?" you ask, looking at him seriously. 

James leans against the bar too and completely turns his body to you. "Hmm? What?" he asks with a smile. He tucks the loose strand of hair from in front of your eyes behind you ear, seemingly proud of himself when he can see you clearly again. 

"This," you point at him, and then throw your arms up dramatically, "Whatever it is that you're doing."

James just smiles. He's not really catching on as his hand slides closer to yours on the bar counter. "What am I doing?" he whispers, leaning in. He has that look in his eyes, the one that makes your stomach flutter. 

You move your hand away from his. You sound exhausted, "All this flirting! Aren't you done yet?" you say it a little loudly and the woman who hands you your drink sends you a glare. Your cheeks heat up and you mumble a small sorry as you slide her your money. 

James catches your other arm before you can turn around and walk away from him. "Hey wait, what do you mean am I done? Do'you want me to be done?" he sound unsure and you can see his confusion on his face. 

Now you're confused. "Are you not planning on being done?" you whisper.

James can't hear you over the loud music and chatter inside so he moves you outside gently and you don't have to time to wonder why you let him.

It's slightly dark but the air is warm and James can hear you now when you ask the question again. He looks you over, still extremely puzzled by the entire situation.

"Wait, done with what?" he asks.

You blink at him. "What?" you feel like you're losing your mind. 

"Am I done with what?" he asks camly and you roll your eyes. 

"Done with flirting with me!" you exclaim, running a hand in your hair, "I- I don't understand, James. Why haven't you moved on? Sure, it was funny for a while but it's been years, even you must find the joke stale by now?"

James mouth opens and closes like some kind of fish and then he stares at you like you have lost your mind. "Joke? What joke?" he says and walks a little closer to you. He sounds even more confused. "Y/n, do you want me to stop flirting with you?"

You bite your lip, "I mean, yes? Because, it's not really funny anymore. I didn't mind it, Potter, but —" you pause and then hold the drink in your hand tighter. "Okay, here. What if I say I like you too? Can we just have a good laugh about it and then it all be over?"

James's frown deepens and he waves his arms in the air. "Wait, you think I'm joking?"

You blink at him again. "You're not?"

James runs a hand through his hair, chuckling in disbelief, "Of course I'm not joking," he walks even closer and you feel his presence as your skin tingles. You look up as he brushes his thumb on your chin and then smiles warmly, "I'd never pursue anyone as a joke. If you said you like me, then I would say thank Merlin and then I would kiss you until you couldn't feel those gorgeous lips of yours," he says it so calmly but you almost drop your drink. 

"Wait, so you actually, no-jokes, like me?" 

"Oh yeah. Why would you think I was making that up?" James moves his thumb to brush over your lips now, a look of adoration in his eyes, "I'm not that committed to my jokes," he teases. 

He pauses to think, "you think a twelve-year-old boy would write you cheesy love notes every class and actually send them if it was a joke? Or likewise, a sixteen-year-old would spend all of 6th year reading every single book you borrowed from the library just in case he had the chance to impress you? Or lose sleep over the way you wear your hair, or know that you change your nail-polish every week but you rotate the same colors since 4th year," James blushes a little at the admission and pauses, "and now I just sound like a creep, don't I?"

You laugh and the sound makes James grin. You hesitate but touch his cheek, tilting your head, "So, you meant every over-the-top gesture and every hilariously stupid pick-up-line?" you ask, "ever since 2nd year?" 

James nods, leaning into your touch. "Mmm yeah, but we can pretend that I was joking about the pick-up-lines that way it's less embarrassing for me," he says sheepishly.

"But I liked your pick up lines," you pout with a smile, your shoulders relaxing. 

James's eyes sparkle, "Yeah? You did?"

You smile at him. "No, but now it's funnier that you were serious about them."

James looks at you and he laughs. He throws his head back with a grin and your chest tightens even more. Has he always been this handsome or have you just never let yourself fully admire him? James looks at you again and his next words almost cause a heart attack. "Merlin, I've never wanted to kiss you as much as I do now," 

Your eyes flicker to his lips unconsciously and you realiz ehow close he is. You're nervous now and James can tell. Gently, he takes the drink in your hand and sets it on the small ledge of the building. It might fall but that's the least of your worries. For now, you need to focus on remembering how to breathe. 

Something must be different in the way you're looking at him because James asks you if he can kiss you. Years and years of flirting and he's never asked you that. 

You don't answer him and just when the silence starts to become awkward you take his cheeks in your hands and pull him towards you. Your lips hit his clumsily and you gasp into his mouth when his arm swoops behind you and he pulls you closer. James kisses you hungrily and you start to wonder why you hadn't done this years earlier.

When James disconnects his lips from yours and looks at you sweetly. "I didn't think you'd say yes," he whispers, "even less that you'd say it like that," his cheeks are tainted pink and your lip-gloss stains his lips. 

"Neither did I," you admit and look away a moment. Goosebumps run across your arms and, because you don't know where to put your hands anymore, you put them in your jacket pockets. You frown and pull out the galleons you'd used to pay for your drink with your left hand. You look back at James and he looks guilty. "What's this?" you ask. 

"I paid for your drink when you weren't looking. I knew you'd most likely say no again but I couldn't resist. I'm sorry," he holds his nape and sways on his feet.

You stare at him, slightly annoyed but also impressed that he'd put the money in your pocket without you noticing. You outsrech your open palm for him to take the money. "You'know, you make it very hard for me not to fall head over heels in love with you, James Potter."

James grins and closes your hand around his. "That the point, love," he says. 

You roll your eyes, realizing if he'd gone behind your back to pay for you he'll never accept your money now. "So, are you gonna ask me out properly or what?"

James smirks, "Are you going to say yes this time?"

You grin, "You'll just have to find out now, won't you? Tenth times the charm?"

"I don't think that's the expression—"

"Just ask me already, you idiot," you giggle.

[thecreelhouse]

『 your halo’s full of fire 』

Steve Harrington x Reader (AFAB) - continuation of this blurb // MDNI

warnings: smut (duh), m receiving (and some f receiving) oral sex, facefucking, deep throating, spit kink, anal play, rimming, sixty-nine, switch!steve & switch!reader, steve in subspace, dirty talk

word count: 1.8k

A/N: nature’s healing bc @stevenose and I are coming up with filthy concepts again 😌 this is a continuation of a recent request, but can be read as a standalone!! enjoy <3 title is from freak - lana del rey

This might be the filthiest thing you’ve done yet, but the shame isn’t enough to make you or Steve stop.

Hips snapping into your face, Steve’s cock gags you while his hands are tangled in your hair, grip assuring your head’s anchored in place for his pleasure. Your eyes water while you gaze up at him with that fucking look you gave earlier, arousing him enough to push his limits.

 Long ago, once Steve started to change his ways, he ditched the ‘King Steve’ act, vowing to himself he’d be nicer, and he made progress. He’s come so far since high school, only for you to ignite a spark deep within him that he assumed was long gone.

 You were both the best and worst thing to happen to Steve Harrington, in, well… ever.

 Within the chaos of being stuck in the Upside Down, getting Steve to yourself and coming close to dying, you weren’t wasting opportunities, or time, any longer.

 “See? That filthy mouth has better uses than running it like a desperate slut..” Steve lays heavy on your tongue, filling most of your mouth, causing you to drool onto yourself. He’s lost in the way spit hangs on in threads while he pulls out, confidence rising to an ego boost King Steve would’ve rode out as long as possible. The way you’re panting is just a bonus. He looks down through hooded eyes, using your saliva and his precum to stroke himself. “Open.”

 You obey, mouth opening for your tongue to greedily wait for whatever his next move is. The slick on his shaft glides his hand to the base of his cock with ease; he holds himself by the base, slapping his cock on your tongue before forcing himself back down your throat. You yell from the force and surprise, throat resisting him as your gag reflex kicks back in, fingers digging into his thighs, leaving little crescent shaped marks along his skin.

 “Relax,” He coos with an edge to his voice. “You can take it. You were able to do it for half the guys in our class, shouldn’t have a problem choking on one more cock.”

Hands climbing his lower half, he thinks you’re about to push on his thighs, push him away, but you don’t. Instead, you grab his ass, pushing him even further into you as you do your best to relax your throat. Steve’s head falls back while a shaky moan slips out of him, shuddering a breath out to quell the sounds he really wants to let out.

 While his grip loosens, distracted by the way you grope his backside, you pull him out. With a delayed reaction, he’s scrambling to get your mouth back on him; you move faster than Steve, one hand coming back to you before you snake your fingers around the base of him. You lift his length, giving easy access to his balls, wasting no time to lap at him while you begin to slowly stroke him.

“F- fu— fucking hell,” Steve’s legs shake for a moment, but he regains composure, strong grip tangled in your hair again. You moan against him as he tugs harder.

 “Aww, does King Steve need a break? You gonna be okay, babe?” You’re taunting him in between lewd noises your lips make against his balls. He hasn’t noticed the way your grip on him went back to his ass, and the way you’re sliding between and under his legs. He’s too busy trying not to cum just from you sucking his balls.

Eyes closed tight, he’s trying to pull you back where he thinks he needs you most. “Get your mouth back o- o— ohhh, my fucking god— ” Steve stumbles forward into the bed frame, gripping it tight while you’ve made your way behind him, spreading him to spit on his hole. You tease a finger around the taut ring, satisfied by the breathy, needy whimpers he tries holding back, instinctually pushing his backside closer to you.

 “Get my mouth… where? Use your words, Stevie, don’t be shy.” You kiss across the swell of one cheek, spitting again where he really needs you most. He’s a wreck, and the tables have turned again. “You said you wanted to see if the rumor was true, right?”

 “I— you— I need— f- fuck— ” You pull your finger away from him, and he whines, disappointed. While he pants, he murmurs to himself, “This is so fucking embarrassing.”

 “Yeah? Is it?” You pull your touch away completely, and Steve whips his head around, twisting himself slightly to look back at you as you flash a cocky smirk up at him. “We don’t have to do anything, y’know, if you can’t handle it.”

 Okay, so there was one thing he couldn’t ditch from his King Steve days, his competitive side couldn’t turn down a challenge. Screw the embarrassment when his desire for something so filthy was much greater. He kicks his pants off completely before dropping to his knees, tugging your skirt up over your hips.

 “Whoa, hey, what are— ”

Steve straddles you, facing your lower half as he tears your underwear apart, exposing your cunt, already dripping. You’re stunned by the sudden switch again, but you’re also fucking pissed he ruined your underwear.

 “Asshole, I liked that pair.” You grumble, hands exploring up the backs of his thighs. Steve shivers under your touch, yelping in surprise as you pull him back closer to you. “Tell you what, Stevie,” You spread his cheeks again, spitting once more onto his hole. Steve whines, trying, but failing at stifling his sounds. “If you can cum just from this,” You lick a stripe up to the sensitive ring, earning a raspy moan from him, echoing against the walls of the random house you’re in. “You can finish fucking my face.”

 Steve’s weak at the knees, gasping as you lap at him. It drives him insane, makes him want to go feral. He dives down between your legs, spreading them and holding them apart as he spits onto your folds. Your hips flex up, but his grip shoves you back against the floor. 

 “If I c- can’t?” He dares to ask.

You giggle into his skin before demanding, “Buy me another pair of those panties. Don’t you dare fucking touch yourself, got it?”

 “Yea- ah- oh m’god,” Steve feels his eyes cross, losing focus of getting you off with him while you suck along the swell of his ass, nipping the skin and kissing as you make your way back to his hole. He fights the desire to fall to the floor as the sinful feeling of your mouth in a spot it shouldn’t be makes his mind swim. Pushing past the pleasure for a second, he delves between your folds, immediately suckling on your swollen clit.

The mutual pleasure only causes both of you to moan into one another, vibrations of your hums just make Steve lose his mind, wishing you’d play with his cock, too. He slides a thick finger into you, hoping it’ll convince you to touch him more, too. Your back arches as he curls his finger just right, adding another with ease from your arousal just adding to the slick on your cunt.

“Can’t believe how nearly dying made you this fucking needy.” Steve murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. You pull him even closer to you, hands bound to leave rosy red marks on his ass from how hard you grab him.

“Me? Do you feel the way you’re dripping on me right now?” Steve’s cock lays heavy just below your face, precum leaking and pooling onto your neck and chest before dripping everywhere. “You’re making more of a mess than a sweet, innocent, virgin.” You swirl your tongue around him, “Imagine if everyone knew how much of a pathetic, needy slut you are.”

Steve doesn’t get the chance to quip back as the feeling of your tongue tapering into him makes a whimper roll into a shameless moan, too distracted to keep pleasuring you.

”C’mere,” You murmur against him, one hand snakes around the front of him, nudging him to sit up as you begin stroking him slowly. He’s hesitant to sit up, embarrassed for the roles to be reversed like this. “It’s okay, Steve. Let yourself feel good.” 

“I- this- ,” His words die on his tongue as your own works skillfully to rim and tongue-fuck him. Steve leans back further, and you hum in approval, causing his hips to twitch and cock to kick. 

Your free hand roams up his body, touch gentle as you do your best to avoid his bandaged wounds while your pace around his length picks up. His touch toys with your tits through the rips in your shirt, just in front of him with how he’s sitting. Steve’s trying so hard not to ignore your needs, trying to make you feel good somewhere, but he’s busy seeing stars instead. You pull back, just enough to tell him, “Honey, spit for me.”

 “Huh?” Steve’s so far gone in a blissed out state, so you let go of him, holding your palm out flat in front of him. He gets it then, spitting into your hand before you use the extra slick to glide along his shaft again. The pace you have makes him buck into your grip, unintentionally grinding onto your face.  Again, you hum into him, satisfied by his reaction. He begins babbling, “Baby, baby, baby— oh, fuck.”

 His cock throbs in your grip as his needy noises get louder, close to his release. Reaching back, he’s pulling your hair, pulling your face closer into him while you mercilessly toy his asshole with your tongue. Steve’s falling apart, unraveling at the seams as his legs tense up, breathy moans building into filthy, pornographic sounds, echoing around the two of you.

In a rush, he babbles, “M’socloseohmygod,” head falling back while the throbbing in your grasp continues, sticky release pumping out and spilling over your hand and chest below. His eyes screw shut as you guide him through his high, stroking with your hand and rolling your tongue along his hole.

Steve’s moan comes out unlike any other he’s made before, one that’s more of a cry, tormented by how disgusting he’ll feel after this. Right now, though, all he cares about is how fucking good this feels. The shame is a bridge he’ll cross when he gets to it, but for now, he’s fucked out in a way he’s never experienced before. He lets himself rest forward again, still straddling you as he tries to catch his breath. You lean back on your elbows, smirking at his exhausted figure laying on top of you.

Before you can ask how he feels, Steve’s mouth is back on your heat, causing you to buck up against his tongue with a high pitched whine. 

“Steve, what the fuck, you don’t have t—”

“You didn’t cum yet, and we still got time to kill,” He mutters before swirling his tongue around your clit teasingly. Your back arches as your muscles tense up, needy moans leaving your lips. “I ain’t fuckin’ wasting it.”

[thatdammchickennugget]

Healing Glow

pairing - percy jackson x daughter of apollo!reader

summary - trying to get your attention and spend more time with you, percy keeps showing up at the infirmary

warnings - mentions of blood and injuries, broken leg, fluff, violent pegasus behavior?

wordcount - 2.8k

a/n - it's happening, I'm completely obsessed with pjo again :'D if anyone has any requests, feel free to send them my way! <3

When you started your shift at the infirmary this morning, you were expecting it to be a slow and boring day. Summer had just started and not all of the campers had arrived yet, there was no training at the climbing wall happening and Will was leading the archery session, meaning he was there on the scene to take care of any minor injuries that may occur.

You were using the calmness of the morning to clean up around the room, restocking the workstations and opening up every window to let in some fresh summer air. The comforting smell of strawberries and pine wafted in with the gentle breeze, masking the sterile smell of the cleaning products you had been using.

You were just filling up the bandage drawer next to one of the examination tables, humming a soft tune as you worked, when your peaceful morning was interrupted with a loud bang. The door to the infirmary was thrown open and in staggered a satyr, struggling to support the weight of his friend. You recognized the two boys instantly when you spotted the familiar mop of messy black hair.

One of Percy’s arm was thrown over Grover’s shoulder, his frame leaning heavily on the shorter satyr boy as he tried not to put pressure on his left leg. He kept muttering under his breath but you couldn’t make out what he was saying since they spoke too quietly for you to hear them properly.

You quickly rushed over to take Percy's other arm, Grover offering you a small smile in thanks. Together, you managed to carry the injured boy over to one of the cots. When you gently laid him down on it, the poor boy made a pained expression when his broken leg bumped against the bed.

As soon as you were able to get a better look at him, you noticed his unusually pale skin and the sweat on his forehead. "What happened?" you asked Grover.

"Clarisse," he satyr shook his head, looking at Percy worriedly. "She dared him to go up against her at the climbing wall but she cheated and pushed him." Of course, why had you even assumed that the fact the wall was closed for the time being would actually keep the campers away.

Percy, who was still struggling to catch his breath, muttered something unintelligible to Grover before finally speaking to you. “Where's Will? Can you please go and get him?" he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

You were not exactly close to him, but even you could tell he had to be in a lot of pain if he was acting like this. He was not exactly a regular patient at the infirmary, due to his ability to just jump into the water to heal the occasional scratch or cut from training.

"Will is at the archery field right now, but I promise I'm more than capable to take care of your leg," you explained, getting straight to work, cutting open the leg of his pants to see the damage.

It did not surprise you whenever campers asked for Will upon coming in. It was a well-known fact that the younger boy was the strongest healer at camp currently, but he would not leave the infirmary in the hands of someone he did not fully trust to handle themselves.

When your half-brother Michael died during the Battle of Manhattan last year, the position of head counsellor of the Apollo cabin was going to fall to you, seeing as you were the oldest Apollo kid that stayed at camp year-round. But you gladly passed the responsibility on to Will when he offered, even though the two of you had quickly formed a team with you acting as his second in command.

Percy seemed to think about it for a moment, his mind seemingly elsewhere as he stared off into space. He then nodded slowly. "Yes, alright," he replied softly, leaning back to try and relax a little while you carefully began feeling along his calf.

His sea-green eyes watched intently as you closed your eyes, humming a quiet melody underneath your breath. A light golden glow radiated from your outstretched palms and Percy found himself actually looking at you for the first time.

He had known you in passing ever since he had arrived at camp for the first time, but now he realized that he had never really talked to you before. He knew you got along well with pretty much anyone and you seemed to be quite close to Annabeth, the two of you having spent a lot of time together as you both used to stay here throughout the whole year and were the same age.

But you mostly kept to yourself, spending time alone or with your half-siblings while trying to stay out of trouble. Percy guessed that might be why you had kept your distance from him, trouble and chaos seemed to follow him around after all.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of you clearing your throat, interrupting his musings. "Good news, it's a clean break,” you told him with a smile. "I'll get you set with a brace and some ambrosia. Your leg should be back to normal by tomorrow."

Grover let out a relieved sigh from where he was perched on the cot next to him but Percy's eyes were still fixed on your bright smile, wondering how he had never noticed just how pretty you were.  Your skin practically glowed in the sunlight streaming through the windows and your soft hair framed your face perfectly.

As if sensing Percy staring at you, you met his eyes. They were the most expressive eyes he had ever seen and he could not believe how captivating they were. Percy felt his cheeks redden slightly as he hastily averted his gaze, embarrassed for having been caught admiring your face.

"You still seem pretty out of it," you mumbled, gently taking his wrist to feel for his pulse. "And you're heart is still racing. I'll get you something for the pain and to calm you down first, yeah?"

Percy did not want to admit that the pounding of his heart had nothing to do with the pain shooting through his leg, so he just nodded quietly. As you walked over to grab a medicine from the counter, he could feel Grover's intense stare, making his already red cheeks burn even harder.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Percy was soon settled down in his bed, leg in a brace and his eyes drooping from the pain medicine you had given him. But he fought to stay awake as he watched you clean up some of the younger camper's coming in, bandaging their cuts and bruises while calming their cries by telling them stories in your melodic voice.

He found himself being a little jealous of the treatment the other kids received. You had not run your fingers through his hair while singing a song when he was in pain. With embarrassment, he caught onto how weird his jealousy was. He was not eleven years old anymore, of course you would not sing him to sleep.

It seemed like forever before the other kids staying the night in the infirmary had gone to sleep. Then it was just you and him still awake. You looked exhausted yourself though, sitting cross legged on the cot across from him, keeping an eye on a young girl who had come in with a fever.

When one of your half-siblings came in to take over for you, telling you to go and get some sleep, you stopped at his side one more time. "You got everything you need for the night?" you asked, voice sounding a little scratchy from how much you've been using it all day.

"Yes, thank you," he replied, the breath catching in his throat when you placed one of your hands over his on the mattress, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Alright then," you smiled. "Goodnight Percy." And with that you were gone, making your way out of the building and disappearing behind the door.

"Goodnight," he called after you softly.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Over the course of the last couple of weeks, Percy had come to the infirmary a total of eight times. And today marked the ninth, as he stood in front of you with a sheepish look on his face, blood dripping down his arm and onto the floor.

"Percy, what happened this time?" you asked, taking his uninjured arm to lead him to an empty cot. You had been wondering why he was seemingly unable, or simply unwilling, to heal himself with water lately. But you could not lie, it always brightened up your day when he showed up. You were not happy about him being hurt, of course, but you had come to truly enjoy his company, especially on the quiet days when you would usually be cleaning up in boredom.

Over breakfast Will had told you that Percy had come in the day before, asking for you, but when he was told you were not on infirmary duty that day, he was suddenly feeling a lot better and did not need Will to take a look at him.

"Duel practice. I wasn't paying attention," the boy admitted holding up his arm so you would not have to bend down to take a look at the gash in his skin.

"Alright, this will probably hurt quite a bit," you warned him as you poured some rubbing alcohol on some fresh compresses. "But I need to clean the wound before stitching it up."

He nodded and watched closely, biting back any sound of pain as you cleaned the wound. This one wasn’t deep, but it was still pretty nasty. He hoped that you thought him holding his breath was due to the pain and not because your face was only inches from his as you worked.

You didn't look up, but you were close enough now that he felt your breath against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. After you finished cleaning, stitching up and wrapping his wound in gauze, he looked over at you with a grin on his face. “That feels much better, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you turned your back to him to wash your hands after throwing the gauze wrappers away. "You're free to go, you won't need to stay the night with that cut. But I can give you something for the pain in case you need it later?"

"Oh... that's okay, don't think I'll need it," he shook his head, his hand running through his hair, causing some of the strands to stick out messily. "But are you sure I shouldn't stay a little longer? Just to be safe?"

Looking around at the empty cots, you shrugged your shoulders. "Yeah, maybe that's for the best," you told him, happy to have him keep you company for a while. You liked being around him. He managed to make you laugh in a way you had not been able to since Michael died. And it did not hurt that he was really nice to look at.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Will had shooed you out of the infirmary when you showed up that morning, saying that you were in desperate need of some sunlight and a day of rest. You had quickly stopped trying to argue, realizing that there was no way for you to convince him otherwise.

So, you found yourself aimlessly wandering the grounds after practicing some archery, trying to think of something else to keep you busy when you grew bored without any of your half-siblings there. The weather was perfect today. And it was not as if you really needed to practice anyway since your bow skills were quite good at this point. Being a child of Apollo, your arrows usually managed to hit their target quite naturally.

The sound of soft thuds reached your ears before you noticed anyone else around. Curious, you looked down the beach you were walking on, seeing Percy walk down the path with the black Pegasus he was always talking to.

The two seemed to the arguing about something, Percy motioning wildly with his arms with a frown on his face. As they got closer, you waved at the boy, catching his attention. His arm shot out to nudge the Pegasus as you approached.

"Surprised to see you all in one piece. Not even a scratch on you today," you joked as you came to a stop in front of them. 

Percy just rolled his eyes fondly. "And I'm surprised to see you outside. You're not working today?"

"No, Will banned me from the infirmary," you grimaced, turning your head to the Pegasus, noticing that he was staring back at you with wide brown eyes. You could swear you spotted a glint of amusement in them. "Hello Blackjack, How are you today?"

You waited for Percy to translate Blackjack's response, confused when a slight blush spread across his cheeks. "He says he's fine, enjoying the sunshine," Percy stammered out, his eyes shooting daggers at the Pegasus.

A snicker escaped your lips as you watched Percy's face flush. You wondered what Blackjack had actually said, sure that Percy had not told you all of it. Watching as the two of them seemingly argued silently, exchanging looks and nudges in front of you, the smile spread wider across your face.

"I guess I should leave you two alone to settle whatever this is?" you asked and Percy instantly shook his head, sending one last glare to Blackjack. Before the boy could respond, however, the Pegasus lifted one of his front hoofs, swiftly kicking Percy in the leg.

The boy almost toppled over in surprise. "OW! Dude, what was that for?" Percy hissed, rubbing a hand over the already forming bruise. Blackjack let out a sound that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh before trotting away, gently nudging his nose against your hand as he passed you.

"Are you okay?" you crouched down to take a look at Percy's leg, grimacing at his pained expression. "We should probably  have Will take a look at this. Come on, I'll help you to the infirmary."

Percy gladly wrapped his arm around your shoulder when you offered to help him, trying not to put too much of his weight on your shorter frame as the two of you slowly walked back to camp.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“What is it this time?” You fixed Percy with your best disappointed look, but you were not able to mask the smile spreading across your lips at the sight of him.

Percy checked if anyone else was in the room before he took another step towards you, his hand once again raking through his hair nervously. “Actually…I’m not hurt this time,” he admitted, his green eyes avoiding your gaze.

“How can I help you then?” you asked, surprised. Why would he come here if he was not hurt?

“I wanted to talk to you, if you have some time,” he said and you nodded, mentioning to an empty cot. He sat down and you took a seat next to him, waiting for him to go on. “Blackjack basically threatened to kick me again if I didn’t tell you, so I’m just going to get it over with.”

He took another deep breath, finally looking up, his green eyes softening when they met yours. “I like you. And I’m sorry for being so annoying, I know I’ve been a bit of work lately but I didn’t know how else to get your attention. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, I understand that I’m kind of a hazard to be around-“

His rambling was quickly interrupted when you shot forward, pressing your lips to his. He had a dumbfounded look on his face when you pulled back and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

Your face was flushed too by now as you held your on breath, waiting for a reaction. He was frozen for a moment, blinking rapidly as if to clear up any fog in his mind or maybe because his brain still could not comprehend what had just happened.

Then he was moving again, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek as he pulled you into another kiss. His other hand gently caressed your side where his fingers rested. The warmth from his hand made your body shiver.

When you broke off the kiss, both of your faces were hot as you tried to catch your breaths. "So, does this mean you like me back?" he wondered out loud and you let out a laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I like you too, idiot. I would have thrown you out of here that time you came in with a papercut if I didn't."

He smiled and squeezed your hip, giving a small chuckle. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I guess Blackjack was right, I was being kind of obvious."

You shook your head fondly, cursing yourself for not realizing why he kept coming in earlier. "It's okay, I  guess we're both idiots," you chuckled, pulling him into another kiss.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

Get Added To The Taglist

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 6: Dry Hump- James Potter

Summary: James Potter was your best friend, and he was unequivocally in love with Lily Evans. However, he has one secret he trusts only with you: he’s never kissed anyone.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, inexperienced James & experienced Reader, friends with benefits vibes, kissing/making out, dry humping, cumming in pants, teasing, nearly caught

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

James Potter was your best friend. He had many best friends, including the other Marauders and fellow Gryffindors, but he was YOUR best friend and had been since the first year at Hogwarts. James was the one person you always ran to and shared all happy memories with; if you needed cheering up, he’d be the only one who could pull a smile to your lips. It had always been just the two of you until he became infatuated with Lily Evans.

It had been years of hearing about how wonderful Lily was, which you knew anyway as she was your friend. Finally, you convinced her to say yes to one date with James, even though she did wait until everyone was finishing their time at Hogwarts and about to graduate. He’d waited long enough, and you were thrilled to see him getting his dream date.

This was until he casually announced one day, “I’ve never kissed anymore”.

He’d mumbled it to himself under his breath. James had gone from pure exhilarated joy to fear and doubt at the weight he’d put on his shoulders for having to be the perfect date for Lily. You’d taken him to the Shrieking Shack to try and get away from everyone else so that James could blow off some steam, but all he’d done so far was sulk in his armchair and stare into the fire whilst waiting for Sirius and Remus to join after their lesson.

Then, out of the blue, he admitted his secret that he had yet to kiss anyone. A frown dawns on you as you turn away from the book in your hand to inspect the messy-haired Marauder next to you visually. “What?” you asked with a hint of uncertainty as if he was telling the truth, “How have you never kissed anyone before?” Your mind raced to all of the parties in the Gryffindor tower where most people, including yourself, had made out with others, but now that you thought about it, you’d never seen James lip-locked with anyone else.

It was James’ turn to frown as he looked at you blankly, “When would I have had time? I’ve just wanted to be with Lily, and she’s always said no when I’ve asked before. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re saying it in that tone; it’s not like you’ve been kissing loads of people”. You give James a tight-lipped smile to show that he was, in fact, very wrong with that statement. His eyes widen as he realises the truth, “Wait, you have? Since when?”

“James, how can you be shocked? I’ve kissed plenty of people before, especially during those parties with the fire whiskey that Sirius always steals for us. You wander off with the Marauders or fawn over Lily, and what am I supposed to do? Stand on my own? Absolutely not, I go and find some fun”.

Your best friend’s mouth drops open in shock. Still, he quickly covers it up by looking away grumpily, “Great, so I’m the only person in our year who hasn’t kissed anyone, and now, I’m going to take Lily out, and she’s going to refuse to see me again because I don’t know what I’m doing, we’re going to finish school, and I’ll never see her again, and I’ll die alone!”.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his over-the-top rant, shutting the book with a loud snap and facing him completely whilst still in your chair. “James, you need to chill out a bit; I’m sure it’ll be fine. Do you really think Lily’s been going around snogging loads of boys? I’m sure she’s just as inexperienced as you”.

James’ shoulders dropped in relief as he turned back towards you with hope in his hazel eyes, “Do you think so?”

Your face immediately gave it away that you’d been lying as you sighed, “Ok, I might have seen her making out with a Ravenclaw a year ago, but still, I wouldn’t worry about it! You’ll be excellent! You’re James Potter, the Gryffindor King, a founding Marauder and Gryffindor Seeker. You can sure as hell make out with Lily Evans correctly”.

The pretty Marauder smiled thankfully at your dramatic declaration, “That’s true, thanks, Sweetheart”. Relaxing back into your seat, the book returned to your hand, assuming the conversation was officially over. However, only a moment later, James is whining pathetically, “But what if I’m not good? What if I hurt her or lick her wrong or-”.

“Lick? Why are you licking her, James? I thought we were on about kissing?”

“We are! But you know, people use tongues and-”

“James, I don’t know what you want me to say; if you’re that petrified with kissing, why don’t we practice a little so you can stop freaking out”. It took you a couple of long seconds before the offer you’d just given him genuinely dawned on you. You weren’t sure why you had said it, expecting him to say no but wishing for him to calm down and thinking this was the only option.

James’ head snapped towards you, giving his full attention as he asked, “Wait, you’d do that?” He pushed himself up off the chair's arms, and his eyes were wide and hopeful again.

Lowering the book, you spoke slowly, “Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s just a kiss, and at least we’re friends, so no feelings have to be involved”.

“Yeah, that's a good point! Okay, right, so, um, how do we do this? Do I come over to you, or do we stand?”

Sighing at James, you stood abruptly, dropping the book and strutting to him with arms swinging. The marauder sits up suddenly, taking his feet off the stool he had been resting on as he stares up at you with wide eyes that you can see the whites of his eyes beneath his glasses. “What are you doing?” He questions uncertainly as you straddle his lap without a word, your knees resting on either side of his toned thighs, your fingers slipping around his neck and interlocking at the base of his skull.

“I’m going to kiss you, James. Is that alright with you?” You didn’t mean to sound sassy as you asked with a single raised questioning eyebrow, but you also needed to make sure that he was happy for this to continue.

Those two wide hazel eyes stared at your lips, licking his own to moisten as he slowly nodded, “Uh yeah, just tell me what to do.” A pang of sympathy rushed through your chest at seeing James becoming nervous, which was not usually a sight that you had to see as he was usually such a confident, happy person. You would have spent some time to explain that it was normal to be nervous during your first kiss, but you didn’t want to allow any more time for him to freak out, so loosening your intern locked fingers, you moved them to cup each of her freshly shaved cheeks and pressed your lips delicately against his. You wanted it to be quick enough that he didn’t even have time to tense, even though he did proceed to lock up as you moved back to assess his reaction.

“See, it’s not so scary. You’re supposed to enjoy this, James”. Thankfully, as your face lowered once more, he forced himself to take a steadying breath and relax the tension in his muscles as your lips caressed his.

They were softer than you’d anticipated, plump and smooth like a pillow and instantly, your eyes and his close. However, James surprised you by moving his first. His hand lifted and rested on your hip so gently that you hardly felt it until he gave your body a little squeeze to test the waters of how much he could get into the moment. So you rewarded him by pressing your face harder against his, lips beginning to move and rubbing against each other on instinct.

James even amazed himself with how naturally and quickly he could make out with you. Tilting your head, you deepened the kiss, nose pressing into his cheek so that you could smell his skin that had remnants of his aftershave, which was always spicy and woodsy. As the air became necessary, you pulled back enough to take deep, greedy breaths, now noticing he was doing the same thing but looking up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“So what did you think-”

James didn’t allow your sentence to finish as his other hand cupped along your jaw, pulling your face closer again until the two of you kissed with much more heat with the movements. His mouth opened wider to match how yours was moving against his; your heartbeat quickened as you leaned further into his tall, warm body, melting into his touch and kiss.

Then you wanted to take a risk and licked his bottom lip, which you were ultimately greeted with a praising deep groan of satisfaction that vibrated James’ entire chest and sent tingles straight to your core.

Ok, wow, you thought as James attempted and succeeded with his own lick back against your tongue; you were definitely getting turned on by this. As if he was reading your mind, James pressed harder on your hips, willing you to move down, which you did, your skirt pushing up on your thighs so that when you sat on his crotch, your panty-covered pussy was flush against the material of his trousers.

As one, the two of you pulled away from each other. Mainly because you were now sitting on his very hard erection and also because he knew you could feel his evidence of being aroused. You both stare at each other with wide, unblinking eyes, lips slightly swollen and the taste of his spit still on your tongue.

However, you didn’t want to stop and awkwardly sit back in your seat, and he wasn’t rushing to push you off, either. You were horny, and so was he. Yes, James Potter was your best friend, but that didn’t have to matter; you just wanted him to enjoy the moment and show that it wasn’t as scary as he thought.

Enough time passed, and if he didn’t want to continue, he would have said something by now, so you took the opportunity to lean back in, your thumb attempting to soothe him, stroking across his cheek in timid circles. As your mouths reconnected, your hips ground down on his crotch. You were hoping that he knew enough about anatomy to tell that the warmth from your pussy was a sign of arousal, wanting him to know you were just as turned on as he was.

You do it a few more times, rubbing back and forth with increasing pressure until James makes a pained noise that has you stopping altogether and checking in on him.

He’s looking everywhere but at you, as he apologises, “Sorry, it’s just these trousers are tight and rubbing me painfully”.

“You could just take them off”, you say once again, not thinking before you speak. James looks at you with dramatically wide eyes as he, too, realised what you’d just said. Quickly, you clarified, “I’m not saying that to have sex or anything; I just mean, we could kinda carry on doing what we are doing, but if your trousers are hurting, then just in your boxers”.

You’re surprised by his automatic response of a nod, yes, his arousal blocking all thoughts of Lily as he begins to undo his belt easily. Rising onto your knees to give him room, he pushed the offending material until his thighs were bare and his plaid boxers were on display, barely containing his length. Not wanting him to feel exposed, you lowered yourself once more, and both groaned at the contact, yours at a higher pitch as you could feel the entire outline of his cock against your cunt.

James was bigger than you’d thought and was currently pointing down his left thigh, so you angled your hips in this direction. Tilting your hips forward slightly, your clit grazed along his shaft, causing a hitch in your breath as it caused pleasure to pool in your abdomen, moisture slickening your hole with each movement.

You’re breathing just as heavily as he is, lips still moving against each other, exploring, tasting, needing more. You were kind of proud of him when he moved his face down your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses and causing more pleasure to pulse through you. You were half tempted to rise onto your knees again to show him the evidence of your arousal that had soaked through your panties and onto his boxers, but you didn’t want it to stop.

As your fingers delved into his messy black hair to hold his face closer, he thrust his hips up against yours to add to his stimulation. He was still apprehensive, so he didn’t push too hard, but he rocked back and forth until his tip was pressed against your clothed folds. The muscular thighs beneath yours tensed with each thrust, the muscles defined from all his years of playing quidditch.

His hands remained in place, one on the opposite side of your jaw to where his mouth still kissed, and the other hand helped to move your hips back and forth in time with his own ruts. You’d never actually gotten off like this with anyone before. Usually, underwear would be removed at this point, and more direct contact could occur, but it was still exciting to have some barriers between you. The lace of your underwear was quite rough against your most sensitive area, especially your engorged throbbing clit. You were sure to be sore afterwards, especially with the amount of pressure you were rubbing against each other; with each passing second, the need to find completion made you both desperate.

As his lips found yours again, his tongue began to delve and explore the hollow of your mouth, along your palate and even over your teeth; your pussy began to clench, fire blooming in your core with the impending release.

Pulling back, your fingers moved to rest on his shoulders to hold on tighter as you quickly moaned, “Please don’t stop; I’m going to cum”.

James moaned huskily, out of breath, but both of his hands were now on your hips, moving both his hips and yours faster to find his orgasm. Resting your forehead on his, you both shared the same area, still tasting the other in your mouths, sweat beginning to coat your faces. You were sure you could feel his own wet patch against your arse cheek from where precum was dribbling from his tip and staining his underwear. 

“Ah, fuck- James!” your head tilts back as you finally orgasm, thighs shaking and pussy fluttering around nothing. However, just as you were beginning to come down from your pleasurable high, James suddenly grabbed you painfully, both arms wrapping around your waist as he sat up further on the chair, nearly knocking you off of him if it wasn't for his grip around your midsection. Reassuringly your arms wrapped around his shoulders as his face nuzzled into your chest, his body shivering as thick spurts of cum soaked his boxers.

His moans were like music to your ears and sounded slightly pathetic, making you cling to him more, attempting to run your fingers through his hair to calm the crazy style, but to no avail. Your pussy felt like it was on fire due to the rough stimulation and the untouched orgasm, but it felt so good you savoured the sensation for a few minutes whilst trying to catch your breath.

“There you go, Potter. Not only have you kissed a girl for the first time, but you’ve also made her cum”.

James laughs, loosening his grip slightly to look up at you, but then you both hear the worst noise imaginable: voices from a few floors below, especially those of Sirius and Remus. You scrambled to your feet, straightening your clothes and sitting back in your chair, picking up the book and opening it to a random page as James pulled up his trousers, both of you ignoring the bodily juices completely.

James just about had his feet back on the footstool before Sirius and Remus walked in, but both immediately halted and looked between you and James. It was Sirius who spoke first, eyes squinting in accusation, “Why do you both look so guilty right now? What did you do?”

[boneblushed]

Is it chill that you’re in my head?

synopsis your best friend James isn’t sure why he’s so angry about the fact that you’re going on a date with someone else.

wc 2.6K

“He’s looking over here,” James sings under his breath, his brown eyes full of mirth. He’s balancing on the spindly hind-legs of his library chair, the Potions essay he’s supposed to be doing laid out in disarray.

You send him a reproachful look. “You’re being malicious.” When you turn back around to face Davey Gudgeon’s table, there’s a split second of eye contact before he ducks his head down abashedly, his cheeks a brilliant rouge.

He has a crush on you, apparently. Sirius and Remus had overhead him talking about it on his way down to breakfast this morning—about how prefects rarely escaped unscathed after sharing something as intimate as a Saturday night duty.

James Potter, your best friend and a royal pain in your ass, finds this revelation abso-fucking-lutely hilarious for some reason. Asshole.

“Au contraire,” he murmurs, the grin on his face audible, “I’m being a world class wingman.”

The look on his face is downright dangerous. He waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, unperturbed by the frown on your own, a warning. Easing forward until each hind-leg finds the ground with a resounding thud, he cups his hands around his mouth, whisper-shouting, “Oi! Gudgeon!”

Davey Gudgeon reddens further, a feat you didn’t think was possible until now. He glances over at James dismally, a furtive expression on his face. “What?” He mouthes, sending you this weak half-smile. It’s sort of sweet, almost contagious. You find yourself smiling back at him on instinct.

“Come over here, you bludger,” James chastises, like that’s the obvious next step. To be fair, it probably is to him — he’s never shied away from flirting with the girls he fancies, a self-proclaimed dating aficionado with way too much chat for his own good.

Davey hesitates, his nervous gaze flitting to you momentarily. He looks as though he wants to do just that, but isn’t sure whether his crush on you is reciprocated. Sweet.

He has gentle eyes, too, pretty juniper with bright specks of burnt ochre. A nice head of brown hair. If it was cold outside, you bet he’d offer you his Quidditch jersey without hesitation.

You think you need sweet, all things considered. You’ve known James Potter all of seven years now, had a wretched crush on him all of five, and never once has he indicated that his aforementioned expertise could ever extend to you.

It’s high-time that you gave your pathetic heart a rest.

“You’re making him miserable,” you mutter, ever-reproachful.

Davey hasn’t moved yet, though you’re sure he wants to, his hands braced on the table in front of him apprehensively. He keeps looking between you and James, surveying his options; in order ease his anguish, you decide you’d better make the decision for him.

You push your chair back and stand up, it’s spindly legs scraping against the vinyl floor forebodingly. James looks up in surprise. “Where r’you going?”

“To Gudgeon’s table.”

“Why?” James urges, perplexed. He half-stands too, his features a smidge less mirthful than before.

“So you’ll stop,” you reply, frowning down at him.

He raises his arms in surrender. “I’m stopping.” A pause. In the beat that passes, his assessing gaze falls over you in paces. “You’re not… you’re not keen on him too, are you?”

You think on this, cocking your head to one side. “I don’t know. Maybe? He’s kinda sweet.”

“But he doesn’t even have the balls to come over here and ask you out properly,” James whisper-shouts, mildly exasperated.

You’ve never once called him sweet.

He’s had this tragic crush on you for all of seven years, and never once has he been on the receiving end of such a fond adjective. He’d only made a fuss over this Davey situation because he was sure it was just a jibe — no way someone like you would be interested in a guy like Gudgeon, no way you would even entertain the possibility of more than friends.

Right?

James wants that more than friends thing with you, bad. This morning, when Sirius’d brought up Bludgeon’s crush on you—sniggering violently—he’d snuck a glance at your features to ensure that it wasn’t reciprocated. He’s sure he’d caught a bit of second-hand embarrassment, though maybe it was actually just tender hearted diffidence. Maybe Davey fucking Gudgeon had something that he somehow didn’t.

Right now, James’d give up his head boy badge and Quidditch captaincy to acquire that something. His chest hurts terribly. He runs his sloven fingers through his unkempt hair, sending you another look of bewilderment.

“Because you’re here,” you reprove. “Course he’s not going to come over when the James Potter is taking the mickey out of him.”

You say his name like it’s an insult. James’ heart plummets. “I’m not — he’s welcome to come over,” he argues quietly, chagrined. “Besides, he’s going to have to get used to me if he wants to be your boyfriend.”

“Why?” You frown. “I always bugger off when you’re with another girl.”

“That’s different,” James insists, frowning in tandem.

“How’s that different?”

They aren’t you, James thinks vaguely. His poor heart blunders for the umpteenth time this afternoon. “None of them are girlfriends.”

“Not for lack of trying,” you mutter. James swears he hears a hint of spite in your tone. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. M’going over.”

James slumps back into his seat reluctantly. He knows that you’re right, begrudging as that revelation may be — he is always flirting with one girl or another, though that’s more so to pass time than anything particularly serious. Never you. You’d see right through him, anyway. Besides, the last time he tried, it’d been so disastrous you’d assumed he was joking.

It’d been at that Halloween party they’d had in the Gryffindor Common Room last year, firewhiskey flowing and sweet treats piled atop every surface.

You were wearing this gorgeous, albeit bemusing, costume of a Muggle someone — Wonder Woman, or something, James didn’t quite understand it. Showing a lot of skin. Your pretty eyes were accented by rouge glitter, lips all glossy, and your exposed limbs and bare waist had eased his heart right into his throat.

And James Potter didn’t often find himself lost for words, but it appeared as though this party was one of those exceptions.

“Woah,” he’d murmured, wolf-whistling lowly. He was in this ridiculous, Babbity Rabbity costume (courtesy of Sirius, who was a cackling pot), feeling entirely out of place when you looked so beautiful. “Christ, Y/N, who’re you meant to be? The hottest muggleborn at Hogwarts or something?”

You’d rolled your eyes then, because no way he was serious. “Don’t tease, James. Did you guys manage to snag any cauldron cakes?”

He’d been too busy to insist his sincerity, fond gaze travelling down your bare limbs, slow. Lingering on the wafer of exposed waist between your corset and skirt. He’s still agonised by the want to touch your soft skin; that wretched Hogwarts shirt tuck has prevented this from happening.

“By the fire,” he’d answered after a beat, dazed.

And when you’d fallen out of earshot, James’ eyes still trained on your figure, Sirius and Remus’d come up behind him, the latter wearing Muggle-manufactured fangs. (Supposedly, he was meant to be a vampire.)

“You’ve got a tragic affliction, James,” Sirius’d tutted under his breath, faux-apologetic. “How’re you somehow able to flirt with every girl in this room except the one that matters?”

“Shut up,” he’d muttered back at the time, though as he thinks back on it now, he realises that Sirius was right.

For some reason, with you, he always manages to say exactly the wrong thing. He watches Davey scramble to straighten as you near his library table, the heat on his neck rising until his entire face is in a flush. And you’re smiling as you sit down beside him, this sweet, unabashed smile that looks too much like feelings reciprocated. Something in James’ ribcage cracks, an ugly emotion springing forth from within it. But he’s immobile, hands on the table and furrow in his brow, agonised by the fact that you’re looking at Davy all fond, not him.

Never him. You ask a question—James is trying his best to lip-read, but it’s difficult not to get carried away staring at your mouth. Davey nods, and then reddens some more. Then you stand up, feelings-reciprocated smile on your face as you walk back over to the table you’re sharing with James.

“He looks pleased,” James mutters grumpily.

You frown. “You don’t.”

“You’re doing charity work,” he answers, ignoring the insinuation. “You know that, right?”

“James,” you sigh, “you’re being unkind.”

“Because he’s punching.” But James knows this is unfair. He’s pretty sure every bloke in Hogwarts would be, if it was you and them.

—

“James,” Sirius calls, bemused. “You coming mate?”

Its autumn in Hogsmeade, and they’ve reached a cross roads.

The path to the left of them leads to the Hog’s Head Inn, one of their favourite haunts in the village due to its relative unpopularity. To the right, where James is glancing furtively, the cobblestone pavement takes them toward the Three Broomsticks. Where you are. With Davey.

Remus shares a knowing look with Sirius. “Think he’s in the mood for one of Rosmerta’s butter-beers, actually.”

James groans, scrubbing his calloused palm down his face slovenly. He knows exactly what he’s insinuating; Remus always has been the most astute of the lot. “Don’t bloody start.”

Sirius grins then, reaching for James and throwing an arm around his neck. “Reckon you’re going to need something stronger than butter-beer if you’re planning on watching Gudgeon snog your girl.”

His heart plummets. There’s that ugly emotion again, rearing its contemptuous head at him. “Wormtail’s there too,” he tries, shoving Sirius off. “We should go say hi.”

“Oh yes,” Sirius allows, his brown eyes full of mischief. “The one Marauder with a girlfriend. You after some tips, mate?”

“Cut him some slack, Sirius,” Remus chastises, though there isn’t much fire to his tone as he says it. “Reckon he’s miserable enough about the fact that the one time he fancies a girl she isn’t interested.”

James frowns, sending the pair of them a look of determination. “Look, shove off, both of you.” The crease between his eyebrows deepens further, keenly resolute. “I just want to check on her, alright? Make sure that bludger isn’t pulling anything funny.”

“Right.” Sirius nods soberly. “Or snogging her to death.”

“Fuck,” James groans again, his insides squirming. “You’ve gotta stop putting that image in my head.”

He turns toward the path to his right, the cobblestones plush with Autumn leaves, when he spots your figure in the distance and freezes. Coming closer. You look beautiful in this matter-of-fact, effortless way that makes James’ heart stutter; your pretty eyes are alight with mirth as you catch his gaze, this fond smile on your lips that makes him want to kiss you. Bad. He swallows thickly, his chest a pathetic mess.

Sirius and Remus must spot you too, because the pair of them beginning walking backward toward the Hog’s head, their eyebrows raised in tandem.

“She isn’t with the bludger, Prongs,” calls Sirius, a knowing lilt to his tone. “Now’s your chance.”

“My chance?” James asks, distracted.

“To snog her, you idiot.”

But James doesn’t hear him. Partly because the wind’s picked up, mostly because it’s difficult for him to concentrate on anything but your growing closeness.

Once you’re within earshot—more of you to agonise over, exposed waifs of skin like a siren song—he stumbles forward clumsily.

“Y/N,” James breathes out, pleasantly surprised. “Where’s Davey?”

You grimace, looking over your shoulder furtively. “I’ve just escaped him.”

James’ stomach deflates, relief washing over him in waves. He raises his eyebrows playfully. “Escaped?”

“Don’t,” you warn, frowning sternly. “He… he’s alright, really. Just doesn’t really know how to hold a conversation.” You grimace again. “Or take a hint. Like, at all.”

“Yeah? Why’d you say that?”

“Well,” you begin, and then you shiver, moving closer to James without meaning to. “Christ, Potter, you’re a really good wind shield, y’know that?”

“At your service,” he murmurs, inching forward too. “You were saying?”

You gaze up at him, the rough planes of his face ever present, and you’re struck by the revelation that he doesn’t need an old Quidditch jersey to keep you warm. He’s a furnace of body heat and cedar-wood cologne.

“Well,” you continue, voice low, “after two butter beers and absolutely zero chat, I’d sort of assumed that he’d have realised that this just isn’t going to work.”

“But…?”

“But,” you grimace, “he asked me out again.”

The way your features twist as you say it, as though that’s the last thing you want to do, wrings any residual jealousy he may be feeling right out of his stomach. He’s struck by this suddenly, overwhelming urge to caress your jaw and pull you closer.

“And let me guess,” James murmurs, grinning fondly. “You said yes.”

“I said I’ll see.”

“I worry all this charity work’s going to be the death of you, Y/N.”

You crinkle your nose up at him, punching his chest playfully. “Don’t you start James Potter.”

James raises his arms in surrender, still grinning. His gaze lifts above your head to take in the footpath behind you, and he finds himself looking right at the burly figure of Davey Gudgeon trudging toward the pair of you.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, raising his eyebrows. “You weren’t kidding about him not being able to take a hint, huh?”

You furrow your brow, looking over your shoulder bemusedly. When your head whips back around to face him, your eyes are wide and a little tortured, dappled by the warm, orange hues of Autumn. A damsel, James’ thinks, dazed, as if that’s a normal thought for a eighteen-year-old bloke to have. He’s already spiralling over kissing you and it’s been all of five minutes.

“Is he looking over here?” You ask, your voice low.

James’ eyes dart back to Davey. “Uh, yeah?”

“Good.”

You wrap your arms around his neck hurriedly, leaning forward and pressing your lips against his. James takes a second to recalibrate, his poor heart a mess, but when he does, he’s quick to circle your waist and pull you closer, his strong arms firm and torso warm on your figure. It’s a deft kiss, chaste as it is agonising, though kiss enough for him to memorise the feeling. The buttery taste of your lips, the perfect way they appear to mould against his.

It’s a tandem emotion — you’ve revelling in this kiss far more than you should, the arduous pressure of James’ lips on your own. He’s going to leave a mark. He tastes like sugar quills and feels like the death of you, his sloven hands pressing into the bare skin of your waist.

When you do finally pull away, your cheeks are warm and you’re a little breathless. “S’he still there?”

A beat passes. James doesn’t look up.

You mistake his pause for unease, and grimace abashedly, looking away from him. In hindsight, you aren’t sure what possessed you to kiss him like that — you want to pretend it was to stave Davey away, but your traitorous heart says otherwise.

God, you think, it was a really good kiss. If only James liked it as much as you did.

If only you knew.

“Sorry,” you add in a hurry, still grimacing. “I — I wasn’t thinking, I just didn’t want Davey to come over here and I —”

“Y/N,” James interrupts, his voice rough, gravelly around the edges. “Stop talking.”

You let out a breath. “Why?”

“I want to pretend you kissed me because you wanted to, just for one more second.”

“What?” You ask, your eyes wide. “Why?”

James thinks, isn’t it obvious? He’s still marvelling over how perfect your mouth is.

“Because,” he admits quietly, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”

You don’t know what to say to this. Your still chest to chest with less than an inch between your figures, and you can feel your poor heart struggling to free itself from its cage. “You have?” You say, suddenly bashful.

James nods. His pupils are a little blown, his unkempt hair a mess, and he keeps his gaze trained on your lips as though he’s being paid for it. “And listen,” he murmurs, reaching forward to thumb over them softly. “Don’t worry about Davey Gudgeon.”

“Why not, James Potter?”

“Because I’d sooner die than let that bludger bore my girl to death again.”

[pedrito-friskito]

hey kay bb!! hope you're doing well 💖

mando has been on the brain lately so i'm requesting fluffy smut with him pls 🥺😫 (the yearning is *extra* today)

niiiiiiiiik my darling my dear hope you are also well 💗

ok…this got away from me. I blinked and suddenly a plot! exposition! SMUT! (multiple scenes at that) all the things. I’m a slut for Din Djarin and it really jumped out on this one.

(smut below the cut, a full plot, the helmet comes off, a bit of inexperienced!din, reader is kind of a bad ass, descriptions of bodies, unprotected p-in-v sex - wrap ur shit even if ur in space ok)

sleepover saturday

uncharted territory

(word count 9.1k - it REALLY got away from me okay)

gif by @aceofwhump

Then you are a Mandalorian no more.

Din Djarin aches in a way he has never felt before, much more powerful than any injury he could ever sustain. His Creed, demolished. His son, gone. His life, upended. As he staggers out of the Covert, trying to think of where to go next, he cannot shake the feeling of lost that settles around his shoulders like a cloak.

Maybe coming to Glavis was a mistake; maybe he should have stayed back on Nevarro, kept taking jobs from Karga until he finally had enough credits to take the old man’s advice, get himself a camtono full of spice and disappear into the Twi’lek healing baths until he forgot the whole thing.

The truth of it? He knew he could never forget. There wasn’t enough spice in the galaxy to help him forget it all. It wasn’t possible. And the larger part was that Din didn’t want to forget.

His leg aches as he walks. The bacta Paz had sprayed him down with had helped some, but the ache runs deep, and the drills the Armourer had forced him to run with the Darksaber had only made matters worse. He should find a place to lie down, to hide for the night before he decides what he plans to do next, where he plans to go.

Where will he go?

You are a Mandalorian no more.

The echo of the words make his head split, and for a moment, he has half a mind to wrench the helmet off, to launch it off the ring, let space swallow the beskar whole. But he stops himself; it feels as though his armour is all he has left.

His armour, and the Darksaber. The right to the throne of Mandalore.

Maker, he can’t think straight. The ache only worsens, his limp more prominent, and it gets to the point where he can take no more. He falls onto the nearest crate, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. His body feels twice as heavy, his head even more so, and he tips it back against the wall to lighten the load. He’ll rest just a moment, he’ll just shut his eyes for one—

“Mando?”

Din pulls his blaster from his holster as his eyes shoot open. There’s the sound of shuffled steps, something metallic hitting the floor, a murmured dank farrik! He hits a button on his vambrace, turns off the thermal setting on his visor.

“Sweets?”

You look exactly the same as he remembers. It’s been ages, but he could never forget your face. He knows what’s underneath your clothes, too, and the memory speeds to the surface of his mind faster than a pod-racer.

+

Before he had an in with Peli on Tatooine, the Razor Crest routinely parked and tuned up in Hangar 3-5, he had you. You were well-known within the Guild, had more than a few contracts with different gangs and hunters in the galaxy. If something on a ship broke, you were the one to fix it, and you had enough heavily-armed thugs on your side to make anyone think twice about trying to mess with you.

Some called you the Mechanic, simple and descriptive. Others, those you let a little closer, knew you as Sweets, a moniker earned by your penchant for candies and treats. You’d let your favoured clients off easy if they were short a few credits, but had something sweet from the far reaches of the galaxy to offer in lieu of the missing cash.

Din knew he was one of your favoured clients, perhaps your favourite. Or, had been. You’d crowed endlessly about the Crest, desperate to get your hands on it any time he hauled it in for service, whether it actually needed it or not. Sometimes he genuinely needed something fixed, some times he’d found some candy or sweet in a far off corner of the galaxy that he’d brought back just for you.

Other times, he just wanted to see you.

You were sweet in other ways, too. He knew first-hand. And he knew he was the only client you let into your bed. He’d been drawn to you the first time you’d been introduced — a common contact between you and Din sent him your way when the Crest was in serious need of a tune-up, and you were the closest mechanic he could get to without doing more damage to the ship.

Your knowledge astounded him, to start. You were barely into a diagnostic and you knew exactly what needed to be fixed, what parts you had and didn’t, how many credits it was going to cost him. And you hadn’t even set foot on the ship yet. Your competency drove him wild, only spurred on when he brought you aboard the Crest to give the interior a once-over, eager to see if he’d kept everything original, or if you had any modifications to offer that he might be interested in. Din followed you around the ship silently, answering whatever questions you had, mostly just watching you work. It was intriguing beyond belief.

“That’s not much of a bed,” you’d commented, cocking your head to the side when you hit the button that opened the bunk. “When’s the last time you had a new mattress?”

He just shrugged.

“One thing you should know,” you said over your shoulder, descending the Crest’s ramp, heading back towards the entrance to your shop. “I don’t use droids.”

Din nearly fell over. “That’s not a problem.”

“Good,” you replied, tapping at your data pad, your brow scrunching. “It’ll take longer than your usual hangar; I do everything myself.”

“I’m happy to wait,” he said, dipping his helmet, thankful it was hiding the way he was raking his eyes over you. I don’t use droids. Had someone made you in a lab somewhere, on some backwater planet, just for him? “I know she’s in good hands.”

The grin you’d offered him was sweeter than anything he’d ever seen, and you shooed him out a moment later, muttering something about getting back to work.

When he returned three days later to retrieve his ship, he almost didn’t recognize it. You’d repainted most of the outside panels, replaced all the ones that were missing, and the engines were so shiny Din could see his helmet reflected in them. Inside the Crest was another story; you’d outfitted him with a carbonite cell system, top of the line and primed for use. That meant no more mouthy bounties, no more wasting durasteel cuffs and gags when he could just hit a button and have a quiet ride back to the Guild.

And in the bunk, a new mattress, complete with a pillow, and bolted on the wall, a mount for his helmet.

“You don’t sleep with that thing on, do you?”

“The carbonite system,” he nearly sputtered, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have the credits, I didn’t—”

You poked the toe of his boot with your own. “Call it a gift, Mando. Let’s just say I shouldn’t have had the thing hanging around to begin with.”

“Is that gonna cause me any problems?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p. “Wiped all the identification numbers from the system. No one will know where it came from. Except you.”

He stared at you a long moment. “Except me.”

He was sure to pay you in full, plus the candied flowers he’d found at one of the vendors in the markets. You’d smiled again at that, and while Din committed the sight to memory, he also promised himself that he wouldn’t let it be long before he saw your smile again.

And he kept that promise. The next time he landed the Crest in your hangar, it wasn’t because he needed a tune-up or new parts. He’d struck gold at a black market on Coruscant; his bounty had lead him into the belly of a sweet shop, and after the Gungan had been dealt with, Din did some hunting of his own. He took as many boxes as he could carry, trying to take one of each flavour, a few extra of the ones he’d seen on the shelf in your shop.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here?” you’d called as soon as he landed, stepping out of the shop and into the hangar, your hands on your hips, cocked to one side. “You ruin my handiwork that fast?”

“Not exactly,” he’d replied, walking down the ramp, his arms laden with goodies. Your eyes had gone huge. “I come bearing gifts.”

“For me?” you cried, gasping as you took the boxes from him, tongue poking between your teeth. “Mandalorian, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He’d never been so grateful for his helmet at that exact moment. He might have crumbled to dust if you’d seen how red his cheeks were. “I-I owed you,” he stuttered out, “for the carbonite.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you quipped, swaying from side to side on your feet, staring down at your treats. “I told you, it was a gift.” You gave him one of those smiles again, and Din felt his stomach twist at the glitter in your eyes. “Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll feed you and everything.”

You disappeared into the shop, and Din paused a moment before following.

He saw you disappear behind a dark curtain that had definitely seen better days, and Din followed your further to discover there was an apartment of sorts attached to the shop. Apartment was perhaps too kind a word; it was one large room, a kitchen to one side, a large futon spread in the middle. Trunks and boxes and crates stacked along the far wall, a few grease-stained jumpsuits littering the floor. You stumbled over your feet trying to pick them up, tossing the offending fabric into a nearby crate, before you turned back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

You served him first. Noodles with dark sauce and some kind of shredded meat you thought was bantha but weren’t quite sure. But, as you stated with a shrug, “it’s good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” After you slid the bowl across the table to him, you turned back to the stove and stayed that way. After a moment, Din wasn’t sure what to do, but then your head turned slightly, your eyes trained directly to the left, not wandering towards him over your shoulder. “I won’t look. Swear.”

He lifted the helmet just enough to shovel the food into his mouth. You were right, the mystery meat was good, and the sauce you’d made to go with it was even better. He nearly inhaled the food, not wanting to keep you too long, and when the helmet slid back down, the mechanism hissing back into place, your head turned again, still not looking at him.

“You’re safe,” he said, sliding his empty bowl back across the table.

You turned fully, serving yourself, and he expected you to sit across from him, keeping a bit of distance between you, but instead, you rounded the table and plunked yourself down on the stool right beside him. You ate much slower than he had, and Din let his eyes graze over you. The streak of engine grease on your cheek, the scar that split your lower lip, the intricately messy way you wore your hair. A silver chain sat around your throat, strung with a tiny silver ring. It disappeared down the front of your shirt most of the time, but right then it sat awkwardly, the chain caught on your collar, the ring sitting in the hollow of your throat. He resisted the urge to reach out and fix it.

The jumpsuit you wore was nearly identical to the ones you’d hurriedly swiped off the floor. Torn on one knee, zipper unfurling beneath your chest, a symbol he didn’t recognize patched onto your thigh. You’d tied the sleeves around your waist like a belt, a dirty rag tucked in at your hip. The Mechanic, herself. Sweets.

He thought you were beautiful. He had a feeling you’d look beautiful in anything.

Or nothing.

Din was distracted by your thumb at your lips, swiping a drop of sauce from your chin and sucking your finger into your mouth. His flight-suit was tight beneath his beskar to begin with, and you weren’t helping matters. “So,” you said simply, reaching for your food again. “Tell me a story, Mando. A good one. Best bounty you ever caught.”

The conversation filtered between you two easily. You were a good listener, easy to talk to, and Din felt like he couldn’t stop talking to you, telling you about his first kill, his first bounty. His first ship, before the Crest. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you about the before, before the Guild, before he was just the Mandalorian, when he was just Din Djarin. A foundling. Part of him wondered what you think, what your reaction might be to his past, but a larger part forced his mouth shut.

At some point, he turned himself towards you on his stool, one arm braced on the table, the other resting on his thigh. After you finished your food, you leaned heavily on the table, your head pushed into your palm, legs crossed at your ankles, swinging slowly, the toe of your boot tapping his shin every once in a while.

He could see you were tired, the way you started covering your yawns and rubbing at your eyes. “I should go,” he said, starting to get to his feet. “You’re tired, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Your hand flashed out quick — not quick enough to startle him, though — and wrapped around his wrist. You’d managed to wedge your fingers right into the space where his glove met his vambrace, and he felt you against his pulse, against his bare skin. “You don’t have to leave, Mando.”

Din. He wanted to tell you. My name is Din.

Slowly, his own hand reached out, hovering in the air, shaking more than a vibroblade. He saw your eyes trace its path, watching until it lowered, dropped until the flat of his palm met the curve of your thigh. His gloved fingers wrapped around the meat of your leg, his thumb pressing towards the inside. 

He heard you gasp. 

He moved forward an inch, and his hand moved higher, thumb riding the seam of your jumpsuit. You hummed, fingered squeezing around his wrist, and Din moved closer, until he had one leg between yours. He let his hand wander higher, listening carefully to the changes in your breathing, the hitch in your throat. The heat between your legs was almost stifling, and something feral in the back of his brain screamed for more.

Whatever snapped in him, it seemed to break in you at exactly the same time. You both shot to your feet together, and Din’s hands moved to your waist, to where your sleeves were knotted at your waist. Yours roamed his chest plate, fingers tapping along beskar until you hooked them in his cloak. He halted his own hands, ready to help you remove the fabric, but you handled it just fine on your own, finding the hidden snaps with ease.

His blood turned to flame when he felt your fingers along his throat, seeking his pulse in another spot. “You should stay,” you breathed out, your voice barely above a murmur. “Please, Mando, I want you to stay.”

He forced himself to nod, his mind now preoccupied with ripping his gloves from his hands. He needed to feel you, no barriers in between.

He needed to see you, something in him screamed, no barriers in between.

He silenced that voice before it could spur him further. Busied himself with diving his hand beneath the waist of the jumpsuit, the broken zipper catching on his wrist. You were even hotter beneath, and he sucked down a breath when he found you wet, slick coating his fingers.

Your body leaned into him, chasing his touches, and he hooked his other hand around your thigh, lifting you up and backwards onto the table. He could feel you watching, your eyes moving from his helmet down his front, to where his hand was jammed beneath the jumpsuit. He crooked one finger, testing, pressing it into you, and grinned beneath his helmet when you moaned.

Din hooked his arm under your waist, lifting you just enough that he could maneuver the jumpsuit over your hips, down your legs. His cock jolted between his legs at the sight of you bare, leaned back on the table, your chest heaving. Even though the visor, he could see how slick you were, the evidence shining on the insides of your thighs.

He wanted to taste you.

He pushed the thought away again. Another time, when he wasn’t smearing the inside of his flight-suit with precum, when you weren’t keening into his touch as he dragged his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, when he could turn the lights off and shed his armour, bare himself to you the same way.

You moaned again when his fingers found your clit, drawing a sloppy circle that had your muscles tensing against his hand, knees closing against his hips. “F-fuck, Mando,” you ground out, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “You’re good with those hands.” Another stuttered breath as he twisted his wrist, curling two fingers just inside your entrance, thumb stretching up to swipe over your clit. “Really good.”

He was grinning beneath the helmet again, eyes glued to your face as he pressed further, fingers threading deeper into you. He could feel everything, the twitch of your thighs, the clench of your cunt. You reached out with one hand, using the other to balance yourself, and closed it around his elbow, your fingers digging into the thick fabric so hard he was shocked your nails didn’t bite right through.

“How do you like it, Sweets?” he asked, leaning forward until he was nearly hovering over you. Your hand moved from his elbow to chest, fingers hooked in his armour. “Tell me what you need.”

Your hand moved again, this time moving straight down his front, past his waist, right between his legs. His cock throbbed as you palmed him, a cat-like grin on your lips as you tilted your head level with the visor. You leaned up slightly, pressed your lips to the beskar edge that mirrored his jaw. Another squeeze, and the slow pace of his fingers faltered, his head nearly smacking into yours. “I need this.”

Din couldn’t hold back anymore. Something in the way you stared up at him, eyes tracing over the helmet, told him you didn’t want him to.

“I like it rough.”

It all happened in one fluid motion. He pulled you closer, right off the edge of the table, and you spun in his grip, leaning forward over the table, planting your hands flat. The jumpsuit slid further towards your ankles and you arched your back, your ass grinding against his hardness, and Din groaned audibly, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Your legs spread as much as the jumpsuit would allow, and Din worked his own zipper down, freeing himself from the flight-suit. You made the most delicious noise as the tip of his cock smacked against your ass, the tip dripping with precum.

Your head turned as he took himself in hand, tapping your ass with his cock again. “Maker,” you breathed out, your eyes widening. “I knew you’d be big.”

Beneath the helmet, Din turned crimson.

He planted his other hand between your shoulders, tipping you forward. You went willingly, eyes rolling back as he pushed his hips against your ass. He could see how wet you were as you bent, slick still dripping down your thighs.

There was nothing stopping him from dropping to his knees right then and there, lifting the helmet just enough to drag his tongue through your cunt. The thought alone made his cock pulse.

But then your hand reached back, twisting in the fabric covering his hip, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He bent his knees slightly, notching himself at your entrance, and pushed inside.

The noise you let out was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there. He knew he wasn’t gonna last, and judging by the sounds you continued to make and the way you were bearing down on him, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, he didn’t think you were either. He set a fast pace, the space filling with the slick sound of him driving in and out of you, your moans echoing each move. Din’s gaze dropped, trained on the sight of his cock disappearing to you. Your hand flapped at his hip, scrabbling for purchase, and he wrapped his fingers around your forearm, groaning when you did the same.

He was right; you didn’t last long, and neither did he. Your entire body clenched as you came, one hand slamming against the table, nails digging deep into his wrist. It spurred his own orgasm, that coil at the base of his spine snapping, and he pulled out, cumming hard across the curve of your ass.

Silence settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. Din couldn’t help himself, rubbing his bare fingers over the expanse of your back, tracing over your spine. You arched a bit into his touch, making a satisfied noise before you lifted yourself off the table. You turned to him, leaned up to press a hot kiss to his bare throat. It made him shiver.

“Think we could do that again?” you murmured, lifting a finger and dragging it along the edge of his helmet. “Maybe you take all the metal off.”

Din cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched, already wanting a second round. “Helmet stays on.”

You stared at him a long moment, smile on your lips. “Helmet stays on.”

+

He kept close to you after that night. He rarely took bounties that took him to further reaches of the galaxy, loathe to admit that he was always within a few parsecs of your hangar. He brought you a long-distance commlink so he could tell you when he was coming back, so you could contact him if you ever needed him. He didn’t worry about you, per se; you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he knew for a fact you knew how to shoot the blaster you kept holstered on your thigh when he wasn’t around.

But then the comm went quiet. He called, you didn’t answer. A lead weight formed in his stomach, and he pushed the Crest’s engines are fast as they’d go. Carefully, though — he wouldn’t dare ruin any of your handiwork.

When he landed in the hangar, the lights were all off. It didn’t help his worry, and it only grew worse as he sprinted off the Crest, heading straight for the shop door.

It was locked, but the lock was no match for his vibroblade and a bit of brute force. Inside, the space was empty. no trace of you left inside. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood smeared on the floor or the wall, but it didn’t ease his mind any. What if someone had come for you, spirited you away in the dead of night to some backwater planet? Dank farrik, what if someone had put out a bounty on you? His mind reeled, raced, chewed him up and spit him out.

He never meant to get so attached to you.

Din switched the settings on his visor, finally determining that all the footprints he could make out on the floor were your own. Then he saw it, sitting on the edge of one of the shelves in the kitchen. The commlink, perched precariously, just enough out of sight that no one else would think twice, but not Din.

He thumbed through the screen, saw the icon flashing with a recorded message. Your face lit up the screen instantly, and he stifled the way his stomach clenched. You looked…scared. Not hurt, not injured, but scared.

“Someone sold me out,” you said, your voice distorted and warped. “I can’t give you details. I can’t really tell you anything. Just know I’m going somewhere safe, and I’ll miss you, Mandalorian. Take care of yourself.”

Your eye were shiny as you reached out to cut the recording, and Din’s heart sank into his toes.

He put the commlink in his pocket, and returned to his ship.

He’d watched the message so many times the words were engraved into his brain. The change in your voice, the way you’d blinked harder the more you spoke. The way you paused in the middle, glanced over your shoulder with a shock of fear in your eyes.

And now here you are, standing in front of him, a pile of metal spilling out of a crate tucked beneath your arm, that same streak of fear in those big eyes. Eyes that have haunted him all these years. You nearly drop the crate as you crouch, your gaze zeroing in on the wound on his leg. “Maker, Mando, what the hell did you do?”

“Long story,” he groans out, wincing as you adjust his leg slightly, leaning to the side so you can get a better look. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you reply, getting back to your feet, retrieving your crate of parts. “C’mon, let me clean you up. You look like hell.”

Din goes willingly, not sure what else to do, his mind racing from the combination of the Covert and you appearing out of nowhere. He lets you pull him slowly to his feet, tuck yourself under his arm. “Sweets,” he starts to protest, but you drag his arm around your shoulders.

“Shush,” you whisper, glancing around as you start to lead him in the opposite direction he’d been going. “Lean your weight on me.” He does as you say, nearly crumbling with relief. “There you go.”

The ache only worsens as you go, Din resisting the urge to lean his head against yours. When you finally turn him towards the door, he thinks he may topple over completely, but you’re quicker, producing a remote from your pocket. The door slides open, revealing the inside of a hangar, and you all but carry him through, discarding the crate of parts the moment you’re through, hitting the button again once you’re inside. The door slides shut, and Din lifts his head enough to look around. It looks nearly identical to your old hangar.

Then he hears a curious little beep, and looks down to see a tiny droid scurrying towards you. A BD-1 unit; he recognizes it from Peli’s, though yours is a little more rusty around the edges, the cleaner bits of metal painted grey and yellow. “Not now, Shrimp,” you grit, waving at the droid. It beeps loudly back at you, like an arguing child, and Din stifles his laugh.

“I thought you didn’t use droids,” he mumbles.

“He came with the hangar,” you reply, moving him across the hangar. Shrimp follows a few more steps before darting off, disappearing into a pile of crates. “Couldn’t bring myself to scrap him. Besides, not like he’s much help; tiny thing can’t even lift a socket wrench.”

He laughs out loud this time, and when you pull him into the shop, he laughs again, despite himself.

There’s a shelf of sweets above the workbench.

There’s no curtain between the shop and the apartment, instead another sliding door, another remote. Din lets out a low hum when he sees the apartment beyond. More than one room, furnished with actual furniture. It’s…nice. It’s really nice.

You deposit him on the couch, propping his leg up on the table in front of it. “Wait here,” you mumble, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into another room. 

He doesn’t move, but hooks his fingers into the edge of his helmet and yanks it off, depositing it on the couch beside him. He sucks down a breath of unfiltered air.

You gasp as you walk back into the room, nearly dropping the silver case in your hand. “Mando, you—”

“Din,” he says instantly, reaching down, tugging his gloves off, tossing them onto the helmet. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you repeat, slowly, like you’re tasting his name on your tongue. The corner of your mouth quirks. “Din…Djarin.”

He just nods. You approach him carefully, like you’re walking towards an injured animal instead of a man, the silver case clutched against your chest.

“Your helmet,” you start, gesturing vaguely. A memory sparks. He told you before — not in so many words — about his Creed, his upbringing. You’d asked, and he’d answered. It wasn’t information he gave willingly. The second time he had you, when you were sprawled out completely naked on that old futon, writhing and moaning beneath him, when he’d shed almost all his beskar, felt the warmth of your body pressed up against all of him. Afterward, when you’d both been sated for the time being, you’d peered up at him from your place on his chest. “Do you ever take it off?” you asked, your voice laced with sleep.

And he’d answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says now, eyes darting towards the curve of silver. “I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. He wants to reach out, let his thumb ride the space between your eyebrows, feel it smooth over as he kisses the spot. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He trails off. Loaded question. What does it mean? Truly? “My name is Din Djarin.”

There’s still confusion etched into your features, but you don’t question him further. Your brow doesn’t loosen, and you perch on the table.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the silver case still in your hands.

You look at him for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his face, over his features. Like you’re committing him to memory. He’s doing the same, almost scrutinizing your face, trying to remember what it looks like without the filter of his visor, what you truly look like, with no barriers in between.

He could taste you easily now.

The thought catches him off guard, the throb between his legs a welcome change to the pulsing of the wound on his thigh. The bacta the Covert had given him has worn off almost completely, and the pain is climbing. 

“B-bacta shot,” you stutter out, shaking your head slightly as you flipped open the case. Your eyes moved to the wound on his leg, peering at the plates of beskar, the flight-suit, the discarded helmet on the couch. “That needs to be cleaned.”

Din just nods.

“Think you can walk to the bedroom?” you ask, shoving the silver case into the chest pocket of your jumpsuit. He recognizes it — the tear in the knee, the patch on your thigh. You fixed the zipper. “It’ll be easier.”

It’s slow-going, getting him back to his feet, shuffling carefully to the bedroom. You ask him if he wants to bring the helmet; he just shakes his head.

What does that mean?

Your bed is unmade, but Din barely notices. The scent of you is amplified in here, and he’s sucking down breaths like he’s been deprived of oxygen. You help him lower to the edge of the bed, and he starts on the armour. You sink to your knees in front of him, setting the bacta shot on the mattress beside him. He removes a pauldron with shaking fingers, and you’re right there to take it from him, your movements sure, setting the metal carefully onto the floor, waiting for the next piece.

“You disappeared,” he says, after more pieces of beskar have been removed, when you’ve moved onto his boots, setting them both carefully at your side.

Your brow had just smoothed out, and it pinches again. “I had to. I left you a message.”

Din pulls the zipper on his flight-suit, reaches into the pocket sewn into the lining, and produces the commlink. “I know.”

Your lips part as you look at the piece of metal, dwarfed by his hand. “You found it.”

“I did.”

Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you look back up at him through your lashes. “It wasn’t safe.”

“You’re safe now,” he says, and you reach for the bacta shot. “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you reply, your voice bordering on stern. “Somebody sold me out.”

“I knew that much,” Din mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.

You sigh. “Let’s just say, there were some parts in the hangar that shouldn’t have been there, someone wasn’t happy with some work I did, and then next thing I knew, there were Imps on my tail. So I disappeared.”

“You could have told me where you were going.”

You shake your head. “They were listening. Tracking every message I sent out. I couldn’t let you get roped into it too.”

“You could have gone to the Guild,” he says. He’s too distracted to notice you pull the syringe out of the case. He doesn’t see the needle until you’re pushing it into his muscle above the wound. He grits his teeth audibly, hands curling hard around the edge of the mattress. “Dank farrik.”

“Sorry.”

“I would have come for you,” he says, breath hitching in his throat as you push the plunger down. It feels like his body has been flooded with ice water, his teeth chattering for a moment before the cold turns to a woozy sort of warmth that spreads through his chest like Corellian fire whiskey. He blinks hard, slow, one eye than the other.

“Can you stand?” He nods. Or thinks he does. “The bacta will help, but I need to put a bandage on that wound, at least.” More nodding. He’s vaguely aware of you draping his arms around your neck, your arms sliding around his waist to haul him up. He plants his feet beneath him, forces his weight over his ankles. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s moving through water. You manoeuvre one arm out of his flight-suit, pushing the fabric down his shoulders, until it settles around his hips. The metallic sound of the zipper seems to echo through his brain, and he knows you’re touching his waist, moving the fabric slowly over his injured thigh. But it doesn’t hurt.

All he can feel is you.

You sit him down again, work on pulling the suit off completely. Your hands are warm, soft, gentle against his bare legs, and he nearly buries his nose in the crown of your head when you bend down. Once the flight-suit has been removed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt, you disappear again, and Din’s not sure if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

Something cold presses against his thigh, and he flinches. “Does it hurt?” you ask instantly, and your voice is clear, then muffled, then clear again. “It shouldn’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” he slurs out. He hears you laugh, and the sound is like tinkling bells. He wants to hear it again. “Sweets.”

“Yes, Din?” Clear, muffled. His name is a song on your lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“Mesh’la,” he mumbles, and then his eyes fall shut, his body slumps back, and he thinks you laugh again. He’s not quite sure; sleep is too busy yanking him under.

+

Din wakes to the sound of running water.

He’s disoriented, confused, not sure where he is until he pushes up on his elbows, looks around, drinks in the sight of your bedroom. The memory floods back; the Covert, then the hangar, taking the helmet off, the bacta shot that knocked him out.

But more importantly: you.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. How long was he out? He can’t be sure; there’s a window on the far side of the room, but time on Glavis is different, artificial nighttime and starlight instead of sun. His armour has been moved from the floor, neatly piled on a dresser against the wall, his boots on the floor underneath. His flight-suit is spread out on a worktable in the middle of the room, and he can see from his spot that you’ve tried to mend it, patching the spot the Darksaber had cut open with a square of fabric. It’s looks to be the same kind of material, but the colour is darker. Beneath the sheets, his leg is wrapped in cotton bandages, and there’s no sign of blood seeping to the surface.

His head turns in the direction of the noise of the water, and he pauses, waits for some kind of pain to prick through his body, but it never comes. He feels…good. Well-rested. His eyes follow the sound, and then he sees it.

The door to your bathroom is wide open, and from his spot on your bed, he can see directly into the shower. You’re inside, steam pouring over the top of the glass wall, and Din’s whole body jerks. He never forgot what you looked like naked, and it’s been a long time, but somehow it still feels like the first time. He can feel the blood rushing south, and his hands clench in the bedsheets.

He just stares, watching the water move over you, cascading down your spine, rolling in rivulets over your curves, following the lines of your body. He wants to follow them too, wants to read you like a map only he knows the key to.

Dank farrik, he’s missed you. He hadn’t realized how much.

The water shuts off, and he sees you reach for a towel, wiping your face first. He sinks back down on the bed, wondering if he should feign sleep, feeling like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to. But before he can— “You’re awake,” he hears you call, and looks back just as you wrap the towel around your middle. “I thought you’d be out for the night.”

Din coughs, shifting the blankets, trying to hide the tent that’s formed in his boxers. “You don’t close the door?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

You laugh. “I live alone,” you say, stepping out of the bathroom, walking towards the dresser his armour sits upon. “Force of habit.”

He clears his throat. Loudly. Pauses. “…it’s a nice view.”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you walk over to him, still in just the towel. Your hair is still dripping, water droplets dotting your shoulders. You sink slowly onto the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“G-good,” he spits out, adjusting himself, making more room for you. “Really good.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I’m glad. You scared me, Man—” You catch yourself. “Din.”

A drop of water splashes down from your hair, starts a path down your upper arm, and Din reaches out, catching it on his finger. You watch his hand, lips softly parted, and he continues the path, drawing his hand up and down your skin, the backs of his knuckles against your bicep.

“I wondered where you were, all these years,” you whisper. There’s longing in your voice, he notices; the same feeling sits like a weight on his chest. “I never stopped wondering.”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he whispers back. There’s something forming in the air between you, thick like the steam that still foams from the open bathroom. Din can almost taste it, and the thought he’d had in your living room resurfaces, making him twitch beneath the sheets. He could taste you so easily now. “It’s a long story.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I got nothing but time.”

So does he, he realizes. He’s without a ship, without his son, without anything anchoring him to one planet or another, to any sort of path. He’d been wandering already, trying to find the Covert, and now he is unmoored once more, yet somehow managed to find his way back to your hangar.

To your bed.

His hand stops chasing water droplets, and he sees your teeth sink into your lower lip. He lowers his palm until it rests on your bare thigh, and he can feel how your skin is still hot from the shower. “I never kissed you,” he rasps. “Before.”

Your head shakes slowly, and you turn towards him more fully. The towel is loose around your chest, your hand holding it in place, and he reaches for it, slowly uncurling your fingers from the fabric, until your grip falls slack, and the towel goes with it. “You should fix that,” you murmur.

“I’m out of practice.”

Your lips twitch again. “How bad?”

“Few decades,” he says softly. “Since before I swore the Creed.”

“You were a child.”

“It was a childish kiss.” He pauses, moves his hand again, brushes dripping locks of hair from your face. “I don’t want to kiss you like that.”

“Just…” Din leans in slightly, tilts his head to the side. “Do what feels natural.” You mirror his movement, and his eyes are glued to your mouth, to the way your lips stay parted even when you’re done speaking, the way your collar lifts with shuddered breaths. He sees your hands move the towel out of the corner of his eye, pulling the fabric away from your body completely until you’re bared to him, head to toe.

You’re just as beautiful as he remembers. If not more.

The tip of his nose drags along the slope of yours, and his hand slides from your thigh to your hip. “I need you closer, Sweets,” he murmurs, and you nod against him, your foreheads tapping together. There’s a bit of shuffling, the blankets moved back, his tented boxers exposed but barely acknowledged as you climb into his lap. He revels in the way you look above him, your knees pressed either side of his hips. You’re hesitant to lower your weight onto his leg, and he guides you slow, giving you a quiet it’s okay as you settle onto him.

He doesn’t feel any pain; he just feels you.

Once you’re comfortable, your hands clutching at his shoulders, he adjusts his grip on you, palms skimming up your spine, mapping out your ribs and the curve of your ass. You make a quiet noise when he squeezes one cheek, the movement propelling you forward, making your hips roll into his, your core pushed against his hard cock. It makes him hiss with pleasure, and he slides one hand up to your hair, knotting his fingers in it and dragging your mouth down to his.

It’s not artful; he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty from the outside. There’s a lot of teeth and tongue, the fumble of hands as he tries to get you even closer. He’s sure you’ve been kissed better than this, and it makes his cheeks heat, makes him pull away, tucking his chin towards his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” you say softly, your hands moving to cup his cheeks, tilting his face back up towards you. “It’s okay. Just…follow my lead?” You say it like a question, your thumbs swiping over his face, through the smatter of facial hair along his jaw. “I got you.”

Din nods, lets his lips part as you cock your head to the side, leaning in slow. You kiss his top lip and then his bottom one, giving him just enough teeth that he wants more, wants it harder. He grips your hips as you move, but your kiss stays tender, slow, your tongue a wet heat against his own. He’d dreamed of this, of kissing you, and this one — albeit the second attempt — is everything he ever imagined.

Finally, your mouth grows more insistent. He’s hard as steel between his legs, and he can feel how hot you are, your wetness spreading across his boxers with every roll of your hips. Your mouth is sweet, almost sugary, and he finds himself chuckling against your lips, still trying to get you closer. Your stomach presses to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder, your tongue licking into his mouth.

“Sweets,” he grinds out when you start pulling at his undershirt, insistent to get it over his head. He lets you, and when you lower your head again, your mouth moves to his throat instead, and it makes him moan. “Mesh’la, wait, please, I need—”

You pull back instantly, your eyes bright with worry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I want…” His eyes drop, tracing a path down your body, his throat growing dry when they land on the apex of your thighs, the glistening wetness he knows he’s caused. He lets one hand follow the path his eyes made, rubs his thumb over your clit. Your whole body shivers. “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes go big, pupils blown with lust, and Din uses your momentary shock to his advantage. He’s stronger than you, perks of the bounty hunting lifestyle, and he flips you easily with one arm around your waist, his other hand hitching your thigh over his hip. You squeak as your head hits the pillows, clinging to him until you’re laid out beneath him.

It’s his turn to kiss his way down your throat, and he does, laving his tongue against your pulse as he makes his way down your body. He pauses at your chest, moves to the side to close his lips around your nipple. It makes your back arch, a high-pitched noise falling from your mouth, and he grins against you, giving you just the edge of his teeth before he’s wandering across your chest to give the other the same attention.

You’re a writhing mess by the time he’s settled between your thighs. He can’t keep his eyes still, raking over every inch of you, trying to remember every part. He can see the muscles in your legs jump as he traces his fingers over them, the more sensitive parts of your skin making you keen.

With your legs spread, he can see everything, and his mouth waters at the sight of your wet cunt, walls fluttering around nothing as he teases you with his fingers, collecting your wetness on the tips before drawing them to his mouth.

He moans at the taste. Of course, you’re sweet. Deliciously so.

“Din,” you groan out, propping yourself up on your elbows. He can feel you watching, and his gaze flicks up to yours as he drops his jaw, lowers his mouth to you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, one hand moving to knot in his hair, and Din moans into you. His tongue explodes with the taste of you, sending shocks down his spine, making his hips rolls into the mattress, seeking relief.

Just do what feels natural, your words echo in his head. So he does. He licks into you, wide stripes with the flat of his tongue, smaller kitten licks to your clit. He can’t get enough of your taste, hooking his hands around your thighs, pulling himself deeper into you. And you guide him some, your hand in his hair an anchor of sorts, tugging slightly to get him right where you need him, a gasped oh fuck, right there! reaching his ears.

It’s not before long that you’re smacking at his shoulder, muffled moans on your lips with your teeth sunk into your lower one. He detaches from you, gets one more good look and lick in before he’s following your grip, kissing every inch of you he can reach as he makes his way back up your body.

“I need you inside me,” you slur, your hands reaching down, pushing at his boxers. His cock springs up against his stomach and he groans, the sound growing louder when you wrap your fingers around him. “Please, Din, I want to cum on your cock.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum right then and there, hearing your words turn filthy. And filthier still as he hauls himself over you, plants one elbow beside your head, looks between you, reaches down to line himself up and—

Freezes.

He can feel your eyes on his face, features pinched with anticipation. Your hands have found homes along his ribs, fingers tapping out rhythmless patterns. Hips lifting, you must see something in his expression, because you move a hand to his chin, lifting his eyes to yours again. “Din,” you say, and a shiver shoots down his spine again at the way his name sounds on your lips. “It’s okay. We can stop, if you need to.”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and feels himself flush, lowering himself slightly, careful not to drop all his weight on you. “No, that’s not what I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, understanding. You give a soft laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t say any—”

“It’s not that,” he cuts you off, petting his hand over your still-damp hair. “I want to. I want you. It’s just that…” He chews at his lip. “No one’s ever seen my face, while we…when I…”

Realization slides through your features. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to look,” you say quickly, skimming your knuckles along his cheek. “I can turn over, if you like, if that’s easier than—”

“No,” he says, not a shout this time, but firmer. “I want you to see, Sweets.” He drops his chin, emboldened by your softness, your understanding. He kisses you soundly. “I want to kiss you while you cum.” His words pull a silky noise from your throat.

He breaks the kiss as he takes himself in hand, pushes into your dripping cunt. You’re hot, clenching down on him instantly, arms draped around his neck as he lowers himself further, latches his lips to yours. He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, drives into you deep. He had you close on his tongue already, and he rolls his hips hard, catching something deep inside that makes your entire body seize.

“Yes, Din, please, oh gods, please, please, please,” you’re babbling against his lips, one hand pressed flat between his shoulders, the other knotted in the back of his hair. “Yes!”

Just as he said, he kisses you while you cum. He feels it pulse through your body, your limbs taut and then lax, still holding him close. Your hips chase his, cunt clenching tight as a vice, and Din’s not far behind you, pleasure lighting a fuse down his spine.

You pull your lips from his just as he starts to spill in you. Your hand moves to grip his chin, and you force his gaze to yours. He gasps and your mouth mirrors his, lips parted in a soft o, turning to a grin as he grinds into you, painting your insides as deep as he can go. It feels like an implosion, his bones rattled in his body, but then set on the softest bed of silk as he collapses into your chest. You hold him close, petting one hand through his hair, breathing deep and slow until his own evens out, matches yours, until your heartbeat syncs with his.

“Mesh’la?” he calls after a moment, cheek still pressed to your sternum.

“Yes, Din?” you reply, your voice scratchy as your nails start to drag along his scalp. His eyes are heavy.

“I missed you.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “I missed you too.”

+

Din wakes alone in your bed again.

He thinks it’s the next morning — the rest of what he assume to be evening was spent in your bed, both of you naked and wrapped in each other. Again and again and again, he pulled pleasure from your body, let you pull it from his, found your bliss together. By the time you were both too tired to move, sprawled on the mattress, your head on his shoulder, you’d whispered, “You’re a good kisser, Din Djarin.” And then you were asleep, Din not too far behind.

He dresses quickly, boxers pulled back on, undershirt in his hand as he pads out of the room. He finds you standing in the kitchen, a steaming cup of caf in your hands. The droid — Shrimp, he dimly recalls — is perched on the table, beeping out a message to you. You’re nodding along, blowing the steam off the top of your caf, and your eyes flick to him as he steps into the kitchen.

“You know Peli Motto?”

Din’s brow crinkles with confusion. “You know Peli?”

You scoff. “That woman taught me everything I know.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my hangar.”

Din just laughs, walking around the table. He slides an arm around your waist once he’s close enough, leans into kiss the side of your head. You lean into him. “Why are we talking about Peli?”

“She sent me a message,” you say, offering him your caf. He takes a sip, only feeling more confused. “Asking if I had any spare ships laying around my hangar. A replacement for her Mandalorian friend.”

Din balks. He hasn’t told you about the Crest. “Sweets…”

You step away from him, pressing a hand to his chest as your eyes go wide with realization. “Din Djarin, what did you do to that ship?”

“I didn’t—”

“Din.”

“It was Imps,” he says, trying to reach for your hip. “It wasn’t—”

“Where is the Razor Crest?”

He sighs heavily, and reaches out to take the cup of caf from you again. “Now it’s nothing but a scorch mark on the planet Tython. It was the Imps. They took my son.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Your eyes go so wide he’s worried they might pop out of your skull. “Your son?”

“It’s a long story.”

You pluck the caf out of his hands, walk around the table, pull out a chair and sink into it. “I got nothing but time.”

[sinsofsummers]

push & pull

5.7k | din djarin x f!reader

summary: after convincing him to help you hide from the guild, you teach mando how to enjoy himself. this is the way. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. canon-typical violence, but otherwise it's super canon divergent. din is a touch-starved virgin, soft touches, lap-sitting, the helmet stays on, mask kink, din does lots of whimpering, experienced!reader, mutual masturbation, virginity loss (m), praise kink, creampie, brief aftercare at the end. note: look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't crumble at the thought of skin-to-skin contact. yeah. you can't. anyways this is so long and so self-indulgent. pls forgive me. if mando takes his helmet off by the end of this, mind ur business this is sooooo not canon. note p.2: i'm so sorry this took so long but i was hungover. also this was not meant to be this long. so count this as a big fat thank you for 1.4k as well as my bday present to you guys (for my bday.) impaired editing i apologize.

With the light of both suns in your eyes, forcing you to blink the spots from your vision, you brushed a hand across your forehead. The dry, dusty atmosphere of Tatooine was no joke, and you scowled under the cloth you'd brought with you to cover your mouth and nose.

"Figures," you mumbled to yourself, looking down to see a small pile of sand building on the tops of your boots, the wind blowing it into place. "Why would anyone choose to live here?"

Of course, you weren't looking for a resident; you were looking for a fugitive. The infamous Mandalorion, no less. You'd been given less-than-satisfactory information on the bounty hunter and the reasons for such a high reward for his capture, but it wasn't like you had much choice than to accept the job. Despite what you told yourself, you did actually need the money.

That was before you'd figured out that everyone else in the Guild had been tasked with the same job, turning a high stakes bounty hunting gig into a near-definite suicide mission. Something you didn't want anything to do with.

But alas, here you stood, practically sinking into the hot Tatooine desert. You had to keep shifting your weight to keep at least one foot above the surface. You never knew when you'd have to make a quick getaway. There were still a handful of Guild members left that presented a challenge to collecting your bounty, and of course they were the most dangerous ones.

You kicked a foot forward and watched the sand shift, cursing the trouble that was inevitably on its way. You'd managed to bribe your way to Tatooine, where the Mandalorian was apparently hiding from the Guild. And if you had found the Mandalorian, there was almost no possibility that the others hadn't found him.

Because, if you were being honest with yourself—the one task you excelled in—being a bounty hunter wasn't exactly something you were good at. In fact, you were far from it. With luck and just enough anxiety to keep your feet moving, you'd floundered your way through three years in the Guild, searching for a way out just as quickly as you'd begged for a way in.

So you'd gotten yourself into this mess. Wasn't that how it normally went, though? Quick decision-making skills weren't necessarily a blessing if the decisions you made would determine your chances of living past thirty (spoiler: the chances were significantly slimmer).

You rubbed the dust out of your eyes once more and saw some movement in the distance, the subtle glint of beskar blinking toward you as it reflected the sunlight. Gotcha, you murmured inwardly. The Mandalorian was here, and you were going to get him. Not to turn him in, no; you held no loyalty to the Guild and its cult-like policies.

This job was an escape mission. If he could stay hidden, maybe he had room for one more. You'd cut a deal.

There had to be something you could offer him, if not your skills in combat, or stealth, or—

Or simply human mobility, you groaned inwardly as you felt your ankle roll underneath you, the sand softer than you'd anticipated. It'll be a good day when I leave this damn place.

—

It was a wonder that the two of you had survived. You'd hardly gotten the chance to give your proposal before he was aiming his blaster at you, and then at the Guild members that showed up in droves behind you. It was all you could do to get out of the way, knowing you'd be hopeless in the fight.

Now, with their bodies scattered around your feet, the Mandalorian standing a few feet from you with his chest heaving, and his beloved ship somehow still functional, you had your chance.

"You're not...very good at this," he said, the helmet masking his voice in a way that made it scratch along the insides of your ears as it traveled to your brain. "You do know that?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accidental insult than a real question.

You threw your hands up, letting them fall heavily to your sides. "Yeah, I told you that," you scoffed. "That's why I'm asking to go with you. Wherever you're headed."

His head tilted, the beskar shining in the setting suns, and you wondered what his eyes looked like under that helmet. Would they be sparkling with mirth or lined with mockery?

"I thought you were kidding," he said sheepishly, shifting his weight. "To get me to underestimate you." He looked like the picture of careful relaxation, although his blaster was still held tightly in both hands, poised in case he needed to aim and fire.

You couldn't help the exasperation in your tone as you lifted your head to the sky, squeezing your eyes shut and placing a curled fist over your eyes. "Why would I do that when I don't want to turn you in?"

He didn't answer.

"You know that there's only two ways out of this, right?" He still didn't answer you, just held his blaster taut and his head tilted to the side, so you continued. "You killed every Guild member that's left. Now it's just you and I. If I don't bring you in—which I'm not exactly dying to do—those rich fucks that are more powerful than us are gonna come find us."

"Find you," he corrected. "Why would I want to add another target to my ship?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, they probably will. But that's only part of the first option. Either they come for me, and you leave me here, and I die—also something I'm not particularly thrilled to think about—or the two of us..." you gestured with your hands to imitate the pair of you getting on the Razor Crest and flying away from Tatooine and its dusty expanse of a landscape.

"Could be a third option," he said quietly, "if you think about it." He lifted his blaster until it was lined up with your chest. "I might just kill you and cut my losses."

Fear might have struck you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain the panic unspooling in your chest. "That wouldn't be very humanitarian of you. Besides," you insisted, hands lifting to portray the image of surrender, "I'm light. I'm quiet. I won't stay with you longer than I need to. Once you get me off this planet, I'll find a place for you to drop me off."

He didn't answer for a moment.

"Literally," you pushed once more, "you can open the back door and push me out for all I care. I just want out of the Guild and all their dumb shit."

You'd known Mandalorians to be quiet, pious, and ruthless, but something about the way his helmet betrayed no hint to what he was thinking or how he might respond...it made you more anxious than you'd ever been in your life. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm. "Well...you're not coming with me. Ship's full."

"Your ship?" you said, incredulous. "That thing would be gone without me."

"Damn luck, that was." His voice had gone hard, but his body was still.

This was...partially true. Your mind flashed with a memory of the way you'd accidentally pulled the trigger on one of your blasters, effectively stunning the last Guild member who'd been attempting to strap explosives to the hull of the Crest. It was the only good thing that you'd done all day.

You curled your lip, annoyance rippling off you in waves. Lifting a middle finger in front of the helmet, you scowled. Hope he can see this under all that beskar, you snarled inwardly. "Still counts."

With a soft huff that you could hear come from under his helmet, the Mandalorian lowered his blaster. "One jump into hyperspace. The first little space rock that's big enough to stand on—"

"Perfect," you interrupted firmly. "I'll be out of you...armor...soon enough."

—

You'd missed your stop about three years ago. One jump into hyperspace had turned into four, and then ten, and...now you had your own spot to rest your head at night on the Razor Crest.

On that first day, you hadn't known the Mandalorian—"Din Djarin," he'd introduced himself reluctantly one day—was still traveling with Grogu, the sweet child that had begun his journey across the galaxy, hiding from the Guild. But you'd quickly decided it was nice to have another partner in crime, to interact with whenever Din was in the middle of one of his quiet days.

As the days had turned into months, and subsequently into years, the inability to meet Din face-to-face had become less frustrating, although sometimes you wished you could sneak a glance at his hands, or his wrists, or something that might resemble the human underneath the armor.

Once in awhile, deliciously, you could tilt your head just the right way and look forward at him when he was in the cockpit, his helmet pulling away from the cloth under his armor. Between helmet and armor, a sliver of golden skin would glimmer back at you, just begging to be touched. Of course, you never gave in to your silent desires.

This was not the Mandalorian way; you knew this well. Even when you felt his head turned toward you, even when you were sure his hands were reaching for you when you needed his help climbing somewhere, you kept your distance.

Well, for as long as you could. Until he forced your hand.

It wasn't long before you were unable to keep your hands away from him; going up and down the ladder on the Crest, or climbing over the occasional boulder on the routes you walked along when forced to take a respite on an unknown planet. His gloves were always rough in your grip, but you couldn't ignore the way his hands seemed to squeeze yours, tighter than might have been necessary.

And you'd begun letting your hands linger on the beskar of his armor for moments longer than you should—his helmet, tracing the indented curves of the spot where his cheekbones rested underneath, or on his chestplate, where you swore you could feel him lean into you, as if pressing your hands closer and closer to his skin beneath the armor.

You stood beside him as he sat in the chair in the cockpit, guiding the Razor Crest through the galaxy once more, aiming for some undisclosed location he'd neglected to tell you. He usually did things like that; you'd learned not to be offended by his unbreakable instinct to keep things to himself.

It hadn't occurred to you just how long he'd been wearing that helmet until you looked toward him again and noticed the soft curl of a few brown strands of hair that crept from the edges, kissing the back of his neck. They were short strands, but they were long enough to wink up at you as they curled around each other, begging to be touched.

"Din?" you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the thought.

He didn't look at you, but he tilted his head in your direction, just a centimeter. It was enough.

"Why'd you let me stay with you?" you gripped your hands together, as if they had a mind of their own and couldn't be trusted to remain at your sides. "I was horrible at any aspect of being a bounty hunter."

You were used to the way that it always took him a few seconds to answer, coming up with an evenly-expressed response. This, of course, gave you more time to stare at the tendrils spilling from the edges of his helmet.

"You were a risk," he admitted with a shrug, the helmet (of course) not betrayed anything. His voice was calm, even as he continued softly. "I have a particular...proclivity for picking up foundlings," he said with a tilt of his head toward Grogu, who cooed at the mention of him.

You lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not a foundling, though."

If you could have seen his eyes, you were almost positive that they'd be giving you a look that said, are you sure? Instead, he only spoke in his perpetually smooth voice. "You were lost, though, mesh'la."

You still weren't sure what each word in Mando'a meant—he'd been dropping a few words here and there, as if he knew you couldn't interpret them—but you blushed all the same. Before you knew it, your hands were releasing their grip on one another and reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck.

They were softer than you'd imagined; smooth and thick in your grip. "Alright," you said gently, "maybe I was. I never got to thank you, you know."

Your hands were moving on their accord now, silently twirling the curls around the tips of your fingers. You were used to his silent, immobile exterior, so you didn't think he'd be able to feel the way you pressed your hand to the back of his neck. He'd never said anything before that gave the impression that he was aware of your ministrations, so when he leaned back into your touch then, something strong and addiction bloomed in your gut.

When he spoke, you were surprised to hear how shaky his voice was. After three years of hearing nothing but steady syllables fall from his masked lips, you nearly flinched at the stutter in his voice.

"Thank me?" he said quietly. "For..." you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat flutter rapidly in his neck when he trailed off. "For what?"

You pulled your hand away, pretending not to notice the way he shuddered at the loss of touch, his shoulders slumping as if in a pained relaxation. You hid your smirk. "You're not seriously asking that, right? Without you, I'd probably be dead by now." Or worse, you reflected with a quiet pang in your chest.

Din's response was quick this time, an unusual—but not unwelcome—surprise. "And without your perfectly timed luck, I might be without a ship." His voice was thick, trembling with something that might have sounded like desire had it been someone else speaking.

You didn't even think Din had the capacity to know something as heavy as desire. Well, not that he was incapable of feeling desire, just...you'd never thought about what he might do if he did feel it. Would he shove the temptations down, destined to die in the corners of his mind and body?

Your cheeks warmed at your next thought. Perhaps he took care of it himself in the dead of night on the Razor Crest, or on those mysteriously long patrol walks that he insisted on doing alone.

"Yeah, well..." your answer was pitiful and you knew it. But you were too busy looking at the way his body was slumped in his seat, facing forward despite every limb beginning to turn toward you, as if you were a magnetic beacon.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, angling toward you just as his knees began to do the same thing. "Will you..." he trailed off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mesh'la," he breathed, and he leaned to the side, as if his shoulder was chasing your touch. "Put it back."

You were going to ask what he meant, but you didn't have to. Even with his helmet on, you could practically see the pleading in his body language. Here he was, a devout Mandalorian, begging you to put your hands back on him.

"Please," he said quietly, almost a question. It sounded so unlike him that you wondered briefly if he'd been killed and replaced with an imposter. But by the way that his hand trembled as he took his focus away from flying the Crest and moved it toward you...this was Din.

"You...okay?" you asked, but you obliged his request in return, replacing your hand at the base of his neck. You watched in an unfurling dizzying sense of satisfaction as he reached up his own gloved hand to cover yours, squeezing it gently. "Din," you started, but he shook his head.

"I've never disobeyed the Way of the Mandalore," he said, his voice muffled under the mask. You strained your eyes, wishing you could see beneath the beskar. "I've never wanted to. Not before..." he brought your hand around to rest on his chestplate, and you could feel the pressure of his chest leaning into your touch. "Not before I knew what it might feel like to want someone like this."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull your hand away. "You...what?"

His head tilted down. "For once, I don't know how to manage this." He stood up, and suddenly he was towering over you, the cloth under his armor making your fingers itch to tear it off. "How do I manage this?"

"I..." you couldn't hide your shock. "I don't know. It's...isn't it against your religion? It's not the Way."

Din shook his head. "No, it's not." He spread his hand down your wrist and extended it toward your own chest, the leather of his glove seeping into your skin. "But I've also never told anyone my name. Never heard it spoken since I was a child."

You swallowed roughly. "So?"

He huffed a chuckle. Lifting your hands to his helmet, he let your fingers find the divots of the beskar. You didn't miss the way his chest shuddered with a stuttering breath at your touch. "So," he said, "to hell with the Way. For tonight, at least. I need to know you in every way I wish I could."

Such a harrowing request, given the circumstances. But you couldn't stop your hands from tracing the lines of his masked face. "Din..."

"Please." His voice cracked over the single syllable, and it was all you needed.

To hell with the Way, your thoughts echoed his words, and you nodded softly. "Alright," you acquiesced. With one look down, you saw the tent growing in his pants, sending a spike of desire down your spine, settling in your core. "How'll you have me?" you asked.

He let out a soft noise that sounded like a whimper. "Any way that I can," he choked out, his hand returning to your wrist and enclosing it in his grip. "I'll have you any way you'll have me."

You could hardly speak, so you didn't. With a gentle nudge, you pushed him back into his seat. When he sat back, his legs fell open; there was an inviting space between them.

Standing in the spot, just inches from his face, you stared into the black mass of his helmet, hoping you'd get a glimpse of his face. Of course, you knew he would only go as far as he wanted to. If the mask was destined to remain, then...so be it.

With your eyes on his, you moved his hands to your waist, pressing them to your skin and enjoying the feeling of his leather against your body.

He shook his head. "Take them off," he said, again with that whimpering voice. "Please."

You nodded wordlessly and shed his hands of the barriers, heat pooling in your core at the sight of long, thick fingers, his skin finally exposed to you. Returning his hands to your waist, you tilted your head back at the sensation. You were never going to forget what his skin felt against yours.

The melody of shuddering breaths that fell from his lips was unreal, and you wanted to soak up every second of it. Without more than a second thought, you slid your legs over his, straddling his hips and pressing your chest to his chestplate. His hands remained on your waist, but he let them wander, curling them around to cup your ass.

The feeling of his hands on your body made you unconsciously roll your hips forward, which released a strangled moan from his lips. "Oh, god," he mumbled. "Mesh'la, please take it off."

You paused. Your hands fell to your lap, and your eyes were wider than saucers in the reflection of his helmet. "What?"

He picked up your hands in his own, the rub of skin against skin an intoxicating intimacy. "Please," he begged. "If I'm going to touch you like this, I need to see you, cyar'ika. Nothing in the way."

You were going to argue further, but you couldn't ignore the pulsing need that was clouding your thoughts, the same need that pushed your hips further down into his lap. It was impossible to miss the way his cock twitched against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

“Are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m sure,” he begged, and he squeezed your hips under his hands. “Never been more sure, mesh’la.”

This time it was your turn to let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, more to bolster your own confidence than his own. His resolve was clearly rather strong in this matter, and nothing would change his mind. 

With a hand on either side of the helmet, you gently pulled it up and away from his face, hardly able to believe that he’d agreed to let you rid him of his every barrier. For a moment, as each inch of skin was revealed to you, you caught yourself frantically wondering what he might look like. 

Would he look like anyone else? Would he look familiar to you in that way that only lovers can? Or would he be hiding a deformed brow bone or an abnormally small nose or a crude smile?

Of course, you shouldn’t have even worried. When the helmet lifted off of his head and you let it fall to the floor with a hard thud, you smiled at the face that blinked back at you in wonder. With those brown strands that were just long enough to hang down over his forehead, and the matching brown eyes that twinkled with the moonlight in his pupils, Din Djarin was exquisite.

“I knew it,” you hummed, your eyes tracing every line on his face, every strand of hair that clung charmingly to his forehead. 

His response was a strangled moan, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord when you dragged a finger along his jaw, then the hooked line of his nose. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d be one of the pretty ones,” you grinned, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, swallowing his groan of ecstasy.

You drank it down like the sweetest liquor, the sound pulling your own moan from your chest. His lips were chapped and dry from lack of care, but his mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was deliciously shy as he darted it towards yours. His hands stuttered as they pressed further up your chest and felt for your breasts. You weren’t sure how long he’d last; his chest was already heaving. 

“Din,” you pulled back with a grin. “Din,” you repeated when his eyes remained closed. “Thought you wanted to look at me?”

“I do,” he said, his voice choking in his throat. “I do, mesh’la, I just…I think I might come in my damn suit if I look at those lips too long.”

You cooed, letting a hand search for the roots of his hair, finding a home on his scalp. You curled your fingers in the strands and watched his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw go slack, and felt his hips buck up into yours. “You’re so sensitive, baby,” you hummed, your mind running wild with thoughts of what this could mean. 

“Never been touched like this,” he mumbled, voice cracking again. “Feels perfect, mesh’la.”

“I need you to look at me, Din,” you nodded. “It’ll keep feeling good, I promise. I just need you to look at me.”

When his eyes opened, you could have fallen apart right there at the sight of his glassy brown depths. His lip quivered and you almost thought he’d cry, but then he was letting his hand fall from your chest to your waistband, trailing his thumb along the skin there. “Can I?” he asked gently. 

Nodding, you stood up. “Just keep breathing, pretty boy,” you said softly. “I’ll make you feel good. Show you just how good it can be.” You guided his hands to your waist and let him pull your pants to your ankles, revealing the front of your glistening slit to him. 

Din was just starting to understand the drug-like effects of physical touch, so you weren’t surprised when he leaned forward, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the soft skin of your stomach, breathing deeply as if he were a zealot bent to pray at the altar. 

“C’mere,” you whispered, though unable to hide the growing smirk on your face. There seemed to be nothing more addicting than the sight of the Mandalorian on his knees before you. “Sit back down for me, baby,” you said, tilting his chin up to look at you. “Take those pants off, they look awfully restricting.”

He nodded quickly and obeyed, slipping his pants down to his knees as he sat back on his chair. It was downright sinful—the beskar on his chest but his helmet removed and his cock springing free, the tip red and angry and leaking. “Please,” he begged. “I—”

“I know,” you breathed, stepping closer to him. “We’re gonna make each other feel good now, yeah?”

Din nodded once more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, please.”

Well, how were you going to deny him then? 

You straddled him once more, your clit throbbing at the sight of his cock underneath you. But rather than shock him with the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth, you hovered over him, just enough that the head of his cock lay just an inch from your entrance. 

“Mesh’la,” he begged, “please don’t tease. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I swear to everything I’ve ever believed in—”

A finger pressed to his lips, you shook your head. “I know,” you repeated. “Deep breaths for me, Din.” 

He inhaled sharply and shoved his breath out of his chest. For a moment, his eyes cleared. 

“Good,” you encouraged him, relishing in the look of his wide eyes at the praise. “Such a pretty boy, baby.” You moved his hand to your core, guiding his fingers to your clit. “Rub little circles for me, baby. Make me feel good and I’ll make you feel good.”

He obliged quickly, rubbing tentative circles to your clit in a way that had you smiling gently, loving the sacrilege you were participating in. “Is that g—oh!”

Din’s question was interrupted by your hand reaching down to grip his cock, delivering a quick stroke and making his hips stutter. He tried his best to lift his hips from the chair, clearly aiming for your entrance, but one hand on the beskar on his chest had him sitting back. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, “just like that. Just touch me for a while.”

Ever the gentleman, Din kept his eyes on you and his hand on your pussy, pulling sweet sounds from your lips just as you wrecked him beneath you. Your thumb slid against his tip and he almost came; you could tell by the way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, lip trapped between his teeth. 

You wanted his fingers to wander toward your dripping entrance, but you knew he might not last long enough for any more foreplay. Next time, you thought smugly. 

Now…now you needed him inside you. 

“Gentle, baby,” you reminded him when he gripped your hip too tightly. You didn’t want to tell him you enjoyed the near-bruising strength; that would be for another time. You could already see that you were close to losing him, and you weren’t going to end this experience without riding him until the both of you saw stars. “One more deep breath, yeah?” 

He was a mess of tumbling words in Mando’a that you didn’t understand, and his brow was furiously furrowed, as if it was taking all of his focus not to come on your hand. As a matter of fact, it probably was taking all of his focus. “Please, mesh’la,” he said again. 

You wondered briefly if you’d begin answering that now; treating it as your name. Mesh’la. 

“Deep breath, baby,” you reminded him, and when he obeyed, you sank your hips towards his. The tip of his cock slid in with no resistance; you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. “Good boy,” you moaned as you kept your hand on his neck, softly cupping the underside of his jaw to look at you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The stretch of his cock inside you was delicious, and pleasure licked sharply at your insides, begging for a quick release. You knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer based on the whimpers that still crumbled from his throat, broken and jagged. 

“So fuckin’ pretty?” he repeated, his voice a high squeak. He gripped your hips and threw his head back. “So fuckin’ pretty for you?”

Your breath rushed out of your chest in a strong blow and you had to take a deep breath yourself to calm down. “All for me, Din, that’s it,” you continued, and you lifted your hips up. Dropping them back into his lap, you soaked up the feeling of being filled so completely by his cock. With every shred of patience left in your body, you pushed your lips back to his and tasted his moans on his tongue. 

His hips began lifting into your own, the only clue you’d get to his desperation for more. Without a word, you began moving faster, more rhythmically, as you bounced gently on his cock. With the base of his cock pulsing against your clit at every drop of your hips, you were approaching that edge quicker and quicker. “Din,” you moaned, “baby, I’m gonna—”

“Please,” he said, “I want you to feel good, mesh’la. Use me, please, use me, please…”

You were sure your brain short circuited. With no more patience left in your bones, you picked up the pace and chased your own orgasm, knowing he wasn’t far behind. With every squelch of your pussy on his cock, your moans became less coherent, and you leaned your head forward against his neck. 

Pulling back to press a kiss to his jaw, you felt his loins tense beneath you. Something nearly snapped inside you at the sound and sight and sensation of his pleasure so close to release; at the knowledge that it was you who had done this to him. “Good,” you mumbled against his jaw, getting closer to his ear. “Pretty boy, just for me,” you mumbled. 

Din’s chest tightened and his moans became longer and more high-pitched, true whimpers if you’d ever heard one. “Mesh’la,” he begged, “Mesh’la, I—”

You dipped your head down and, while grinding your hips back and forth on his cock at a feverish pace, you darted your tongue out to his neck. Licking a stripe from the crevice of his neck to the spot just behind the soft part of his ear, you groaned in his ear as you crumbled on him, releasing the tension in your body as you came hard.

Din was ruined beneath you, with his neck bobbing and his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Mouth opened in a wide moan, his voice broken over the sound, you felt his release sink into your fluttering walls. He let out a deep cry of words that you didn’t recognize, but you blushed all the same. With the way that his eyes glossed over when he said it, you were sure it was something that reeked of sin and sweat and sacrilege. 

“So good,” you mumbled again, “you’ve done so good for me, Din.” Your face tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and you inhaled the heady scent that belonged only to him. You sat motionless on his lap, but you could still feel his head pulse inside you at the overstimulation. “Did that feel good?” you asked, your hand reaching up to smooth down his hair comfortingly.

He let out a breathless laugh. “If this is sin, I’ll want more of it,” he replied, his arms snaking around your middle to tug your chest closer to him. “I’ll never know how to thank you,” he finished, sighing deeply. His eyes twinkled at you when you pulled away to look at him. 

You shook your head. “No need,” you assured him. “Just catch your breath, brave Mandalorian. Then we’ll talk.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier with the expense of energy now catching up with him. His cock had grown soft inside you, but he made no move to lift you from him. “I did well?” he asked. This wasn’t surprising; you’d known him to be quietly confident, but the Mandalorian was never one to pass up the opportunity for someone to reassure his talents.

You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his hooked nose, fighting the urge to nip at it with your teeth. Next time, you reminded yourself. “You did well,” you nodded. “Feeling okay?”

He splayed his hands on your back and inhaled near your chest, his face buried into the soft skin of your breasts. “Never better,” he reassured you, rubbing his hands along your spine. “So sweet to me, baby,” he murmured, repeating your own affection back to you. 

The two of you remained like that, just wrapped together in a mess of limbs and sweat and come mingling together. When he began to wince with the overstimulation, you lifted off of his cock but remained in his lap. You pulled back and leaned your forehead against his. You watched his lips, plump and sitting perfectly, waiting to be kissed again. 

“What does mesh’la mean?” you asked instead, the word strange and unfamiliar on your tongue.

He looked at you for a long time, bringing a finger up to trace the line of your mouth. “Put your lips on mine again and I’ll teach you,” he offered casually, as if his pupils weren’t still blown wide, his eyelashes still fluttering from the power of his release. 

You smirked. “This is the Way, huh?”

For once in his life, Din Djarin smiled at you. “This is the Way.”

tysm for reading! so glad to be back, i'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed and out of pace! again: i was hungover. pls forgive. lemme know what you think!

adding tags here cause i'm going grocery shopping at 8:30pm BYEEEE

this is a good morning fic for @thetriumphantpanda and the aftercare bit at the end was specifically for @cavillscurls i know u crave it girl

the rest of the taggies: @mingiast @iluvurfather @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tightjeansjavi @chaotic-mystery @dinsdjrn @huffle-punk @tommymilllers @milly-louise @struig @butiknewyoudlinger @alejaa-a @worhols @thegreat-annamaria @easaud @country2212 @sleepdeprived-feelalived @pertinentpostmortem @lailaispunk

[softlyspector-deactivated202408]

Significant

Summary: Din has been calling you riduur for months. You finally find out what it means, and get a little more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader

Word Count: ~5.1k

Warnings: pining, absolute FOOLS in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, lil angsty, possibly incorrect lore, fluff, lots of Mando'a (translations for the Mando'a at the end)

A/N: Happy Mandalorian Eve!! This is based on a short drabble I wrote, which you can find here! It's not necessary to read it first, though of course I recommend it! The reader and Din have been traveling together for a long time, and after removing his armor in front of the reader for the first time began calling them riduur.

“Riduur.” 

It may as well be your name, the way you turn at the sound of that word. 

“Din,” you return, adjusting the child’s little sleeve which had fallen down past his hand.

“Are you ready?” He asks as he tilts his head to the side. 

You smile and turn back to Grogu. “Dad’s impatient today, isn’t he?” The child coos up at you, lifting tiny arms, ready to be picked up. “Yeah, he is.”

“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.

You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.

You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped. 

The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer. 

The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you. 

You roll your eyes gently. 

Not impatient, but not entirely patient either. 

You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders. 

It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it. 

He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical. 

“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.” 

“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.” 

You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.” 

Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back. 

He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling. 

Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him. 

Maybe, you just know him too well. 

And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.  

It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival. 

The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there. 

Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops. 

Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for. 

“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.” 

He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”

“Yes.” 

“A weapon?” 

You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?” 

“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing. 

That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant. 

You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved. 

But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur. 

Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips. 

“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.” 

Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies. 

The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well. 

Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.

You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu. 

Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine. 

You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.  

Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils. 

A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore. 

Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.

You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you? 

You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you. 

Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant? 

He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself. 

You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.

Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse. 

It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious. 

The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child. 

You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.

Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.

The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter. 

It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some. 

You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter. 

You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf. 

“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?” 

One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.” 

“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it. 

“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.” 

You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?” 

“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man. 

You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a. 

“And how did you learn?” 

“My…” you trail off. 

Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined. 

“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.” 

They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.” 

“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence. 

The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.” 

For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.” 

You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?

Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of. 

Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic. 

You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.” 

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all. 

“Mando?” 

Still, he doesn’t answer you. 

You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough. 

“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”

He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”

You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping. 

“No.” He answers curtly. 

The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,” 

Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright. 

Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it. 

All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”

Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.

He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?” 

The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon. 

In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him. 

You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.” 

He goes back to eating, already distracted. 

A weight settles over your chest.

If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means. 

Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.

You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh. 

Any warm feelings you’d had are gone. 

Riduur. 

He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings. 

The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser. 

You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands. 

When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit. 

Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod. 

You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.” 

“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.” 

His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?” 

“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.” 

Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?” 

“Know what?” 

“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”

You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.” 

He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?” 

“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.” 

“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.” 

You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.” 

Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?” 

He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”

Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly. 

He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists. 

“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you. 

He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.” 

You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”

“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.” 

“Told me-,” 

“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”

You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him. 

Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.” 

“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time. 

“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”

You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?” 

You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.” 

All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”

You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.” 

“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”

Maybe you should hesitate in your next words. 

But you don’t. 

You’ve never been surer in something. 

“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.” 

“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”

He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. 

He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine. 

The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor. 

There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” 

You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them. 

But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you. 

“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.” 

Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke. 

“Would you not call the child a warrior?”

“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”

There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I don’t want to.” 

He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.” 

“Would you still call me riduur?”

“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.” 

The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.” 

He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.” 

“Elek,” you agree. 

“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice. 

In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right. 

You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this. 

But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not. 

This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this. 

You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate. 

When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people. 

Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet. 

You want to kiss him at the very least. 

But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself. 

You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze. 

“Open your eyes.” 

“What? No-,” you begin to protest. 

“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth. 

You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,” 

“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little. 

“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time. 

Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.” 

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.” 

“Open them.” 

You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough. 

You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it. 

 Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at. 

A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger. 

You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him. 

His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.

One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes. 

It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling. 

You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew. 

He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice. 

The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger. 

Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.” 

He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?” 

“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.” 

Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression. 

You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.” 

“That’s my line.” 

“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”

You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there. 

He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.” 

“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.” 

The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes. 

The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat. 

You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows. 

He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers. 

You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language. 

All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this. 

You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper. 

Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.” 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!

If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!

Translations:

Riduur - spouse, partner, wife, husband

Ner riduur - my spouse, partner, wife, husband

Cyare - beloved

Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart

Udesii - Relax, take it easy

Ad’ika - little one, baby

Su cuy'gar - Hello

Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor

Ni ceta - an apology, rare

Osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise

Elek - yes

Mesh’la - beautiful