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─── maru ୧⋆｡
twenty two. she/her. infp. latin. hufflepuff. aquarious. writer. swiftie. andrew garfield #1 fan. romance, sports, music, books, shows and movies. english is not my first language!
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CINDERELLA (1950) BRIDGERTON, SEASON 4 (2026)
࿔ ｡ﾟi’m here.
Steve Harrington x munson!reader. wc: 2k.
summary: You lost your brother Eddie. Now, you can’t avoid the thought of losing your boyfriend Steve while you are in the Upside Down.
warnings: slight spoilers of season 5 vol 2. mentions of death. pet names. angst and fluff. english isn’t my first language (so sorry if there are any mistakes).
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The moment you lost your brother, you felt a part of yourself shatter. Your brother, your other half, your soulmate, was gone, and you knew he would never come back to you. No matter how much you cried, how much you begged whoever might be listening, or how hard you fought against believing it. Eddie wasn't coming back. He was gone. Forever.
Days, weeks, months passed, but reality never felt entirely real to you. You had always been known for your sarcasm, your jokes at the wrong time, or your reckless plans, so putting on that mask in front of everyone had been relatively easy. You wouldn't let anyone truly see what you were going through.
You wouldn't let anyone notice how your heart, during missions, stopped every time someone took a more dangerous risk than they should have.
But that was perfect. There was no time to waste on a girl who couldn't stop grieving her dead brother.
Everything was fine. You had managed to maintain that carefree, sarcastic, reckless personality. Until you ended up with your boyfriend, Dustin, Jonathan, and Nancy in the Upside Down. Exactly in the Hawkins laboratories.
Nancy, Jonathan, and Dustin had taken a different path, while Steve and you decided to go the opposite way, searching for some kind of solution. Something that could give you an answer to everything that was happening, and how to get Holly back.
The air felt tense, but it wasn't even close to being about you and your boyfriend standing in that place.
You wished it had been.
Since entering the Upside Down, you had been quieter than usual. More tense, overthinking more than you wanted. Right there. It was in that place you had last seen your brother, and you couldn't stop silently begging to get out of there as soon as possible.
Steve walked behind you. You felt his footsteps slow, lacking determination, but it wasn't because of the place, it was because of you. He was trying to figure out what could be going through your mind right now. Wondering what he could have done to deserve your silence. Always worried about you, about your well‑being.
The flashlight in your hand showed you the way, though you weren't really paying much attention to where you were going. You kept walking through hallways that felt endless, trying to focus on the only sound that kept you even a little calm.
His breathing.
The light illuminating the path began to fail, flickering again and again, and your breathing grew heavier. "S‑Steve...? Wh‑What?" You shook the flashlight desperately in your hands, trying to make it work again.
Every time the light faded, you felt your heart slow and grow heavier. Everything worsened when the light disappeared completely. Your feet felt trapped to the floor, your hands sweaty, and your mind racing faster than you thought possible.
Steve tried to find your hands, tried to pull you close to his body and calm you down like he always did, but he couldn't reach you. As if something had pushed you both apart, meters away. "I'm here, baby. I promise." His breathing inevitably quickened, his voice coming out more desperate than he wanted. He needed to show you calm and safety, but he couldn't if he didn't believe it himself.
You scratched at your eyes, feeling like they weren't open thanks to the darkness, like it was all a nightmare, but nothing changed. "S‑Steve..." you murmured weakly. Your breathing grew faster, irregular.
It was inevitable. As if it had all been planned. You felt a voice screaming inside your head. Spitting with rage that your brother's death was your fault. And now it was Steve's turn. The only person who loved you. It would all be your fault. Again.
"Yeah, baby, yeah," he stretched his hands out, trying to hear you like it was air. "Keep talking to me so I can get to you, alright? I'm right here, keep talking, sweetheart."
The voices grew louder, more present, more real. They told you Steve wouldn't last much longer by your side. Suddenly, that carefree mask was gone. All you felt was the desperation and fear you had tried so hard to hide from everyone. From him.
Your eyes filled with tears, and not long after, slow tears began to fall. "I‑I'm scared, Steve." You tried to hug yourself, searching for comfort, but you felt stuck, even immobile.
You heard him call your name with pain, finally reaching your hands. Immediately you felt him draw you closer, one arm wrapping around your back and the other pulling your head against his neck. "You're okay, you're safe. I'm here." He repeated it until you believed it, but it wasn't just for you. He needed to believe it too. He would say it as many times as it took for both of you to understand.
More tears slid down your cheeks, refusing to stop any time soon. You pressed your hands against his chest, needing to make sure he was really there. Steve dropped the bag from his back, fumbling for the spare flashlight he had carried. As soon as he managed to turn it on, he looked back into your eyes, now red from crying. He saw you trembling, your shoulders moving uncontrollably, your teeth biting down on your lower lip harder than necessary —a habit you couldn't stop no matter how much Steve tried to stop you—.
Clumsily, he set the flashlight on the floor, rushing back to you, his hands cupping your cheeks. He wiped your tears carefully, not wanting to hurt you, while you struggled to steady your breathing, though it felt impossible. "Not you, Steve, please..." you whispered through sobs.
"What do you mean, baby? Not me what?" Steve frowned, trying to wipe away the tears. His hazel eyes showered with worry for you. Actually the same worry he had felt the day you lost your brother.
"You can't leave me too," you cried, clutching his hair and neck tighter than usual, as if you needed to make sure he wouldn't slip away from your hands. "I cannot lose you, I‑I just can't." Your breathing refused to stabilize, but you knew Steve's gentle touch on your cheek was helping.
Steve's hands trembled against your cheeks, but his voice stayed steady, even if his heart was breaking with yours.
"You won't lose me," he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. "Not now. Not ever."
The words were fragile, almost desperate, but they wrapped around you like a shield. For a moment, the voices in your head quieted, replaced by the rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the undeniable truth that he was here. Alive. With you.
The Upside Down seemed to pulse around you, shadows stretching, walls breathing, but Steve's presence anchored you. He kissed the crown of your head, lingering there as if he could pour every ounce of strength he had into you.
"I already lost Eddie," you choked out, the name slicing through the air like glass. "I can't– Steve, I can't survive losing you too."
Steve closed his eyes, and for a second, you felt his pain mirror yours. He had seen you crumble once before, the day Eddie never came back. He had held you through nights when silence was louder than screams. He knew this wasn't just fear. It was grief clawing its way back into your chest.
"You won’t," he said softly, but firmly. "I'm not leaving you. I'll fight every damn monster in this place if I have to. I'll fight the whole world if it means staying with you."
Your sobs slowed, though tears still fell. His words didn't erase the ache, but they stitched something fragile inside you: a reminder that love could survive even in the darkest places.
The light from the spare flashlight flickered across his face, catching the determination in his hazel eyes. You realized then that he wasn't just saying it for you. He needed to believe it too.
You leaned into him, forehead against his chest, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Steve..." your voice cracked, raw. "I don't know how to keep going. I feel like I'm drowning every day."
His hand slid down to hold yours, squeezing tight. "Then let me be the one to pull you up. That's what love is, isn't it? Not pretending we're fine, but holding each other when we're not."
You shook your head, tears spilling again. "Steve I don’t think I have enough strength to keep doing this. I'm don’t feel strong like you."
Steve gave a short, broken laugh, pressing his lips to your temple. "Sweetheart, I'm not strong because I don't break. I'm strong because I break and still keep moving. That's all any of us can do. And you... you've already survived the worst. That makes you stronger than you'll ever believe."
Your breath hitched, guilt clawing at your chest. "But what if I lose you? What if the world takes you away like it took Eddie?"
Steve's thumb brushed your cheek, his smile trembling but tender. "Then you'll keep living. Because that's what Eddie would want. That's what I would want. You don't stop because we're gone. You carry us. In your laughter, in your stubbornness, in the way you never give up even when you think you should."
You clutched his jacket, sobbing harder. "I don't want to carry you. I want you here. I need you here."
His forehead pressed against yours again, his voice breaking but resolute. "And I am here. Right now. Breathing, fighting, loving you. That's all we've got. We’ve got this moment and I swear to you, I'll fight for every single one we get."
The flashlight flickered again, shadows crawling along the walls, but Steve didn't flinch. He held you tighter, his warmth shielding you from the cold of the Upside Down.
"Promise me," you whispered, voice trembling. "Promise me you'll stay."
Steve kissed your forehead, lingering there as if he could pour every ounce of his soul into you. "I promise. As long as I'm breathing, I'm yours."
Nice to each other
steve harrington x fem!reader friends to lovers
Here we are, back again, fighting what’s in front of me.
summary: Despite being best friends for the past four years, you and Steve have never truly spent a Halloween together. Always at separate parties, separate dates. This year though, the two of you decide to keep it quiet both of you tired of the humiliation ritual that is dating.
The plans were simple: horror movies and pass out candy.
You’d be more excited if it wasn’t for the kiss the two of you shared drunk on a dare at Eddie Munson’s bonfire a week ago. A kiss the two of you have refused to talk about at all costs, A kiss you can’t seem to quit thinking about no matter how hard you try.
WC: 14k
warnings: 18+// Steve & reader are in their early to mid 20’s, stubborn idiots in love, classic we don’t want to ruin the friendship yearning, drinking, mentions of smoking, kissing, literally non stop tension, slight dry humping if you squint.
author’s note: This fic is inspired by Emily Henry’s People We Meet On Vacation, except for it’s in Hawkins with Steve, and revolves around their Halloweens over the years told between flash backs and current time. I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you have just as much fun reading it.
Halloween - now.
“Sour candy or chocolate?” Steve asks deep in thought, he’s standing in the brightly lit Halloween aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly with two different ‘Family Size’ bags of each in his equally big hands.
His eyebrows are pinched in the center of his forehead, marrying just below the swoop of hair that always fails to stay tucked behind his ear as he scans the shelves for a third, possibly better option with his full bottom lip tugged between perfect teeth.
This was peak Steve Harrington concentration.
“Sour candy, obviously.” You scoff, grabbing the neon Warheads bag out of his grasp, dumping it into the small cart that’s already full enough to make you regret not getting the large one Steve had suggested at the door.
It’s fine, you were supposed to be practicing self control tonight anyway, plus you would never tell him that he was right about something. Not unless you wanted to hear about it for the next week.
Self control is a new concept when it comes to Steve, but you are good at trying to practice it, refusing to meet his eyes as you brush past him, and again when you ignore the glimmer of electricity that’s sparked between the two of you since your friendship’s conception. It’s a lot harder to pretend now though, because touching him feels like sticking a wet hand to a power grid these days, all because of a childish dare to prove Eddie Munson wrong. A plan that backfired in your face pretty quickly after drunkenly locking lips with your best friend at the metal head’s bonfire last week, because neither one of you can back down from a challenge.
Or admit the truth.
Your friendship with Steve has always been a series of ‘what if’s’. An unspoken tension that everyone in the room could feel when the two of you were in it, but honestly Steve had chemistry with everyone. He was just one of those guys, and your bond only intensified it, at least that’s what you’ve told yourself over the years. Kissing him though? That was always the kind of ‘what if’ you’d only ever dared to think about in the dead of night - alone, in your room, before shoving it back deep down into the dark crevices of your mind. It always happened after a movie night that got a little too cozy under a shared blanket, wandering hands a little too daring in the dark, cinnamon and clove clinging to all the fabrics of your clothes.
Only now, it was a reality. One that hasn’t stopped playing on a loop since.
“I think we should get both.” Steve finally decides like it’s been something that’s kept him up at night, coming up behind you so close that his chest brushes against your back as he reaches around to dump the chocolate in the cart. His cologne tempts your senses like the devil trying to make a deal for your soul, and you wonder if holding your breath would be too dramatic.
”We’re going to have so much left over if we get both.” You argue with a smile twisting up the corners of your lips, but you make no effort to correct the situation. The uneven wheels squeak as you keep pushing the cart down the linoleum floors.
”Or we can be the best stop on the block, let these kids clean house.” He suggests as if he were a coach coming up with a play, pounding his fist into his open palm for the words ‘clean house’ before pushing the dark green sleeves of his Hawkins Community College sweater up his arms. A galaxy of freckles reveal themselves to you, clustering and spreading along his permanently sunkissed skin. They stand out even more under the fluorescents.
“I know you like winning, but I feel like I have to remind you that this isn’t a competition Harrington.” Grinning, you finally meet his amused eyes.
”Just getting into the Halloween spirit, that’s all honey.” Steve winks, pushing the wild strand back, just for it to fall across his face not even a second later. He ignores your protest when he bumps you to the side with his hip to take over pushing the cart. “Now the real question is what are we watching tonight?”
“I was thinking something along the lines of Army of Darkness, or Nightmare on Elm Street. Neither are very scary, I know how you get.” You couldn’t help but throw the little dig in retaliation for taking the cart from you, a giggle slipping past your lips at the side eye you get in return.
”I just don’t like being scared? Is that such a crime? You can go watch whatever you want with Eddie like the little weirdos you are.” He does a good job at keeping a straight face as the two of you get in line behind a family of five, but you catch a peek of his smirk when he leans over to put the divider on the black belt.
“Do I need to remind you that you invited yourself tonight? I should make you watch The Exorcist.”
It’s the genuine disbelief that paints his features that gets a full bellied laugh out of you, a big smile pushing up your glossed lips, and you can’t help notice how his gaze falls to them for a split second.
Self control.
”Sorry I want to spend my best friend’s favorite holiday with her, sue me.” Steve scoffs dramatically, setting the bags of candy on the moving belt first, the family ahead of you wrapping up.
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms stubbornly, cheeks burning hot at the smirk he gives you.
”Listen, I don’t actually care about what we watch, what I care about is that you’re going to let those pumpkins we carved finally see the light of day.” He pushes the now emptied cart ahead, leaning back against the wooden panel of the register, leaving just a few inches between you. An amused eyebrow arches at your annoyed groan in response.
”Steve, they are hideous.”
”Speak for yourself, I put my blood, sweat and tears into mine, he deserves his moment. He’s going outside.” He decides it with the kind of finality in his tone that you know means it’s going to be the first thing he does as soon as you get back.
”No one is going to come to the apartment, it will look like serial killers live there.”
“Or a couple of undiscovered artists. Who are also going to be the number one candy dealers on the block.” He argues, completely unphased by your protesting.
“Steve!” You whine, despite the smirk that creeps up your lips, and it makes Steve’s face split in two.
“Fine, but we’re watching whatever I want then.” You challenge, doing your best to ignore the flutter in your stomach when his foot brushes against yours and he keeps it there.
”Like within reason.” He succumbs with genuine concern, rubbing his palms nervously against his tight fitting light wash jeans at the thought of what you’re sure is the last movie Eddie made him sit through.
”I’m not a monster Harrington.” You wink, quietly thankful for the fact that the line starts to move, because like magnets you’d unconsciously migrated deeper between his spread legs.
Seizing the moment, you put some space between you just in time for Delores, or as her name tag reads to greet you both, popping the bubble you’d unknowingly trapped yourself in with him and bringing you back to reality.
Self Control.
Halloween - Three Years Ago.
“I really can’t believe you’re choosing to go to Eddie’s Halloween party over Tina’s.” Steve yells over Eddie Money’s ‘Take Me Home Tonight’ from his bathroom.
”And I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Brenda, again.” You retort, recalling the last time he tried to date her six months ago, and how he had to disconnect his landline after he ended things.
Granted he was breaking up with her because the new foreign exchange student at the time was showing interest, and he’d rather have a semester of fun with her than spend the winter playing boyfriend with Brenda. So you definitely understood where she was coming from, in fact you constantly reminded Steve you were on her side every time he’d try and complain about the mess he made. Messes he always seemed to make.
You ignored the unreasonable pit of jealousy that formed in your gut then, just like you are now, cause in no universe are you going to allow yourself to have a crush on your best friend. There was no way you were going to fall victim to the Harrington charm just like everyone else, you liked hanging out with him too much for that. It would be a cold day in hell if you ended up as one of Steve’s messes, because in an alternate reality where you gave in to the ‘what if’ and it didn’t work out, there’s no way you’d be able to go back to watching him do exactly what he’s doing right now.
You wouldn’t be able to have movie nights where maybe you both sit a little too close, laughing until your sides hurt and snacking on whatever is in front of you. No more late drives to lovers lake, just so you can get a better view of the moon when it's full, and staying out till sunrise, stopping at Denny’s to share a grand slam on your way home. No more talks about the future and how much the uncertainty of it all scares you both. No more having someone you can be completely yourself around. Someone who won’t judge you for your faults, someone who shows up when no one else will. Neither one of you could lose that.
”Look, it’s been a few months. She seems over it, besides it’s not like it’s anything serious.” He tries to reason, finally stepping out of his bathroom to give you the first look at his costume. ”What do you think?”
You never thought Indiana Jones was hot, even when he made you watch all three movies in preparation for this, but Steve as Indiana Jones was another story entirely.
His dark brown pants are tucked into black boots, fitting his waist perfectly with a chocolate colored belt wrapped around his hips only extenuating it more. The cream colored button up leaves little to the imagination since he only has the bottom two done, half hazardly tucked into the front of his pants. You notice the silver chain that you’d gotten him for Christmas last year hanging from his neck, the dog tag at the end of it getting lost in the thick thatch of hair on his chest and it leaves your body warm. He opts out of the fedora because according to him it would hide his “best asset” so that wild strand swoops across his forehead like it's on purpose.
Steve Harrington looked like a movie star.
Brenda didn’t know what was coming for her, and you have to swallow that sour taste in your mouth for the second time tonight.
“I’d say Stephen Spielberg needs to seriously consider recasting you as the lead instead of Harrison Ford.” You feed into his delusion, because that’s what best friends are for.
”Right? Right?” He spins around one more time, flashing that million dollar smile of his that devastates anyone he directs it at. You have to remind yourself of everything that you could lose again.
It’s Steve’s turn to take in your costume. Golden brown eyes sparkling with amusement and the kind of adoration that was hard to ignore. You’re a Venus fly trap from the Little Shop of Horrors, wrapped up in a dark green form fitting tube top dress that stops at the middle of your thighs with jagged cut ends you made yourself with a dull pair of kitchen scissors. The silk gloves that go up to your elbows are the same shade of emerald, along with the little paper mache fly trap heads that Robin helped you make sticking out of the top of your pinned up hair. Glitter covers every exposed inch of your chest, and shimmers in the corners of your eyes. You had felt confident enough to even reconsider going to Tina’s instead when you applied your red lipstick before leaving for Steve’s. His reaction only makes it soar.
”What do you think?” You smile, taking your turn to spin.
”Who are you trying to impress at this party again?” Steve quirks an eyebrow, a darkened gaze lingering over all the details of you, taking his time where a best friend shouldn’t and it makes you squirm.
”Jonathan’s friend that’s visiting from California. You know him, Argyle."
He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand before moving past you to grab his cologne from the top of his dresser.
”Him? Why? He’s only here for like two more days anyway.” He challenges with his back turned, and you know it’s on purpose.
”Okay? And?” You snap, his hypocrisy quickly snuffing out the jealousy that seemed to get comfortable in your gut and turning it into anger. You prefer it. So you lean into it. “You’re the only one who get’s to fuck around with no strings attached?”
”He’s a stoner pizza delivery man, I don’t really know what you’d see in that. Don’t lower your standards just to hook up with someone because you look cute tonight.”
Because you look cute tonight.
It’s your turn to scoff.
“You’re being a complete ass, Harrington. Like working at a video store is any better. He’s nice, and makes me laugh. We already hung out the other night. Then guess what? He walked me home and kissed me at my front door. I don’t think I need to impress anybody.” Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palms, hands balling into fists at your side. How dare he.
What makes you even more mad is that it feels like it’s Steve who’s jealous. Steve who’s getting ready to go on a date with someone else. Steve who didn’t ask you when you were always right here.
”Oh, so that’s why we didn’t hang out the other night, got it.” He raises his eyebrows, lips turning into a frown before nodding his head.
“We hang out almost every other night Steve, I don’t say anything to you when you go out on dates, and you go out on a ton of them. I think you’ve dated almost every girl in my Liberal Arts Class. I’m not appreciating this double standard, or you questioning my judgment.” Your words carry the kind of venom that stings, and you can see it all over his face. The worst part was how you immediately feel bad, frustrated tears threatening to spill over the shimmer that covers your cheeks.
Steve’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. He meets your eyes after a few seconds, soft and apologetic, traces of unmistakable regret in the dark pools of his irises.
”You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sighs, straightening up, shifting his belt buckle around. “I don’t know why I’m being so-, I just think, I just -“
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and decide if he really wants to say what’s trying to escape from the tip of his tongue.
”I just don’t think anyone’s good enough for you.”
You let his words sink it. They make the anger that fueled you cool down to a low simmer so that jealous pit can come back to reclaim its rightful throne.
”Well I could say the same thing for you too.” You mutter, refusing to meet his gaze, you weren’t ready to yet.
The silence that fills the space between you is full of those what if’s and half truths. It stays there just long enough for you to finally look at him with the mask you’re used to wearing.
”Apology accepted. The game plan then is for you to try and not to end up getting tied to Brenda’s bed, and I’ll try to make sure Eddie doesn’t burn his trailer to the ground.”
Steve stares at you for a while, like he knows the conversation needs to move on but he doesn’t want it too. Logic wins out no matter how forced it seems, because he follows your lead.
“He’ll need you, buddy needs to cool it with the lighter fluid. And for what it’s worth your costume looks amazing. You guys did great.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
He spots the whip at the end of his bed, playfully flicking the head of one of the fly traps with his fingers as he walks past, and you have to stop yourself from inhaling the cedar and honey that invades your senses from his cologne. It’s not the one with cinnamon that you love, the one he only wears in the fall, the one that he wears for you.
“Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way.”
Halloween - Now.
“So what’s the game plan chief?” Steve grins, leaning over your kitchen island, long fingers digging through the freshly filled candy bowl for a pack of Swedish fish.
”There’s no game plan, we hang out, kids walk up, they ring the door bell, then we give them candy and they walk away.” You swat his hand from the treats, but let him keep the gummy candy he searched so hard for. “No good supplier eats his stash Harrington, and I can’t believe I just had to explain the concept of trick or treating to you.”
You don’t tell him about the pile you already set aside to share later.
“What? I’m rusty! And, you gotta test the quality of the product honey, I’m a professional, I know what I’m doing.” He argues with his mouth full.
”Eww keep your mouth closed please and you can’t be rusty and a professional at the same time.”
He sticks his tongue out in response with a whole mini bag of half devoured Swedish fish on it.
”I hate you.”
”No you don’t.” He smirks, chewing the rest before pushing himself up right with a big gulp, letting you admire the cozy attire he changed into after you got back from the store.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone make grey sweatpants and a black crew neck sweater look so good. A sweater he made sure to tell you he wore just for you today, the only black top he owns.
“I’m still mad you didn’t get me any Halloween socks.” Steve points to the fuzzy black ones with jack o lanterns on your feet.
You’d opted for a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, Steve’s oversized sweater actually, he’d left at your place almost a year ago and never bothered to reclaim it. The dark burnt orange color of it reminded you of fall, and for a while it smelt like him too. You’d never admit that last part to anyone, or that you were excited at the prospect of getting that smell back after tonight.
”You could have easily grabbed a pair at the store earlier, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to be festive.”
The roll of your eyes is hard, but the smile that twists at the corner of your lips is soft for him as you grab the bowls of candy, silently indicating for him to follow you to the living room.
”I’d like to think I’m pretty festive.” He scoffs, tube sock covered feet padding loudly against the old wood floors of your apartment. “This is the first year I’m not dressing up, actually.”
”Because you don’t have a girl you can do a couples costume with this year.” You retort, setting the candy down on the coffee table before lazily flinging yourself onto the blanket and pillow covered couch.
“One, I could have very easily gotten a date for Tina’s party tonight, let's not pretend that you and I don’t both know that. And two, that’s not true either, the year before last I didn’t have a date, I went with Robin as Mario and Luigi. You were the one that had a date that year, it was that douche bag Ryan from your English Lit class.” He snorts at the memory and the boy you’d almost forgotten about, but clearly your best friend hadn’t.
Dropping into the spot he always takes next to you, Steve lets himself melt into the familiar cushions. His knee bumps yours when he spreads his legs wide with an appreciative groan before leaning his head back against the headrest closing his eyes.
“Ryan was not a douche bag.” He was.
Steve opens one eye, a lopsided grin pulling up on your favorite cheek dotted with two moles.
“Yes, he was and you know it. He wrote you one poem and you were smitten, one shitty poem. I could’ve written you a better one.”
”Then why didn’t you.”
Steve’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t answer you, instead the two of you just sit there in silence smiling at each other in a silent dare that's always there. His knee presses into yours harder, and the butterflies that’d you’d done a good job at keeping dormant flutter back to life. Then you see his gaze flick down to your lips again.
Self control.
”L-lets start the movie.” You stutter, unable to tell if you yelled the words or if it really was just that quiet.
Leaning over, you grab the remote off the coffee table with a kind of quickness that would make you think there was a gun pointed to your head. Steve’s continued silence doesn’t help anything either, he just drapes both arms across the back of the couch, wiggling himself deeper into his spot. The movement has your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you press play, starting the VHS. You had finally settled on Nightmare on Elm street on the car ride back.
It’s second nature to lean over Steve to turn off the lamp, although after last week it feels taboo but it’s too late to stop by the time the realization dawns on you. The light disappears with a loud click leaving just the small one over the stove in the kitchen as your only source besides the TV and the porch light that bleeds through your blinds from outside.
Electricity sparks and fizzes in the air around you the moment the room succumbs to darkness, and your chest accidentally brushes with his as you plop back into your seat. Steve sucks in a sharp intake of breath from the unexpected contact, but still he doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up like he always does, long fingers wrapping around your knees to drape your legs over the top of his thighs.
Tucked under his arm like this, it’s easy to inhale him, bask in him and the warm cinnamon that mixes into his usual amber in the fall. He’s wearing your favorite. You nuzzle your cheek into his chest becoming greedy, the cozy scent calming your nerves, you get lost in it, and if he notices he doesn’t show it. He squeezes you closer, the top of his chin finding a new home on the crown of your head, while the pad of his thumb rubs circles on the sore muscle of your calf with pointed pressure.
Secretly, you always knew this moment, the one right here, was the cheat code every time you had ‘movie nights’ just the two of you. The excuse to let yourselves have this one thing. A silent agreement to never ruin the friendship by giving in just enough to keep the temptation at bay. An equal craving for the kind of affection that only feels good with someone you love, but as the years go by, the bolder both your touches get under the cloak of a dark room and a blanket, you wonder if it’s more than that. If there’s a world where he thinks about risking it all too.
Halloween - Two Years Ago.
You weren’t supposed to end up at Tina’s Halloween Party, but Ryan wanted to make an appearance after the two of you left Reefer Rick’s. He’d offered to be the DD, but three group shots of pickle bombs into it, you and everyone could tell he wasn’t having a good time. So since your apartment was walking distance from Tina’s, it made sense to end the night there or at least that’s how he explained it when he told you he wanted to leave.
The usual anxiety that tightens in your chest returns at the thought of seeing your best friend, somersaults in your stomach you refuse to call butterflies. In fact, you’ve done a good job at convincing yourself this is totally normal, because you can’t remember a time where it didn’t feel like this to see him.
Robin would be there too thankfully, because the two of them had entered Tina’s annual costume contest as Mario and Luigi. Costumes you watched them both make all week, sprawled out across Robin’s bedroom floor, pricking fingers till they bled trying to sew. The worst part about it though, was how cute Steve made the oversized mustache look. Some people really do have it all.
Ryan keeps you close to his side when the two of you enter the packed house dressed as Frankenstein and his bride. Monster Mash blares from the speakers so loud you wonder how much time you have left before Hopper comes knocking on the door to shut it down. You scan the crowd for the familiar red and green in a sea of witches, mermaids, and Top Gun characters, finding the two of them in the corner closest to the kitchen. Closest to the booze.
You can’t fight the way your face lights up when Steve’s gaze meets yours through the crowd, his own smile growing so big that half his mustache falls off. Suddenly coming to Tina’s was the best idea Ryan’s ever had. You tug at his arm, leading him towards the two Mario brothers that wave eagerly at you.
”Oh, great. Steve’s here.” Ryan mutters, sounding less than thrilled but you choose to ignore it, and the very obvious tension between the two men that’s existed since they met.
”Finally you come to the superior party!” Robin exclaims hugging you tight, before giving Ryan an awkward side one.
”She’s aliiiiive!” Steve who is clearly feeling very good yells over the music, before scooping you up in his arms.
He gives you the kind of hug that’s usually reserved for the long goodbye after a self indulgent movie night. The kind that has his big palms splayed across your back, pulling you flush against him, the thin material of your ripped white dress and his ramshackled overalls leaves little to the imagination. His lips find their way to the shell of your ear, tequila and lime warm on his breath, pebbling goosebumps along the back of your neck. He’s wearing your favorite cologne.
”You look beautiful, honey.”
He lets you go with that, and you catch the smug way he looks at Ryan over the top of your head. The smile on Robin’s face is awkward as you meet her gaze with a silent plea for help, you don’t know what exactly you want her to do, but your body is on fire and someone needs to put it out. You stare a little longer as if to communicate this delima to her telepathically even though you would never admit it to her with your words, only giving up on your dead end mission when you feel Ryan tug you back to his side by your hip.
”She does, doesn’t she.” Ryan agrees, fingers threatening to dig bruises in your side unknowingly. Steve always did this to him, but tonight the alcohol intensified it.
“Seriously, literally always so stunning.” Robin agrees on your beauty nervously, giving you an apologetic look that she couldn’t think of anything better.
”Let’s get some shots!” You try with mock excitement in a desperate attempt to remind Ryan why you came here and that it’s not to punch Steve’s teeth in with a squeeze of his hand. It’s a fruitless effort to try and ignore the growing heat that warms under your cheeks and churns deep in your gut where your body always seems to betray you.
”Great idea!” Robin exclaims doing her best to copy your tone, it seems to be enough to shake the boys out of their silent dick swinging contest.
”Tequila or rum?” You ask your date, laying a hand on his chest doing your best to ignore the heat of Steve’s stare on the back of your head.
“Tequila.” He answers, placing his palm on the top of your hand, bending down, his eyes flick towards your best friend before kissing you. Marking his territory.
You’d think it was hot if your body had any kind of reaction to him, but it’s still practically humming for the one behind you and you hate yourself for it.
”I’ll be right back.” You wink, giving Ryan’s fingers a squeeze before slipping through the crowd towards the kitchen without looking back.
It’s quieter in the yellow light of Tina’s kitchen, the music a low thump instead of overpowering all your senses at once. A shaky breath slips past your black painted lips, while uneasy hands half hazardly read the labels on the cheap bottles of liquor. The bold letters that spell Tequila finally catch your eye on the most generic looking bottle. You grimace at the thought of the hang over that seals your fate tomorrow, but then you remember the way the lime smelt on Steve’s breath.
“You look beautiful honey.”
Fuck it. You take one straight from the bottle for good measure. No salt, no lime, just regret.
“Your boyfriend’s a little insecure isn’t he?”
As if thinking about him makes him appear, Steve walks through the kitchen pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the direction Ryan’s in.
“He’s not my boyfriend yet, and he won’t be because you keep egging him on, Harrington.” You sigh exasperated, ignoring the way he chuckles not taking you seriously at all before turning around to face him, your palms finding purchase on the kitchen counter behind you.
“Maybe, just a little.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together with a devious smirk that looks even more absurd in his costume. At least his oversized mustache must’ve been left with Robin. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You don’t like anyone I’m interested in, Steve.”
You want to ask him why. The alcohol almost starts to make you brave enough to do it too. Why does he do this every time it’s your turn to date around? Why does he always have a list of issues on how they simply aren’t good enough? Why is it always a competition? Sometimes you wonder if it’d just be easier to hear him say it out loud instead of doing whatever this is.
“Well, that may be true, but you also have terrible taste.” He closes the space between you, mimicking your stance on the kitchen island across from where you face him. The tips of your shoes are close enough to touch.
“Who would you like me to date then?” Your question is supposed to sound snarky and mean, not quiet with weight wrapped around it like it does
The look in his glossy eyes steals the air from your lungs, like he’s daring you to say it.
You both know you won’t and he changes the subject.
“I can’t believe I caught you doing a tequila shot without salt and lime. Especially that tequila.” He tsks, pushing himself off the counter and invades what little is left of the space between you. You can smell the cinnamon again.
“Well I needed a quick stress reliever, no thanks to you.” You should be embarrassed by how breathy it comes out, but when he holds your gaze like this, like he wants to eat you alive, it’s hard to care.
It's just the liquor you tell yourself, Steve’s been drinking all night.
He mutters a ‘hmm’ under his breath, long fingers wrapping just tight enough around your wrist that you could pull away if you wanted too. You don’t though, instead you bite your bottom lip, too selfishly invested in what he might do next.
Steve reaches behind you, grabbing the salt shaker that dwarfs in his grasp, lifting your hand up to your mouth.
“Lick.” He smirks devilishly, and you realize you’re getting the full force of his charm.
“Steve.” You whisper, just barely audible over your heart thrumming out of your chest. You can feel it in your ears.
Thump, thump, thump, thump
“We’re gonna do a shot together, the right way.” He reasons like this is a completely normal interaction between two friends while the gold shimmering in his eyes darkens.
You don’t say anything, searching his face for any sign of this being some kind of prank just to see how you’d react. But the way he licks his lips tells you pretty quickly that it’s not.
So you do it. Holding his eyes the whole time, and you swear they turn onyx.
It’s his turn to stay silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he taps the shaker over the corner of your hand before doing the same to his own, and now it’s your turn to stare as his pink tongue licks a perfect straight line. All the stories you’ve heard about him flood to the forefront of your mind, the endless pillow talk about Steve Harrington that fills the college halls.
You hate that the motion has your thighs pressing together, especially with Ryan just outside waiting for your return, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to leave. Your eyes trace the veins in his neck, silently counting the freckles that explode across his skin as he pours up two shots.
“Here honey.” He whispers, like he’s scared for this bubble to pop too.
The two of you cheers, glass clinking loudly in the silence, eyes staying trained on each other like you need to memorize every detail of this moment. Like this was never going to happen again.
The tequila doesn’t taste as bad followed up with the salt and the lime. Steve does it like a pro, like a boy who’s been to every party this small town has to offer. He doesn’t even take that ‘this is disgusting’ suck of breath through his teeth, he just smiles at you setting the shot glass down.
“Hey, is everything okay? Do you need help? Oh.”
It’s only fitting that it’s Ryan who pops your carefully crafted bubble, and you know it will be another fight about Steve on the walk home. Another night to get buried with all the others just like this, and a night that has you and Steve avoid being alone together for a week.
Halloween - Now.
It’s hard to concentrate on Freddy terrorizing a young Johnny Depp when the tips of Steve’s fingers move from your calf to the top of your thigh, a motion he’s repeated for half the movie. A move that gets bolder, higher, pushing the boundaries with every swipe. He has to feel the way it makes you squirm, in fact, you think it’s spurring him on. Especially when he gets dangerously close to the soft outline of your underwear, a quiet gasp escaping past your lips.
Luckily, you're saved by the sound of your doorbell, the first trick or treaters of the night making you both jump.
“Finally!” Steve exclaims like he wasn’t just actively tempting you to cross the line for the second time this week, like he didn’t already know what your tongue tasted like.
The bonfire comes back in flashes, teeth scraping, nipping, the whistles that got drowned out when his hand came up to your cheek opening you up more when it was just supposed to be a peck.
”Hello? Are we just going to keep them waiting?” He snaps you back to reality, standing over you with his hands out for you to take. “I don’t really want to beat you at your own game.”
”Again Steve, this is not a sport, you can’t win at something when there’s no prize.” You groan, refusing to meet eyes but slide your hands into his.
“Sure you can.” He winks, letting you go the moment you get on your feet, extending his arm for you to lead the way.
His playful demeanor has you feeling like maybe you just imagined the last thirty minutes. Was he not affected the way you were? Has it always just been you? Did the kiss not make him question everything?
”Whatever you say Harrington.” Sighing, you try for the hundredth time this week to push the thoughts of your bottom lip between his teeth down where they can’t see the light of day.
So distracted by the man behind you, the lack of candy in your hands has you stopping dead in your tracks without thinking, the domino effect slams his hard chest right into your back.
”Foul ball.” Steve huffs, steadying you both with hands on your hips. The warmth of them bleeding through the thick fabric of your sweater. “I thought you said this wasn’t a game.”
What you hated most about Steve Harrington was that he always knew how to make you laugh even when you didn’t want to.
”Well if this were a game, we’d be losing.”
Genuine panic paints his features like a truly serious offense has occurred.
“We forgot the candy.”
He groans, running a hand through his hair that you wish was your own.
”Wow, total rookie mistake, we gotta get it together or we’re gonna get benched.” Clapping loudly he turns on his heel to grab both bowls, “I do not wanna get on the coach's bad side.”
”You don’t have to bring both.” You try your hardest to fight the smile that wants to twist up the corners of your lips. “And who’s the coach?”
”We’re not going to be under prepared this time sweetheart, and I need to see who picked the better candy, if they’re even still there!” Steve tutts with a shake of his head gliding past you. “And you’re the coach, duh.”
”Why do you always like to participate in competitions you know you’re going to lose?” Crossing your arms, you light up at his narrowed gaze, his long fingers wrapped around the door handle, “I mean, we might as well take a poll of the ugly pumpkins you made us put out too while we’re at it.
“Sounds like a great idea.” He grins smugly, “I love how much you lean into intimidation tactics when you know you won’t win by the way.” He doesn’t give you any time to respond, swinging the door open with the kind of excitement that would rival a kid on Christmas morning.
Then you watch it drain from his face almost instantly, quickly replaced by pure annoyance.
“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” Steve, stacks one of the candy bowls on top of the other, leaning on your door with a hand on his hip.
”What does it look like we’re doing?” You hear Mike Wheeler’s voice before you see him, but when you meet Steve at the door, you realize it’s all four of his ‘children’ and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles past your lips because they’re all dressed as The Cone Heads.
“It looks like legal adults going to strangers' houses asking for candy, instead of being at a party, meeting girls. Will you’re excluded in that last part, obviously.” Your best friend runs another irritated hand through his hair.
“I’m not sure they’ll be able to chase tail dressed as Beldar Conehead, Steve.” You can’t stop giggling. “Just give them some candy.”
”Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Harrington.” Dustin antagonizes, shaking his empty pillow case in front of him. “Give us the sour candies and we’ll get out of your hair.”
”One, she’s not my girlfriend, dip shit, and two, what's wrong with Snickers?”
“Sour candy’s just better.” Lucas shrugs, “Now hand over the Warheads.”
She’s not my girlfriend.
It feels like an expected punch in the gut. The final nail in the coffin your last shred of hope lays in. You should have known better, but the kiss made everything fuzzy, the self control you prided yourself on waning in a way that you weren’t sure you could ever get back.
“You guys can have as much as you want.” You say ignoring Steve, snatching the bowls from his hand.
“Seriously? They can buy their own!” He groans, leaning his back on the door crossing his arms over his chest.
“She’s not your girlfriend, huh? You seemed pretty whipped to me,” Mike laughs knowing just how much this is getting under Steve’s skin.
You know it’s supposed to be somewhat of a compliment but it just adds salt to a wound that won’t stay closed.
”Shut up, that’s enough,” Steve smacks the back of Mike’s head hard enough to get an ‘Ouch! Asshole!’, the cone on top wobbling. “Get out of here and go to a god damn party.”
The boys take half the bowl of Warheads, walking away arguing about who can put the most in their mouth without spitting them out. They only took a few pieces of Steve’s chocolate, leaving you the clear winner this round, something you’d be more excited about rubbing in his face if you weren’t trying to actively avoid it. The taste of disappointment is bitter on your tongue, but you do your best to swallow it down. A hard lesson learned, but one your heart can’t bear to repeat again. All you know is that you can’t go back to being best friends with wandering hands in the dark.
Self control.
The Bon Fire - Last Week
Eddie Munson’s filter always disappeared when he was drunk, it was part of the fun of drinking with him. Except for when his unfiltered thoughts were about you.
”Oh give me a fucking break!” Eddie yells at you from across the flames that lick the night sky violently. The excessive amount of lighter fluid he’s sprayed into them should be illegal. A half smoked cigarette dangles from the side of his mouth, dangerously close to falling out as he finishes.
“The only reason you and Steve are still single is because the two of you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re clearly in love with each other!”
”Fuck. Off. Munson.” Steve glowers from the lawn chair next to you, taking a swig from his 5th beer of the night.
”What? ‘Fuck off’ because I got your ass?” Eddie adjusts in his seat, saving his cigarette, fully prepared for this debate like he’s been waiting for it all his life.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You argue weakly, following Steve’s lead and taking another “sip” of your empty beer.
The metal head guffaws.
“Please, I’ve been watching the two of you for the past four years. Steve scares off any guy you try to date and you let him, which makes me believe you feel the same way, and Steve only dates girls he knows he’ll never have a connection with!” Eddie claps his hands every few words to really drive his point home, and it leaves your argument a jumbled mess on the tip of your tongue.
The vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington.
”One, she dates horrible guys -“ Steve starts but immediately gets cut off by Eddie’s sarcastic “Sure!” And your “Hey!”
“Are you going to let me finish?” Your best friend narrows his eyes, polishing off his beer with an apologetic glance flashed briefly in your direction.
”You can if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind or anyone else’s at this party.” Eddie eggs him on more, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose like a bull. Taunting you both.
You look around the fire for help foolishly thinking your friends were going to be on your side only to realize literally everyone is avoiding your gaze, even Robin.
”Robin!” The gasp that escapes you shouldn’t sound so surprised. She spends the most time with both of you.
“What?! I’m not Eddie! Yell at him!” She exclaims defensively, but her eyes are still everywhere but yours.
”Then look at me.” You cross your arms, arching a brow with a tilt of your chin.
She mumbles something about killing Eddie under her breath, messing with the empty beer bottles next to her like she’s looking for something. She was procrastinating.
”Oh my god! Seriously?”
Eddie chuckles victoriously and you swear you hear Nancy giggle from the spot next to Robin. Sinking into the hard plastic of your chair, you dare to sneak a glance at Steve who’s face is entirely unreadable. This was worse than your worst nightmare, this was reality.
”Look,” Eddie starts again, leaning forward in his chair like some sort of evil mastermind from a bad action movie, “If it’s all in our heads like you keep saying it is. That she really does have terrible taste in men and that you’ve really just exhausted all your options in Hawkins. Kiss then.”
Robin gasps dramatically.
”Are you really doing this right now, Munson?” Steve glowers through gritted teeth before shooting Robin a look so harsh she covers her face.
”Why not? What’s it going to hurt? I’m sure you’ve both thought about it before.” He shrugs, a cheshire smile poking dimples into both his cheeks. “Unless you’re too scared to do it, which would then make me continue to believe everything I just said was true.”
God, Eddie Munson knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to press Steve’s buttons. He knew exactly how dug in both your heels were, holding up that invisible line that’s saved you for the past four years. And you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to kill him, and dump his body into the lake or be eternally grateful for someone finally ripping this old bandaid off. You just didn’t know if there was going to be a scar underneath.
”And why’s that?” You chime in finally finding your voice, snarky and rude. You’ve decided to lean into the anger, and ignore the heat of Steve’s stare warming the side of your face.
“Guys, this is getting a little weird.” Robin tries to intervene, the rasp in her voice uneasy, holding both her arms out like both boys might jump through the fire at each other soon.
”I dare you both to prove me wrong, and then I’ll let it go.” He sits back in his chair, a cigarette put out by his combat boots, and folds his hands in front of him. ”Just a peck.”
”Eddie, come on-“ Robin starts but Steve cuts her off.
”No, no, no it’s fine Rob.”
That’s when he does it, he turns to face you because Steve Harrington never backs down from a dare. Even if it means throwing a boulder at your glass house. Eddie was playing chess while Steve played checkers, and you start to believe all the drunken stories he told you about the campaigns he wrote for his DND club in high school. Your best friend will unfortunately always be an easy target.
“It’s fine, if this freak wants a little show to get off to later, we’re perfectly capable of a peck. My Mom gives out pecks like they’re candy! N-not like to me alone specifically,” He clears his throat awkwardly, “Like the rest of my family too.”
You grimace at the idea of Steve kissing you like his Mom and Eddie’s eyes sparkle.
”Okay,” Steve waves his hands, eyes closing tight in frustration, “This is coming out wrong! All I’m trying to say is, no big deal Munson, if it’ll get you to shut up, we’d love to prove you wrong, right?”
Wait, was Steve really agreeing to this? Were you really going to have your first kiss with him in front of all of your friends? A kiss you’ve shamefully thought about more than you should. Did he actually want to kiss you? Is he really doing this to shut Eddie up?
”Yeah, not a big deal. You’ll see, and then I’ll be expecting free weed for at least a month.” You try to over compensate with a brave face, but Eddie sees right through it.
”Sure.” He grins, utterly pleased with himself.
”Well what do I get?” Steve glares at his friend expectantly.
”You don’t get anything Harrington, shut up.”
“Wow, doesn’t seem fair, but whatever.” He mumbles, before finally focusing on you, and you aren’t sure you’re ready.
It feels kismet the moment your eyes meet, the sounds of the party fading around you, leaving only the crackling fire and your heart beating so loud it rings in your ears, and thumps through the tips of all ten of your fingers. The bubble you’ve carefully made together, the one that’s kept you safe for this long comes out like a shield. The last defense.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Steve licks his lips, eyes silently communicating with you to make sure this is really okay, that you guys were actually going to do this and all you can muster is a nod. He scoots his chair close enough for the sides of your hands to touch, amber and cinnamon wrapping around you like a spell.
”Just me and you okay?” He whispers loud enough for your ears only.
”Yeah,” you agree, hooking your pinky with his, “me and you.”
Steve smiles that smile he doesn’t give anyone else, and suddenly you don’t care about the answer to any of those questions swirling around loud in your brain. You want this. You want him. Even if it’s just for right now.
His nose brushes against yours, miller lite and mint hot on his breath. It makes your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, your skin warming as if you were standing in front of the sun. It’s so gentle when his bottom lip connects with the top of yours, it almost tickles. He exhales a deep breath through his nose, mouth hovering for what feels like an eternity.
Thump, thump, tump, thump.
When the soft silk of his lips finally meets yours, you swear the earth shakes, and after a few seconds when he pulls away with that dazed look on his face you wonder if he felt it too. He blinks a few times, slow and bewildered, something shifting behind his brown eyes that you can’t figure out. Steve doesn’t give you much time to try before his lips are on yours again, that big hand of his finding your cheek, tilting your willing chin up just enough to open you up. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip asking for more and you give it to him without question tasting him for the first time.
Steve Harrington was kissing you, really kissing you.
“I hope those aren’t the kinda pecks your Mom’s handing out like candy, Harrington!” Eddie gloats loud enough to break through the haze, causing both of you to remember where you are.
Steve’s in no rush to pull away though, in fact, he takes his time, perfect teeth nipping gently at your bottom lip for good measure. He lingers like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. The tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, and for a second you think he might keep kissing you. His eyes are already fixated on yours when you meet his stare with fluttering lashes. He holds your gaze like he’s desperately trying to read your mind, the pad of his thumb swiping against your bottom lip not once but twice before finally letting you go.
”You happy now, Munson?” Steve huffs flopping back into his chair with rose colored cheeks. He leans down to grab his beer, running a hand through his untamable hair before taking a swig like that didn’t just change everything.
Oh no.
“Literally couldn’t be happier, Harrington. I think I’m going to start charging double for my eighths now, actually.” Eddie grins winking at you, only for his face to soften meeting your unreadable expression.
Frozen in your seat, your fingers press against your lips. You could still feel his teeth.
“What do you mean?” Steve interjects, refusing to look in your direction.
Oh no.
“What do you mean?” The metal head challenges, with a confused raise of his eyebrow. “There’s witnesses Harrington.”
He waves his ringed finger in a circular motion reminding you both of the still very much ongoing party around you. It’s hard to feel the familiar ache of disappointment when your bones won’t stop buzzing. They don’t get it, they don’t realize they bore witness to the kind of moment that moved tectonic plates for you. The kind of moment that you know is going to change everything no matter how hard you try.
”We did your dare, she gets free weed.” Steve continues like it’s obvious.
“Yeah, no. You two were practically eating each other alive. I actually think people started to feel awkward, that’s how insane it was.” Eddie’s disbelief furrows his brows together, head cocking to the side. “So, clearly, I was right.”
At least he’s got the balls to say it.
“When I win, I like to win big, okay?” Steve smirks with his kiss bitten lips, making the next thing he says sting even more. “You’d never let it go if it was just a peck.”
Oh no.
Your eyes meet Robin’s, and the expression on her face makes you wish you hadn’t.
”Right?” It takes you a minute to realize Steve is talking to you, in fact it’s not until you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder from the hand that was just cupping your cheek.
He’s asking you to agree that it meant nothing, that you both got Eddie, that you two are only everything you’ve ever said you were. Everyone stares at you, and for the second time tonight you wish this was a nightmare. You wonder if you should just pinch yourself to see.
”I’ll take my first free eighth tonight.” You finally manage, giving Eddie a weak smile.
Oh no.
Halloween - Now
Steve feels miles away on the other side of the couch, a conscious choice you made after his teenage children left, after he made it abundantly clear where he still stood with you. It’s a choice you’re going to dig your heels into no matter how much your body physically aches to be close to him, or how his knee hasn’t stopped bouncing almost three movies and a whole lot of trick or treaters later.
The clear pink digital clock on your mantle reads 12:18 AM in bright red numbers, A Nightmare on Elm Street: Dream Warriors lights up your TV and despite the distance, Steve still hasn’t left. You know he wants to ask why you’re so far away, why you’re not wrapped up in his arms like it doesn’t matter, like last week never happened but then he would have to talk about it. Acknowledge it.
You fucking hated, ‘It’, and maybe Eddie Munson too.
Shadows dance across Steve’s face, eyes intent on the TV with knitted brows that meet in the middle of his forehead. Those hands that had wandered your body under blankets woven with secrets and what if’s for the past four years sit propped behind his head as he leans back into the cushions. His legs are spread wide, in a position that looks uncomfortable, letting you know he’s lost in whatever argument he’s been having with himself since the second movie after you had grabbed your own blanket.
You were going to break the vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington, right here, right now. While you still had a shred of willpower left.
“I-I think I saw a full moon out there earlier.” His voice breaks through everything like it always does, hoarse from its lack of use, he clears his throat turning his head to look at you biting his nail.
The warm red lighting from Freddy’s boiler room illuminates his features in a way that dares those butterflies to wake back up from the eternal rest you banished them to. His sharp jaw, those high cheek bones kissed with freckles and moles. The dark pools of his irises beg you for something, surrounded by sparkling brown and gold. You couldn’t look away even if you tried. Movie star.
”Yeah?” You manage, voice coming out quieter than intended, it softens his features almost instantly, like he missed the sound of it.
”Do you maybe wanna go for a drive?”
You make him wait for an answer to a question you could never say no to even if you tried, doing your best to hang onto your fleeting self control for just a little bit longer before giving in with a,
“Let's go.”
Steve was right, there was a full moon tonight. It sits half hidden in the clouds but it still manages to shine bright enough to coat the sleeping town of Hawkins in an incandescent opal. He cranks the heat all the way up so you can rest your head on propped up hands along the open passenger window. Strings of orange and violet bulbs wrap around trees, twinkling off fences and front doors, lighting the dark spots that the moon can’t kiss. Flames still flicker and dance inside jack o lantern mouths that sit on front doorsteps, and you can’t help but inhale the bitter crisp fall air that hits your face. It even smells like Halloween outside. You can faintly hear the sound of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ spill from his speakers, and it curves up the corners of your lips. Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in this moment, including the unmistakable feeling of Steve’s gaze.
The thing about Steve’s car is that it feels like you’re completely surrounded by him when you’re in it, wrapped up in him, consumed by him. The warm leather underneath you always smells rich, especially in the summer after it bakes in the sun. It’s soft to the touch, freshly lotioned by him at least once a week to prevent cracks, while the amber of his cologne permanently clings to the threads in his carpets, and soft chenille lining of his doors. Some days, you’ll catch hints of that Farrah Faucet spray he used in high school, but that was usually after a date. Loose change jingles in his cup holder, along with the stick of gum you almost always inevitably steal from it, and despite the internal battle you’ve been having with yourself, tonight was still no exception. Steve’s car felt like home.
Neither one of you talk as he drives the familiar path towards your favorite spot by the lake. His headlights illuminate the fog that wraps up the base of the trees, crawling up slowly to the dying leaves in a way that makes everything look like magic as you pass town lines. Including the boy next to you. It takes you a few minutes to work up the courage to steal a glance in his direction, but when you do he’s already looking at you too. His soft laugh after you both get caught makes your cheeks ignite, the corners of your lips twitching.
”Eyes on the road, Harrington.” You manage, fighting the losing battle with your growing smile. You don’t look at him again, not until the BMW slowly rolls to a stop.
Still, you waste no time jumping out of the car parked on the secret cliff you’d both discovered lost on a drive a few summers ago. Wind hits you in a heavy gust, free from anything that can slow it down up here, pebbling goosebumps along your skin. The cold ground cracks underneath your slippers you didn’t bother to change out of, while cinnamon and crimson leaves flutter in the trees. Crickets chirp in the distance, creating a melody with the wind howling through the dense forest that feels fitting for the holiday. Your heart swells from the feeling of nostalgia, filling you with the kind of joy something that a party could never do.
“Spooky.” Steve whispers in your ear, coming up from behind you. The warmth of his spare jacket he keeps in the back seat drapes around your shoulders. It smells different than the one he wears regularly, but it's still him, so you selfishly pull it closer.
“Mmhmm.” You agree, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of his breath against the soft skin at the back of your neck before his arms wrap around your waist like they belong there.
Steve pulls you close, mumbling something about being cold too and how you need to share. The tip of his nose traces the shell of your ear before burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, openly, like an addict that’s been denied his favorite drug and he’s finally got his hands on it. So just as quickly as they were banished, the butterflies come migrating back and you don’t have the energy to stop them, or to practice that new concept of self control because this feels too good right now. Maybe you’re an addict too.
Thin clouds spread out in wisps along the dark night sky, messily painted there by an invisible brush, the stars twinkle around them, shimmering bright even underneath it all. Your gaze traces the invisible lines of the Big Dipper, and it reminds you of the time you’d spent nearly twenty minutes trying to get Steve to see the formation sprawled out on a blanket at this very spot. You would’ve spent the whole evening if you had to.
“Are you having a good Halloween?” He whispers, voice vibrating deep inside your bones while his cold fingertips trace along the waist band of your leggings under your sweater. You don’t remember when they got there.
You roll the answer around in your head with a thoughtful hum, admiring the orange glow of the town below. An owl calls out into the darkness and Steve’s lips curl into a grin pressing into your neck at the noise.
”Yeah, this is pretty perfect.” You start, thankful he can’t see your own smile that pushes up your cold cheeks, “Especially after getting the confirmation that I do have better taste in candy than you. I love when I’m right.”
He snorts loudly, and it vibrates against your skin making you giggle, his grip on you tightening playfully before pulling you deeper into his chest.
”I threw the game, I felt bad, you know, I didn’t want to outshine you on your favorite holiday. I purposely picked the candy no one would like.” His voice comes out right next to your ear, the baritone of it going straight to your legs threatening to turn them into jell-o.
“Mmmhmm.” You manage, voice cracking with nerves as the palm of his hand finds the plushness of your stomach and keeps it there. You wonder if he can feel the butterflies too. “Whatever you have to say to yourself to sleep better at night, Harrington.”
Steve laughs into your shoulder, the blunt end of his nails scratching lightly over the soft skin of your navel. Neither one of you try to fill the quiet after that, letting the million things that need to be said hang over you in the eerily beautiful silence of the canyon. They cling onto every swipe of his fingers, and the sighs that come from the back of your throat. The two of you stay wrapped up in each other like this for what feels like an hour, swaying back and forth, too scared to pop your favorite bubble. It’s not until a shiver runs up your spine, the frost in the air numbing the tip of your nose.
”We don’t have to leave, but we should at least sit in the car with the heater on for a while.” Steve breaks the silence with a slight chatter in his teeth, the pad of his thumb swiping against the smooth skin of your hip before untangling himself from your clothes. This was starting to feel like a sunrise kind of night.
”Yeah, that’s probably smart.” You clear your throat with a small smile, already missing the feeling of being surrounded by him, for once you don’t push it down.
You follow him to the car, letting your gaze greedily trace the outline of his shoulders in his crew neck sweater. His hair whips around wildly in the wind, the little product that was left in his hair standing no chance. He walks past the passenger door to open the back one instead of your usual spot in the front. The change makes you pause, you’d never really hung out in the backseat together, always using the center console as a barrier to stop you from doing the unthinkable. Everything always seems more romantic in the dead of night.
“I had an idea earlier when I saw it was going to be a full moon tonight, I- uh, brought us a blanket.” He explains before the question even has a chance to leave your mouth, pink dusting his cheeks that you aren’t entirely sure is just from the cold.
It almost goes over your head, but the bashful way he won’t meet your gaze catches your attention. This wasn’t just some coincidence he saw the full moon from your front door, he had already known, probably with the help of the very kids that showed up dressed as Coneheads.
Steve Harrington planned something for you.
”I uh, stole this blank tape from Henderson too and recorded the re-run of Radio Mystery Theater, Eddie had told me about. Thought it might be something you’d like.”
Your heart swells, threatening to burst in your chest with the unmistakable feeling of wanting to kiss him again.
“I can’t believe you did this Steve, I’ve always wanted to listen to an episode.” You practically beam, taking a few steps closer, looking up at him from under your lashes. “You remembered.”
The crimson that deepens in the apple of his cheeks this time is definitely not from the cold.
”We’ve had a lot of shitty solo Halloweens, and since this was our first one together, I just wanted, I- I guess I just wanted to make this one special. Maybe we can start a new tradition or something?” he shrugs, muttering the last part with a scratch at the back of his neck pretending to be nonchalant but you can always see right through him.
”Yeah, I’d like that.” Your admission is quiet, but the smile he bites back threatens to be megawatt before reaching out his hand, ushering you into the car and out of the two am chill
”I’m gonna go grab the blanket.”
He closes the door gently after making sure you’re comfortable, and you watch him with hungry eyes from the back window pull out a down comforter from the trunk. It’s the one from his bed, the fabric a deep plush deep burgundy with a black trimming around the edges, it looks so warm in his grasp as another chill rattles through your bones. He comes around to his side, opening the door to hand it to you with a grin that only grows wider when you snatch it eagerly before popping to the driver's seat to turn his car on. The heat starts to blow through the vents instantly, sending another shiver up your spine and a chatter of your teeth. Your gaze falls on the sliver of skin that reveals itself to you where his sweater rides up his back as he leans over the center console to grab the cassette tape from his glove compartment. Of course there’s another cluster of moles and freckles there that make you want to explore where the rest hide.
He pops it in with ease, pressing play and waits until he hears the opening crackle through the speakers, a quiet ‘yes’ slipping past his lips. A gust of cold air follows him when he opens the passenger door again as he slides into the leather seats next to you, knees knocking into yours before shutting it. He wastes no time finding you under the covers, torturing you with his cold hands by slipping them back underneath your sweater.
”Steve!” You jump, scolding him with a giggle without pushing him away, and he takes this opportunity to pull you back into the position you were in on your couch at home before you tried to find some semblance of boundaries.
He keeps his hands under your sweater, even when they’re warmed back up, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles along your rib cage. His cheek rests on your forehead, full lips tickling your skin when he talks. You can feel his heart beat against your palm, and how it speeds up every time your fingers curl into the cotton of his sweater whenever you laugh, instinctively pulling him closer. He doesn’t fight it, instead his grip tightens on the soft dough of your thighs draped over his knees, making sure every inch of you stays pressed firmly against him.
This doesn’t feel like best friends. This feels like something more, but it’s always felt like something more.
In fact you think you’ve known you were in love with Steve Harrington long before you ever admitted it yourself. Burying it so far deep, the fleeting idea just didn’t exist to you anymore, but tonight in the soft glow of the moon sitting in the back seat of his car, you were sure of it and its existence.
It feels like he can read your mind when his fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. The stars twinkle in the gold of his auburn eyes like he plucked them from the sky and hung them there. So close, you can see those freckles you’d discovered the last time he looked at you just like this. That one badly behaved swoop of hair tickles the top of your forehead, and your fingers twitch to push it back for him. Movie star.
The tape stops with a loud click, leaving nothing but the low whistle of wind outside, and it mixes with your heavy breaths, electric currents stinging at your fingertips. His heart thumps wildly against your hand, like he was working himself up for something big. The notion sets a fire ablaze on every inch of your skin in anticipation.
”I want, I want to talk about something.” He says just barely above a whisper with a gaze so intense, it makes you want to look away. You don’t.
“What about?” Your voice comes out somehow even quieter, eyes falling to his lips on their own accord. He catches it, kicking his heart rate up even more.
Was he going to do the unthinkable? You try to push the thought down, but it fights back this time. Refusing the denial exile you’ve shoved it in for the past four years.
“Last week, at um, at Munson’s.” His eyebrows pinch together, visibly swallowing his nerves, as the tip of his nose dares to brush against yours. “God, I-I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The last part comes out like he’s being tortured by it. At least it’s not just you.
“If we’re being honest though,” He continues, his palm running up your thigh to squeeze at your hip, keeping you close, “I don’t think I ever stop thinking about you.”
His words crack your chest open, shining light on all the dark places that you’ve kept him in, just like the sunshine Steve Harrington is made of.
”Really?” You manage to say, after fighting with the words that keep getting tangled up on the edge of your tongue, desperately trying to give him more than a one word answer but failing miserably. Years of daydreaming about this moment in silent shame freezing you up.
He nods, pressing his forehead against yours, yearning eyes searching inside the dark pools of your pupils down the slope of his nose.
“You just, you brushed it off so easily, I thought -“ You start, replaying the way he’d rolled back into his seat, sipping his beer so casually like nothing happened. The confidence in his voice bragging about how Eddie got it wrong, that he wasn’t in love with you.
”What’d you think?” He encourages gently, the hand on your hip coming up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along the bone.
”I just thought I was the only one.” You confess, that same defeated feeling from that night creeping back in despite the way his gaze softens all of your edges.
“That night at Eddie’s, I freaked out. Robin told me it was pretty obvious that I have feelings for you and it got me in my head that I was secretly making you uncomfortable because if she noticed it, surely you did too. So I completely overcompensated after I lost control at the bonfire, there was just no way I could stop kissing you, and then I panicked again earlier at your house-“
“Steve.” You say his name like it's something romantic, successfully ending his rambling with another brush of your nose against his. .
”Yeah?” He breathes, the tension leaving his shoulders like hearing your voice was enough.
You meet his heavy stare from underneath your lashes, the foggy glass of the windows creating a halo around his head from the soft glow of the moonlight.
“I dare you to kiss me again.” There’s confidence in your voice you don’t recognize, and the corner of his mouth quirks at it.
“What if I just wanted to kiss you because I wanted to?” Steve whispers, closing more of the little space that’s left between you.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
“Then, I’d say…” You brush your top lip against his bottom one, a low simmer starting to boil in the pit of your gut, spreading warmth between your thighs at his sharp intake of breath, “what are you waiting for, Harrington.”
His lips are curved into a smirk when he presses them to yours, his thumb finding the corner of your mouth to open you up just enough for him that your lips move like they were made for this, for him. He handles you differently in the back seat of his car than at the bonfire, he’s gentle, taking his time without prying eyes, savoring you. Your fingers curl into his sweater, pulling him closer because of it, like he can never be close enough, nose pressed into his cheek. He hums in response, and you can feel his smile return before his hand moves to the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the soft skin behind your ear. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip begging you to finally let him in, and when you oblige, you both moan at the taste of each other.
It feels like Steve is everywhere, surrounding you with all of the little details of him embedded in every inch of his car. He’s in the leather underneath you that squeaks with your movements, in the amber and cinnamon that warm the air around you, comforting your nerves that threaten to fizz and burst like a live wire. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth like he’s hungry for it, like nothing else could satisfy him, massaging against your own in a way that earns a moan from the back of your throat. One you have no control over, but you’re starting to realize that maybe you never really had control when it came to Steve.
He breaks away just enough to whisper the word ‘perfect’ with a swipe of his nose against your own before pulling you onto his lap. You gasp at the feel of him as your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. The effect you never really knew you had on him pressing into your heat with only the fabric of each other's pajama pants as a barrier, a feeling that only ever existed in your day dreams. But this was real, and he was closer to you than you’d ever allowed each other to be, dark wild eyes staring up at you like you were the one who painted the moon and the clouds in the sky. That swoop across his forehead has an extra curl to it from the sweat that beads at the top of his head, auburn hair turning into a wild untamable mess. His big hands grip the tops of your thighs, bringing you out of your thoughts and back to him.
”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” He confesses with an exhausted laugh, as if carrying the burden of ‘what if’ had been weighing him down. “I’m going to be insufferable now, I hope you know.”
His teeth shimmer in the white glow as his kiss bitten lips pull up into the kind of smile that’s contagious, even getting a giggle from you that cuts through the tension like a knife making Steve pull you closer. The tips of his fingers return to their favorite place under your sweater where they trace like a whisper against the warm skin of your lower back, and it makes your eyelids grow heavy. You slump more of your weight into him burying your head into his neck, your own hands traveling up his sweater, finger nails scratching against the rough trail of hair there before your palms rest on the thick thatch on his chest. Your lips press a kiss the two moles that had been begging you to do it for four years just below his ear, and he hums squeezing you closer despite running out of room to physically be able to.
”I want to do this with you all the time,” Steve whispers, lips brushing against your ear, “not just tonight, not just this.”
Hearing Steve say it out loud, confess the one thing you always had to pretend didn’t exist blooms something deep in your chest that you didn’t know could grow there. Shining light on all the darkness and doubts that had made themselves a far too comfortable home. Why keep denying something you both clearly want so bad?
”D-do you feel the same? Please tell me you feel the same.” You can hear the doubt creep into his voice from your misperceived silence when he whispers the plea hot against your lips, begging you to turn your head and meet them.
You almost want to laugh at the idea that Steve Harrington had reservations that you might not feel the same way about him. Wasn’t it obvious?
”Listen, Harrington.” You sigh, meeting his gaze from under your lashes, his heart kicking back up against your palm, his fingers going still. “If you think you’re going to be insufferable, you clearly have no idea who I really am.”
It takes Steve a minute to absorb your words, but when he does, the deep bellied laugh it earns you vibrates against the windows of the car and wraps around your heart. He pulls one hand from under your sweater, fingers curling under your chin again to get to what both of you want more of. A lopsided grin pushes up the vampire bites on his cheek, full lips hovering just over yours and it feels like the first time all over again. Part of you thinks it might always feel this way with him.
“Don’t underestimate my capacity to yearn, baby.” His lips brush against yours with every word, a shiver running up your spine.
Baby.
“What if I dare you to show me?” You whisper, teeth nipping at his bottom lip enjoying the feeling of the blunt end of his nails digging into your back.
“Careful, you know I can’t say no to that.” He huffs with a grin, warm breath against your skin, silently offering up his own dare for you to close the rest of the distance and give in.
”I’m counting on it.”
You take the bait without giving him any time to respond, accepting his challenge by pressing your lips to his that match your energy almost immediately, meeting you hungry and ready. It’s easy to get lost in him again, and you let it consume you even when the soft pink glow of the sunrise shines through the fog on the windows like a kaleidoscope. Because finally, here, in the back seat of his car, you are in love with Steve Harrington, and it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.
⋆˙⟡ If We Were Both Wizards.
Remus Lupin x Muggle!reader
main masterlist
Summary: Ever since your boyfriend opened up about the world he comes from, you’ve been desperate to understand it. But one question too many leads to an answer he wish he’d never given.
Words: 3,4k.
Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of magic world and all. established relationship. very messy and domestic with jokes about the reader being a slytherin (i am, sorry). fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: I’m officially entering my new writer era with my old marauders obsession. So this my very first time writing remus, I just hope my version of him makes sense to you ♡
“Repeat that again, I couldn’t write it correctly,” you said, brows knitting together as you stared down at the chaos of ink across your notebook. The lines bled into one another where your pen had hesitated too long, little constellations of black dots marking your confusion. Words spilled out of Remus’s mouth faster than your mind could process them. Horcrux? Apparition? Floo powder? They sounded like they belonged in a fantasy novel, not your quiet, ordinary living room.
You tapped the pen against your lower lip, eyes flicking from your notes to him, trying to make sense of it all. But the definitions blurred together like smoke, like something you could almost catch but never hold. And Remus’s voice didn’t help. It was calm, patient, and achingly gentle, the kind of voice that made you believe things you shouldn’t. He spoke about his world the way people speak about something sacred, and all you could do was try to keep up, your mortal brain tripping over centuries of secrets.
Everything had changed since that day.
You understood now. You understood why he’d looked so utterly lost the first time he held your phone, his brow furrowed as if he were handling some dangerous artifact. Why he’d flinched at the vibration of a text message, or turned a calculator over in his hands like it might reveal its inner workings if he just looked long enough. Why his past seemed full of silences. No family, no friends he could properly name, no photographs that weren’t at least twenty years old.
You understood the full moons now too. All the soft, strained smile he always gave you before he disappeared, the vague excuses about old obligations. You remembered the way he came back days later, skin ghost-pale, movements slow, smelling faintly of damp earth and something medicinal, like herbs and smoke. You’d always assumed he was ill. You’d even suggested seeing a doctor once, and the look he’d given you had been so quietly heartbreaking that you never brought it up again.
And Halloween…oh, Halloween. You’d once thought he just didn’t like it. It was too loud, too childish, too commercial. But now you remembered the tremor in his hands when children passed by dressed as monsters, the way he always found a reason to be alone that night. You remembered how he’d return the next morning, eyes red and tired, as though he’d been awake until dawn, grieving something you couldn’t name.
When he finally told you the truth—sitting across from you at the kitchen table, the clock ticking softly in the background, his mug of tea growing cold between his trembling fingers—your first instinct was to laugh. Because it couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. The word wizard didn’t belong in your vocabulary any more than castles, wands, or secret schools did.
You had even reached for your phone, half-ready to call someone—the police, a friend, anyone—because what else do you do when the man you love tells you he turns into a monster once a month?
But then he’d looked up at you. And everything inside you went still.
His eyes were steady, and full of a truth you couldn’t explain away. The kind of truth that lived not in facts, but in the quiet, trembling space between words. You could see it in the way his voice cracked when he said he hadn’t meant to lie, in the way his hand hovered over yours like he wasn’t sure he still had the right to touch you.
He hadn’t asked you to believe him. He’d only asked you to listen.
And you did. Because it was Remus. The man who showed up on rainy mornings with your favorite pastries, his hair damp and curling at the edges, always apologizing for being late even when he wasn’t. The man who remembered every author you’d ever mentioned, who left little notes tucked into your books, sometimes with quotes, sometimes just thinking of you. The man who wrote you letters when he traveled, his handwriting neat but hesitant, always ending them with “Yours, if you’ll still have me.”
The man who loved your dog almost as much as he loved you, even though the poor thing barked at him for a week straight after sensing…something. You’d caught him more than once sneaking the dog treats, muttering gentle apologies as he scratched behind its ears.
So now, you were curled up on the couch, your favorite blanket wrapped around your legs, your notebook, the one with the peeling star stickers and coffee stains on the cover, balanced carefully on your knees. The room smelled faintly of bergamot from the steaming cup of tea perched on the coffee table, its warmth curling up into the late-afternoon air. You chewed absently on the tip of your pen, trying to make sense of everything again: the impossible vocabulary, the stranger-than-fiction logic, his world.
Remus sat cross-legged across from you, looking far too cozy for someone being interrogated. A wool blanket was draped loosely over his legs, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he flipped idly through the book resting on his lap. There was a faint, resigned smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the kind that said he adored you even while regretting ever agreeing to “study sessions about magic.”
“So,” you began brightly, eyes sparkling with mock seriousness as your pen hovered above the page, “if wizards can apparate, why don’t you ever just—zap!—disappear when you’re late? Isn’t that the whole point?”
Remus looked up over the rim of his glasses, one brow arched, the corners of his lips twitching. He gave a long-suffering sigh, soft and theatrical, the kind that came from someone who’d already explained this many times.
“Love,” he said patiently, “we’ve talked about this. Apparating isn’t exactly…instantaneous.”
You barely looked up from your notebook, pen poised, undeterred. The pages were a mess of sketches and questions, margins filled with curious little stars and arrows pointing to your scribbles. “But do you ever—oh! Or, what about the invisibility cloak? Can anyone just buy one? Or is it, like, super illegal for muggles?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hide a smile that threatened to break into full-blown amusement. “Technically, they’re very old and rare, and—”
“Rarer than finding a four-leaf clover?” you cut in, dead serious, frowning as you leaned back slightly to calculate the odds in your mind. “Or…like…rarer than a unicorn sighting?”
Remus laughed, the sound low and warm, and it made your heart flutter. “Definitely rarer than a unicorn sighting,” he said, shaking his head. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “But I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to quantify magic. That’s…ambitious.”
You leaned in, lowering your voice like you were about to divulge state secrets, the notebook practically a shield between you. “So…can a wizard accidentally set their dog on fire? Or is there a spell for…uh…safe-dog magic?”
“Safe-dog magic,” Remus repeated, his lips twitching as he tried to remain serious. “Yes…exactly. That’s…actually a very useful spell. But no, the magic doesn’t usually burn dogs.”
You gasped in mock horror, clutching your notebook like you’d just survived a near-catastrophe. “Good. I was worried for our dog.”
He reached over, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, thumb grazing your cheek in a touch so soft it sent a shiver down your spine. “I think he’s safer with me than with you, honestly,” he murmured, and the tenderness in his voice made your cheeks warm and your heart stutter.
Your notebook lay open across your lap, a scattering of ink stains and half-finished thoughts, but your mind had already drifted far from the page. The air between you pulsed faintly with something unspoken. Remus’s gaze, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, anchored you. His thumb tapped absently against the spine of his book, until at last, he lifted his head.
The smallest smile ghosted across his mouth. He looked at you the way one might look at something fragile but endlessly fascinating. Then, without a word, he set his book aside and reached out.
He did everything so deliberately, like a man aware of his every movement. First, he pushed your notebook aside, fingers brushing over the soft paper, a quiet whisper of contact. Then, his hands came to your face, thumbs resting against your jaw as if he needed to learn its shape by touch alone. His palms were warm. His touch was steady.
When he kissed you, it was with the soft certainty of someone who had wanted to for a very long time.
The first press of his lips was tender, tasting faintly of tea and candle smoke. Then, as though something inside him broke loose, the kiss deepened. His thumb moved beneath your chin, tilting your face up to him, his other hand slipping behind your neck to draw you closer. You could feel the faint scrape of stubble against your skin, the slow, patient rhythm of his breath.
The sound of the fire filled the silence, crackling like it was keeping your secret.
Your hands found him instinctively: one curling into his jumper, the other sliding into his hair, soft and a little unruly between your fingers. He made a small sound—quiet, half a sigh—when your fingers grazed the back of his neck. You felt him lean into you, felt the solid warmth of his chest against yours.
And then, before you could lose yourself completely, a thought flickered through the haze. You pulled back slightly, just enough to see the faint confusion crease his brow.
“I have a last question,” you whispered, your voice barely more than breath.
Remus let out a low, weary sigh, his lips curving despite himself. “You and your questions…” His glasses had gone slightly crooked, catching the firelight in their lenses, and he looked devastatingly undone. He was just thinking of taking them off when you touched his mouth again, your finger tracing the shape of his lower lip.
“Come on,” you said, your tone lilting, teasing. “Be Professor Lupin for me.”
He groaned quietly, half amusement, half surrender. “I really want us to…eat dinner now—”
You didn’t let him finish. You leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the base of his throat. His pulse jumped beneath your lips. You lingered there, your breath warm against his skin, and when you spoke, your words brushed his collarbone like a secret.
He inhaled sharply, you could feel it, the sound dissolving into a shaky laugh. “You’re impossible,” he murmured. “Utterly unfair.”
“Just one last question,” you whispered again, though your voice had softened.
Remus shifted, turning fully toward you. The couch creaked under the movement as he tucked one leg beneath him, the other brushing against yours. His hand found your knee, his touch feather-light, thumb moving in slow circles against the fabric of your trousers. His glasses caught the lamplight again, turning him into something out of a dream.
He studied you quietly, the corners of his mouth curving as though he already knew he was lost. “One last question,” he conceded at last, voice roughened by fondness, by something deeper.
You grinned at him, small and triumphant, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint warmth that lingered. “Okay…If I was a wizard like you, in what house would I be?” Your voice was soft and curious, almost childlike.
You added hurriedly, like a tiny disclaimer, “You can think if you need time—or—”
“Slytherin,” he said, without hesitation.
You blinked, taken aback. “Slytherin?” you repeated, incredulous, as though testing the word on your tongue. Then you frowned, pulling back slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Wasn’t that the house of…bad wizards?” Your lips curved. “Why would I be in the house of your world’s villains?”
Remus froze for a heartbeat, realizing perhaps too late that his choice of house had landed wrong. His eyes widened behind his crooked glasses, and his lips parted like he might take the word back if he could. “It’s not—”
“Not?” You cut him off, tilting your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Not what? Not offensive? Not…insulting?”
“I—” He sighed, rubbing a thumb against the bridge of his nose, the gesture both fond and weary. “It’s not about you being bad, love. Slytherin isn’t only about darkness. It’s cleverness. Ambition. Resourcefulness.”
You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward, the firelight catching in your eyes like liquid green glass. “Ambition? Cleverness?” Your lips twitched. “Sounds dangerously flattering.” Then, feigning offense, you added, “But I’m not a villain, Remus. Are you saying I could be one?”
He laughed then, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. The kind of laugh that said he’d lost this battle and didn’t mind. “You see?” he said, shaking his head, eyes warm with that blend of disbelief and adoration. “That’s exactly what I mean. Always twisting the argument until you win it.”
You smirked, victorious. “Maybe I just like clarity.”
“Or maybe,” he said softly, leaning closer, “you just like to keep me on edge.”
The air between you shifted again, that familiar magnetic pull threading back into place. Your wit against his patience, his calm against your spark.
Finally, he lifted his hands in surrender, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright. Enough, before this turns into a full debate about Hogwarts houses.”
You blinked at him, still mock-offended, your lips pressed together but twitching. “I’m allowed to be curious,” you insisted.
“And I love that you are,” he murmured, voice low, steady, carrying that warm fondness that always managed to undo you. “But dinner’s ready, and I think you need some food before your curiosity eats me alive.”
Before you could retort, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing lightly against your palm. He tugged gently, coaxing you off the couch.
“Come on,” he said, a smile ghosting across his lips. “You can grill me about Slytherin over dinner. Right now, we’re going to the kitchen.”
You sighed dramatically, though your fingers tightened around his, betraying you. You let him lead, trailing just a half-step behind, your voice still soft but pointed as you muttered, “I just wanted to know why you looked so sure.”
He glanced back at you, eyes glinting in the dim light, and there it was again. That quiet, unspoken fondness, that trace of a smirk that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Because,” he said finally, “I’ve met enough Slytherins to recognize one when I see her.”
The smell of roasting vegetables and warm bread wrapped the cottage in a quiet, familiar comfort. Steam rose from the two plates on the small wooden table, curling lazily in the lamplight. Remus had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, pale forearms faintly scarred, hair catching the amber glow, moving with that gentle, measured rhythm that somehow made the room feel warmer.
A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, and without thinking, you reached out, brushing it back. His head tilted slightly, letting your hand linger just a heartbeat too long, and the faintest hum of amusement escaped him.
You should’ve been focused on dinner. You weren’t.
Instead, your gaze followed the line of his profile, the curve of his mouth as he tried not to smile, the way the light haloed his hair. Your fork twirled absently through your salad. The thought slipped out before you could stop it.
“So…” Your fork twirled lazily in your salad. “About Slytherin.”
Remus looked up over the rim of his glasses, that corner-of-the-lips twitch betraying amusement. “Ah. We’ve reached that topic, have we?”
“You made it sound…obvious,” you said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Clever, ambitious, resourceful…me? I don’t exactly—”
He set down his fork with deliberate calm, folding his hands on the table. Then he leaned in, the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. “You like green.”
You blinked. “That’s your argument?”
“It’s a start,” he said, eyes glinting. “And you have a certain…fondness for serpents.”
“I’m a good person, Remus.”
He hummed, eyes narrowing in feigned thought, lips pursed to hide a smile. “Yes. But that’s what every good Slytherin says right before they quietly hex you with something brilliant.”
“Excuse me?” Your fork froze midair.
He tilted his head, a soft, teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You’re far too observant for a Gryffindor. And you plan things. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Planning isn’t evil, it’s responsible.”
“Of course,” he said, tone mild, infuriatingly reasonable. “So is manipulation, when executed with elegance. Convincing me to wash the dishes and thanking me for the privilege? That wasn’t bravery, that was strategy.”
You groaned, laying your fork down. “That’s survival, not Slytherin!”
“Semantics,” he murmured, spearing a roasted carrot with maddening calm.
“I’m moral,” you insisted, voice rising slightly. “I help people. I’m—”
“Nice?” he offered, soft, teasing, eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Yes!” you snapped. “I’m nice!”
“Mm.” He didn’t look at you, merely sipping his tea, letting the pause stretch. Then he leaned forward, and his forearm brushed yours ever so slightly. That little touch sent an unexpected thrill through you. “And yet somehow, you always manage to have the last word.”
“That’s not—” You stopped, catching the ghost of a smirk crossing his lips. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Profoundly,” he admitted, warm eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You should have seen your face when I said ‘serpents.’”
You narrowed your eyes, exasperated. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Perhaps,” he said softly, leaning back, voice thoughtful. “But there’s a quiet, calculating charm to you. The sort that unnerves people without your realizing. Very Slytherin.”
“Baby, that’s just social awareness,” you muttered.
“Precisely.” He sipped his tea again, calm and steady, then leaned forward once more, just close enough that your knees brushed under the table. “Don’t get defensive,” he added, eyes softening, voice warmer. “It’s not an insult. Some of my favorite people are Slytherins.”
“Oh, really?” you said flatly. “Name one.”
He smiled, that small, tired, utterly affectionate smile that reached his eyes. “You.”
For a moment, the quiet of the cottage and the soft lamplight made it feel like the world had shrunk to just the two of you. He leaned just a fraction closer, enough that you could smell the faint lavender in his hair, feel the warmth of his shoulder near yours. Your fork remained forgotten on the plate.
“If I’m so bad in our hypothetical wizarding world,” you teased, your voice breaking the quiet, “then I don’t help with the dishes.”
Remus’s mouth quirked, that almost-smile that always looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Sure?” he asked, one brow arched in mock suspicion.
“Very sure.”
For a heartbeat, he just stared at you, eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, without warning, he stood. The chair scraped softly against the wooden floor. You barely had time to process the sudden movement before he lunged toward you, fingers wiggling in unmistakable threat.
“Oh—hey!” you squealed, laughing even before his hands reached you.
Remus grinned, delight flashing in his eyes as his fingers found your sides. “I knew it,” he said, laughing with you as you tried in vain to squirm away.
“Remus! Stop!” you gasped between helpless bursts of laughter. “I—genuinely hate Gryffindors—”
“Not until you promise,” he said through a grin, his voice light and teasing as he leaned closer, pinning you. “No more questions, no more drama about the houses or the magic world. Promise me.”
Your laughter came in broken, breathless bursts. “I—promise! No more houses! No more magic!”
“Good,” he murmured, satisfaction softening his tone but his hands didn’t leave immediately. His tickling turned into something gentler, fingers brushing against your sides, tracing lazy circles that weren’t really meant to tickle anymore. It was teasing and tender, enough to draw out one last laugh, enough to make your heart skip.
The world outside ceased to exist. The lamplight pooled like honey over the table, over the curve of his jaw and the faint lines around his eyes when he smiled. You could hear nothing but the sound of your own laughter dissolving into quiet breaths, the rhythm of his beside you.
Eventually, he relented with a low, exaggerated groan of defeat and collapsed onto the couch beside you. His hair fell over his forehead, cheeks slightly flushed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. You leaned into him instinctively, still giggling, your head finding the familiar hollow between his shoulder and neck. Your hair was a little mussed, his sweater rumpled, both of you radiating the same post-laughter warmth that made everything else blur.
“Truce?” he asked softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
“Truce,” you whispered, smiling into his gaze.
⋆˙⟡ The Boy Who Was Almost Kissed.
James Potter x Fem!reader
main masterlist
Summary: The four times you nearly ruin your friendship by almost kissing James Potter…and the one time you finally do, praying it’s not too late.
Words: 9,4k.
Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of injuries, war & death. mutual pining. very inaccurate timeline and all for the sake of the fic. angst WITHOUT happy ending. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Hi! this is my very first time writing James so I hope my brain’s version of him makes sense. Also, sorry<3 this angst is not for the faint of heart.
The first time you ever thought about kissing James Potter, you were fourteen.
It was the last day of summer break, the air heavy with the kind of heat that made everything feel slow and a little dreamlike. You’d spent most of August sprawled across your bed, half-buried in blankets, watching one Muggle romance movie after another, the kind where everything seemed soft and simple. You didn’t even know why you kept watching them; you told yourself it was just curiosity, but the truth was that you liked the way they made your chest ache.
Before that summer, the idea of putting your mouth on someone else’s had seemed strange, almost gross, in the same distant way that adults and their complicated lives were gross. But after your fifth or sixth film, when the music swelled and the actors leaned in under a hazy sunset or a string of fairy lights, something changed. Suddenly, you couldn’t stop thinking about it: the idea of that kind of kiss. The perfect one. The kind that made the world stop spinning for just a second.
And that’s when he showed up.
James Potter, your best friend since you were old enough to say his name, standing in the doorway of your room with his hair even messier than usual and two heavy bags slung over his shoulders. There was a folded note from his parents tucked in his pocket, apologizing that they couldn’t take him to King’s Cross this year, and a grin on his face that told you he didn’t mind one bit.
He wanted to stay with your family instead—“just this time,” he said, as if it wasn’t already obvious he’d been planning it all along.
That night, the house was steeped in the soft, humming quiet that only ever came at the end of summer. When the windows were open, letting in the sound of crickets and the faint smell of grass, and everything outside seemed to be holding its breath before autumn began.
Your room was a mess of comfort: mismatched blankets tossed across the floor, a plate of half-eaten biscuits balanced dangerously close to the edge of your nightstand, and James Potter, in all his restless, fourteen-year-old glory, lying sprawled across your rug as though he owned it.
He’d arrived that afternoon with his usual whirlwind of chaos: hair sticking up in every direction, one shoelace undone, and a grin so wide it made your mother laugh out loud before she even asked where his parents were. Now, his trunk sat abandoned by the door, his school robes in a tangled heap somewhere under your bed, and his glasses slightly crooked as he peered at the stack of DVDs in your lap like they were cursed objects.
“What are those?” he asked, holding one between his fingers like it might explode.
“Muggle movies,” you said, trying not to sound defensive. “You watch them. They tell stories.”
He tilted his head, squinting at the cover. “The Notebook. That sounds like homework. You’ve spent your last night of freedom watching homework?”
“It’s not homework, James. It’s about love.”
That earned you a look, the kind that could only belong to him, a mixture of exaggerated horror and mischief. “Love? Merlin’s pants, no wonder you’ve gone all quiet and with sad eyes lately. I thought maybe you were cursed.”
You threw a pillow at his face. “You’re such an idiot.”
He caught it one-handed, smirking. “A brilliant idiot, thank you very much.”
You sighed dramatically but turned on the television anyway. The bluish light flickered across the room as the movie began, washing everything in a strange, dreamlike glow. James shifted to lie on his stomach, elbows propped under his chin, his wand forgotten somewhere in the mess of wrappers and quills beside him.
For the first twenty minutes, he didn’t shut up.
He made jokes about the music (“why are they playing this when nothing’s happening?”), mocked the way the main character’s hair never got messy (“she’s been running through rain for five minutes and it’s still perfect!”), and gasped dramatically at every romantic line until you threatened to throw his Chocolate Frogs out the window.
But as the movie went on, his commentary started to fade.
You didn’t notice at first, you were too busy trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest every time the couple on screen got closer, every time they argued only to end up staring at each other like the rest of the world had disappeared. But then the rain started, heavy and silver, pouring down in that beautiful, impossible way movies made rain look.
You felt your breath catch. You’d seen this scene before—too many times—but it always did something to you. The way the characters shouted, confessed, collided. The way everything built and built until finally, they kissed.
James was unusually still beside you.
When the music swelled and the two characters kissed in the middle of the downpour, you didn’t dare look at him. You could feel your face burning, your pulse thrumming in your throat. But curiosity got the better of you, and you glanced sideways.
He wasn’t laughing.
James Potter, the boy who could make a joke out of anything and especially about you, was frowning slightly at the screen, his brow furrowed under the mess of his hair.
“That’s it?” he finally said.
You blinked. “What?”
“The kiss,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “They were yelling at each other like five minutes ago, and now they’re just—bam! Mouths. Seems a bit quick, doesn’t it?”
You groaned, flopping back on your bed. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m just saying!” he said, holding his hands up defensively, but there was laughter hiding in his voice again. “If you like someone, you don’t just shout at them in the rain and—” he made a vague smacking noise “—you, you know, do that.”
You sat up again, glaring. “And what do you know about it?”
He blinked at you, grinning. “Plenty.”
“Oh really? You’ve kissed someone?”
He hesitated. “Not exactly. But I could, if I wanted to.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your popcorn. “Sure you could, Potter.”
“I could!” he said, trying to look offended but only managing to look smug. “I just don’t want to yet. I’m pacing myself. Great things take time.”
“Like your grades in Transfiguration?”
“Exactly,” he said, beaming like you’d proved his point.
You rolled your eyes, turning your gaze back to the movie but you couldn’t quite focus anymore. The air in the room felt different now. Softer. Quieter. The only sound was the faint hum of the television and James’ uneven breathing beside you.
After a while, he spoke again, his voice much quieter this time.
“So…you actually like that kind of thing? The kissing?”
You hesitated, tracing your finger along the edge of your blanket. “I don’t know. It’s not the kissing, exactly. It’s the moment before. When they look at each other like they’re not sure what’ll happen, but they want it to. It’s…nice.”
He nodded slowly, and for once, didn’t have anything clever to say. You thought you saw him glance at you, just for a heartbeat, before he turned back to the screen.
When the credits finally rolled, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was something else, something heavy and new, like the air right before a storm.
You got ready for bed in comfortable quiet. James unrolled his sleeping bag beside yours on the floor, his hair sticking up even worse than before, and flopped onto his back with a sigh. The moonlight fell across his face, silvering his glasses when he pulled them away.
After a few minutes, you thought he’d fallen asleep, until his voice broke the darkness, low and lazy.
“You know,” he said, “if that was supposed to be a perfect kiss, I think mine would be better.”
You turned on your side, hiding a smile in your pillow. “You’ve never even kissed anyone.”
“Exactly,” he said, yawning. “Means I haven’t ruined my technique with practice.”
You laughed quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned into the dark. “Yeah. But you let me stay.”
You didn’t answer. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, your heart beating too fast for reasons you couldn’t explain. And somewhere between the flicker of moonlight and the soft sound of his breathing beside you, you realized something.
That when you thought about a perfect kiss now, it wasn’t from a movie anymore.
Oh no.
It was James Potter, grinning in the glow of your television, with popcorn in his hair and stars in his eyes.
The second time you really thought about kissing James Potter, you were fifteen.
It was late, so late that Hogwarts itself seemed to be holding its breath. The castle had settled into a quiet so deep it felt almost sacred, heavy with the hush that fell after curfew, when even the portraits appeared to slump in exhaustion and the ghosts floated silently. The library stretched before you like a cathedral of knowledge, bathed in the golden glow of flickering candlelight, shadows stretching long and dark across the tall shelves. Moonlight slanted through the arched windows in narrow silver blades, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air like tiny galaxies. The faint, familiar smell of old parchment mingled with candle wax and the musty tang of centuries-old books, and somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a squeaky hinge or whispering ghost reminded you that the castle never truly slept.
You had been sitting there for hours. The table in front of you was a chaos of notes, open books with pages curling slightly at the edges, ink bottles half-drained, and quills scattered like small, feathered casualties of your effort. The margins of your parchment were crowded with half-formed ideas, doodles, and tired scribbles that seemed to blur under the dim light. You had promised yourself you’d stay until the essay for Charms was finished, but by now, your hand felt stiff, your ink-smeared fingers sticky, and your brain had transformed into nothing more than soft, cotton clouds.
Across from you, Sirius Black had long since decided that studying was some kind of cruel punishment invented by the Ministry. He had abandoned his parchment entirely, his body sprawled across the chair with the kind of languid, careless elegance he always seemed to have. His quill spun between his fingers, catching the candlelight with a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, “Hear me out…if I enchant all of Filch’s brooms to chase him around the corridors, do you think he’d drop dead of fright or just cry?”
“Probably both,” James murmured absently from beside him, not looking up from the parchment where he doodled small, precise sketches between notes.
“Excellent,” Sirius said, grinning like a cat that had already claimed victory. “Two birds, one stone.”
You rubbed your temple, sighing heavily, the fatigue making the edges of the words you wanted to write blur. “You two are insufferable. Some of us actually care about our grades.”
“Grades won’t save you from monotony,” Sirius said, tossing his head back dramatically as though he had just delivered a cosmic truth, gesturing vaguely toward the ornate ceiling, its shadows dancing in candlelight.
“Neither will detention,” you shot back, still keeping your eyes glued to your parchment, though your attention kept drifting to the way James’s brow furrowed in concentration, the way his hands moved smoothly across the page, the subtle strength in the curve of his jaw as he sketched.
Remus snorted from a nearby table, where he was pretending not to listen but absolutely was. “Don’t bother arguing with them,” he said mildly, flipping a page of his book. “It’s like reasoning with a Bludger.”
You smiled faintly but didn’t reply, your eyes drifting back to your notes, though the words blurred and danced in the flickering candlelight. The edges of your parchment curled in the warmth of the flame, shadows trembling softly across the table. The library had gone impossibly still. Only the scratch of quills, the slow, rhythmic rustle of Remus turning a page, and the distant creak of wood somewhere in the shelves filled the air. Every sound seemed amplified: the tick of the clock, the subtle hum of candle wax dripping, the quiet sigh of wind against the windows.
You tried to focus, but your thoughts wouldn’t still. They circled endlessly, a restless spin of worry and longing and the kind of pressure that pressed against your ribs until it ached. You ran your thumb along the spine of an open book, tracing the grooves of worn leather, grounding yourself in its texture as your mind turned over the same thoughts again and again. The ones you never said aloud. The ones that kept you awake at night.
And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, like a thought too heavy to stay buried.
“You think I’ll be chosen?”
The question hung there, fragile as smoke.
For a second, no one spoke. Sirius’s quill froze mid-spin, his eyes lifting from where he’d been doodling on the edge of your parchment. James’s hand stilled too, quill poised just above the paper, but his gaze snapping to yours, sharp and immediate, as if he’d been waiting for this very moment.
“Chosen for what?” Sirius asked, his voice half-curious, half-suspicious.
James didn’t look away from you. “Prefect,” he said simply.
The word settled heavy between you, and your heart gave a small, traitorous flutter. You blinked, startled by how easily he’d guessed.
Of course he knew. He always knew.
He had been there when your parents brought it up over the holidays, their voices bright with pride but threaded with an unspoken expectation.
“It would be wonderful for your record,” your mother had said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been dependable. A natural choice.”
You had smiled politely, nodded, and swallowed the knot of dread that tightened your throat. Because that was your strength: being composed, being capable, being good. But beneath that polished exterior, the whisper never left you, the quiet, relentless fear that maybe you weren’t enough. Not brilliant enough, not noticeable enough, not deserving enough.
James had noticed, of course. He always did. He’d caught the dark shadows under your eyes the week after the holidays, the way you pushed yourself too hard, too long, trying to measure up to everyone else’s expectations. He’d noticed the tremor in your handwriting when exhaustion and pressure collided, the way your shoulders tensed as though carrying invisible weights.
Now he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table until his ankle brushed yours and looked at you with that familiar spark in his gaze, the one that made it impossible to ignore him. “’Course you will,” he said easily, his voice steady, certain. “Who else would they pick?”
You dropped your eyes to the parchment, chewing the inside of your cheek, a habit you’d developed when nerves crowded your chest. “There are plenty of others—”
He cut you off with a scoff, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, a playful defiance in the tilt of his head. “Yeah? Name one person who can actually handle responsibility and still tells me off for being an idiot on a daily basis.”
“Lily Evans,” Sirius said immediately, grinning, eyes alight with mischief.
“Oi!” James barked, swiping at him, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed the irritation. “Different situation entirely.”
Remus looked up briefly, his expression dry. “She would make a good prefect, though.”
James exhaled sharply, shaking his head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Yeah, maybe, but—” His gaze swung back to you, and the grin softened into something smaller, warmer, almost fond. “She’s not you.”
The words struck you in a way that made your chest constrict, a sudden flutter of heat pooling low in your stomach. Your pencil hovered uselessly over the parchment; your heart stuttered like it had forgotten the rhythm of its own beat.
“I mean,” he added quickly, tripping over his words now, scrambling to clarify, “you’re the smartest person—” he flicked a glance at Remus, whose unimpressed eyebrow only made James stumble faster, “—well, smartest girl I know.”
You raised one eyebrow, skeptical, amused, unsure which emotion to settle on. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He gave a helpless laugh, fingers running through his perpetually messy hair, catching the candlelight in golden glints. “Means you’re brilliant. You care. You actually…you know…try.” He shrugged casually, as if his words weren’t loaded with more weight than the entire library. “They’d be daft not to pick you.”
You found yourself staring at him in a way you hadn’t meant to, your gaze lingering despite your best efforts to look away. Candlelight danced across his face, golden flames flickering over the planes of his skin, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow beneath his lashes. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his cheeks, softening the sharpness just enough to make him look both untouchable and achingly close at the same time. For a moment, his glasses caught the light, reflecting it in a sudden gleam that hid his eyes entirely, but then he tilted his head, ever so slightly, and they reappeared. Deep, warm brown, startlingly honest, and impossibly clear. Probably the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
Your chest tightened. Your stomach fluttered.
Oh no. No again.
“Thanks,” you murmured, barely louder than a breath, but it felt utterly inadequate.
He shrugged casually, like he wasn’t aware of the small tremor in the air between you, but the faint rose that dusted his cheeks betrayed him anyway. “I’m just telling the truth,” he said softly, but the casual tone didn’t hide the warmth that seeped through every syllable.
“Look at you,” Sirius muttered from across the table, smirk sharp and teasing. “Bloody poets, the both of you.”
James’s head whipped toward him. “Shut it, Pads,” he barked, tone playful, though you noticed the corner of his lips lifting anyway.
Remus snorted softly but didn’t look up from his book this time, which only made Sirius grin wider.
Once again, James shifted in his chair, and his knee brushed yours beneath the table. You knew it was accidental. You knew it, and yet your breath caught anyway, small and uneven, as if the touch meant far more than it should. His knee lingered close to yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and neither of you moved.
For just one heartbeat, you allowed yourself to imagine it, the impossible, dangerous thought: reaching across the table, letting your fingers thread through that unruly mess of hair falling over his forehead, leaning in slowly, close enough that his laughter faded into the background, close enough that the faint warmth of his breath brushed against your lips, close enough that…
Your lips met his.
And the world fell away.
But of course, you didn’t.
You just looked at him. And he looked at you. The air seemed to pulse between you. Time slowed. Everything disappeared except the magnetic pull of his presence.
“You’re okay?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.
You couldn’t even form words before he was moving slightly closer, nudging your chair nearer, closing the space that was suddenly too wide.
“You looked like you needed a hug,” he said softly, and wrapped his arms around you with a casual ease that made your chest constrict. The fabric of his sweater was warm beneath your fingers, and the faint scent of him—cinnamon, soap, something distinctly him—washed over you in a tide that left your head spinning. He held you as though it were the simplest, most natural thing in the world, as though he could do it forever without meaning anything, but your chest knew better.
You hated it. Hated how your face burned. Hated the way the heat pooled low in your stomach. Hated that it was just a hug, and yet it was everything.
“Sure…thank you,” you whispered, words barely audible, breath hitching against his chest. “That…that’s what I needed.”
Liar.
What you really needed—what your body, your heart, your entire chest ached for—was a kiss.
The third time you thought about kissing James Potter, you were seventeen.
You had finally earned your prefect badge. The small enamel shield glimmered faintly in the shifting torchlight, a proud little thing pinned neatly to your robes, the sort of thing that used to mean something, before everything went quiet. The castle stretched endlessly around you, long corridors echoing with the whispers of portraits half-asleep, the torches crackling softly in their sconces as you passed. The smell of wax and stone lingered in the air, and your footsteps sounded too loud, too solitary.
You were doing rounds alone tonight. Covering for Remus. Again.
It was a ritual you’d long accepted, though never fully embraced: tracing the path he walked under the cruel pull of the full moon, the stone corridors of the castle echoing with your own cautious steps. The torches flickered in the cold drafts, casting jittering shadows across the walls, shadows that seemed to reach for you, mock you, as if the castle itself knew the secret you carried. Your chest always tightened on nights like this, a slow squeeze that never left, a quiet reminder of the truth you weren’t supposed to see. You used to wait for him, linger near his door, tease him for the small ailments he tried to hide: the headaches, the jittery way he stirred on certain nights, the pale exhaustion lining his features. He’d brush it off with that lopsided, weary smile of his, the one that almost made you believe everything could be alright.
Before that night, everything had been ordinary.
Then the world had shifted.
You’d stumbled into it, unwittingly, the way fate, or misfortune, or whatever cruel force stitched the fabric of your life, loves to play with innocence. You’d been searching for him, pacing silent classrooms and empty corridors, your own breath loud against the hush of the night. Dust hung in the air and the faint scent of old parchment clung to the corners of the rooms. Moonlight poured through cracked windows in silver ribbons, laying the floors bare, as if the universe itself had spotlighted the scene that was about to unfold.
He was already there. Pale. Sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. Fingers trembling along the edge of a desk, knuckles white and veins raised on his neck.
“Remus?” You whispered, your voice catching like a bird’s wing.
He turned. Eyes wide, raw, almost unrecognizable. Panic danced across his features. “Go,” he rasped.
You didn’t. You couldn’t. You reached for him, with your heart hammering in a desperate, pleading rhythm, the instinct to protect him clawing at your ribs.
And then it happened.
The sound. A wet, snapping tearing that made your stomach churn. Bones shifting with a sharpness that was almost musical in its horror, a low guttural groan that wasn’t human, not entirely. The moonlight caught his face as it twisted in agony, teeth elongating, hands curling into claws that glinted with silver. Panic rooted you to the spot, metallic taste of fear filling your mouth, your stomach lurching as if it had its own will to escape.
Chaos followed. All sudden, wild, and uncontainable. He lashed out, but not at you. Not really. He lashed at the night, at the pain that had claimed him, at the beast that wasn’t supposed to be seen.
And then his clawed hand—Remus’s hand—caught your arm. One swift, horrifying flash of pain, a rent in your sleeve, hot blood searing your skin.
Shock was heavier than pain.
Then silence.
His growls lingered in the room, a shadow you couldn’t escape. You backed away, trembling, whispering his name even though the voice that belonged to the boy you knew had vanished somewhere between your fear and the moonlight. You remembered James appearing, as if summoned by instinct, calling your name like a prayer, demanding you stay awake when your eyelids refused.
Morning came in shades of gray and silver, the Hospital Wing a blur of crisp sheets and sterile smells. Your wound was mended, magically sealed, yet the scar remained, just a delicate pale line down your forearm, subtle but insistent. Every time your sleeve slipped, it whispered: you weren’t supposed to see that.
Remus had cried when he saw you. Silent tears streaked across his cheeks, voice cracking under the weight of guilt that spilled over in shaky breaths, apologies tumbling into one another like they could undo what had happened. You forgave him. Of course you did. But forgiveness did not mend the fracture that now hummed quietly between you and the rest of them.
They didn’t intend to exclude you. Not really. But they did.
Small things first: a shared look you weren’t in on, plans whispered in corners before they disappeared when you entered the room, conversations trailing into silence the moment your shadow joined the group. No one had to tell you why. You knew. You were a reminder of the thing they could never face, the truth they’d spent years containing.
James still smiled, kissed your forehead, wrapped you in hugs that once made the world feel like it would always be safe. But sometimes, for a fleeting heartbeat, his eyes darted to your arm before meeting your face. Sirius’s laughter remained loud, brash, laced with his usual teasing, but beneath it you could see the hesitation, the careful measuring of distance. Even Peter regarded you differently, he was more curious and cautious, as if your presence was a riddle he dared not touch.
They were still your friends. But in their eyes, you were fragile now, too close to a truth that frightened them.
So every month, when the moon swelled, so did the distance. You found yourself at the edge of their gatherings, silent observer to the camaraderie you once belonged to. They whispered behind closed doors; you watched, pretending not to notice, telling yourself it was for Remus’s protection, for your own. But the truth clawed at your chest: it was loneliness, bitter and intimate, that gnawed at you in the light of the moon.
You weren’t just outside the circle, you were erased from it, a ghost in a story that had once been yours.
And every month, it hurt a little more.
So tonight, as you walked your prefect rounds through empty corridors echoing with your own footsteps, something inside you cracked. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the endless pretending. Whatever it was, it made you stop thinking like the sensible, well-behaved girl you had always been.
When a group of older students invited you to a secret Gryffindor party, you didn’t say no. You didn’t even hesitate. You told yourself you were just checking in, making sure nothing got out of hand. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t true.
You wanted to feel included again. Wanted to belong to something, even if it wasn’t them.
The common room was dimly lit, the air thick with laughter and the smell of butterbeer, firewhisky, and something sharp and sweet you didn’t recognize. Faces blurred together in the glow of the fireplace, students sprawled across couches, someone playing a wireless too loudly in the corner. You were supposed to stop it, to take points, to be responsible. But you didn’t.
The part of you that wanted to be seen—to be treated like you mattered, like you were still someone worth inviting—was stronger.
So when someone suggested a game, and a half-empty bottle was set spinning in the center of a circle, and laughter filled the air, you didn’t protest. For once, people were looking at you. Not as a prefect, not as someone’s friend, but as a girl sitting among them, chosen, included.
And when the bottle spun one last time, when it landed between you and a boy whose name you couldn’t even recall, you didn’t think. His lips had been warm, clumsy, and tasting faintly of cinnamon and cheap firewhisky. The cheers that followed were distant, muffled, like you were underwater.
And then it was over.
You stood before anyone could notice the crack in your voice, the shimmer of tears you hadn’t let fall yet. The portrait hole shut behind you with a hollow, final thud, the echoes of laughter swallowed whole by the cavernous silence of the castle.
The corridors stretched ahead, endless and indifferent, half-lit by the trembling torchlight that threw uneven shadows across the cold stone. The air bit at your flushed cheeks and arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your hands were buried deep in the folds of your robes, clutching them as if they could anchor you to yourself. Your reflection, faint in the windowpanes, followed you like a stranger, messy and unfamiliar.
You didn’t notice him until you almost collided with a solid form at the end of the corridor.
“Merlin—” you gasped, stumbling back, hand flying to your chest as if it could hold the frantic beat of your heart. “James, you scared me—”
He was leaning casually, or as casually as he ever could, against the stone archway, with his arms crossed, but there was a tension coiled through him, like a spring ready to snap. Torchlight caught in the wild strands of his hair, turning them to molten gold. His tie was loose, shirt rumpled, and though he stood still, it was a restless stillness, taut with contained emotion.
“Yeah, well,” he said quietly, voice rough at the edges, “you scared me first.”
You blinked, confusion prickling along your spine. “What?”
“I went looking for you,” he admitted, pushing off the wall and straightening just enough to look taller, firmer. “Remus was with Sirius and Peter, and I thought you were alone…without eating, probably sulking, so I came with chocolate and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I’d find you at some bloody party.”
Oh.
Your stomach twisted painfully. “You knew?”
“I saw.”
Oh no.
Two words. That was all it took for the air between you to shift, to thicken.
You looked down, suddenly aware of the faint scent of firewhisky still clinging to you. “Just for a moment…It was just a game,” you murmured, though the words felt small, brittle, like glass ready to shatter.
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Right. A game.”
It stung. The way he said it. The way he looked at you, like he was trying not to see, trying not to feel something you hadn’t meant to ignite.
“The firewhisky was part of it?” His voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be. It came low, rough, like he was forcing it through his teeth. “Brilliant, that. Really bloody smart of you.”
You blinked, caught between confusion and the sting of his tone. “It was just a bit of fun, a game like I—”
“A game?” He let out a short, humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You call that a game? You could’ve gotten caught. Or worse. You know McGonagall would—Merlin, I can’t believe you’d throw everything away for a stupid spin of a bottle.” His eyes flicked to your prefect badge, glinting under the torchlight.
You felt the sting before you could help it. “You don’t get to act like you’re the only one who gets to make mistakes,” you shot back, trying to steady your voice. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do just because—”
“Just because what?” He cut in, stepping closer, his voice rough, eyes flashing. “Because I care if you lose everything you’ve killed yourself building? Yeah, I suppose that’s awful of me.”
You glared, pulse racing. “Don’t twist this, James. You don’t get to suddenly care when you’ve all been shutting me out for months.”
He blinked, thrown. “Shutting you out?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you said, the words spilling faster, sharper, harder. “You all disappear without me, whisper when I walk in, act like I’m made of glass. You think I don’t notice, but I do.”
He stared, jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “That’s not fair,” he said after a beat. “You don’t understand—”
“Then make me understand!” you interrupted, your voice breaking despite the anger. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in the common room, pretending not to see you all sneaking out together? To see the way you look at me every full moon, like I might break if you tell me the truth?”
He flinched, actually flinched, and for a second, all that bluster dropped. When he spoke again, it was quieter, raw around the edges.
“We were trying to protect you.”
You laughed, a sharp, broken sound. “From what? From my friends?”
“From the parts of it that hurt,” he said softly. “From what we can’t undo.”
“You can’t protect me from something that’s already happened,” you said quietly, your throat tight.
His gaze flicked to your sleeve, to the faint scar hidden beneath it, and something broke across his face. “We didn’t know what to do after that night,” he admitted, voice barely steady. “You almost…Merlin, you could’ve died. Remus still—he can’t even look at you sometimes, you know that?”
“I never blamed him,” you said softly.
“I know,” he said, eyes closing for a moment. “That’s what makes it worse.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. The torches crackled faintly, their flames flickering as if even the castle was holding its breath.
James exhaled shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have gone to that party anyway,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Why not?” you bit out. “Because I had fun for once? Because I stopped pretending everything’s fine?”
“Because it’s not fine!” His voice broke through, raw and loud, before he could stop himself. “You’re better than…than letting some bloke who doesn’t even know your middle name kiss you just to make people laugh.”
Your breath hitched, something hot and angry rising in your chest. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said, voice trembling despite your effort to sound firm.
“I’m not deciding anything!” he said, too fast, too loud. “I just…bloody hell, you have no idea how it felt to walk in and see—” He stopped himself, eyes darting away, voice lowering to a rasp. “Forget it.”
“No,” you said, stepping closer before you could stop yourself. The word came out softer, more fragile. “Say it, James. You can’t start and then—”
“I can’t, alright?” he said, suddenly quiet, broken in a way you’d never heard before. “Because if I do, I won’t stop.”
You froze.
The corridor seemed to still around you, torchlight flickering gold across his face, shadows curling along the walls like they, too, were listening. The air felt thick, every heartbeat echoing in your ears.
He looked at you then, and the fight seemed to drain from his body all at once. “You deserve better than that,” he murmured, voice soft but certain. “Better than him. Better than…whatever that was.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to the floor before finding yours again. “You’re better than that. Always have been.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully.
You looked at him and for the first time in months, you saw not the boy who led pranks, laughed too loudly, win every quidditch game or spoke over everyone, but the boy who stayed up with you in the common room when you couldn’t sleep, who carried your bag after long patrols, who always noticed when you were hurting or angry with life, even when you thought you’d hidden it well.
He looked so tired. There were faint circles under his eyes, his tie hanging loose, his collar wrinkled from where he’d been tugging at it. His fingers flexed restlessly at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
And there was warmth in his face that shouldn’t have been there: tenderness where anger had lived a moment ago.
It made your breath falter.
He took a single step closer, and you felt the air shift. The heat of him rolled off in waves, the faint scent of rain and parchment clinging to his clothes. You could hear his breath now, shallow and uneven.
He looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face, the way the torchlight flickered in your eyes. His gaze lingered on your mouth—once, twice—before snapping back up to meet your eyes, as though he’d only just realized what he was doing.
The world went impossibly still.
You could hear your own heartbeat, feel the pulse hammering against your ribs. The castle felt impossibly far away, all the laughter from the party, the soft wind beyond the windows, it all blurred until there was nothing left but him.
Just you. Him. And the breath between you that felt like a question neither of you dared to ask.
Then—
“Has anyone seen my wand?!”
The voice rang down the corridor, loud and sloppy, breaking the air in two.
You both startled. The sound of stumbling footsteps echoed briefly before fading again, some drunk boy from the party, voice still echoing faintly as he called out, “Oi! Someone nicked my bloody wand!”
Silence followed, heavy and stunned.
James looked at you again, and for a heartbeat, it felt like an invitation. His eyes flicked to your lips one more time and you felt it. The pull. The impossible, aching gravity of it.
Should you?
You could have. Merlin, you wanted to. The thought of it burned through you. The thought of his hand at the back of your neck, his mouth against yours, soft and fierce all at once. You wanted to know if kissing James Potter would feel like coming home, or falling apart.
But you didn’t.
You couldn’t. Because you didn’t trust yourself to know whether kissing him would make the ache in your chest go away or carve it even deeper into your bones.
And so, instead, you just stood there, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to want everything you shouldn’t, while the moment slipped quietly away.
The fourth time you thought about kissing James Potter, you were eighteen.
And it wasn't because of anything he said. It wasn't because of the way he smiled in the common room every time you made a bad joke, reckless and golden, with his hair sticking out in all directions no matter how hard you tried to comb it and help him. It wasn't because of the way his eyes reflected the light of the fire through his glasses, or the way he leaned back on your legs, with that careless charm that used to make your heart race.
It was because of her.
Lily Evans.
You always knew she would end up falling for him. Everyone knew it. It was written in the air around them, as inevitable as sunrise. She had looked down on him for years, laughed at his arrogance, scolded him for charming the Slytherins in the hallways, and somehow, in the midst of it all, he had matured. He stopped showing off, stopped seeking attention, and one day you looked across the common room and realized she was laughing at something he had said, and it wasn't to mock him anymore.
It had hurt the first time he really mentioned her.
You remembered it vividly. The common room smelled faintly of burnt toast and charmed firewood, a warm, smoky comfort that did little to calm the hollow ache in your chest. You had been leaning against the edge of the Gryffindor table, pumpkin juice warming your palms, fingers tracing the rim of the mug in nervous loops. Sirius and Peter were bickering over a game of wizard chess, their voices sharp and playful, moving back and forth across the floor as enchanted pieces flew like sparks. Remus sat in the corner, quiet and precise, parchment spread before him, quill scratching against paper as he muttered about deadlines and footnotes you knew he would forget by morning.
And then James appeared.
He came like a storm, that chaotic grin lighting up his face, bouncing on the balls of his feet, energy spilling into the room like sunlight through a narrow window. “So,” he said, voice bright and urgent, eyes sparkling, “guess who has a date Friday night?”
You glanced up at him, your expression carefully neutral, stirring your pumpkin juice in slow circles. “Who?”
“Lily,” he said, letting the name fall like a secret gem, precious and luminous. “Lily Evans. I asked her, and she said yes.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even let your eyes betray the faint pang of jealousy curling in your chest. You shrugged, took another deliberate sip of your drink. “That’s…great,” you muttered, clipped, careful, your tone tight around the words.
“You’re…not upset?” he’d asked, genuinely surprised.
Upset? Your stomach twisted at the thought. You blinked, measured. “Upset? Why would I be upset?”
He tilted his head, that familiar tilt that used to make your heart thump, mischief dancing on the edges but something softer, almost pleading, lurking in the green depths of his eyes. “I dunno…maybe because I’m excited. Because now I have someone to bring to the ball, and I thought you’d…you’d react. Because we can’t go together.”
Your stomach coiled tight and hollow, the memory of every stolen laugh, every brushing touch, every late-night conversation with him pressing like a weight against your ribs. But you kept your face calm. “James,” you said softly, almost dismissively, “I’m…seeing someone. I also have someone to go to the ball with.”
“Oh.”
The single word fell like smoke, curling and insubstantial, yet heavy with all it carried. His eyes darted to yours, searching for some trace of the connection you had once shared, some flicker of what had been. When he didn’t find it, the light in his gaze dimmed ever so slightly. “Right,” he muttered, quiet and tight. “Right. I forgot.”
Deep down, you knew he hadn’t forgotten. He was still silently cursing the Hufflepuff boy you had started seeing a couple of weeks ago, the one James had already declared a hopeless mess. The boy who brought you flowers, chocolates, and the answers to questions your best friend had never bothered to give you.
Sirius leaned back against the chair with a grin, voice dripping with mockery. “So now…love is in the air, huh?” He wagged his fingers like a conductor and smirked.
Peter was still crouched under the table retrieving a fallen chess piece, then he looked up, frowning. “Wait…who’s dating who now?”
Remus, as always, noticed. His eyes flicked to you, quietly, catching the faint tremor of your hands around the mug, the brief catch in your breath, the almost imperceptible slump in your shoulders. He didn’t comment, he never did when it came to subtle heartbreak, but the softness in his gaze acknowledged what the others missed: that you were hurting, quietly, perfectly, in a way that nobody else could see.
And you knew it was stupid. So painfully, achingly stupid.
You and James had danced around each other for years: stolen laughter echoing through the corridors, reckless nights under the stars, teasing touches that left your chest tight and your stomach fluttering with longing you’d never let yourself name. And now, here he was, glowing with happiness for someone else, and all you could do was sit by the lake, pretending it didn’t hurt, while the castle pulsed with music and laughter that seemed to mock your solitude.
The end-of-year ball had come and gone in a whirl of glittering gowns, enchanted lanterns, and music that made your chest ache with bittersweet nostalgia. Your Hufflepuff date had promised to meet you at the entrance, all smiles and nervous charm, but by the time you arrived, he was gone. Rumors later claimed fever, exhaustion, a sudden retreat into the chaos of robes and chatter. Whatever it was, it left you stranded, alone, the magic of the night hollow.
The lake stretched out before you, a pool of ink under the stars, reflecting the torchlight in fractured, trembling shards. The ripples lapped gently at the shore, carrying the faint echo of the distant orchestra. The wind teased your hair, tugged at the hem of your dress, kissed your chilled skin, but none of it mattered. You sank onto the grass, knees drawn to your chest, letting the cold seep through your dress, fingers brushing the damp blades. You closed your eyes briefly and let the ache settle, the emptiness pressing against your ribcage.
“Fancy seeing you out here.”
Your heart leapt so violently it almost stopped you from breathing.
James Potter stood a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress robes, hair impossibly untamed, eyes glowing green in the torchlight. His grin tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not yet. Something softer lived in them now, a flicker of worry, a shadow of longing, and it pierced you more than you expected.
“I…uh…” you started, voice faltering, tangling around the hollow ache in your chest.
“You’re alone,” he said, stepping closer. “I saw you leave the hall. Thought you might…want some company.”
Your cheeks warmed as you glanced at your hands, twisted in the grass. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Neither was I,” he admitted softly, shrugging, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “But well, you’re here, and…well…” His voice caught slightly. “…I figured I’d sit. If that’s okay.”
You nodded, words caught somewhere between your chest and throat. The wind swirled around you, rustling your hair and tugging at your dress, but when he lowered himself beside you, the chill retreated slightly, replaced by the faint warmth radiating from him.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The distant orchestra hummed softly, faint laughter drifted across the grounds, water lapped at the shore. His shoulder brushed yours, accidental, but the electricity of it sent shivers down your spine. Your pulse thrummed audibly in your ears.
“You look cold,” he said finally, glancing at you. The corners of his mouth twitched, hesitant, unsure. “Here…lean against me for a bit?”
You hesitated, heart hammering. Slowly, you shifted closer, letting yourself press against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, grounding you. The faint scent of parchment and something uniquely James—a trace of firewhisky from the ball, rain, and his unmistakable chaos—wrapped around you, comforting and infuriating all at once.
“You looked lonely in there,” he murmured, softer now, almost a whisper. “I didn’t…want you to be.”
You laughed softly, bitter and shaky, burying your face against his shoulder. “Funny, isn’t it?” you whispered. “Ending the school stupidly alone.”
“I’m here.”
The weight of his words pressed into your chest, a lifeline against the storm of your emotions. You dared a glance up at him, taking in the glint of torchlight in his hair, the faint shadow under his eyes, the way his arm tentatively wrapped around your shoulders. Should you…?
“Your girlfriend is waiting for you,” you murmured, pulling slightly away, guilt prickling at your skin.
“She’s not—” He stopped, voice cracking, “…I don’t want you to remember this night like it’s just loneliness. Not the last day of Hogwarts.”
“How am I supposed to remember?” you asked softly, frowning, voice trembling.
“Remember me freezing my—” He broke into a rough laugh, messing with a strand of your hair. “…because you stole my coat with those sad eyes of yours. Remember that this year…wasn’t all bad.”
“Yeah, but now life’s about to change,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat. “There’s the war…”
“But we are together,” he said firmly, taking your hand. “Not in the way you want, not like before…but me and the rest of us, we’re not going anywhere. Not really.”
Your chest tightened. Fuck, how much you wanted to kiss him that night, to erase every year of almost, every moment of longing. But you didn’t. You couldn’t ruin your friendship.
So instead, you let yourself rest against him again. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, just lightly, just enough. And for that night, by the quiet lake, the music distant and the stars reflecting on the water, it was enough.
Enough to forget, just for a moment, that James Potter wasn’t yours to kiss.
It had been three years since the last time you really heard about James Potter.
The last time his name reached you, it came inked on a Christmas card: creased at the corners, smudged with fingerprints, the kind of careless, unguarded mess that could only belong to him. The parchment smelled faintly of smoke and pine, and the ink had bled in one spot, like he’d been in a hurry or laughed mid-sentence while writing it. You almost didn’t open it. It had arrived in January, folded between bills and half-read letters, and you’d stared at it for a long time before tearing it open, as if doing so might break whatever fragile peace you’d built since leaving Hogwarts.
Hope you’re doing alright out there, it had said, in that familiar slanted scrawl. Wherever you’ve run off to. Remember I always miss you and your sad eyes.
No signature. No address. Just James.
You’d sat at your kitchen table for what felt like hours, staring at the words until they blurred, until you could almost hear him. That quick, lopsided cadence of his voice, half a laugh even when he wasn’t joking. You traced your finger over the ink, as though you could touch him through it. But the paper was cold. And so were you.
You didn’t reply. You couldn’t.
Because everything had changed since graduation, since that final day when you all stood together beneath the high arches of the Great Hall, pretending the world wasn’t about to split open beneath your feet. The air had been thick with magic and sunlight, banners fluttering overhead, laughter echoing through the stone corridors. You’d watched James toss his cap into the air with Sirius, the two of them loud and incandescent, as if youth itself had made them untouchable. Remus had smiled from the sidelines, soft and secret, like he already knew how fragile that moment was.
You had smiled, too. But even then, something in you knew it was the last time you’d ever be all in the same room without the weight of war pressing in from the edges.
The war came quietly at first, like fog over the hills. Rumors whispered between corridors, names murmured in candlelight. And then it came loudly, violently, until even the walls of Hogwarts couldn’t keep it out. You told yourself you were ready. That you’d fight, that you’d help, that you’d stand beside them. But then the funerals started. The betrayals. The friends who didn’t come back from raids. The news clippings that listed the dead in columns too long to read.
You couldn’t breathe in that kind of world.
So, one night, you left.
No letters, no explanations. Just a packed trunk and a silence you hoped no one would try to fill. You fled to a small Muggle village in the north, the kind of place that never made the papers, where the war was nothing more than a strange story people whispered about over pints. You found a flat above a bookshop, with uneven floors and windows that looked out onto crooked chimneys. The air always smelled faintly of rain and ink. It was quiet there. Too quiet, sometimes.
You stopped carrying your wand everywhere. You learned to make tea by hand. You let the days blur together, mornings filled with the soft rattle of newspapers, evenings lit by the crackle of a borrowed fire. You told yourself you’d earned this peace, that you were simply learning to live differently.
But some nights, when the wind howled against the windowpanes and the kettle hissed, you’d feel it, that flicker of guilt that lived deep in your chest. Because while you were learning how to disappear, James Potter was out there learning how to fight.
His name began to show up in the Prophet, bold and bright and brave.
James Potter joins the Order of the Phoenix.
James Potter seen fighting Death Eaters in Hogsmeade.
You always folded the paper and tucked it into the drawer beneath your bed, telling yourself it didn’t matter. That you’d made your choice, and so had he.
Three years passed that way. Quietly. Almost peacefully.
Until one morning, the phone rang. Sharp. Insistent. An unknown number flashing across the screen. You froze, chest tightening, fingers hovering over the receiver as if touching it might somehow change what was coming.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end made your heart stutter.
“It’s Remus,” he said, careful, fragile, like he was carrying something he couldn’t set down. “I…uh, I hope it’s still okay that I have your number. I—I know we haven’t really…spoken in a while.”
You blinked, trying to remember if, amidst all the letters, all the scattered notes and survival guides you’d sent him, you’d ever given him your number. Somewhere along the way, it must have slipped in, a scribbled afterthought in an envelope brimming with instructions about navigating a Muggle world he’d never fully trusted.
“You…have my number?” you asked softly, voice barely holding together.
“I do,” he admitted, and for a heartbeat, the sound of his voice was that familiar, grounding presence you’d leaned on for years. Then it faltered, breaking like fragile glass. “And I need—”
The line went quiet except for a ragged breath, a soft, strangled sound that made your chest squeeze.
“What’s wrong? Remus?” Panic rose like fire, choking. “Are you okay?”
Silence. A pause stretched, unbearable, like the world had exhaled and left you alone.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said finally, voice shaking, jagged with something heavier than grief. “I've been trying to tell you for a week.”
“Go on,” you whispered, though dread had already curled around your stomach like a living thing. “I’m here.”
Another pause. Time itself seemed to pause, the seconds stretching into a chasm.
“It’s…It’s James,” Remus said, voice barely audible, trembling with every syllable. “He’s…he’s gone.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. The receiver slipped from your hands, clattering against the floor, but you didn’t notice. Your knees buckled, your chest tightened until it felt as if your heart had stopped entirely.
The room tilted. The walls of your flat closed in. The sunlight streaming through the window turned harsh, almost mocking, and the faint smell of coffee and paper burned your senses. You sank to the floor, hands clutching at your chest as if you could somehow keep your heart from shattering entirely.
James. Potter. The name echoed in your mind, over and over. The reckless laugh, the untamed hair, the careless grins, the soft, accidental touches that had haunted your dreams for years, all gone.
You stumbled out of your flat, the world outside gray and unwelcoming. You didn’t take a cab, didn’t speak to anyone. Your feet carried you, almost of their own accord, across the city and to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds where you’d last seen him. The rain had begun, small, persistent drops that cooled your flushed skin and plastered your hair to your face.
And there it was.
The grave, simple, solemn, etched with the name you’d never stop loving: James Potter.
You dropped to your knees in the mud, the cold seeping into your bones, and pressed your forehead against the damp wood. The earth smelled of rain and sorrow. Your hands shook as you brushed the surface, tracing the letters like you could memorize them, like that could somehow bring him back.
And then, the impulse overwhelmed you.
You pressed your lips to the cross, soft, desperate, reverent. The kiss was a promise and a plea, a confession for every word you’d never said, every touch you’d never given, every “I love you” you’d swallowed. The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, streaking your cheeks, soaking the collar of your coat, soaking the place you had always imagined holding him.
You stayed like that for a long time, pressed to him, feeling his absence like a living thing, a hollow ache that stretched from your chest to your toes. Behind you, the wind whispered through the trees, and the world carried on as if nothing had changed, but your universe had ended here, at his grave.
Because the first time you kissed James Potter, he was already gone.
james potter you'll always be famous 💘😭 (you'll need tissues for this one)
𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 | endless oneshot series (autumn edition)
summary. beside the grave of your beloved friends, you ruminate on all that's happened
pairing. sirius black x nb!reader tropes. angst, old loves word count. 1.4k
this fic was written with the prompt 2. moss between gravestones from this prompt list. feel free to request any of the prompts for autumn and i'll see you in the next one.
masterlist | buy me coffee
how cold, how miserable. a bleak skyline reflects along sirius’ nose, the protruding cheekbone. his profile is turned and downcast, beautiful in a sort of mournful way that only statues marking graves can be. the damage done is irreversible. that is always the first thought that comes to you whenever you gaze into his sunken eyes. the damage done is irreversible.
death, azkaban, escape, reprieve – everlasting, you hope privately, never working up the courage to voice it out loud. he deserves a break, deserves to spend time with his godson, get to know him past the lofty titles and uncanny resemblances. when you met harry in grimmauld palace, you thought he was the spitting image of his father, borrowing his mother’s eyes. but when you looked further, slipped back to memories of carefree school days, you came to realize that despite the appearance, harry was nothing like james nor lily, which only begged to question – who was he really, then?
it’s only his fifth year in school and he has already experienced too much. you share the weight of the guilt that torments sirius, that torments remus, that would torment anyone close enough to the potters. you have, collectively, failed your best friends, but more than that, you have failed a young boy worthy of love he has never experienced.
perhaps that’s why you’re here, why sirius invited you. godric’s hollow has always been a peaceful town, but it had never been silent. the fog lingers by your feet. how cold, how miserable. the grave in front of you is slowly being reclaimed by nature, inch by inch. the moss eats at the stone, blankets around it. protects, something no one managed to do correctly. it had been some years since you last visited, but it doesn’t get easier, you find. you only get older.
“should get this cleaned,” sirius says idly, but doesn’t venture into his pocket to retrieve his wand. it would take a spell to restore it back to normal, but perhaps he shares your line of thought. you had always been very sentimental. in school, sirius used to spare no expense in making fun of you for it. nonetheless, he was never impartial to your sentiments, and sometimes, but only in private, he would treat you gentler than the rest because of it. "just," he motions with his hand, "a bit, you know. get the stuff off."
you don't reach for your wand, either. your limbs feel useless, and this menial task sirius is insisting on feels useless, too. you had wanted to be a storyteller and illustrator of children's books. naturally, the war forced you to reconsider. your loyalty to the order had cost you your friends, your family, your future, but you had lost neither more nor less than anyone else. at least you were alive, maimed, but above ground and allowed the leisure to ruminate on the past; the leisure to grieve and rebuild, even if that, too, feels useless sometimes.
"should've visited more," you tell the gravestone. sirius tilts his head to the side, appraising you. with his long dark coat and long dark hair, he looks like death come to collect you. not yet. "merlin knows i've had the time."
sirius chews around your words. then, "been back for nearly two years now, and this the first time i've seen them since. couldn't..." face them, or face them alone. the burden is halved when shared by two but still feels too heavy to carry.
you don't fight the urge that overtakes, this quiet need for closeness. your arm wraps around his, and your chin meets his shoulder. just like old times, when all was so much simpler. sirius was too flighty for anything concrete or lasting and eternally discontent with everyone, but mostly himself. you think he might've loved you in his own strange way, where he could never get close enough for it to matter.
there's more maturity in him now, and none of it to do with age. only experience.
"lily always insisted i be nicer to you," he changes topic. there's a slight quirk of a smile on his lips and a far-off look, like he's recalling the exact conversation -- the scene, the sound, the feel of it all. lily's daisy-fresh perfume, notes of which still cling to her old diary entries and picture albums. "said i'll regret it one day when you marry someone else."
it is useless to talk about these things. your hold on him tightens, just a bit.
"i am sorry, if that counts for anything," he continues, undeterred by your silence. "for not being there when you needed me."
"you were much preoccupied," shackled, starved, tormented. the funerals you hosted could never compete with that, but pain isn't a competition. there are no winners.
he snorts. a mirthless little sound, but it brings some colour back to his features. "yes, well. i'm still sorry."
you accept the apology without confirmation. the truth is: it isn't necessary. you don't care as much about it as you know he cares about not offering it sooner. how could sorry contain all of it, anyway? sorry for the words, for the insistence, for the love i was never ready to give you; sorry for the hurt and the anger, for the fight that ruined everything, for being close and then for leaving, for letting you down, letting everyone down. for not dying. you’re sorry about the latter, too.
“fifth of december,” he mutters, and everything clicks at once. your heart quivers. sirius doesn’t regale it with hurt, only a strange lightness found only in one liberated. “that’s how i remember them. everytime they’re mentioned. ‘s how i remember all of us. nothing that came before or after ever comes to mind.”
it was a unforgettable night. a plan executed in year six where the lot of you tip-toed to the statue of the witch and made your merry way to hogsmeade. stole a two bottles of fire whiskey and left a pouch of coins for the trouble, ran to the shrieking shack. you, sirius, james, and lily. a precarious group of people. it’s so obvious now, but back then it wasn’t. lily thought sirius was asking you out, and you thought that james was asking her out, and neither of you believed the other.
“what was the occasion?” it’s been a while since then. more than a decade, but the joy of that memory remains mostly unblemished. warm, like the lingering effects of the drink.
sirius shrugs, looks at you, smiles. “there wasn’t any. just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
it’s a bit amusing to think that sirius, whenever the topic called for you, thought of you from so long ago. why not you after graduation, when the war began? why not you at twenty one, pulling at your hair and tearing yourself apart to accommodate everyone, every wish, every great ideal for the greater good. how spectacularly all of you failed.
perhaps it’s not too surprising after all. you don’t quite recall what you had looked like during that time. only the inescapable sense of dread and loss and fear. a righteous amount of anger, too.
when you thought of james, he manifested on a broom, soaring the quidditch pitch. when you thought of lily, you could only ever think of how she was when you had first shared a compartment in september, with sun-bunnies in her hair and beautiful, meadowy green eyes. you introduced yourself first, and that was the bravest thing you have ever done.
“we should recreate it,” he says.
your turn to snort. “we’re missing a pair.”
“always in our hearts.”
you miss them. more than you can express. perhaps that’s a part of the problem, growing up and getting to this point, with no resolution, no reprieve, no storybook ending. sometimes, you sit with yourself and wonder at the fact that it was only a palmful of years you’ve spent with them and many more spent without.
people live, you remind yourself. people die. life, in a very predictable way, goes on.
he nods towards the grave. you watch his profile once more, the skyline, the reflection in his eyes. ”well, was good to see you again. we’ll bring harry next time.”
there is comfort in knowing there will be a next time. there are far too many things that cannot be fixed, that should never have been broken in the first place. you suppose you have always been fighting for a new tomorrow and always will.
“will you be going now?” he asks. you have not released him yet, and truthfully, you have no intention of doing so. you should be going, but some things must learn to wait. the world must learn to wait.
“have you got anything in mind?”
there’s that signature smile making an appearance, still as charming as ever. “december fifth, naturally.”
“might we start with coffee first?” you smile, too, brightly despite the circumstances. this has been a reunion of old friends. james and lily wouldn’t approve of your line of thinking, and sirius might find too much overlap with his. the pain must learn to wait.
he inclines his head in a faint courtesy, ever the gentleman. “as is your command.”
thank you for reading & have a great day !
You better like it and you better be nice 😈
it's such a good album, 70s vibess, please stream it<3
⋆˚࿔ Golden Like Us.
Conrad Fisher x Fem!reader
main masterlist
Summary: Some days sparkle more than others, but nothing shines like Valentine’s Day with Conrad Fisher by your side.
Words: 3,2k.
Warnings & Tags: established relationship. kissing. pure fluff. i think that's all?. english isn't my first language.
Based by this request.
Note: Hey hey hey, I’m back! And what better way than with something sweet💗 There’s so little time left until the end of Conrad Wednesdays:( but I promise I’ll keep posting fics and fulfilling all the requests you’ve sent me!
The morning sunlight spilled into the bedroom in long, golden streams, brushing across the rumpled sheets and painting the walls in a soft, honeyed glow. Warmth clung to your skin, urging you awake, but you stayed nestled beneath the blankets, cocooned in that sweet, hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. It was the faint scent that stirred you first, something warm, buttery, and faintly sweet, a whisper of strawberries cutting through the air.
Your lashes fluttered open, and there he was. Conrad.
He stood just a few feet away, framed in the spill of sunlight, holding a tray in his hands with the kind of careful precision he rarely afforded anything else. For a second, you didn’t breathe, just took him in. The way he looked, so natural and unposed, yet impossibly beautiful. His hair was mussed, curls falling haphazardly onto his forehead, some brushing the nape of his neck. A few strands caught the light, glowing with threads of chestnut and gold. His sleeves were rolled up just past his elbows, baring forearms that were lean and strong, veins shifting faintly beneath skin as his hands steadied the tray. Those hands—large and capable, but moving with such deliberate gentleness it felt like watching a secret language unfold.
The tray itself was meticulous, but it was him that stole your attention. Toast browned to a perfect golden shade, not a single edge charred. Strawberries, glossy and red, piled neatly like he had rinsed and arranged each one with thought. A small glass of juice, the color bright as amber, caught the morning light and fractured it into tiny rainbows across the sheets. Every detail was cared for, and intentional, his quiet way of saying everything he couldn’t always voice aloud.
But it wasn’t just the food; it was him. The slight shift of his jaw as if he’d been nervous you might not wake up in time to see it fresh. The curve of his shoulders, relaxed but still carrying a weight only he seemed to know. The way his chest rose and fell in measured breaths, steadying himself before he spoke. His eyes, soft and ocean-deep, already watching you, like he needed to see your reaction more than he needed you to taste anything on that tray.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said finally. The words came quiet, almost shy, like he hadn’t decided until the last second whether he was brave enough to let them leave his mouth. They tumbled out with a sheepish lilt, vulnerable and earnest all at once, and you could hear in them the unspoken question: Was this enough? Am I enough?
You pushed up on your elbows, smiling at the sight of him standing there with the tray. Your voice carried a mix of surprise and affection. “You made me breakfast?”
His mouth quirked, that half-smile tugging just one corner like it wasn’t ready to commit to a full grin. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m capable.”
A soft laugh bubbled out of you, warm and teasing, as you shook your head. “Capable, sure. But at this level of presentation?” You gestured to the tray balanced carefully in his hands. “This looks…kind of perfect.”
Conrad shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shoulders dipping slightly. His eyes flicked away, down toward the tray, as if embarrassed to be caught out for caring so much. “I didn’t burn the toast too much this time,” he said, aiming for casual, his tone light but edged with a faint nervousness. “That’s an achievement.”
You softened, your gaze lingering on him. The way his jaw flexed as if he were swallowing words. The way his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the tray, steady but restless. The way he always tried to disguise the tenderness in him as if it was something that needed hiding. “It’s not just an achievement,” you said, your voice quiet but certain. “It’s sweet.”
Color crept into his cheeks then, subtle but undeniable, that telltale flush of someone who wasn’t used to being praised, not like this. He set the tray carefully on your lap, the weight sinking into the blanket. His hands brushed lightly at the edges, not quite touching you but hovering there, as though testing the boundary between offering and intruding.
“Strawberries are fresh,” he murmured after a beat, almost like he needed to fill the silence. His voice was low and gravelly in the morning air. “Drove down to the little stand on Route 1 this morning.”
You blinked at him, touched in a way words couldn’t quite hold. “You went out this morning? Conrad—”
He shrugged, sliding onto the edge of the bed with that familiar loose grace, his shoulders broad but relaxed. Still, his eyes betrayed him, flickering with something careful, almost tentative. “I wanted it to be…” His gaze dropped, lashes lowering, his voice dipping to something softer, more fragile. “…right. For today.”
The sunlight caught on his profile then, gilding his cheekbone and the line of his jaw, and for a moment, he looked like he’d stepped out of a memory, as if the universe itself was conspiring to frame him in gold.
Your chest squeezed with something unnameable, swelling, warm, and too big to hold in. Before your mind could catch up, your body moved first; you leaned forward, closing the space between you, pressing your lips to his. It was slow at first, almost hesitant, like a question asked in silence. His lips were soft and still tasting faintly of strawberries, sweet and bright, with the whisper of morning clinging to them. The flavor melted into you—warmth, sugar, and the quiet tang of sleep that made it achingly real.
His hands hesitated before they touched you. Then, trembling just slightly, they found your waist. His fingertips curled into the fabric of your shirt, not clutching, not grasping, but holding on like he wasn’t sure he was allowed and couldn’t bear not to. When he finally tugged you closer, it wasn’t greedy, it wasn’t demanding, it was desperate in its gentleness. A pulling born of need, not want. A need to anchor himself, to hold on to this fragile morning that felt like it belonged to no one else in the world but you and him.
Your hand drifted instinctively to his chest. It always did, as if it was its rightful place. Resting there, right over his heart, was your favorite thing: that steady rhythm, a beat that was both strong and tender in its occasional stumbles. You could feel him—his nerves, his hesitation, his quiet, unspoken longing—in every uneven thrum. His pulse picked up beneath your touch, quick and unsteady, betraying him, betraying the way you made him unravel without a single word. It was like his heart itself leaned into you, seeking you, as though it knew you were the one who belonged there.
And then, your fingertips brushed something unusual. Not the familiar give of muscle or bone, but something hard. Small. Square. A secret, nestled against him, tucked carefully into the pocket of his shirt. Right over his heart.
Curiosity kept you there, your touch lingering. You pulled back only just, your lips still brushing the corner of his mouth, breath warm against his skin. Your words slipped out in a murmur. “What’s that?”
He went still. The shift was immediate, the air tightening between you like a string pulled taut. His eyes darted sideways, then down, anywhere but at you. He shifted awkwardly against the mattress, every inch of him suddenly restless, like a boy caught with something he couldn’t explain. “What’s what?” His voice was quick, too practiced, and pitched a little too high. It was the tone he used when he wanted to deflect without outright lying, the careful dodge of Conrad Fisher, who never gave himself away easily.
“This,” you pressed, your fingertip tracing the outline through the fabric, deliberate now. The small square shape was undeniable.
In an instant, his hand shot up, covering yours. His palm was warm, trembling just faintly as he pressed your hand more firmly against his chest, pinning it there. The beat beneath was rapid, uneven, tripping over itself in a way that gave him away completely. The flush climbing his cheekbones was soft but visible, blooming like he’d been caught somewhere he wasn’t ready to be found. “It’s…nothing,” he muttered, his gaze dropping, lashes shadowing his eyes. His voice was quiet, frayed at the edges. “Not important. Not now.”
“Conrad.” Your tone softened, a whisper threaded with insistence, not accusing but coaxing, the way you knew he needed. “You’re hiding something.”
A shaky laugh escaped him then, more breath than sound, humor stretched thin until it was almost unrecognizable. He ducked his head slightly, like if he didn’t look at you, he could still keep this moment from tipping over. “You’re…you’re imagining things.”
You tilted your head, studying him the way you always did when he tried to hide. The restless twitch of his mouth. The stubborn line of his shoulders, squared like he could carry the weight of his own silence. The way his lashes stayed low, thick, and dark, casting long shadows across his cheeks like they could shield him from being seen. You kept your palm steady against his chest, right where his heart stammered out its uneven rhythm, every nervous beat betraying him.
“Your heart’s racing,” you whispered, your voice brushing the air between you, soft but certain.
“That’s…” He hesitated, lips parting, then closing again as though the words were caught in his throat. He let out a tiny huff of breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—before his mouth curved into the faintest smile. It wasn’t the usual Fisher grin, not smug or sharp-edged, but something fragile, shy and almost self-deprecating. “That’s because you’re touching it.” His voice was low and unguarded, like a confession.
So you kissed him again. Not to push, not to demand, just to soothe. A softer kiss this time, the kind that brushed more than pressed, patience woven into every linger of your lips. A kiss that wasn’t about asking for answers but about giving him one: I’m not going anywhere.
When you pulled back, your voice was barely more than breath against his skin, feather-light and certain. “Let me see.”
For a moment, nothing. He stayed still, frozen in hesitation, like the request had peeled back a part of him he wasn’t sure he could hand over. The silence thickened, humming between you, weighted with all the words he’d never been good at saying. You felt it in the uneven rise of his chest beneath your palm, in the restless way his thumb fidgeted against your hand, caught between holding on and letting go.
Then—slowly, shakily—he exhaled. His shoulders dipped, the fight draining out of him like air slipping from a balloon. Reluctance bled into resignation, and at last, his hand moved. He slipped two fingers into the pocket of his shirt, the fabric stretching just slightly as he reached inside. When he pulled it free, something small and dark sat trembling in his palm.
A box. Velvet. Deep navy worn faint at the edges.
His hand shook as he held it out to you, the sunlight striking across his knuckles, catching on the tiny tremor in his grip. It looked as if even the air between you might shatter if he wasn’t careful.
“I, uh…” His throat bobbed, Adam’s apple rising and falling with the effort of swallowing. When he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and held, and in them, you saw everything: the fear, the hope, and the longing so tender it ached to look at. “I wanted to wait. I didn’t know if…if this was too much. Or too soon. Or not enough. But…” His voice cracked, soft and raw, breaking like sea glass against the shore. He shook his head faintly, his gaze dropping back to the box. “I just wanted you to have it.”
Your breath caught as you lifted the lid. Morning light spilled into the space between you, kissing the delicate ring nestled inside. It was simple, understated, and perfect, just like him. A tiny gemstone glimmered in the center, catching the sun like it had been waiting all this time for you.
“This…” Your voice stuttered over the air, fragile and incredulous. “Are you asking me—”
“No!” The word tore out of him too fast, sharp with panic, his hand twitching like he might snatch the box back. “Not now. I—I know we’re too young to…to marry. I just—” He broke off, exhaling hard, raking a hand through his hair like it might help steady him. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, steadier but still trembling at the edges. “I want to. One day.”
You picked up the ring delicately, holding it between your fingers like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. Your heart thundered in your chest, but when you looked back at him, his eyes eclipsed everything else.
“It’s a promise ring,” Conrad whispered. The words spilled out hushed, quivering, and fragile but deliberate. “Not because I want to pressure you. Not because I don’t want more. It’s…my promise. To try. To stay. To love you. Always. Even when I mess up. Even when I fail.” His jaw clenched, as if forcing the last words out through the tightness in his throat. “I need you to know that I’m here. Always. That I’m yours.”
Your throat tightened. Tears blurred your vision, softening him at the edges, but you didn’t care. With a shaky hand, you pressed your palm back against his chest, steadying his heart as much as your own. Beneath your fingers, his pulse thundered fast and uneven but steady in its truth, as if it belonged to you now as much as to him.
You tried to slide the ring onto your finger, but your hands shook, small tremors betraying the whirlwind of emotion surging through you. Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, the kind of sound that is more felt than heard. Before you could falter, Conrad’s warm hand closed over yours, gentle but unwavering, grounding you like he always did.
His eyes never left yours—not once—fierce in their devotion, soft in their vulnerability. Slowly, carefully, reverently, he guided the ring onto your finger. His touch lingered there, thumb brushing the knuckle in a trembling caress, almost hesitant, as if he were willing the world to stay perfectly still, praying you wouldn’t regret it. It was a touch that spoke louder than words: I’m yours. Completely. Always.
Your lips parted, but no words could escape. The sunlight spilled over the ring, silver glinting against your skin, catching every imperfection in the smallest of reflections, every tiny tremor of your hand magnified by love. And Conrad looked at you like you had just scattered the universe into his palm, like every star now belonged to him because they reflected you.
You kissed him then, slow and unhurried, a kiss that stretched out time itself. Lips pressing, soft but insistent, like a rhythm meant only for the two of you. A quiet laugh slipped free from him, vibrating between your mouths, making you smile against him. Your arms curled around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft curls at the nape, memorizing the way his skin felt, the warmth of him, and the unspoken devotion in every curve and tremor of his body.
He pressed his forehead to yours, breaths mingling in the golden morning light, and when he pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes crinkled at the corners, brimming with light so pure it nearly undid you.
“You know,” you teased, voice trembling from smiling too much, “now that I have this ring, I’m going to act like a very committed woman. There’s no going back.”
His lips twitched, that half-smile you loved so much stretching wider and brighter, something wild and boyish breaking free. “I thought…” His voice dipped low, roughened with tenderness. “I thought you were already committed.”
“I was,” you said, lifting your hand so the silver caught the sunlight, scattering delicate glimmers across the room. “But now it’s official. See?”
Conrad’s gaze lingered on your hand, memorizing the curve of your fingers, the way the ring settled perfectly on your skin, and how your knuckles brushed against the warm light. When he finally lifted his eyes to yours, they shone glassy and bright, brimming with a love too immense to contain. “It looks perfect on you,” he murmured, voice reverent, awed. “I can’t stop looking at it…at you.”
Your laugh came soft and breathless, giddy, as you tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Good. Because it’s mine now. And you have to stare at me all the time.”
He tilted his head, lips tugging upward into a grin that split across his face, rare and unguarded, utterly Conrad. Your heart twisted deliciously in your chest. “I think I could manage that,” he whispered, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose against yours before stealing another kiss—longer, sweeter, teasingly tender—smiling through it until you both pulled back, breathless and laughing.
When he caught your hands again, thumbs skimming over your knuckles, it was a touch full of reverence and wonder, like every nerve ending in his body wanted to map you. His voice dropped to a whisper, fragile and intimate. “I think…this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”
You squeezed his fingers, grounding yourself in the heat of his palms, in the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your other hand. “Me too,” you breathed, throat tight, words almost lost to the warmth between you.
A laugh bubbled up from him then, surprised and pure, shaking his shoulders slightly, a sound that could chase storms from the sky. His grin lingered, uncontainable, disbelief softening into joy. “Good,” he said, eyes sparkling like sunlight dancing over an ocean. “Because now that I’ve given you this promise, there’s no turning back. You’re stuck with me.”
“Stuck with you forever?” You teased, brushing your nose against his, light and warm.
“Forever,” he confirmed, voice steadier, full of certainty, of love, of something eternal. His grin widened, that rare, dazzling smile that made your stomach twist in the most delicious way. “And I promise I’ll try to make it the happiest forever and ever.”
You laughed again, tears threatening, your lips brushing his in a quick, sweet kiss, filled with giddy warmth. “That’s a promise I’ll hold you to, Fisher.”
He kissed you back, slower this time, lingering until your lungs ached, then pulled you into his chest, holding you as if the world beyond the walls had ceased to exist. Your cheek pressed against the worn cotton of his shirt, directly over the spot where the ring had rested, right over the steady thrum of his heart. Your palm rested there now, claiming it gently as if the rhythm itself belonged to you. His heartbeat pounded beneath your hand, strong, fast, alive—a tether between you.
“Best Valentine’s Day ever,” he murmured into your hair, voice muffled but thick with joy, reverence threading every syllable.
You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him, the light, and the moment sink in. “Best Valentine’s Day ever,” you echoed, and in that sunlit room, wrapped in Conrad Fisher’s arms, with laughter, love, and promises lingering in the air, it truly was.
my bestie owning, once again, the conrad fisher fics 💘
THIS IS LITERALLY THE CUTEST VIDEO EVER???
charles saw carlos and team 55 overtake them in the middle of an interview, he ditched his interview to try and chase them, got them eventually, “hello mate” “carlos is so much better than me” 😭😭
The way Jeremiah treated Laurel was atrocious, and there’s not justification for that. He’s the mother of the person you were about to marry not more than 24 hours ago. And if someone talked to my mom like this I’ll remove them out of my life. Not amount of pain justifies that disrespect, ever.
“You’ll be glad I didn’t marry your precious daughter” isn’t just a hit on Laurel, but also to Belly. I find it troubling the way he talks about Belly when he doesn’t get what he wants from her.
And there’s not reason for Jeremiah to be mad at Laurel, she wasn’t against the wedding, she was against them getting married before finishing their education. She asked them to wait a year, and that was very reasonable. He’s mad now that Laurel was right about Belly not being ready? Plus, Laurel’s priority is Belly, she had not reason to go see Jeremiah other than love for him due to Susannah but she was absolutely right on being doubtful about this wedding and she was right.
Cinderella (2015) dir. Kenneth Branagh
“She didn’t choose me, but she didn’t pick you either” and rubbing in Conrad’s face that Belly called him to let him know she’s in Paris and not him. And people are still trying to tell me he does not see Belly as a validation prize and as his ticket to win over Conrad on something? Alright.
hey guys! just a friendly reminder that the requests are open so feel free to leave some if have any ideas, on the box<3 also, i'm been working in a few conrad and maruaders fics, so stayed tuned
ִֶָ☾. imgonnagetyouback.
Dean Winchester x Fem!reader
1k party masterlist | main masterlist
Summary: After nearly a year without so much as a call from Dean Winchester, you find yourself alone on a stormy night. In a moment of madness, you make the worst decision imaginable and invent a hunt just to see him again.
Words: 3,1k.
Warnings & Tags: mentions of haunted things and suggestive themes. hunter!avoidant!reader who has a cat. fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: I started watching the series again (for the thousandth time), so fanfics are coming.
It starts the way all bad ideas do: with too much whiskey and too much loneliness.
The whiskey was cheap, the kind that bites on the way down and leaves a burn in your chest that feels like punishment. The bottle had sat unopened on top of the fridge for months, collecting dust until your fingers closed around its neck like it had offended you. The first glass went down like defiance. The second, like surrender. By the third, you weren’t sure if you were drinking to forget him or to remember him more clearly. Either way, it worked. You sat at the kitchen table in the flickering candlelight, staring at the warped wood grain like it could answer for your mistakes, and let the weight of your choices settle on your shoulders like a coat you couldn’t take off. The house groaned around you, every sigh of wood and rattle of pipes sounding like a judgment.
But the loneliness…God, the loneliness was worse. That was top-shelf, high-proof, the kind aged in silence and poured over cold sheets. It had soaked into the bones of the house, into the walls and the floorboards and the aching hollow of your chest. A year’s worth of quiet mornings without anyone to say goodnight to. A year of drifting through days with no one to tell you you were still here. It wasn’t just the absence of people. It was his absence. The space where Dean Winchester used to live in your life was still there, raw and echoing. And no amount of liquor or denial or time had managed to plaster over it.
You hadn’t seen him in over a year.
Not since Cleveland. Room 117 at that dive of a motel, the one with flickering lights and a heater that clanged like it was haunted. You remember the rust-colored carpet and the cheap scratchy sheets, the sound of the rain against the window as the storm rolled in. You remember the way he looked at you: blood on his ribs, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but still somehow the softest thing you’d ever seen. You kissed him because you couldn’t not kiss him. You pulled him into bed like you were drowning and he was the only air left. You let his hands travel over you like a map he already knew, memorizing each curve and scar and soft place, like he was afraid they’d be erased when morning came. And still, you pretended it was nothing.
Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?
You let it happen. You let it mean everything, and then you told yourself it meant nothing. You told him it meant nothing. You wrapped the moment in sarcasm and distance, playing it off like convenience, like comfort, like two people blowing off steam in a town that didn’t matter. You told yourself if you pushed first, it wouldn’t hurt so bad when he inevitably pushed back. You wore your detachment like armor, even when it cut you.
And the next morning, he was gone.
No note. Just cold sheets and a voicemail that started with “Hey…” and ended in static. You stared at your phone for a long time after that, thumb hovering over the screen. You didn’t call back. You didn’t text. You told yourself it was better that way. Cleaner. Safer. Easier to pretend it was just another night in a long list of nights that never led anywhere.
But when you heard he was working a case nearby, one town over, just an hour down the highway, you felt it like a tremor in your chest. The information came quiet and offhand, a throwaway comment from a hunter passing through, something about a salt-and-burn near the county line. You acted casual and nodded like it meant nothing. But inside, something stirred. Something sharp. Something hopeful, unsteady, and dangerous.
So you made a choice.
A petty, reckless, and selfish decision to get him back.
You made up a haunting.
At your own house.
Technically, it wasn’t a complete lie. The place was old, 1894, three stories if you counted the attic, full of creaks and drafts and moody, whispering corners. The kind of house that felt like it watched you back. The wallpaper upstairs was peeling like it was trying to escape. The stairs groaned underfoot no matter how lightly you stepped. The stained-glass window in the front parlor cast strange, bleeding colors across the hardwood whenever the light hit just right, like the house itself had a pulse. Poe, your cat, had been acting weird lately, perched in doorways, staring into corners, and growling low in his throat at nothing. You’d caught him once, tail bristled, hissing at the hall mirror like something inside it had moved.
But it wasn’t really haunted. Not until you decided it was.
You cracked the attic window to let the wind spiral down the staircase. You placed old family photos in places they didn’t belong, dusted in just enough ash to look like they’d been disturbed. You whispered nonsense Latin into the floorboards, gibberish that sounded ominous, if not accurate. You dragged out an old mirror you’d bought at a flea market years ago, the glass fractured like a spiderweb and the frame cold to the touch. You left it leaning by the fireplace, half-covered by a dusty linen cloth, just enough to catch in the corner of his eye. Just enough to suggest.
And then you made the post.
A burner account on the old forums. You knew the ones he still checked. Knew the rhythm of the language, the things that caught a hunter’s eye.
Cold drafts. Shadows moving. Feeling watched. Built in 1894. Alone.
You stared at it for a long time before hitting send.
Then you turned off your phone, stood in the middle of your haunted house, and waited for the ghosts you’d made up to bring back the one you couldn’t stop wanting.
You weren’t expecting him that fast.
But then—
The Impala.
It appears the way a storm does: gradual at first, then all at once. You catch the glint of it through the frosted window before you hear it. Parked a half block down like it’s trying to go unnoticed, which is laughable. That car has never been subtle. It sits there in the dusk like a panther in the brush, black and gleaming and unmistakable, the chrome catching the last slivers of dying sunlight. Even at this distance, it makes your chest tighten. That engine was made to growl, made to chase things most people pretend don’t exist. It was also made to carry him away from you. Again and again.
Your breath catches, sharp and involuntary. You don’t move. Just stand there with a mug in your hands: stoneware ceramic, half-full with tea gone lukewarm, trembling slightly where your fingers have tightened without realizing. You’re not dressed for company. You’re in pajama pants, threadbare and soft from a hundred washes, and an old Zeppelin tee with a small bleach stain near the hem. Your hair’s twisted up haphazardly, held by the same pencil you always lose and somehow always find. You haven’t touched your face. No makeup. No armor. Just raw skin, tired eyes, and the kind of quiet hope you’ve been too proud to speak out loud.
But it’s too late to fix anything now.
Because he’s already walking up the steps.
Three knocks.
Hard. Steady. Familiar.
The sound lands like a heartbeat, yours, maybe. Or the one you thought you left in Cleveland. It echoes through the front hallway like a memory dragging its heels behind it. You’re not ready. You’re never ready. But your feet move anyway, and your hand reaches for the doorknob like it remembers the shape of him better than your mind does.
You open the door.
And there he is.
Dean Winchester. Alive. Unmistakable. Undeniably real. A little older, maybe, but if anything, it’s added something that wasn’t there before, depth, maybe. Weight. The kind of gravity that pulls you in and swallows you whole. His flannel is half-unbuttoned over a gray tee, collar slightly wrinkled, and his leather jacket fits like it was cut from old memories and stitched back together by time. His hair’s longer, swept back with barely any effort, and the stubble on his jaw is peppered with silver now, like the ghost of a winter he’s never stopped trying to outdrive. His boots are worn, scuffed with salt and red dust from roads you weren’t invited to follow. But it’s his eyes that do it. Green. Storm-touched. Still impossible to read. They catch you and hold you like a question he doesn’t want to ask out loud.
For one suspended second, the world goes very still.
The wind stirs behind you, weaving through the house like it knows better than to speak. You swear even the shadows on the stairs hold their breath.
And then he exhales. Long and low, like it’s been caught in his chest since the last time he saw you. He scans you the way he always does: eyes quick, cataloging everything, but lingering a little too long on your bare feet. On the tea-stained mug. On the soft place where your arms are crossed over your chest like a shield.
Then he smirks.
“Well,” he says, and the word lands rough and full of thorns. “Guess I should’ve known.”
Your heart seizes.
“What?”
He cocks his head slightly, brow raised with a crooked sort of amusement that hides more than it reveals. “The haunting. Starts up the same week I’m working a job a town over. Just happens to be at your place? Come on, sweetheart. I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.”
You feel heat bloom across your face. It climbs from your collarbone to your cheeks like a rising tide of shame and stubbornness. Because the truth is, he’s not wrong. You did bait him. You did want him to show up. And maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t stomach the idea that the only way to bring him back was with a haunted house.
“So you're saying that I forced you to come?” You shoot back, with your arms folding tighter around yourself.
He huffs a dry laugh and steps forward, right past you, uninvited but completely at home, like he’s done it a thousand times before. “I’m saying, if you wanted to see me again,” he says as his boots cross your threshold, “you could’ve just called.”
You swallow hard. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
That stops him.
Dead still, halfway into the living room.
There’s something in the way his shoulders draw up. Not tight. Not tense. Just…hurt. Brief and raw before he masks it again. When he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, you see it in the line of his jaw, flickering pain swallowed down with practiced ease.
He shrugs, turning back to survey the room like a man scanning a battlefield. “So what’s the plan then?” he asks, air casual, voice a little too loud in the hush between you. “Cold spots? EMF reader hidden in the radiator? Flickering lights and fake Latin?”
He walks through your living room like he belongs there. Like he remembers. The sight of his broad shoulders in your space again pulls something taut in your chest. Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t know you were the dramatic type,” he mutters.
You follow behind, trying not to flinch. Your voice comes out colder than you mean. “I didn’t know you were the type to disappear without a real word.”
He stops.
He doesn’t turn around.
But his silence says more than anything he could’ve replied with. It sits heavy in the room, humming with everything you didn’t say when you had the chance. You can hear the wind outside, tapping at the windowpanes like fingers on glass.
And then—
A crash.
Glass shatters in the kitchen. Violent. Sudden. Real.
Dean spins like a shot, already drawing the pistol from the small of his back with muscle memory that’s faster than thought. You freeze, mug clattering to the floor at your feet. Somewhere upstairs, Poe lets out a sharp yowl and darts for cover.
“Is that you?” He asks, low and sharp.
You shake your head, your voice barely audible. “No. That…that was not me.”
Another bang, but this time, louder. A cabinet slams open, unprovoked. The temperature drops so fast you feel it in your teeth. A breath of air pushes down the hallway, ice-cold and crawling across your skin like fingers.
Dean’s face shifts. No smirk now. No teasing. His eyes go sharp, jaw clenched, every inch of him screaming one thing: hunter.
“What the hell did you do?” he asks, stepping closer to you.
You hesitate, biting your lip. “I might’ve…sort of borrowed a cursed mirror. For ambiance.”
His eyes cut to yours. Unbelieving.
“What?”
“It’s not that cursed,” you mumble.
Dean groans and drags a hand down his face. “Of course you did.”
And just like that—
The haunting you made up turns real.
The house breathes. And this time, it’s not just the wind.
₊˚ʚ 🪞 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.
It turns out, you didn’t fake a haunting.
You accidentally created one.
The mirror wasn’t just a piece of old glass. It was a relic steeped in history and dark intent, a final possession of a medium who had long ago been swallowed by the shadows she once claimed to command. Its tarnished frame was etched with indecipherable symbols, faint scars from rusted blades tracing a curse designed to protect her legacy from opportunists, like you. You’d thought it would be a perfect touch for the story, a harmless way to add authenticity to your fabricated haunting. But as soon as it crossed your threshold, the air inside your Victorian house changed, the kind of heavy, electric charge that prickles skin and makes hair stand on end. That electricity blossomed into chaos tonight.
The living room was a battleground. Salt lines scorched black on the hardwood floors, the scent of burnt wood and sulfur thick in the air. Dean moved with the precision and weight of a seasoned hunter, his eyes sharp, muscles coiled as you chanted ancient Latin that echoed and reverberated through the walls. You could barely keep your hands steady as you held the mirror, its surface rippling unnaturally as if it were a pool disturbed by invisible fingers. Then came the scream, not audible, but raw energy that slammed into you, rattling your bones.
The poltergeist didn’t hold back. A heavy bookshelf, a monument to your vinyl collection, albums you’d lovingly curated for years, hurtled through the air with impossible speed. Dean barely ducked in time; the wood crashed against the wall, splintering and sending shards flying like deadly confetti. One errant shard nicked his cheek, a sharp sting that bloomed red against the dust and sweat caked on his skin. His breath hitched, but he didn’t flinch.
Now, outside on the porch steps, you sit side by side. The night has softened into a cool hush, the violent storm of psychic energy finally spent. Your muscles tremble, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. The porch light casts long, flickering shadows, and the faint curl of smoke rises from the charred sigil burned into your hallway floor, twisting and fading into the night air.
Dean’s shirt clings damply to his back; his flannel is rumpled and stained. The cut on his cheekbone is a vivid slash of red against his rough stubble, the kind of mark that speaks of close calls and hard fights. He’s silent for a long moment, jaw working as if to swallow words he’s unwilling to say. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, threaded with both humor and something softer, almost tenderness.
“So,” he says, the edges of his mouth twitching with reluctant amusement, “borrowed mirror, huh?”
You manage a tired smile, the corners of your lips twitching upward despite yourself. “I was trying to sell the atmosphere, you can’t blame a girl for trying.”
He shakes his head, amusement giving way to a weary smile. “Uh-huh. Well, congrats, you nailed it. I haven’t had a bookshelf thrown at my head since…well, Tuesday, actually. But still.”
The two of you share a brief laugh, the kind that eases some of the tension, like a balm on raw skin. Your shoulder brushes against his, a small contact that sends a warmth rushing through your chest. It’s subtle, but it’s there, like a fragile thread between you that neither dares to pull too hard.
Dean leans back on his hands, eyes lifted to the dark sky, tracing constellations you can’t name. “Next time,” he mutters, “just text me.”
You don’t answer immediately, caught in the weight of the moment. Your fingers absentmindedly trace a crack in the porch wood, the rough grain grounding you. Finally, you ask, voice barely above a whisper, “Would you have answered?”
Dean doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his words are thick with reluctant honesty. “I don’t know. I want to say yeah. I want to say I’d drop everything and come running. But I know you, you always make your boundaries clear…remember?”
You nod slowly, the memory of that mess settling between you like smoke. “I remember.”
He turns slightly, his eyes catching the light with a fragile openness. “I meant to call,” he admits, voice low, “after Cleveland. After that night.”
You swallow hard. “You left.”
He meets your gaze evenly, not with accusation, but with something heavier. “You wanted me to do it.”
Your chest tightens. “I thought that’s what I wanted.”
Dean’s eyes soften, haunted and raw. “So now you've changed your mind.”
You stay quiet, letting his words hang between you, thick and charged. Slowly, you shift a little closer, your knee brushing against his. The contact is slight, but it feels like a seismic tremor beneath your skin.
He doesn’t pull away.
“I thought I got over it,” you whisper, voice trembling.
Dean breathes in sharply. “So did I.”
His eyes hold yours, unguarded, as if the walls he built have started to crumble. The tension between you is no longer haunted or cursed, it’s painfully, achingly human.
You lean in first, closing the distance with a cautious urgency. Your noses brush, and his lips are rough, warm, and tentative against yours. The kiss is slow, and weighted with everything left unsaid and all the time wasted. It tastes like bourbon, smoke, and desperate love.
When you finally pull apart, your breaths mingle in the cooling night. Dean rests his forehead against yours, his hand lingering at your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if afraid to let go.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, voice thick with disbelief. “If I were smart enough, I would run away right now.”
You smile softly. “Yeah. But you’re still here.”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time, there’s no hesitation in his voice. “Yeah, I am.”
And just like that, through smoke, salt, and something that turned out to be real, you get him back.
Because Dean Winchester was still yours.
“I don't know where I end and you begin” isn’t the romantic speech Belly and Jeremiah shippers think it is. Belly’s anguish and dropping Susannah is the verbalism proof that they’re trauma bonded and that she’s codependent and lost herself. Belly was not in a healthy relationship with Jeremiah.
Checked box
Sirius Black x Potter!reader
13k words
cw: fluff, little bit of snogging, pinning, hurt/comfort (I guess?)
“Black is snogging Eloise Garner in the corridor,” Mary says as she sits down for breakfast at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
“Bit early for a snog, isn’t it?” you ask, not looking up from your paper.
“I’d say so,” she responds, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Isn’t that like the third girl this week?” Lily asks.
“Feels like he’s trying to at least snog every girl in our year and then some,” Marlene answers.
The group is silent for a moment as Mary, Marlene and Lily all stare at you.
“Well? Is he?” Lily asks.
“How would I know?”
“Because he is quite literally in your lap every evening?” Marlene replies. “Honestly, if we didn’t know you, we’d say you two were dating. Or at least you’d’ve been the first one he snogged.”
You make a face at that assumption. “My brother’s best friend, believe it or not, does not confide all of his life’s mission to me.”
“You’re probably one of them,” Mary giggles.
“Except I’m basically his sister!”
“Siblings don’t act like that around each other,” Lily says with a smile.
“James!” you call to your brother who is a few seats down from the group. “Does Sirius like me romantically?”
He looks up from his Quidditch book, eyes wide.
“What? What did he do to you?”
He slams his book down and quickly walks down the table toward the girls. He crouches next to you so he wasn’t towering over you.
“What did Padfoot do?”
You laugh at your brother. “Nothing, James. But these three,” you gesture to the girls around you, “think I’m on his to-be-snogged list. I’m not, am I?” Your words were teasing, already knowing that you weren't.
“I’ll damn ensure that you’re not,” he growls, shaking his head.
“But there is a list?” Marlene pipes up. Her eyes glitter with intrigue.
“Not a list, per se… But he does seem to have trouble keeping to one girl for long.”
“And there you have it, folks! No real list and even if there was, I’m not on it.” You turn to look at James who doesn’t seem to be moving from where he crouches behind your shoulder. “Thanks James. You can, uh, go sit down now.”
“Oooh! Speak of the devil!” Mary chirps, looking toward the Great Hall door where Sirius was entering alone.
“Morning, pumpkin,” Sirius says, ruffling your hair. “Girls.”
James had waited until Sirius made it to the girls. The boys went down to their usual spots down the table. Once sat, James bursts into hurried whispers that lead to numerous glances being sent in the girls’ direction.
“How come I can’t call you pumpkin?” Lily pouts. Of all the pet names, pumpkin was your least favorite.
You roll your eyes before answering. “He’ll be reprimanded later for that. Don’t you worry, dearest Lily.”
“Reprimanded in your sex dungeon?” Marlene gasps, a hand over her heart.
You smack her with your paper from across the table. “Don’t you start a rumor like that!”
“I could totally see you having one though!” Marlene insists.
“What is your dominatrix name?” Lily asks, gently bumping into your shoulder.
“You are all too horny this morning. I’ll see you in class.”
You quickly gather your things, take one last sip of coffee and leave the hall. The day seems to go on as usual for you. You sat with the girls in most of your classes. You’re glad the conversation of Sirius’ list had been left at breakfast. There are minor differences in the boys during classes. They appeared to have shuffled their seating arrangements, but it doesn’t affect you until History of Magic. You usually sit next to Sirius. Instead, you were sat next to Peter while Sirius sat on the other side of James. Peter wasn’t your favorite of James’ friends but you could tolerate him.
There was definitely something different about Sirius in the common room after dinner. You usually hung out with her brother and his friends in the evenings. This would often lead to you sitting with Sirius on the couch, one of you draped over the other. Depending on who was sitting and who was lounging, you would play with each other’s hair or do homework or take a brief nap. You liked when Sirius would read you the assigned chapter because you otherwise wouldn’t read it. This evening, however, Sirius sat in an armchair nowhere near you. You frown as you watch him sit down and proceed to avoid your gaze.
The altered seating arrangement and not sitting with you on the couch continues for the next few days. By Friday evening, it is driving you crazy. You need to know what is going on. You wait until most people have gone to bed before deciding to confront him. Sirius was usually one of the last people up so you knew that waiting it out would be okay.
“Black, come ‘ere,” you say.
He looks over at you with a confused look on his face. He had been watching the fire, lost in his own thoughts. When he doesn’t move, you pat the couch cushion next to you. Reluctantly, he gets up and move to sit next to you.
“What’s up, pumpkin?”
“What’s up with you?” you ask, your brows furrowed. “Feels like you’ve been on the other side of the Earth this week.”
He shrugs, looking back towards the fire. “Just following directions.”
“Whose directions?”
“Prongs.”
“And, pray tell, what did that idiot tell you to do?”
“To stay away from you?” he replies, obvious confusion in his voice.
You pinch the bridge of your nose in mild frustration. “When was this?”
“Uh, earlier this week at breakfast. Made it seem like it was partly at your request?”
You shake your head. “Leave it to James to mess something up. No. He said he would make sure I didn’t end up as another checked box on your list. That would be all him.”
“Another checked box? What list is this?” Sirius asks with a slight chuckle as he looks at you.
“The list of every girl in our year and then some,” you giggle, slightly relieved that it seems like he doesn’t have such a list. “You know, your apparent mission to kiss every one. And maybe get some.”
He quickly turns back to the fire, hoping to hide the brief look of embarrassment that crosses his face. You see it anyway and feel your face flush slightly.
“There’s no list. And you certainly wouldn’t be a box on it if it were.”
“Ouch, Black,” you say with semi-fake hurt. “Cut me deep.”
“Please, I would be neutered if I kissed you.”
You laugh. Your laugh is enough to draw Sirius’ gaze away from the fire again. He loves seeing you smile that widely and knowing it was something he said to get you to.
“Why were you talking about that imaginary list anyways?”
“Mary saw you snogging Eloise and apparently thought I would know if this list existed,” you say with a soft chuckle.
“And James was a part of this conversation?” he asks in disbelief.
“Well, I called him over when the girls didn’t believe that we aren’t romantically involved, let alone never kissed.”
Sirius shakes his head with a small smile playing on his lips. “And that leads to James declaring that I need to be at least a meter away from you at all times?”
“I asked him two questions. Do you like me romantically and was I on your to-be-snogged list?” You pause. “You know, he never actually answered the first one.”
“That would be because he doesn’t know,” Sirius says, turning his head almost 90 degrees to crack his neck. “You know how much he hates being wrong… So he’s not going to give an answer if he doesn’t know if it’s right.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I don’t discuss everything with Prongs. Although, he never has asked how I feel about you.”
You chuckle and nudge Sirius with your shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend like you might have feelings for me. It’s… fine that you don’t.” The words taste bitter in your mouth, but you try to sound genuine. You would be lying if you said you never imagined things developing between the two of you.
“Why do you assume I don’t?” Sirius asks, cocking his head as he looks at you intently.
“Why would you be snogging anything that moves in a skirt if you liked me and you’ve never made a move for me?”
“I thought we agreed that Prongs would have me neutered if I kissed you?” He takes a breath. “And maybe knowing that I could very well lose my best friend if I went after the girl I actually like is the reason I go from girl to girl. None of them make me feel like she does.”
“Wait, what?”
“There’s just more than one reason why you can’t be a checked box on this list,” Sirius says, standing up. “Goodnight, pumpkin.”
He places a gentle kiss on top of your head before heading up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories. You stare after him dumbfounded. Has Sirius just essentially told you that he did like you and then leave?
Despite knowing that he was well out of earshot, you still say, “That’s not my name.”
None of the students remaining in the common room pay you any attention as you sit on the couch alone, talking to yourself now. You slump into the cushions and take over Sirius’ habit of staring into the fire. You understand why he does it. The way that the flames dance and flicker and radiate heat is calming.
You are distracted all weekend by what Sirius had said. You bury yourself in homework and use it as an excuse to avoid the Quidditch game. It’s Slytherin against Hufflepuff so your absence isn't insulting to James. Despite being tucked away in a distraction-free corner of the library, you make little progress on your homework. Your mind kept wandering back to Sirius and what he had said. You had worked hard to bury all of your feelings for him years ago, assuming it would never happen due to his close friendship with James. Your feelings continued to remain buried as he got closer with you and never hinted that he might like you more than a friend.
In your dorm, you ignore the comments from Lily and Mary that for someone who spent all weekend in the library, you made such little progress on your assignments, or that they were done extremely poorly.
On Monday, you really do try to pay attention in class, but it is futile. Even after a weekend of him on your mind, your thoughts keep drifting back to Sirius, who is in most of your classes. Even worse, you come to realize that you have no one to talk to about it so you can only let your mind spin as it had for the past two days. You think you disguise your distraction fairly well in classes until Remus grabs your hand in Potions before you can tip an ingredient into your cauldron.
“Are you trying to blow up the classroom?” he hisses at you.
You blink at him and then look at what you had been about to pour into your brew. He is right. If you had dumped it in, your cauldron would have blown up and severely damaged those around you. You give Remus a grateful smile.
“Thanks, Remus… Been a bit distracted lately.”
“Yeah, I know.”
You give him a look. “Is it obvious?”
“You didn’t bother to apologize or clean up your spilled inkwell in Transfiguration,” he says with a soft smile. “If Lily hadn’t quickly cleaned it up for you, McGonagall would’ve given you detention.”
“Huh… I’ll have to thank her later…”
“What’s got you so distracted?”
“Nothing too important,” you lie.
“If I’m almost blown up over it, it must be important.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal. I just don’t have anyone to talk to about it so it’s… festering.”
Remus turns back to his own potion.
“Must be quite the topic if you have no one to talk to about it.”
You scrunch your face as you add the correct ingredient to your potion, causing it to turn a pleasant blue color.
“What does that mean?”
“You have plenty of people who care for you. And if none of us are good enough, you could probably have your pick of first years who would love to listen to your problems.”
You chew at the dead skin of your bottom lip, looking at Remus and knowing he was right.
“Don’t be mad but sometimes I forget that you are also my friend, not just James’. And that you are the most understanding person on this planet.”
He chuckles softly, not trying to draw attention to himself. “Understandable. But what is it that you feel you have no one to talk to about?”
“It’s too public in here,” you say, looking around the room. “It’s something I can’t talk to the girls about because they will all tease me endlessly if I do. And I can’t talk about it with James because we don’t really discuss that kind of stuff often and he overreacts.”
“And Sirius?”
You purse your lips.
“Oh,” Remus says, suddenly understanding. “Let’s discuss this after class when I’m certain I’ll be in less danger of blowing up.”
Once your potions are turned in to Professor Slughorn, you and Remus leave the classroom together. Lily, Mary and James give you questionable stares as you disappear around the corner. Neither of you say a word until you are more secluded in the grounds of Hogwarts. You walk down towards the Black Lake. Anyone trying to eavesdrop would have a harder time hearing you over the sound of waves.
“What did Sirius do?” Remus asks, sitting down and resting his back against a tree.
Mimicking his actions, you answer, “It’s what he said when I confronted him for avoiding me all last week.”
“Wasn’t that at your request?”
“No. James is a liar.”
“Okay?”
“Long story short, Mary, Marlene and Lily…” you start to say before putting your head in your hands and groaning. “Screw that. Does Sirius like me?”
“He lets you touch his hair. Of course he likes you.”
You lift your head to look at Remus. “Does he like me as more than a friend?”
“What did he say to you?”
“I asked first.”
“I can only speak if I know what he told you.”
You sigh heavily and turn your gaze to the lake.
“Something like he’d lose James if he kissed the girl he actually likes and that’s why he’s been kissing every girl who looks his way. And then that there’s more than one reason why I can’t be another checked box on the list of girls he’s kissed.”
Remus puts his hand on your shoulder.
“Oh, darling…”
“Remus, does he like me?”
“I believe he does.”
You whip your head towards him. “What do you mean, you believe?”
“He’s not known for pouring his heart out. You know that. He’s private with his more personal feelings,” Remus says, choosing his words carefully. “But I have eyes and ears. The way he looks at you, especially when James isn’t looking. The way he acts around you. The way he talks to you, and about you. … And he calls you pumpkin.”
You don’t say anything. You were taking it all in, although you don’t quite understand why him using that pet name held significance. You just want Remus to keep talking.
“You know about his home life,” he continues.
You nod.
“I don’t think I could say all the ways it makes him the way he is. We’ve only heard snippets of it. I think there’s a lot he has walled off. And he has a found family in us. In James specifically. So he’s going to tread lightly around anything that could harm that.”
You bite the inside of your lip. You know you have been let inside some of Sirius’ walls. There were the miscellaneous late nights filled with more vulnerable conversations over the past two years. A particularly horrendous nightmare had brought Sirius to the common room to sit by the dying fire, and you had already been sitting there. You had been unable to sleep with your own anxieties. You snuggled into each other on the couch and talked until Sirius felt okay to go back to sleep.
Even with that memory in your head, the thing you say is, “So James’ irrationality is why Sirius hasn’t made a move on me?”
“Part of it… but that’s not what you’re taking away from this conversation. There’s more than Prongs in this equation.”
You sigh and rest your chin on your hands. The sun was beginning to set and it reflects beautifully on the lake’s shimmering surface.
“You’re also in the equation,” Remus reminds you. “Do you like him as more than a friend?”
You can’t help but laugh.
“Remus John Lupin, I’ve been in love with him since second year.”
The moment you say that, it hits you like a brick wall. The buried emotions all bubble up and you lean back into the tree forcefully. Your head hits the trunk with a soft thud and you groan at the sudden pain. You know that you thought Sirius was cute from the moment you met him but it did take time and a little bit of maturing for you to decide that you liked him in that way. And because he is your brother’s best friend, you kept quiet about it, even to your female friends. Despite playing it off, you were bothered when you heard about him snogging another girl in the corridor. You were bothered when you heard girls giggle about how handsome he was and how they hoped he would give them attention or take them to Hogsmeade. You relish in the fact that out of every one of his friends, he chose to sit next to you in the common room night after night. And you treasured every time he let you see that vulnerable side of him that he kept so well hidden behind his bright smile and boisterous laugh and devil-may-care attitude.
“If that’s true, why haven’t you made a move?”
You laugh again, nudging Remus’s shoulder.
“I thought you were the smart one of the group. He’s James’ best friend. His best friend who has never once shown an inkling of romantic interest in me. Why would I risk that level of embarrassment with someone who is obviously going to be in my life as long as I stay close with James?”
“Do you ever think that maybe he thought the same thing?”
“Rems, I…”
“Love, listen. I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t tell you for certain that he likes you. But I suggest you talk to him. Probably when James isn’t around. And if it comes to it, screw what James thinks. He just cares for you and doesn’t want to see you hurt. You are twins after all.”
You sit in silence for a minute. The crashing waves of the lake fill the air as the sun disappears over the horizon.
“Rems, thanks for this. But we did miss dinner,” you finally say.
You stand up and hold out a hand to Remus. He takes it with a smile. He grunts as he stands up, like the old man the boys often compare him to.
“You act like we don’t know where the kitchens are…”
After a quick stop by the kitchens for sandwiches, you enter the common room together. You are greeted by multiple versions of “There you are!” and “I told you they’d be together, I saw them leave Potions together!” It seems as if your disappearance had captured the attention of every sixth year Gryffindor.
“You missed dinner!” James chides.
“We grabbed sandwiches,” you say, holding up your almost finished grilled cheese.
“What were you doing?” His eyes narrow at Remus.
“Talking?” Remus answers, moving past James to sit by in a chair by the fire.
You, however, feel frozen with James in front of you and the eyes of many Gryffindors on you.
“Talking kept you from food?” Marlene asks in disbelief. “Must’ve been some conversation.”
“I’d say it was enlightening,” you say.
“Did he teach you Lumos?” Peter asks from the couch.
“Ha,” Remus says dryly.
“Are you okay?” James asks you in a hushed tone as the non-sixth year Gryffindors slowly turn back to their own conversations.
“Yes? I just needed to talk to Rem about something private.”
“Something private?” he asks, trying to get more information out of you. “With Moony? Come on, what is going on?”
“Nothing is going on. God forbid a girl talks to her male friends.”
“If nothing is going on, then tell me what you were talking about.”
“You are not privy to my every conversation,” you snap.
“I am a bit when it’s with one of my best mates.”
“Your best mates are also some of my best mates, James. Learn to share.”
Your voices were increasing in volume.
“Do I need to talk to him too?” James asks, placing a hand on your shoulder which you immediately shrug off.
“No! And I never asked you to talk to Sirius!”
Sirius looks from Remus to you to James at the mention of his name.
“You asked if you were…”
“I asked for information. That’s all. And you have the audacity to tell him to stay away from me?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” you spit. “And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be from your friends.” You look over at the boys and then back at James. “If anyone needs protecting from the people you call your best mates, then you need to reevaluate the kind of company you keep.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Let me get hurt.”
You give James one last nasty look before finally being able to move your feet. You disappear into the girls’ dorms. As you walk away, you can feel eyes watching your every move. Apparently if you argue with your brother loudly, the common room is forced to give you all of their attention. Once out of sight, James collapses on the couch, refusing to look at anyone. Lily, Marlene and Mary watch James sit down and then follow you up the stairs. Lily hesitates a moment before knocking on the door to your shared dorm.
“Lovie?” she called softly as she opened the door a crack. “Potter!”
The door creaks loudly as it opens wider. You had changed out of your uniform and into muggle clothes. You are sitting on your bed, lacing up your heavy boots with a small bag next to you.
“Going somewhere?” Marlene asks. She is the first of the girls to enter the room.
“I need to clear my head.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Lily asks, trying to keep her voice calm and gentle.
“Heard about some poachers gathering in the forest. And if I can’t find them, I’ll find some trolls or dugbogs or something.”
“And you plan on going alone?”
You shoot the girls a warning look. “Yes. Evans, if you threaten detention, make it for Thursday.”
Lily doesn’t say anything.
“What did you and Lupin talk about?” Mary inquires, not quite seeing that you aren’t in the mood to talk about that yet.
“Doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.”
You, having finished lacing your boots, grab you bag and storm out of the dorm. You have to push past Mary who is still standing in the doorway. Your heavy footsteps silence the common room before you finish descending the stairs. Eyes follow you as you leave the common room. Once out of the portrait, the common room roars to life again.
“So… what the fuck?” Peter asks, looking at his friends.
“She’s pissed off,” Remus says coolly. “And I’d say for decent reason.”
James gives him an annoyed look.
“That time of the month, is it?”
“Peter, no!” Remus chastises. “She’s just figuring stuff out.”
“Care to share with the class?” James asks.
“I’d prefer to not spend the next two weeks in the hospital wing so I’ll let her tell you when she’s ready.”
“So we’re going to let her go off like that?” Sirius asks, speaking up for the first time since you and Remus came back.
“Yes,” Remus and James say at the same time.
“Like she said, she doesn’t need protection,” Remus says, sending a wary glance to James.
---
Remus was mildly surprised that when he woke up, Sirius wasn’t in his bed. He was, however, less surprised when he found Sirius slumped on the couch in the common room. Remus approached him, ready to wake him up, only to find that Sirius was awake. His hair was slightly frizzy and dark bags formed under his eyes. He was still in his disheveled uniform from the day before, having never gone up to their dorm after dinner.
“Pads?” he says gently. “Were you up all night?”
Sirius looks away from the fire groggily.
“Huh?” He processes what Remus had asked him. He sits up, his back loudly cracking as he does so. “Yeah. Someone had to wait for Potter to get back.”
“And you didn’t come up when she did?”
Sirius shakes his head before running a hand through his curls.
“She didn’t, Moons. She didn’t come back.”
Remus’ eyes go wide.
“No, surely she came back. You must’ve drifted asleep at some point.”
“She didn’t. I was awake the whole time.”
Remus sits next to his friend, placing a hand on his knee. “Maybe she got back recently and just went straight to breakfast? How ‘bout we go get some, yeah?”
“Let me change,” Sirius mutteres, giving Remus a tired look.
He doesn’t move for a minute. His brain feels too fuzzy and wired at the same time. Convincing his legs to support his weight as he eventually stands up is more of a task than he anticipates. He is quick in getting ready for the day in their dorm. He doesn’t understand how James is still asleep, or how he had slept at all when you weren’t in the castle for all they knew. Sirius ties his hair back and looks at his reflection with his fresh uniform on. Despite his attempts to make himself look presentable, not having slept at all and being filled with worry makes him look exhausted, which is how he felt. He just doesn’t want to show it. He sighs and returns to Remus.
Sirius watches the Great Hall door as he slowly eats some breakfast. He drinks some coffee that Remus pushed towards him, saying something along the lines of needing caffeine if he was planning on making it through the day. When the girls sit down, they confirm that you hadn't been in their dorm that morning and your bed looked unslept in. Sirius groans. The girls exchange curious looks.
Palpable concern and worry finally reaches the rest of the sixth year Gryffindors when they are all sat in Charms and you still weren't there.
“You’re certain that she didn’t come back and just made her bed when she got up?” James asks Marlene.
“Positive. All of her school things were still there. The bed hadn’t been touched.”
“And since when does she make her bed?” Lily asks.
Halfway through class, you enter the room. All eyes turn to look at you. You have multiple bandages over your body, looking freshly applied. You hand Professor Flitwick a note and take your spot next to Mary. You don’t say anything to all the Gryffindors staring at you. You just open your book to the same page as Mary and turn to look at the professor, hoping he’d continue his lesson where he left off.
“Where have you been?” Mary whispers, not looking at you.
“Forest. And then hospital wing,” you reply nonchalantly.
“Did you sleep?”
“No. I’ll be fine,” you assert. “Now shush.”
After Charms ends, the Gryffindors surround you so you can’t slip away to your next class. You avoid making eye contact with any of them as you gather your things and attempt to push through them.
“Going into the forest at night is one thing,” Lily chides. “Not coming back until halfway through the first lesson of the day is another.”
“Okay, mum,” you say shortly, still trying to push through the group.
“Aren’t you going to explain yourself?” James asks.
You glare at him. “Certainly not to you.”
“You look like you barely came back in one piece!” he exclaims. “I’m shocked Pomfrey let you leave the hospital wing.”
A wicked glint shines in your eyes. “Oh, she didn’t. I just left.”
“Potter!” Mary gasps.
“Macdonald!” you mimic with an eye roll. “If you lot don’t get out of my way, I’ll be late for Ancient Runes and I’m already on thin ice with Raltmole.”
You finally push through the group and leave them in the Charms classroom. They exchange frustrated looks before following you out. They split up for their respective classes, Remus and Lily following you towards the Ancient Runes classroom.
“Did you find the poachers you were looking for?” Lily asks tentatively once they sit on either side of you.
You nod. “And then some. The hippogriffs they had weren’t happy to be freed.”
“Did you bow to them?” Remus asks.
“No? Was I supposed to?”
“Yes!” Remus breathes.
You hum and spin your quill in your fingers. “Now I know for next time.”
Professor Raltmole gathers the class’ attention and begins her lecture. Remus takes a ratty piece of parchment from his bookbag and scrawls a short note on it before sliding it across the desk toward you.
Padfoot waited up for you
You quickly read it, write a response and slide it back.
Is that why he looks like living death?
He didn’t sleep because you were gone
You crumple the paper when you get it back from Remus. You shove it in your pocket, away from Lily’s view.
“I’ll talk to him later,” you hiss to Remus.
An angry Madam Pomfrey yells at you in front of most of the castle at lunch for sneaking out of the hospital wing when you were clearly still in need of tending to. An excuse of not wanting to miss more class seemed to ward her off, but you feel the nurse’s frustrated gaze on you for the rest of the meal. Mary and Marlene ask you about the poachers you dueled as you walked to your next class. You recount a watered down version of the previous night’s events for them. You make sure that your injuries still make sense but their severity less. The girls are simply impressed and less concerned for their friend.
You are happy when the second half of the day is more concentrated on schoolwork rather than what you had gotten up to last night. You didn’t want to keep reliving being outnumbered by the poachers and just barely getting out without being too injured. The fear in the hippogriffs’ eyes haunted you. It reminds you that what you did was right, but they had still attacked you after you unlocked their cages. Sitting at dinner, you gently touch the bandage on her face and wince.
“If it hurts, you probably shouldn’t touch it,” Lily says. “Or go see Pomfrey again. I’m sure she’d love to patch you up more.”
“Going back is admitting defeat,” you say definitively.
You wouldn’t go back, not even when your bandages need to be replaced. You know that the boys have plenty of bandages in their dorm and you could use some of those. You worried that Pomfrey would handcuff you to a cot and place a charm on it so you couldn’t escape. You were determined to not be held captive to the nurse.
You fold gravy into your mashed potatoes until they turn a gross shade of pale brown. Your whole body had started to ache during the last lesson of the day. The pain is stronger than your hunger and all you want to do now is sleep. However, you weren’t dumb. Your friends would have cursed you into next week, or at least taken you to Madam Pomfrey, if you hadn’t shown up to dinner. You sigh as the plates in the middle of the table clear and replenish with desserts. Nothing looks appetizing. You force yourself to swallow some of the potatoes so you could claim that you did have some dinner. After a few bites, you resume swirling the soft mush around your plate.
“Darling, you done?” Marlene asks, standing up across from you.
You look up, noticing that a fair amount of students had already left the Great Hall.
“I guess so,” you say.
You walk back to the Gryffindor Tower in silence. Marlene seems to read your body language, which says you aren’t in the mood to talk anymore. Your face has a hardened look to it with your arms crossed over your chest. After giving the password, Marlene makes sure to hold open the portrait for you so it doesn't close on you.
You would be lying if you said you didn’t smile a little when you saw Sirius sitting on the couch with no one else. Marlene heads for the girls’ stairs, half expecting you to follow her up. Instead, you make a beeline for the couch and lay down, your head resting in Sirius’ lap.
“Hey Black,” you say, looking up at him.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” he asks, looking down at you. “I think you got as much sleep as I did last night.”
“So Remus says,” you reply.
Sirius twirls some of your hair around his finger, something he had done hundreds of times before. Only this time, you see it as something more tender, all thanks to what Remus had said the day prior. It sent off butterflies in your stomach.
“Must’ve been some conversation you two had yesterday,” Sirius mumbles. “What else would keep you out so late?”
You scoff. “James being a prat. But it was some conversation. I think I needed to hear it.”
Sirius’ expression softens.
“What did you need to hear?”
“It was… a reality check.”
You pause, studying the look on his face. You are vaguely aware of the other people in the common room, but the way Sirius is looking at you could’ve convinced you that you were the only one in the entire castle with those grey eyes. Without saying anything to each other, you feel as if the only things you can hear are your breathing and the muted crackling of the fire not far from you. You reach up and tuck a curl behind his ear, revealing his multiple piercings that he’d gotten over the years. You notice his breathing hitch as your hand gently grazes his face. You smile at him.
“So between the reality check and Mr. Bitchiness himself, I needed to clear my head.”
Sirius shakes his head with a soft chuckle.
“I think you should find a way to clear your head that doesn’t involve barely coming back in one piece, Potter.”
“I thought you called me pumpkin.”
“I thought you hated being called that.”
“I do, but I let you get away with it.” You gently poke the tip of his nose playfully. Your gaze briefly flicks to his lips before returning to his eyes. “You’re… special.”
“That doesn’t look like a meter,” James’ voice calls, bringing you back into the noise of the common room.
You can see your brother standing over the two of you behind the couch. His face isn’t quite murderous, but it was getting there.
“She’s exhausted and in pain and you come swooping in?” James accuses Sirius. “I thought I told you to give her space.”
You sit up and glare at James, the tenderness of the moment with Sirius evaporated.
“Excuse you,” you say, a disgusted snarl creeping up on your face. “He did no such swooping. And you can’t tell people to stay away from me.”
“I’m your brother! It’s my job to keep people away from you,” he says, giving his friend a sour look. “Especially when I think they have immoral intentions.”
“Have you considered that I’m the one who came to him and not the other way around?”
“Why would you?”
You blink. “Because he’s my friend?”
“He’s my friend,” James says.
You can’t stop yourself. You slap James across the face. You feel your own face burning and tears beginning to brim in your eyes.
“I see you didn’t learn anything from last night, you git,” you spit at him.
You stand up, leaving Sirius alone on the couch. He watches in silence as you turn to leave the common room. You slam the portrait behind you, earning a scolding from the Fat Lady about respect. The common room remains silent as Sirius looks up at James.
“Prongs, I swear, she came to me,” he says. “I was sitting here and she came to me. She walked in with Marlene long after we came back from dinner.”
“Whatever, Pads. Just keep your distance from her, like you said you would.”
Sirius lets his lips form a thin line as he looks away from James and back to the fire. Technically, he had never said he would keep away from you. James had just insisted on it. James sighs heavily, glancing at the portrait hole. He is glad that you didn’t go upstairs to change and grab whatever you would need to go out again, but you leaving in such a fury wasn’t ideal either. He turns and goes back up to their dorm. When Remus sees how upset James is, he immediately goes to check in on Sirius, letting Peter work on calming James down.
Remus sits on the other side of the couch. Sirius is radiating an energy that said he needed a little bit of space around him.
“Padfoot,” Remus says, speaking tentatively. “What just happened? Why is Prongs in a huff again?”
“He’s accusing me of trying to defile her when she’s not in her right mind.”
Remus isn’t a fan that Sirius didn’t look at him when he talked. He didn’t want his friend to stay up all night staring into the fire again.
“Where is she?”
Sirius shrugs. “Slapped Prongs and left.”
Remus raised his eyebrows and leaned toward Sirius.
“She slapped him?” he asks, trying to hold in some laughter. “Honestly, someone needed to and it’s good it came from her. He’ll forgive her.”
“Do you think he’d forgive me?” Sirius asks, his voice barely audible and eyes still not leaving the flickering flames.
“Forgive you for what?” Remus asks cautiously. “Did you… defile her?”
Sirius scoffs. “No, Merlin… But… fuck. Nevermind.”
Remus scoots to the middle cushion of the couch. He places a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. Sirius looks away from the fire. His cheeks are dusted with a faint blush.
“Padfoot, be honest with me. How do you feel about her?”
Remus’ voice is soft. It has a sense of pleading to it, as if begging Sirius to admit something he doesn’t want to, as if begging him to be more vulnerable in the middle of the common room than he has ever been before. Sirius just shakes his head with a frown.
“That doesn’t matter.”
With a harsh sigh, Remus tries again. “Prongs doesn’t matter right now. How do you, Padfoot, Sirius Orion Black, feel about her?”
“Like she is the most precious thing.” He closes his eyes and turns his face toward the fire again. “But Prongs does matter. So how I feel doesn’t. I need his friendship more than I need a relationship.”
Remus gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Imagine if everything went right though… You and Prongs could legally be brothers.”
Sirius coughs in surprise at his words. Of course, he had thought about it from time to time. James was his brother in practically all ways except literally. You, being alluring as you were, were something different. You weren't a sister to him. What he feels for you isn’t what he would feel for a sister and it is certainly more than anything he has felt for any other girl.
“Think about it, Pads, yeah?” Remus suggests, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “You think Wormtail has calmed Prongs down enough for it to be safe to go back up there?”
Remus glances toward the stairs. Then he looks back at Sirius, who has opened his eyes but stares absently at the hearth.
“You said she left the common room? You don’t think she’ll be gone all night again, do you?” Remus questions, his voice having more concern than before.
“She’ll be back… Although it might be better if I’m not down here when she returns…”
---
You spend the rest of the week avoiding James. You put as many people in between you as possible when you have to be near him. If he tries to talk to you, you either ignore him or speak to him through someone else. It pisses him off. You also take to avoiding the common room, being that he was often there. For once, you find yourself being furious that Remus and Sirius were James’ friends first and yours second.
Marlene sits down in the library at the same table as you, Mary and Lily. You are working on various assignments, books littering the tables. Marlene clears a small section for her to get out her own work. She shoots a wary look toward you.
“Black’s back on his bullshit,” she says, watching you for a reaction that you don’t give her.
You keep your eyes on your Ancient Runes assignment.
“Who’s he snogging now?” Lily asks. She knows someone has to buy into the bait.
“Charity Burbage.”
“Didn’t realize she was his type…” Mary mutters. “Isn’t she a few years younger?”
“Fourth year, but she’s… mature if you know what I mean,” Marlene answers, giving her own breasts a squeeze.
“Alright, we get your point,” Lily says, cutting her off. “Remember that we’re here to do homework, right?”
You just scoff and keep working. Hearing that Sirius was off snogging a busty fourth year rubbed you the wrong way. You keep thinking back to what Sirius had said and what Remus had told you about him. You think about how Sirius had been the one waiting up for you to come back that night you got into the fight with James. You don’t want to imagine Sirius sucking face with a younger girl, but the image keeps appearing in your mind. It makes your blood boil.
“Potter, you good?” Mary whispers from across the table.
You look up at Mary and then back down at your paper. There were various splotches of ink where you had been holding your quill and lightly tapping it. You sighed in annoyance.
“Guess Raltmole is getting subpar work again,” you groan.
You look over at the assignment sheet again and force a smile. At least you were on the last question. Once you answer it, you could make an excuse to leave. You hurriedly finish and begin putting your stuff away.
“I’ll see you lot later.”
“Going back to the common room?” Lily asks, not looking up from her own assignment.
“Yeah,” you lie. You had no intention of going back to Gryffindor Tower and risk running into James.
You make your way up to the astronomy tower. As you climb the stairs, hot tears sting in your eyes and begin to fall. You have never been so glad to find the tower completely empty. You sit down near the edge of the platform. The cold air feels nice as you feel like you are overheating. Your mind is spinning with thoughts of Sirius. You hate that you had admitted to Remus that you had been harboring feelings for Sirius for years and everything you had buried so deep inside of you had been brought back to the surface. You hate that your friends feel the need to bring up whoever they saw Sirius kissing.
As you look over the horizon, lost in your thoughts, you hear a string of swears from the stairs. You don’t look to see who it was. It isn’t a Gryffindor and that’s all that really matters to you at this moment. When the boy reaches the top of the stairs, he immediately spots you at the edge of the platform. He swears again, having hoped the tower would be empty, but then he notices you shuddering and hears your sniffles.
“Is this where everyone goes when they’re upset?” Barty Crouch Jr. asks, taking a step towards you, unsure of how you felt about having company. He had wanted to be alone so maybe you did too.
You turn your head to look at him. Your face is flushed and eyes red. Tears streak your face. Barty decides that you look too pitiful to leave alone. He sits down next to you, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the platform and leaning backwards.
“Misery loves company, doesn’t it?” he asks, cocking his head to the side as he looks at you.
You smiled softly, although it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Depends on the company you keep.”
“Well, I came up here to be alone.” He kicks his legs in the open air. “But you’re not a Slytherin so I’ll give you a chance.”
“And you’re not a Gryffindor so I won’t ask you to leave.”
He chuckles and gives you a half smile. “Lions and snakes can be too much from time to time.”
“You can say that again. … What’d they do to you?”
“Evan… He’s hiding something from me and it’s not good. He needs to let me in, but it’s hard to convince him when everyone, Black, Snape, Avery, Wilkes, tells me to drop it. God forbid I try to be involved in my boyfriend’s life…” Barty sighs. “Everyone ganged up on me, even Pandora.”
“Didn’t know you and Evan… Rosier?”
“Yeah, Rosier. We don’t make it a habit to snog in the corridors like the other Black.”
You grimace. The other Black was your issue.
“What?”
“The other Black…”
Barty’s eyes widen. “You and him? I thought I heard he was…”
“We’re not,” you cut him off. “Which is why I’m up here.”
“I need a distraction from Ev… What’s up with that little blood traitor?”
You glare at Barty. “I’m not going to talk to you if you’re going to be like that.”
“Sorry, habit. What’s the other Black up to?”
You shake your head and adjust so your legs hang over the edge too. You sniffle again and blink away tears that threaten to stream down your face again.
“How am I supposed to know if he likes me if I keep hearing that he’s going into a broom closet with a new girl every other day?”
“You like him?” Barty asks. “Of course you do. Just about every girl has a fantasy about him.”
You scoff. “Every girl… Yeah. That’s part of the problem. He all but told me that I’m the reason he’s snogging every girl in our year. And yours. And then some.”
“You’re the reason?”
“Something like James would kill him if he touched me so he touches everyone else.” You roll your eyes and lean forward into the metal railing. “And then Remus goes off and says he’s fairly certain that Sirius really does like me in the way I like him. And James constantly acting like I need protection from his friends. And every time I think I’ve collected myself and reburied my feelings for Black, Marlene and Mary come around and talk about who they saw him with.” You shake your head. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid.”
“Your stupid problem is better than thinking about mine. I know Ev will be cooled off when I get back and we’ll be fine. Your problem is… more.”
“Do the Slytherins think Sirius has some checklist of every girl he needs to snog before graduation?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek.
“Not that I know of, but I’m around Reg a lot and we don’t talk about his brother in front of him unless we have a death wish.” He pauses. “Poor wording because some of us do… We don’t talk about him.”
“Hmm… It’s definitely a topic among Gryffindors. Obviously.”
“He’d never be able to finish it.”
You give him a confused look as you sniffle again.
“You and that redhead. The one your brother and Snape are obsessed with.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, Lily would never kiss Sirius. Even for a dare. She’d rather do just about anything else.”
“And I call that a success!” Barty says with a smile. “Got the crying girl to laugh.”
“That you did…”
“May regret asking this, but what set you off? Why are you here now? Sounds like you’re just eternally pining.”
“Marlene said she saw Black snogging Burbage.”
“She’s younger than me.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah.” You sigh and feel tears fall again.
Your mind keeps telling you it was stupid to be jealous over a silly fourth year, but it was unfair. Barty notices you starting to cry again.
“Come here,” he says as he puts his arm around you.
While he and Evan would fight, he hoped they would never make each cry like this. The girl he had only ever seen as a force to be reckoned with was reduced to a puddle of emotions. You rest your head on Barty’s shoulder. It gives you a little bit of comfort to be hurting with someone else.
---
“She’s where with who?” James yells in their dorm.
When the girls had returned from the library and asked if you were in their room, they were met with confused stares from the boys. They hadn’t seen you since dinner and they had been in the common room all evening. While the girls shared looks of minor confusion, the boys shared looks of worry. The boys had immediately gone up to their dorm and opened the map. Each scanned a different section, looking for your name.
“She’s in the astronomy tower with Junior,” Peter repeats.
“Is she trying to get herself killed?”
“You seem far more concerned about her being with Junior than you did with her going off to fight poachers,” Sirius mutters, going to sit on his bed.
James turns to glare at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Just questioning what, or who, you think counts as dangerous.”
“You damn well know that Junior is dangerous,” James growls.
“Oh, I do know that, Prongs. But I’m not. I’m not a threat to her.”
“We aren’t talking about this right now, Padfoot. She is actually in danger right now!”
“Should we be concerned that their names aren’t moving?” Peter asks, still looking at the map. “Neither one has even shifted so they aren’t walking around or nothing.”
The two boys look over at Peter, anger fading from their faces and being replaced with fear and concern.
“That’s it. I’m going to get her,” James announces, moving for the door before Remus stops him.
“Like hell you are,” he says firmly. “In case you’re more dense than I think you are, you’re not her favorite person right now. I don’t think it’s wise that you go.”
“Then who’s going to go? Can’t really ask Lily to go fetch her without explaining the map.”
“Padfoot, you go see if she’s okay,” Remus decides. “Just… don’t overreact to whatever you’re walking into.”
Sirius doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips out of the door behind Remus, shooting James a gloating face. Once the door is closed, Remus lets James go.
“Tell me how Padfoot is going to handle that situation better than I would,” James demands.
“First off, you would walk in and blast Junior off the tower. Don’t act like you wouldn’t. And like I said, she is still angry with you. You going would only make things worse between you two,” Remus starts to explain. “Second, it would’ve been best if I went, but then I’d be leaving you and Padfoot alone and I didn’t feel like returning to a blood bath.”
James frowns, although he could see the logic behind Remus’ actions. He doesn’t need to ask why they didn’t send Peter; he didn’t have what it might take to get you away from Barty if it came to that.
Sirius’ stomach churns when he sees Barty’s arm around you. You appear to be willingly leaning into his side. You are sitting at the edge of the platform, legs hanging over the edge and resting against the bars. Keeping quiet as he lingers in the doorway, he can hear you having a whispered conversation. You were sniffling. After a few minutes of watching them and feeling sick, Sirius makes his presence known.
“Hey, pumpkin,” he says softly, causing both of them to jump at the sound of his voice. “Everyone’s looking for you.”
Barty glares at Sirius. They had never gotten along, especially with Barty being one of Regulus’ closer friends.
“Piss off, Black. We’re having a conversation,” he spits, still holding onto you although it was a looser grip.
You had turned your body and propped one of your legs up on the platform. You wipe your nose and sniffle. Now that you were looking at Sirius, he could see that your eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“Everyone can piss off, actually,” you say, voice shaky. “They can handle a night without me.”
You let your leg fall back over the edge as you turn back to looking over the horizon. Barty follows suit. Sirius walks closer to you and sits down only a short distance away, resting his back against a pillar.
“Well, I’m not going back without you. So, carry on. I’ll walk you back when you’re ready.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, not that Sirius saw either.
“Black, I would’ve thought by now you’d be able to tell when you aren’t wanted,” Barty says, venom dripping from his words. “Get out of here before I make you.”
“Last I checked, she was more my friend than yours,” Sirius replies.
“Guess you haven’t checked recently.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at Barty as his arm pulls her waist closer to his.
“Guess fate is being extra cruel tonight,” Barty mutters to you and you nod in agreement. “I’m going to be fine, but are you?”
“Eventually, I assume,” you say. “I just feel defeated, and that doesn’t help.”
“What did I do?” Sirius asks, knowing that he was what you were referring to.
You and Barty look over at him.
“The fact that you have to ask…” you sigh with a sniffle.
“Do you want me to go?” Barty asks.
“Yes,” Sirius answers.
“I wasn’t asking you, Black,” Barty snarls. “Potter? I’m not leaving you with him unless you ask me to.”
Sirius gapes at Barty. The Slytherin seemed genuinely concerned to leave you alone with Sirius, someone you had been alone with many times before. He doesn’t understand why people weren’t trusting him to be around one of his friends. He didn’t think he had done anything to earn that.
“Stay,” you say.
The one word hits Sirius hard. He feels like he is going to throw up. In what world would you be asking Barty Crouch Jr. to stay?
“What the hell, love?” Sirius asks.
You shoot him a hurt look. “Burbage? Really?”
He groans and runs a hand through his hair.
“Is that what this is about? I thought we talked about this.”
You let out a cold and empty laugh. “We talked about this? No. You were just incredibly cryptic about some feelings you may or may not have as you let James run your life.”
“So you get with Crouch?”
You and Barty look at each other and make faces of disgust before slightly pushing away from each other, as if suddenly becoming aware of how close they actually were.
“We… no. Absolutely not,” you stutter.
“I don’t… I’m taken,” Barty says.
“He is,” you confirm with a nod.
You scoot back from the ledge, still sitting much closer to Barty than you were to Sirius. Barty does the opposite, leaning further over the railing and slumping like a rag doll. Sirius looks from one to the other.
“Then what is this?”
“One upset person comforting another?” Barty offers.
“And you’re upset?” Sirius challenges, not quite believing him.
“You don’t seem upset nor are you comforting Potter. So that would leave me being the other upset person. Yes.”
“Whatever. Darling, can we go?”
“No?”
“Hey, come on.”
“No.”
Barty gives you a wary look. Then he stands up, moving slowly toward the door.
“I’m going… to go. You two… need to talk.”
“Barty, no,” you plead. Your eyes looked ready to cry again. “Please, stay.”
“No, bye bye Barty,” Sirius says, standing up.
Sirius claps Barty on the shoulder, walks him to the doorway and makes sure he leaves. Then he walks over to you and holds out his hand.
“Come on, darling. Let’s go.”
You don’t take his hand. You spin where you sit to face away from him. Whenever he moved to be in front of you, you’d spin again. You know you are acting like a stubborn child, but you feel that you’ve earned that. He allows you to act like this for a few minutes before he gest tired of it.
“Pumpkin, come on. If you don’t come with me, I’ll have to go back and James will come get you.”
You make a disgruntled face and finally take Sirius’ hand.
“What did Junior mean by we need to talk?” Sirius asks as you walk toward the stairs.
“The Marauders need to get their shit together,” you say, not looking back at him and starting to descend the stairs.
Sirius follows you, picking up his speed to stay just one step behind you.
“So it’s not just me?”
You stop abruptly. Sirius bumps into you and you have to grab onto the railing to stop yourself from falling.
“Prongs needs to keep himself in check. He needs to stay in his lane. Moony needs to stop getting a girl’s hopes up. You need to go after that one girl you like and stick to her. I’m tired of hearing about a new girl’s tongue down your throat every day.” You pause. You had brought their friend group’s name into it so you had to name everyone. “Wormtail… uh, needs to be less of an idiot. Get him a real sense of humor or something.”
“And you told Junior all of that?”
“Yes.”
You walk the rest of the way back to Gryffindor Tower in silence. Sirius isn’t sure what to say that would make you feel better so he settles on silence. You still sniffled a few times, but they were getting less frequent. You seem to be more furious now than sad, which was something of a win. When you enter the common room, you both keep walking to your individual dorms. You go straight to bed, closing the curtains around so that no one will bother you. Sirius is met with James, Remus and Peter anxiously waiting.
“Took you damn long enough,” James says as soon as Sirius walks through the doors. “What did that bastard do to her?”
“Gee, no Thanks Padfoot, thanks for getting my sister back safe and sound?” Sirius mocks. His mind is still stuck on what you had said to him about all of them. He sighs. “If what they both said is true, they simply talked. She was crying; he comforted her.”
“What was she crying about?” Peter asks.
Sirius makes eye contact with Remus. It seems like Remus knew immediately what she was crying about, but Sirius couldn’t bring himself to say it in front of James.
“Coudn’t get it out of her,” he lies.
---
You follow the girls around Hogsmeade on Saturday. You don’t really care where the group goes and you are able to mostly drown out their conversations. Your brain is empty. It is easier for it to be empty than to think about everything that made you cry the previous night.
Mary, Lily, Marlene and her girlfriend, Dorcas, carry their own conversations and manage to stick together as a group all day. They don’t seem to notice that you are in your head. They just make sure that you are still tagging along, not left behind anywhere.
“It’s good to get out of the castle for a good, safe time,” Mary had told you this morning when she insisted that you come instead of rotting in bed all day as you had planned to.
The group is heading back into Hogsmeade Square from Dogwood and Deathcap when they run into the Marauders in the cemetery. No one questions why they were messing around the tombs. With them, it is better to just accept it and move on with your day. The boys insist that they all go to the Three Broomsticks and end their day with as many butterbeers as they could drink. You, being determined to not talk to any of the boys, pinch the bridge of your nose as the girls enthusiastically agree. Lily hangs back as the boys lead the way to the pub.
“We could probably sneak back to the castle,” Lily mutters to you as you follow the group at a short distance.
“So you’re delusional,” you reply. “James will most certainly notice you’re gone.”
“They would notice you’re gone too… Don’t think I haven’t taken note of how quiet you’ve been.”
“I didn’t want to come here in the first place,” you hiss.
Lily reaches out to grab your hand and interlocked your fingers. “Well, we can suffer through butterbeers together. And then rot in our beds tomorrow.”
“Lily Evans doesn’t rot,” you snort.
You allow the girl to pull you into the Three Broomsticks after your friends. They somehow managed to push two tables together to accommodate their large group, which is an impressive feat given how busy the pub always was when students visited the village in troves. It doesn’t take long for Madam Rosmerta to get foaming mugs of butterbeer in front of everyone. The group sat divided by gender at the table. You made sure to sit on the same side of the table as James so if you accidentally looked down the table, you had a near impossible chance of making eye contact with him. It helped that he was at the complete opposite end of the table. Although Lily had said you would be suffering through butterbeers together, she is quickly engulfed into an animated conversation with Dorcas, Remus and Peter. Mary and Marlene were listening intently, but didn’t offer much to the conversation. James and Sirius appeared to be in their own world at their end of the table. You were content ignoring everyone’s conversations.
You slowly sip on your drink, looking around the pub. A handful of Slytherins are sitting at a table in the corner. You somehow manage to catch Barty’s eye and you share a small smile. Next to him sat the blond Evan Rosier and he was throwing back drinks and laughing loudly. You could see what Barty saw in him. There was a certain lightness to him.
“Mind if I sit here?” a voice asks, bringing your attention to a boy standing at the end of the table with a chair in hand.
“What?”
You recognize him from classes. Davey Something, Ravenclaw. You never really paid him any attention.
“Can I sit here? All my friends went back to the castle already.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Davey, right?” you ask, pulling your mug closer to you.
He sits kitty corner to you, despite there being empty space across from you. You assume that he didn’t know that no one was sitting there.
“That’s my name,” he replies with a smile.
He glances down the table to the rest of the Gryffindors and Dorcas. None of them seem to notice or care that someone new has joined their table.
“Anything interesting going on in Gryffindor Tower lately?” Davey asks, returning his gaze to you. “Most interesting thing to happen in Ravenclaw is a fourth year beat a seventh year in Wizards’ Chess.”
You chuckle and take a sip of your butterbeer.
“Oh, there is always something happening in our tower,” you say. “I slapped James. Argued with him in front of the entire common room. Sirius pulled an all-nighter for no reason. He’s also been snogging anything that moves in a skirt.”
Davey’s smile dips slightly. “Been snogging you?”
“No,” you say with an eye roll, before chuckling as you continue. “James banned him from being within a meter of me for that very reason.”
“That what you argued with him about?”
“Part of it. He’s been acting like I can’t handle myself. Like I had a simple chat with Remus and James threw a fit.”
“He got pissy because you were hanging out with his mates?”
“Yes! That’s also why he got slapped. Those were two different days…” You pause as you glance down the table. “And from what I can tell, he’s still on his bullshit.”
“Definitely is bullshit,” Davey agrees. His brilliant blue eyes looked deep into your eyes. “I think the whole castle knows how capable you are at handling yourself.”
“Do I really have a reputation of more than being the female Potter?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, darling, you do.”
“Tell me about it.”
You take a drink of your butterbeer, draining it. Rosmerta is quick to bring around another one and one for Davey as well. You hadn’t noticed that he didn’t have a mug in front of him previously.
“If you didn’t have Sirius or James as your perpetual dueling partners, you’d have trouble finding one in Defense class. You’re.. too good. It’s almost scary.”
You smile widely with a faint blush on your cheeks. You knew you were good at dueling. That’s why you went off to fight poachers when you knew where they were and didn’t bother buying potion ingredients that could be gathered if you ventured a little further than teachers normally approved. You had also been told by many teachers that you were exceptional at dueling, but hearing from a decently cute boy did something to your ego.
“From what I’ve heard, you’re amazing in every subject. We don’t have many together anymore. But when we were younger, I remember seeing you taunt James whenever you got a better grade than he did… which was pretty often.”
“What’s the point of having a twin if you can’t be better than him,” you laugh.
“Are you better than him at quidditch?”
You groan at that question. “No…”
“Darn. I was hoping you could make the Gryffindor team better.”
You lightly hit Davey’s shoulder playfully.
“Gryffindor is a damn good team!”
“Your seeker is trash!”
You take a second to think about who your seeker is.
“Isn’t he a second year? Cut the kid some slack!”
Davey laughs. “But if he’s the best that tried out? I’m doubting the captain’s skills.”
“Too bad that isn’t a James diss. For some reason he wasn’t made captain this year, but he was last year. Quidditch politics baffle me.”
“I’d try to explain them, but I think they differ by house.”
“You’re not on Ravenclaw’s team?”
“I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have friends who are.”
“James likes to make it his entire personality so I’ve become fairly good at tuning it all out. There are better things to focus on.”
“Yeah? What captures your pretty little brain?”
“During the summer and over breaks, I’m a top-tier chef and baker. I honestly don’t know what my parents eat while we’re at school because I literally make every meal when I’m home.”
“You cook? Isn’t that what house elves are for?”
“Not everyone has, or needs, an elf,” you say firmly. “But, like, cooking is good for distracting my brain. Although I could be better in Potions…”
“You’re in N.E.W.T. level Potions. I’m sure you’re fine,” Davey assures you, placing his hand over yours on the table. “What else do you do besides dueling, cooking and looking beautiful?”
You feel yourself blush more.
“Merlin, this sounds nerdy, but I really do love learning about obscure magic. Haven’t gotten my hands on any good books yet this year because they are usually deep in the Restricted Section and Pince has been watching it like a hawk.”
“Obscure magic? Very Ravenclaw of you.”
You were trying to not look at his hand that was still on yours. His gaze is fixed intently on you. You have all of his attention.
“I plan on either being an Auror or an Unspeakable after school so a deep understanding of magic is important.”
“Look at you. Big ambitions.”
You look down at your empty mugs. You aren’t entirely sure when either of you had finished your drinks but apparently you had. You cast a quick glance down the table as well. You don’t know why you are relieved that no one was paying attention to you, all completely engulfed in one large conversation now.
“Want to get out of here?” you ask, looking back to Davey.
He smiles widely at your suggestion. He stands up and pulls out your chair to help you up.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he whispers into your ear. “Lead the way.”
You take Davey’s hand and you head for the door. You make sure to bump into James’ chair.
“Oops,” you say with a giggle before pulling Davey out of the pub into the autumn evening.
James and Sirius watch you leave with equal looks of distaste.
“Where’s she going?” Sirius asks.
“Better yet, who the fuck is she with?” James follows up.
The rest of the table turns to look but the door has already closed behind you. Despite wanting to follow them, Sirius and James return their attention to the group’s discussion about whether the foul smelling liquid from Gobbstones would cover up the smell of Amortentia. They hadn’t discussed the potion in class yet, but they had heard of the powerful love potion.
You and Davey walk around Hogsmeade, weaving in between buildings. There’s easy conversation between you, nothing too deep or heavy. You can tell by the way he looks at you and lets his touch linger that he’s looking for something more, but conversation feels so platonic. It feels like two acquaintances getting to know each other, which is what it was. You can’t deny that Davey’s attractive, but there’s no draw to him besides a little bit of attention and maybe some revenge aimed at Sirius and James. You find yourself in the garden outside of the village, walking up to the platform that overlooks the Black Lake. The distant glow of Hogsmeade lights it up just right so it feels far more romantic. As you lean over the ledge, you wonder if Sirius’ method of snogging someone else helps you get over them. Looking at Davey, or his lip if you’re being precise, you debate giving it a shot.
Then there’s a burst of noise that makes both of you jump and look over your shoulders. You can barely see the Three Broomsticks and the herd of people leaving it. It isn’t hard to tell that they are arguing. You can pick out James, Sirius, Lily and Dorcas’ voices. Both of you stare for a moment before looking back at each other.
“What do you think happened after we left?” he asks.
You shrug. “Not sure.”
“Don’t be rash!” Lily yells.
“I’m going to kill him!”
“James! Slow down!” Dorcas yells.
“When I find them, I’m going to kill him!”
“And I’m helping!” Sirius adds.
“Like hell you are,” James resorts.
“There!” Marlene exclaims, her voice sounding more cheerful than the others.
You turn to look at Davey nervously when you notice that Marlene is pointing in your direction and the group begins running. James and Sirius shrug off Lily and Dorcas’ grips on them as they tried to hold the boys back. The two are in a full on sprint with the rest of the group jogging behind them. It appeared that they came to the conclusion that none of them could outrun them.
“Gudgeon, step away from her,” James snarls once he reaches the platform.
Davey raises his eyebrows at your brother. “Why?”
“Because he bloody told you to, you git,” Sirius adds, heaving from running.
“But why?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to fully face them. “He came out here with me.”
“And you’re coming back with us,” James says. “Been a long day, time to go home.”
You hum and look at Davey.
“I think I want to stay out a little longer.”
Davey smiles widely at you and then looks back at James and Sirius. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side.
“You boys heard ‘er. She wants to stay.”
“James,” Lily warns as the rest of the group approaches.
She noticed before you that he had started to reach for his wand. James looks at Lily.
“Lils, you must-” he starts to say, but then Sirius is ripping Davey’s arm off of you and picking you up to throw you over his shoulder.
Your yelp of surprise is what cut off James’ excuse to Lily.
“SIRIUS BLACK, YOU PUT ME DOWN!” you holler, trying to remove yourself from his grip.
“Ready to go?” he simply asks the rest of the group.
“Yeah, I’m good,” James answers, much more calm than he had been moments before.
Davey watches as Sirius carries you in the direction of the castle, followed by James and the rest of the group. Peter and Remus bring up the rear, shooting him glares for having gone near you. While the girls didn’t seem to approve of how Sirius and James had gone about getting you away from Davey or why they had, they do seem to support getting you back to the castle.
“Sirius, are you going to put me down?” you ask, sounding defeated.
“No.”
“Why’d you leave the group?” Dorcas asks, moving into your line of sight.
“Too loud and hot,” you lie. You weren’t about to say that you were looking for a pretty distraction from the irritation your brother and boy carrying you caused you.
“Just talk to us next time, yeah? We’ll leave,” James says. “Afterall, you know the buddy system.”
“I had a buddy,” you correct him. “Davey is a just fine buddy.”
“A buddy who just wants to get into your pants,” Marlene sings.
“Huh?”
“He’s just looking for a quick shag, darling,” Mary clarifies.
“Which is why we came to your rescue!” Sirius says.
“Rescue or ambush?” you grumble. “Maybe I wanted a quick shag too.”
The rest of the walk back to Hogwarts is quiet. Your ribs have grown sore from being slung over Sirius’ shoulder and your head feels light. At one point, you close your eyes and just listen to the crunching of leaves underfoot.
“Alright, down you go, pumpkin,” Sirius says as you arrive at the entrance to Hogwarts’ grounds. “Figure you can walk from here.”
He puts you down gently and all you can do is glare at him. You walk slowly into the grounds and the group takes that as a sign that all is well.
“Marls, come on. I got something for you in the dungeons,” Dorcas says, grabbing Marlene’s hand and pulling her toward the castle.
The rest of the group follows suit, picking up their pace to get inside the warmth of the castle. You, however, keep your slow pace. You certainly aren’t in the mood to be sitting with them around the fire in the common room after you were literally hauled back. Sirius is the only one who lingers with you.
“You alright?” he asks quietly, bumping shoulders with you.
You sigh and look up at him. Damn those grey eyes and how warm they make you feel.
“Just tired of James acting like he controls my life.”
Sirius nods and takes a deep breath.
“Come with me,” he says and holds out his hand for you to take.
You hesitate. Your mind is screaming both to take it and to slap it away. How dare he offer his hand to you after being the one to carry you back? But, also, he was offering it to you, giving you the choice to take it. So you do. You take his hand and let him lead you down some stairs to a secluded area near the greenhouses. Light shimmers through their windows, giving the small clearing a subtle glow.
“I think James would back off you a bit if I stopped listening to him about some things,” Sirius mutters, standing in front of you. A gentle hand tucks some of your hair behind your ear and lingers there for a moment.
He’s looking at you like he did that day on the couch, like you were the only one who existed in all of Hogwarts, in all of the world. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to understand what he was saying. All of your focus was on the hand that softly held your cheek. He takes a step toward you and before you can process anything, his lips are brushing up against yours. It’s soft and gentle and momentary.
“I think I can tolerate him more if you do that again,” you mumble.
And he does. The second is still soft and gentle, but it lasts longer. It only deepens slightly when he places his other hand on your waist. Sirius is holding you with a featherlight touch like he doesn’t want to break you, but his hand never leaves your cheek. Inside, despite what you just said, he fears that if he lets go, you will disappear and leave him.
“You could never be a checked box. Because you’re everything,” Sirius whispers.
“Then stop with your stupid list, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
"Good, because I think I like this a little too much."
