light of my life, fire of my loins (be a good baby, do what i want) | curly x afab!reader
nsft under the cut // afab reader insert (some use of "girl"), pussy eating/cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, piv sex, daddy kink, fauxcest, breeding kink
“Are you warm enough?” Curly tweaked your nipple through your flimsy t-shirt, making you giggle and jump back from his touch. “I can turn the space heater on.”
You sat on the edge of his twin bunk, the navy blue sheets twisted between your fingers. The cramped cabin smelled like stagnant, mildew-y laundry with a twinge of sweat, but in this moment you didn’t mind, parting your bare legs and exposing your slick pussy to Curly’s waiting gaze. You could see his pupils dilate in the dim light emanating from his alarm clock.
“I will be soon,” you answered, hooking your leg around his waist and trying to reel him closer with your heel. He was the opposite of you – shirtless with his pants still on, his belt halfway undone and pants unzipped enough to reveal the bulge that pressed at his underwear. He looked beautiful like this.
He leaned in to kiss you, his big hand cupping your soft jaw, tilting your head up so he could easily access your neck. You felt him trail down to where your pulse fluttered beneath your skin and soon after it he sucked your skin into his mouth, leaving a throbbing red-purple bruise that ached when he ran his tongue over it. He loved tending to you like this because of the way it made you falter, your big doe eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, flushed cherry lips parted with a sheen of saliva over them. It reminded him how young and clueless and needy you really were.
“Captain,” you purred, your eyelashes fluttering, mascara already starting to flake off onto your cheeks. “just touch me already.”
Curly grumbled something inaudible. He squeezed your jaw, the pads of his fingers pressing into your bone just enough to create a delightful radiating pressure, his eyes storming with a brew of emotion dark as an angry sea. You could see it in your periphery, the glint of something unreadable that flecked beneath artificial light. His breathing picked up in pace.
“What’s missing from that sentence?” he asked, his tone challenging, deep voice hardly above a rasp.
You choked out a simple “Please.”
“Please who?”
You hesitated, but a small smile curled at the corners of your mouth. “Please, daddy.”
“Atta girl,” you felt him smile into your skin as he slipped his spare hand under your shirt. “this what you wanted?”
You nodded while he crept closer to your breasts. Your nipples were already hardening, growing puffy beneath his fingertips as he pinched and tugged at the sensitive buds, snickering to himself when your breath caught in your throat. Curly was so gentle, every tiny sensation rippling through you, your pillowy skin taut under his calloused hands. He trailed hot, wet kisses over your windpipe, his beard prickling against your flesh. You gingerly reached out for his thigh, your nails dragging against the tough fabric of his work pants, and his hips jerked a little bit as he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Nuh-uh, you first, kiddo,” Curly cooed into your ear, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin. “let me take care of you.”
You loved when Curly got like this. He so naturally took control, put you in your place, and you couldn’t help but fall for it every single time. He could always tell when it was starting to get to you, too, with the way your irises would darken and your lips would get all pouty, looking at him like a little porn star with your legs open like that, your shirt tugged up over your tits. It made his cock twitch in his pants when he pulled back to look at you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said almost shakily, his gaze faltering as it landed on your lips. “I’m the luckiest man in the universe.”
“You aren’t, though,” you shook your head with a mischievous edge to your voice. “you haven’t even fucked me yet.”
“You’re impatient tonight, huh?” Curly gave a playful smack to your tit, making you wince out a high-pitched squeak. “It’s never enough for you.”
“No, daddy.”
You tugged your shirt up over your head and tossed it over Curly’s shoulder, assuming one of you would find it again later. His eyes widened as he took in the full view of your beautiful body – he wanted to savor you, to commit every curve of yours to his memory. It looked like he was devouring you with his gaze, slowly consuming every inch of you, every freckle and scar and strand of hair, and he was taking all your energy with him, leaving you soft and pliant and spreading your legs wider.
Curly looked like he was starving. You watched as he lowered his head and kissed down your chest, grumbling something that sounded like fuck into your skin before he took your nipple in his mouth. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in blond curls as your teeth dug into your lower lip. He sucked hard on the bud before gently laving his tongue over it, big blue puppy eyes burning a hole in you.
“Shit, Curly–” you hissed, and he sharply struck your other breast before taking your other nipple between his fingers and pinching, as if to reprimand you. It felt like the snap of a rubber band, stinging before melting away to a comfortable ache. “ –daddy! Fuck!”
You felt his groan, guttural and borderline feral and vibrating against your skin like a siren song. sometimes you wondered if he was more into your depraved little affliction than you were. All you knew was that he played the part, filled that aching, churning void inside of you that was left behind by a man undeserving of such a title, and you loved it.
You were Curly’s little girl.
“Daddy,” you crooned again, your eyes fluttering shut as curly started traveling down your torso, his rough hands roving your stomach and hips, pinching your love handles. You felt him graze your skin with his teeth only to smooth it over with butterfly kisses. You loved the little ways he was rough with you.
“What do you want, baby?” he asked, the gravelly note of desire in his voice making your pussy throb without him even touching you there.
“You,” one hand rested on his strong shoulder and gently pushed him towards the heat between your thighs. “just need you, daddy, please–”
Curly took the hint without putting up a fight, his kisses lighting a fire under your skin as his big hands gingerly parted your legs further. His head lowered between your knees, and he looked up at you like a dog with a bird in its jaws; so full of adoration that it almost made you sick to your stomach. He was inches away from your cunt now, eyeing it hungrily, two of his fingers spreading your delicate folds while his other hand pinned your hips to the mattress.
“Wet already, huh?” you could hear the cockiness in his voice, as much as he tried to hide it. His eyes were shiny like big wet pearls. “You’re cute.”
“It’s not my fault,” you retorted, brushing a strand of golden hair out of his eyes. “it’s yours.”
“Yeah?” Curly kissed the hood of your clit and you squirmed under his strong forearm, one of your legs hooking over his shoulder. He seemed to like it when you did that, because immediately afterwards his tongue darted from his mouth and licked over your slit. He smiled up at you innocently. “I don’t know about that.”
“You’re just teasing me now,” you half-grumbled, half-whined, squeezing the muscles in your thigh as he pressed his cheek into your sensitive skin. “C’mon. Please, dad.”
Dad. Fuck, that made his cock leak. You saw it on his face, the momentary shock melting away to a sick sense of pleasure, the beads of sweat forming at his hairline. But if he was going to hell, you were coming with him – your juices dripping onto his fingers as he toyed your entrance with his thumb told him everything he needed to know.
“Shit,” Curly muttered under his breath as his head dove between your legs, apparently deciding to waste absolutely no more time before he went to town on you. All you could do was take it no matter how hard you tried to wriggle your hips. He was relentless, lapping at your clit like you tasted like heaven, his middle and ring fingers slipping inside your tight cunt.
He coaxed a chorus of electrifying moans out of you, your hips and thighs starting to quake as his fingers curled against your g-spot. He made it seem so effortless, the way he expertly touched you and left you aflame, his mouth and hands seemingly made of magic. He was smoldering, gaze intently focused on you and your reactions, and you felt like you were going to melt, your jaw falling slack as sparks of pleasure shot up your core.
Your hips arched up off the bed for just long enough to attract Curly’s attention – and give him an idea. He lifted you up with one arm as he rose to his knees, holding you almost upside down with your legs dangling off of his shoulders, and started finger-fucking you into absolute oblivion while he sucked on your clit. You felt so utterly helpless, clinging to the sheets so hard your knuckles were turning white, biting down on your lip so you wouldn’t scream. Warmth coiled tight in your stomach and your eyes started to water. Your pussy squelched obscenely around Curly’s thick fingers, the sound of it filling the cabin along with your jagged breathing and his grunts and mumbles. The air smelled like sex, like you and him combined.
“Dad,” you cried in that broken, high-pitched voice you always got when he fucked you. “d-dad, oh my god–!”
“Not too loud,” Curly pulled his mouth away from your pussy and looked up at you, his bearded chin glossy with your slick. “you don’t want the crew to hear, do you?”
“Can’t help it,” you answered in between shaky, shallow pants.
“Why not?”
“You know what you’re doing to me.”
He half-laughed, half-rumbled, his face eagerly diving back down between your legs like he needed your pussy to breathe, his rough fingers continuously working your g-spot. You had to bite down on your fingers, your eyes rolling back in your head, petite body powerless to do anything to stop him even if you wanted to.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you were white-knuckling the sheets so hard you could’ve torn them, your breaths coming out in shallow, arduous pants. “daddy, dad please I’m gonna–!”
Your first orgasm was so sudden and so harsh that you didn’t even have the time to warn him. Your vision splintered into a galaxy of tiny shards, every cell in your body shaken to its core, your breath stolen right from your chest. Curly had to hold you steady so you wouldn’t collapse.
It ebbed away in waves, and as you came back down he was staring down at you, awestruck. His own breathing was heavy and jagged, and beads of sweat dripped from his brow. “You okay?”
“M-more,” was all you said, and it was all you needed to say.
You fell back down to the mattress with a plop, sighing in despair as his fingers slipped out of you and left you clenching around nothing. Oh, he was planning something, and you knew it when he stopped to get fully undressed. You were waiting with your heart in your throat.
When Curly turned back to you, his eyes looked like a dark ocean and you were swimming in them. He loomed over you with his cock in his hand, precum oozing from the tip onto your belly. It was your turn to ogle him , and fuck, if he wasn’t one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. A large, stocky figure with just the right mix of muscle and slight pudge. Big, strong arms. Rigid V-lines along his hips. A nice coat of fine blond body hair, in some places hardly visible against his pale skin. And the most beautiful, beaming, sexy smile.
“My eyes are up here, y’know,” he chuckled. “but go ahead. Look all you want.”
Looking, however, wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted to touch him. You wanted him fucking inside of you. You reached your hand out to cup his breast, taking his nipple between your fingers and pinching lightly. His breath hitched and he gave you an unreadable look, a noticeable flush crawling up the sides of his neck.
“Okay. Or that.”
“Is there a problem, dad?” you asked as your hand fell lower, feeling for the muscles in his stomach. He tensed, and they flexed under your palm. He was so warm to the touch, and his skin surprisingly soft.
“No,” Curly blinked. “just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”
“Good,” you bit your lip mischievously as you took his cock in his your delicate little hand, thick, swollen shaft twitching as you did so. You saw him try to bite back a noise and heard it when he failed. “god, you’re huge.”
He thrust his hips into your hand, angry red tip now bumping right up against your sensitive, puffy clit. You were so beautiful, your pretty little face contorting into an expression of pleasure as you rubbed his cock up and down your slit, your hips twitching like they had a mind of their own.
And then Curly looked at you, and you looked at him, and oh, he just couldn’t help himself.
Suddenly you were boxed between his strong arms, face nestled in the pillows with his cock buried halfway inside you.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, babygirl,” Curly leaned down until he was flush against you, his face so close to yours that your noses were bumping together, and you could feel his hot breath against your lips. He looked feverish. “ fuck, you feel so good.”
“Yeah, daddy?” you whined, your trembling, clammy hands finding purchase in his golden hair. You were just as ravenous, your eyes darkening with lust as your stare melted him. “Fuck me harder. I can take it.”
“Are you sure?” his brow was furrowed, little pink tongue running over his lower lip. “I don’t want to h–”
“Dad,” you said sharply, almost pouting at him. “f-fuck your daughter like you mean it.”
Oh, god, he was going to hell.
Curly’s resolve shattered like broken glass. He kissed your forehead as he started to pound into you, and you were trying not to scream again, breaking out into a sweat, clawing into the broad plane of his shoulder blade. Your pussy ached and burned from the stretch. He was so fucking deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your tummy, the head of his cock ramming into that spot near your cervix that made your vision go white.
Fuck, he was enjoying this, watching you struggle as his cock split you in half. He loved seeing your face knot up every time he rammed into you. The redness of your cheeks. The way your tits bounced and your stomach bulged.
All you could do was moan at him, a cacophony of your pleased whimpers and cries filling the small cabin. You were clinging to him for dear life, your arms wrapped around his torso, hands resting on his muscular back that you loved to feel ripple under your touch while he fucked you. He leaned down to kiss you and he tasted like fucking salvation, your tongues pressing against each other and mixing saliva, his teeth gently grazing your lower lip, the sound of his grunts and moans so close to your ears.
He reached between your legs and you immediately knew what was coming, clenching around his cock and whimpering before he even touched you. You saw him smirk as his hand disappeared, and then there was that ever so lovely pressure on your sore, puffy clit.
“Da-aaad,” you whined loudly without even thinking, and you felt Curly twitch inside of you, watched his pupils blow wide. He was getting off on it just as much as you were – the sick, depraved things you were saying to each other. “oh, dad, please, please, please–!”
“Something wrong, baby?” he kissed your ear, then down your jaw, stopping briefly to get a whiff of your shampoo.
Curly wasn’t quite expecting what you were about to hit him with.
“Breed me, please, fuck, god I want it–”
He faltered, his hips stuttering, and it looked like he choked on his own spit. “Wh-what?”
“Y-you heard me,” your face was heating up. “fuck a baby into me. W-wanna have your kids, dad, fucking g-give it to me, ah–!”
Oh, holy shit.
That was it. If Curly had any fucks left to give, they were gone now. He pounded into you with everything he had in him, his skin slapping against yours, one of your legs somehow ending up over his shoulder. Your whorish noises were muffled only by his fingers in your mouth. Your skin was on fire and you were drowning at the same time, swallowed almost entirely by your desire for him. More of him. Consequences be fucking damned.
“Fuck,” he was the one whimpering now, his teeth digging into your shoulder. “you want a baby, huh? That’s what you want, yeah? I’ll fucking give it to you, kid, fuck–!”
“Yes, daddy, c’mon,” you pleaded, locking your legs around his hips so he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “cum inside me, Curly, fucking do it, give your little girl a baby.”
His thrusts grew erratic and with a few more he was shooting thick ropes of cum deep inside you, shuddering moans vibrating against your chest. You could feel his hot breath, the sticky sweat on his skin, hear his cries of your name. You followed shortly behind him, your pussy clenching around him as your second orgasm rocked your body. Your vision shattered into a sky full of stars, every muscle tensing, beads of sweat racing down the backs of your knees.
“Holy shit,” your voice was quivering. “th-that was–”
“Yeah,” Curly collapsed onto your chest, his ear pressed to your sternum in search of your heartbeat. “are you alright?”
“Never been better.”
“Good.”
You stayed like that for a long while, limbs tangled together in a heap, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you. Eventually, you fell asleep – Curly with his fingers coiled in your hair, and you with your arms wrapped around him. You were the happiest and most satisfied you’d been in a long time.
summary four times james almost kisses you and one time he does. [9k]
warnings fluff, mutual pining, getting together, first kiss, idiots in love, first date, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, suggestive language/theme, late 90s au, rugby player!james
<3
James Potter is a little obsessed with you. In a cool, extremely chill and normal way, he thinks. It's hard not to be, here, at some random party half drunk and pushed into your side with your perfect hand held protectively over his head to shield him from the hubbub of partygoers.
"Still feeling poorly?" you ask, pushing the hair from his eyes.
"I need a haircut," he says, distracted by your touch.
"No!" you protest in a whisper. "No, James. Your hair‘s lovely, please don't cut it. What would I run my hands through if you did?" You say all this with a lopsided smile, one corner pulled up higher than the other, and a conspiring tone.
He blinks rapidly. Maybe he doesn't need a haircut after all.
Your fingertips push into the thick tresses at his hairline and scrape back. He shivers in light pleasure and reaches out to grab your thigh where his head is resting, indulgently absorbing the warmth of your body.
You barely notice, pulled back into a conversation with a girl on the sofa opposite. James feels his phone pulse in his pocket and is reluctant to retrieve it, worried you'll pause your ministrations. He watches you take a sip of your drink and almost spit it out laughing and deems you distracted, struggling with his phone, just drunk enough that his motor skills are fucking with him as he snaps it open.
Sirius told me to tell you that you look pathetic. Love Remus.
James scowls at his phone and lifts his head from your leg to look towards where he thinks his friends are located. Sure enough, they haunt the kitchen doorway with equally humorous looks on their faces, Sirius smug to Remus' pitying. James flips Sirius off and finds it returned, a perfectly painted and manicured finger held aloft.
You giggle by James' ear. "I hope that's not for me."
"Definitely to me. You'll have to forgive him. He was dragged up," he says, groaning at his embarrassing mates.
"Don't be cruel," you admonish, nudging him with a naked elbow.
His phone chirps again.
I also think you look pathetic. It's cute. Do you want food? Love Remus.
Moons u rly don't need to sign off every txt. Not hngry. Luv u
OK. Love Remus.
James laughs at his friend's hopelessness and tucks his phone away.
"I'm never cruel," he tells you.
You neaten the rolled up hem of his short sleeve unthinkingly and he can't help how much he wants to kiss you. It's all in the little things, he knows. You put your fingers in his hair and he's happy to lie in your lap like a dog; you fix his clothes and he wants to kiss you stupid; you smile at him sweetly, asking if he still feels sick, and if he is does he want you to go sit with him outside for a bit? He's ashamed of the heat in his chest.
James finds himself at your side with an inch between your legs, a porch bench swinging underneath you.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings," you say tentatively. He feels an alarming rush of vertigo at your words, until you continue, "But I think you could benefit from some mild temperance."
He scrubs his face, nausea ebbing as you clarify. He thought for a moment you were going to reject him before he even confessed.
"Yeah, maybe. Wouldn't have any reason for you to take care of me then," he says, startled and sounding it. He winces before he's done. You make a humming sound.
"You hardly need to be drunk for me to take care of you."
He sits with this and looks out over the garden. It's a nice space, the home in a wealthy neighbourhood, twinkling fairy lights strung up over the porch and solar powered lamps peppered down a keenly landscaped stretch of green grass and flowerbeds. There's a pretty stone path leading down to the end of the garden where a grey-white fountain spurts water. It sounds calm if you can ignore the sound of the party, which he finds himself more and more able to do as your knee creeps closer to his.
He wishes, and hates himself for it, that he'd worn shorts. Craves that tiny skin on skin contact when your thigh touches him. You must be cold in your skirt, a midi slit up one side that shows the smooth stretch of your outer thigh, colder on your top half in a spaghetti strap shirt and a loose knit cardigan.
If he thought you'd accept it he would offer you his jacket, but you won't. He's tried before. I don't want you to get cold, Jamie.
"You really don't think I should get a haircut?" he asks self-consciously, tugging a hand through his unruly waves.
"No," you say seriously, turning your torso towards him.
"It's a little long," he complains.
"James, please." You lift your hand up to replace his, pushing his hair back.
"I'll look like Sirius soon enough."
You shift. The bench sways. You push your second hand in his hair and pull it all away from his face gently. He can feel the cool breeze on his bare, clammy forehead as you sit there with your hands in his hair
You run your hand through his dark mop one last time, then stop with your hands braced at the back of his head, a big smile on your face.
"Don't cut it," you implore him seriously, looking into his eyes.
He deserves a medal for not leaning into your arms right then and there.
"How do you keep it so soft even though it's this thick?"
He doesn't understand how you can continue a conversation like this without melting. He's melting. You're talking like everything is normal, fingers twined between ink dark strands and fingertips massaging his scalp.
"I… I oil my roots before I wash it." He doesn't share how his mum insists on doing it for him most of the time now he's back home from school.
"You can definitely tell," you murmur.
His eyes shut. He blames it on his drunkenness and not the feeling of your hands.
"James?" you ask quietly.
"Yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like an unintelligible hum.
"Are you tired? D'you need to go home?"
"Maybe." He does feel suddenly like his limbs are made of stone.
"Who are you going home with?" you ask.
You stand. The bench wobbles. One hand falls out of his hair to rest on his shoulder and his skin warms where it lands, the other tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He opens his bleary eyes and is met with a silver of your midriff, promptly closing them again to push evil thoughts from his mind in which he kisses stripes over that naked skin for hours.
"Sirius is driving me home," he admits reluctantly.
"Let's go look for him."
James reluctantly follows you with a little wobble. His inebriation has faded as the night progresses but a general tipsy dizziness prevails. You press a hand to his lower back and he narrowly avoids trodding on your strappy sandals.
"I don't see him anywhere. Can you text him?" you ask.
James grabs his phone. You both press your backs to the wall to make way for some passersbys. He doesn't bother with texting Sirius: Remus always answers.
Where r u??
Went to get food. Love Remus.
When will u b back?
Sirius wanted Molly's Kitchen. Love Remus.
Molly's kitchen in MILTON KENYES?
Sorry. He is very convincing. Love Remus.
I know he is… luv u see u never when i die here abandoned & cold
See you tomorrow. Love Remus.
It takes him so long to type this all out he's surprised when you're still by his side. You're looking at the picture frames hanging on the wall with the patience of a Saint.
"They ditched me."
"Oh," you say.
"Yep."
"Well, you'll just have to come home with me," you say breezily.
He gawks. You fish your keys out of your cardigan and brandish them like a lump of gold. "I have leftover pizza. Or we can order in. If you're hungry?"
He's not. "Sure. Whatever you want."
"We can walk. It's not that far. If you can walk?"
"I can walk."
Barely. He knows it would've been a lovely stroll with you in the lazy summer air, sun still ligphting the sky despite the time, gauzy pinks and blues skimming the white-gold horizon, if only he hadn't been half cut. Your skin is shiny as finest silk and a gentle breeze floats your perfume towards him and he's close to admitting maybe he's obsessed with you in a way that isn't cool at all by the time you make it to the front door.
It's a mostly silent journey until you're shutting your bedroom door behind you and he's wondering how he got here, sitting at the end of your bed. Your room is an extension of you that he can't take in fast enough. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.
You lean down and unstrap your sandals and he toes off his own shoes, trying not to look at how you're bent over, at the silhouette of your legs in your light skirt. Next is your cardigan. He feels like a bachelor in the 1800s, hungry and guilty at your naked skin.
Your silver anklets click together as you weave past him to your bedside table. You flick on the glass shade lamp and an array of multicolour sprays up the wall and your hands. He's mesmerised.
"Pizza," you mumble to yourself, and then looking up at him, "James, I don't have any pajamas for you. Um… oh, and your jeans are gonna be uncomfortable. Do you wear boxers?"
"I- I- yeah. Yes." When he tells this story later, much later, he will not recall stammering here.
"Well, if you wanna sleep in your boxers I don't mind. Better than those awful jeans. I'm gonna heat up the pizza. Bathrooms right there," you point at the door, "if you need it. Are you still feeling sick?"
"No," he says, a smidge overwhelmed.
You reach out and cup his cheek for a second as you pass. He sits in your aftermath and worries he may not make it through the night.
Watching you eat is a strange pleasure. To get to watch you eat is the first, and then the face you make trying to catch a string of cheese is a close second. Now, lying shoulder to shoulder with you, too hot for the duvet and in his boxers he can't get the image of you out of his head. He's too afraid to turn and see the real thing in case you think he's trying to cop a feel.
He'd insisted on sleeping on the floor and you'd laughed so much you went warm in the cheeks. "No, James, that's okay. You're with me."
You'd swapped your skirt for a pair of loose cotton pants. The fabric of which brushed against his calf as you squirmed restlessly.
"It's too warm," you complain.
He's so tired he can barely answer. "Yes."
"I'm gonna open the window," you declare. You climb over his legs and there's so many points of contact he thinks he might go blind.
Window opened, you stand at the sill and pick your vest away from your skin, looking over your shoulder at him, catching him mid-heady gaze. If you care you don't show it, smiling at him with your big hoop earrings still in, your necklace, your bracelets. He frowns to himself. Are you supposed to sleep with jewellery?
You climb back into bed, standing at the edge and flopping down much closer to him than you had been before. It wafts a ridiculous gust of your intoxicating smell over him.
"It's supposed to be this hot all week," you say morosely.
"The miraculous nature of British summer time," he murmurs.
You laugh breathily. "How awful. When it's cold I want the sun to come out and when the sun's out I miss the rain."
He turns his head to watch you talk.
"I like the sunshine." You tilt your head up, in a deep debate with yourself. "It's the humidity I can't deal with. It makes my hair so frizzy. I want soft hair like you, and-" you pause. "Watcha doing?"
"Do you sleep with these?" he asks, poking at the hoop hanging from your earlobe.
"Oh. Sometimes. You're not supposed to, 'cos they're big and all, but I forget."
"Can I?"
"Sure, yes. Please."
He nods and brings his other hand up, pulling the latch off your hoop and sliding it from your ear. He climbs up onto his elbow and presses his fingers to your jaw, turning your head into the pillow so he can reach the other. You're decidedly pliant and quiet under his touch as he pulls the second out. He puts them down by your shoulder and pulls on your necklace until the clasp is in sight.
He's holding his breath. You're looking up into his face with wide, soft eyes, and he catches the tremble you resist as he pulls the necklace free from your neck.
"Tickles," you say sheepishly. He's close enough to feel the warmth of your exhale on his skin.
He drapes the necklace next to your earrings but can't bring himself to move. Your eyelashes twitch. Your lips part and he can see the tiniest sneak of your tongue.
The way you're looking at him is dazzling, dizzying. He smooths down the hair closest to your neck that he'd disrupted while detangling your necklace, ignores the unsteadiness in his hands, presses his fingers to the side of your throat.
Your eyelashes kiss as your eyes drift shut, and he leans down just as you turn your face from his.
"You're drunk, Jamie," you whisper, covering his hand with your own.
He knows you're right. Though drunk seems dramatic at this point, admittedly there's alcohol in his system, and he lets himself fall back into your sheets.
"Sorry," he says.
You bring your arm across your front to grasp his shoulder in your palm. Time moves slow.
"James?"
"Yeah?"
You brush the tousled hair from his face, your touch featherlight and familiar now against his temple. His heart soars as you cuddle in closer, skips when you touch your lips to the muscle of his bicep. "Sleep well," you say warmly.
You break the kiss and stroke the skin there gently with your thumb before turning on your back.
-
so u didn't kiss her?
u r exacerbating my pain, Black
Good. Ur pain SHOULD be 'exacerbated' idiot.
i was tipsy. she didn't want me 2
and in the morning when u were sober ??? couldn't have kissed her in between waffles????
she acted like it didn't happen so I did 2
oh my god! U r so dumb !
James dropped his phone in his lap, feeling the humiliation of his defeat tenfold. Sirius was right, James should have kissed you at breakfast. Maybe. Or at least made his intentions with you clear. He wasn't trying to kiss you because he was drunk or because you were there, he was trying to kiss you because he was hopelessly endeared to you and hoped you might want to put up with him for a bit. Or years. Whatever, it's not like he was planning the wedding or anything. Yet.
He very much hadn't kissed you the next morning. You'd gotten up before him, an angel in your new fresh clothes and your hair out of your face, skin dewy and fucking hell was he lovelorn. He'd been sick as a dog at the table and you'd mistaken it for a hangover, pressing a cup of water into one hand and two ibuprofen in the other, smelling like sweetness behind him.
"Temperance," you'd said encouragingly, lips by his ear.
He relayed this all to Remus over the phone on the bus home, who had listened without judging for the most part up until that point.
"Oh, James."
"You think that's bad?" he'd asked.
"James."
"Just. Don't tell Sirius?"
"I won't." A lie, evidently. At least I can be mad at Remus' blather mouth rather than my own pussy footing, James thinks happily, pulling a throw cushion over his face.
"I'm an idiot," he says into the cushion. It doesn't say anything back.
-
James Potter isn't your boyfriend to your whimsy disappointment, but you think he might want to be.
You'll admit that his tipsy almost-kiss was a speed bump where you worried that awkwardness would wedge between you ruthlessly, but the next morning he'd made enough jokes to have you tearing up and looked at you so adoring you assumed that point moot.
You dress extra pretty tonight, a million different trinkets, silver thin bangles that jingle. Please, you think. Please, James, just ask me on a date.
You're sick of motives. These days you only go so you can see James, tired of party drugs and alcohol and sweaty guys looking at you in that way where you know exactly what they're thinking.
You spy him now, pressing through the doorway with his entourage behind him. You think this with love. His two tallest friends are always right by his side, and a smaller girl trails behind them that you think is called Emmeline.
The first half of his friends that you knew of had arrived earlier in the evening along with your only mutual friend, Mary. You give her a saccharine smile as you peel away, not bothering to hide where you're planning on going.
She smiles indulgently and turns to the short-haired girl, Dorcas. Guilt-free, you wheedle past people you don't know and some that you do, giving pause when one of your friends from school appears. By the time you've finished menial well wishes you can't see James anymore.
"Looking for someone?"
You jump and spin on your flat shoes.
A relieved smile works its way across your mouth.
"James, you startled me," you say, voice light, pressing your fingers to your sternum.
"Sorry, sweetheart. Here." He gestures his big hand to you.
A flower. You take its stem between your fingers gingerly.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Saw it on the way."
You twirl it around and watch its petals dance before passing it back to him.
You smile despite yourself at his crestfallen expression and take a step closer.
"Put it in my hair?" you ask.
His brown eyes lighten, hot amber tea steeped in his irises. He's careful as he sews the flower's delicate stalk into the hair closest to your ear, his mouth hovering just over your forehead. You half hope he's going to press a kiss to your skin before he steps back. He doesn't, though his fingertips give you almost the same pleasure as he flattens what are already well tamed baby hairs.
You want an excuse to stay close to him. He'd done it all by himself the last time by participating in a drinking game he had no chance of winning and needing somewhere to lie down. Your lap had been open. You'd prefer he stray from any recreation of this tonight, and are saved from thinking up a new excuse when he taps the toe of his shoe into yours.
You look down at the rubber toes and then up at his face.
"Want a drink?" he asks.
You pull your shoe back just enough to hit his again. "Depends. What kind?"
"We brought a keg, not that I think you're interested in that."
"Nope," you agree, wrinkling your nose with a grimace.
His answering smile is ridiculously contagious.
"You don't strike me as someone so picky."
"I know what I like," you say, demure. "But I'll try anything once."
His eyes darken, sticky sweet; a playfulness edged in something like I dare you.
"Let's hope I can get you something that sticks," he says back, twice as smooth.
An immeasurable pleasure eats up your spine as his hand comes between your shoulder blades, steering you into the kitchen. He exchanges hellos with guys you don't know huddled around the kitchen table playing cards. One of them lights a cigarette and James stands between you and the twisting smoke, opening his arm out to the countertops covered in drink.
"What do you want, baby?"
You cross your legs and lean forward, pretending to read labels.
"How about you pick for me?" You turn your head to the side and enunciate each word through lips barely parted, eyes tracking his hands where they hang at his sides. His left hand twitches.
"And if you don't like what I choose?"
You straighten up slowly, "Then you'll make me another."
He laughs and you know he can see through all the aloof confidence you carry around you, can see you for who you are, but it doesn't read as cruelty so much as a kindness. You feel the layer of coolness you'd layered on slip away and smile at him with too much teeth, pleased when his hand claps your shoulder and he steps forward to make you a drink.
The concoction he makes is a little too sweet for you but you drink it without complaint, sitting up on the counter where there's room.
He leans with his hand braced behind him next to your thighs, face close to your own and beautiful as he talks to you, brown skin cooled by the white fluorescents and eyes shiny. You can see the smattering of dark stubble coming in if you look, which you aren't. Except that you are. Hungry, you soak in his little details. Tiniest scar by his mouth. Beauty spot not far from it under his nose, almost invisible against his skin. Wavy hair in tighter curls tonight and smelling of coconut or almond or something, fresh and fragrant and thick. His glasses, black wire frames, slide down his nose so often it drives you crazy to watch him push them back up.
Eventually, unable to resist the temptation, you straighten them on the bridge of his nose mid-sentence. He pauses to blow air out of the side of his mouth, warding off a curl dipping close to his eyebrows as you do, and the silence stretches even when your hands are safely returned to your lap.
"You look…" You press your lips together in an attempt to fight off a nervous giggle that slips out anyways as you continue, making the words less serious than they're meant to be, "Pretty. Or handsome. If you prefer."
He puts his drink down on the countertop. You knead your own fingers.
"You look pretty too. Handsome, if you prefer," he returns, creeping closer still. Your chest burns with the pleasure of being complimented. "So much jewellery tonight, you're a mirror ball."
"You don't like it?"
"Didn't say that."
You lift a hand, let all the bangles drop down your arm. "I may have bordered on excessive," you admit, abashed.
"Don't worry, I know all about excessive," he placates, picking his drink up pointedly. The image of him plastered and poorly pops up in your head.
"Yes, well, I was hoping you'd stay sober." You run your finger over the rim of your glass, unable to look at him. "In case I need some help."
His hand reaches out, a finger hooking under one chain bracelet and tugging gently. You can feel his gaze on your face, feel as he puts his drink down again with a final clink. His hand closes around your bracelet.
His fingers are gentle as his other hand slowly, slowly works up your face, fingertips pushing over the delicate, smooth skin of your cheek. His thumb finds a home at the bottom of your chin and he uses it to guide your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
It's intense because you want it, because he's handsome, because he's funny, because he's awfully, terribly kind. Because something between you both fits together like it's meant to, and you just know that if he kisses you everything is gonna work out like it should.
His eyes are on your lips. You follow his eyes with sick excitement and miss when he slips your bracelet off of your wrist.
You look between you both. He holds the silver links between his fingers. It's the only one he would've needed to unclasp, the rest are seamless bangles. This one, silver with small blue cut gems, is just his style.
You hold your palm out, mourn his hand as it falls from your face. You both look down between you as you wrap the tennis bracelet around his wrist and click it into place.
"There," you say, so quietly you're worried he might miss it. "Something for me to take off'a you."
His hand finds your face with purpose now, almost pulling you toward his own beaming face and he's opening his mouth, about to say something with a laugh already on his lips when a shattering crash echoes from the living room and into the kitchen. James stills, hand moving down to squeeze your shoulder protectively as he turns to the door.
A barking laugh. James turns back quickly, apologetic, murmuring a "Jump down?" and pushing his forearm under your armpit to help you down off of the counter.
As soon as your canvas shoes touch down, he takes a light hold on your wrist and pulls you along, following the guys who'd been playing cards. In the living room, Sirius sits at a coffee table with a knife in his hand. Sticking into his hand, blood already pooling around it in a black crimson horror that has half the room in morbid silence and the other half panicking.
Remus, at Sirius' left, is laughing with tears running down his cheeks, sounding like he's one guttural guffaw from throwing up. Sirius looks pretty cool about the whole thing, cooler when he spots James in the doorway.
"Prongs! Come and pull this out, would you? I'd do it, but I can't seem to make myself grab it."
Remus let's out another sobbing laugh. You can't help but giggle from behind James' shoulder, and Sirius zeroes in on this.
James drops your hand, walking forward and bending at the waist.
"Hey, don't think because you're his girl now that means you-fuck! Oh fuck, what the fuck-" Sirius presses the open sleeve of his dress shirt hurriedly into the wound, freshly opened. James holds the knife he'd just pulled free in his hand distastefully.
"Alright, hotshot, run your mouth in the car. You need stitches."
"Fuck's sake."
James drops the knife on the table and shoves the wounded boy's head with the flat of his palm, earning another curse. Remus, finally extending some friendly generosity, pulls the dark shirt he's layered over a t-shirt off and encourages Sirius to wrap it around his hand.
Sirius protests. "This'll give me an infection."
"Fuck off and die, then," Remus suggests lightly, wiping at his eyelashes with the side of his pinky finger.
Sirius wrinkles his nose. James tries to shepherd them both from the room, which has once again grown loud with laughing, most of it at the absurdity of Sirius injury.
"What did I tell you about pinfinger?" James asks scornfully.
"Not to play it," Remus supplies, stepping over people's feet with little apology.
You watch the sorry threesome make their way to the door, a disheartened feeling creeping in.
James opens the front door and pushes Sirius through it, torn looking back at you.
"Remus can't drive, so I'll have to take him," he explains.
"You still have my bracelet."
A weak argument. He can hear your disappointment. He smiles, eyebrows pulling up in… sympathy? Empathy? Apology? You can't tell what, only that he looks soft as butter as he says, "I'll call you? We can arrange a time for you to take it back."
"Okay," you agree, much too happy, just as he's pulled out the door by a bloody hand.
-
James doesn't have your number. He realises this in A&E, close to midnight with Remus asleep on one shoulder and Sirius slouched in the other, waiting for the plastics to come and assess if Sirius has done any permanent damage to his finger.
"I don't understand how you can stab yourself in the hand and fuck up your finger," James mutters for what's likely the fifth time.
Sirius sighs unhappily. "It's ligaments or tendons or something. I might very well have cut through a cord that needs to remain uncut."
"You're an idiot."
"Thanks, James."
"Yeah, you're welcome." James slouches a little lower in his chair to take the strain off of his best friend's neck in a show of genuineness. He does love him, after all, even after shocking displays of public stupidity.
"Sorry for cockblocking you," Sirius says.
"Vile. Wasn't gonna turn out that way. Though I was hoping I might actually make a real move tonight. I did make a real move," James shakes his head, disgruntled. "I was seconds away from kissing her. Your idiocy couldn't wait 30 seconds?"
"Wasn't exactly timing it, mate."
"Yeah."
James digs through his pocket for his phone. He never knows where the damn thing is. Your bracelet is tight to his skin and he looks at it with keen longing, imagining your nicely shaped nails running under it.
He shakes it off, goes to unlock his phone, and this is where he realises he doesn't have your number.
"Do you have Y/N's number?" he asks Sirius.
"No." It sounds like why would I?
"Fuck."
"She's Mary's friend, isn't she? Ask Mary."
He sighs and does as he's told, scrolling through contacts until he finds Mary MacDonald's.
Hi mary was wondering if u have Y/N's phone #
And why should I give it to you, Pots? :3 :D <3
pls mary I am not above begging u
While that would be a sight, I meant why do you want it? But please tell me more about the begging part!!! <33
mary
What are your intentions with my Y/N? She's much too sweet for you to manhandle <33
James blushes at her wording and groans aloud. "Girls are impossible."
"Yep," Sirius says tiredly.
James doesn't want his or your business passed around, and if he tells Mary, Mary will tell Dorcas and Dorcas will tell Marlene and Marlene will tell everybody she knows and will find it very, very entertaining as she does. He doesn't plan on awarding her the pleasure. He tells a white lie.
I found her bracelet and want to give it back :]
I'll give it back for you ;) <3
not that I don't trust u M but its super nice, id prefer to give it in person myself
OK OK I'll stop yanking your chain now Jamesie dearest hahaha. Her number is +44 XXXX XXXXXX. I trust the bracelet gets back to her in one piece. btdub, how's siri? <3
crying and shaking like a lamb, thanks m xoxo
He adds your number to his contacts and then stares at it until the nurse calls for Sirius and they get up to meet her, leaving Remus to blink awake confused at their departure.
-
hi Y/N, this is James
You look down at your rarely used phone and feel a warmth like sunshine unfold in your tummy. You don't use any emoticons, though you want to.
Hi James, how are you? How is your friend?
im amazing how r u? doctors are hopeful that he'll live, but it's up to him now :,(
James
kidding. he is fine. R u busy right now?
no I'm not busy why?
can I call u?
You call him rather than answer. He picks up straight away.
"James," you say quietly.
"Sweetheart," he says back. "Hey, hi. I had to get your number from Mary Magdalene."
"Wow, what was she like?"
"Uh… bloody? Which one was she?"
"I don't know, James," you say, laughing behind your hand.
"What are you doing today?" he asks.
You preen though he can't see. "Nuthin," you say, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. "Why'd you ask?"
"Trapped you there, baby. Don't you know you're supposed to wait until after I tell you what I'm planning before you say you're not busy?"
"Oh, weird. Something just came up."
"Uh-huh. Anyways, busy or not, if you want to: I've got a match later. If you want to come." He sounds nervous. It's a new look on him.
"Do I get to sit pretty on the sidelines with the other girls?"
"You can stand, if you like. But yeah, otherwise. Oh, unless you have some kicks. I doubt it would take much convincing to get you on the team."
"How's that?"
"Well, you know. They aren't blind. Dumb, sure, but we play rugby. Not exactly a honeypot of intelligence, all it would take for half those guys is your pretty smile-"
"You're plenty smart," you cut off his compliments.
James gags. "Keep it to yourself. It starts at six, but come whenever. Oh- do you need me to pick you up?"
"No, that's okay. I'll walk. It's warm out."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. It'll be nice. I'll wear team colours." You're almost afraid to suggest it until he makes a very happy noise that he coughs to hide two seconds too late.
"See you at six, then?"
"Definitely. You owe me a bracelet."
"It's a date." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. Good thing, because you spend the next ten minutes with your face in your hands, smiling so wide your cheeks ache.
It doesn't quite feel like a date on the sidelines but you're too busy walking on sunshine to care. You watch as James throws the ball behind him, torso twisting, bulky arms flexing. His shorts and socks are stained green and his shirt grips tight to his chest.
You can see why he wanted a haircut; ink dark hair falls in his eyes as he sprints after the team and he has no hands to tuck it back.
You'd been a little late, trying too hard to look effortlessly radiant at home and forgetting the time. As soon as you'd arrived, out of breath and half-dressed, you stood at the side of the pitch close to watchers but maintaining a small gap trying desperately to catch his eye. It was obvious when he saw you - he smiled beatifically and raised a wide palm in greeting before getting into position for a scrum.
After a while there's a halftime break where he comes bouncing off the field to your side. He goes straight in for a hug, brave, warm, exactly what you wanted, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground half an inch with the force of it.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pretend it's all an inconvenience, wobbling on tiptoes. "You're getting grass all over me."
"Oh no," he says, faux worried.
He smells like so many things. Deodorant and sweat, grass and dirt and salt. You press your nose into his hair and smell the almond oil there with a lopsided smile.
He lets you down, holding you at arms length.
"You're so fucking pretty."
You try not to burst into tears, turning your face so he can see the heart on your cheek made up of glitter in his team colours. "It's the team rep."
"No, it isn't," he says, running his hand down your face to straighten your head, pausing with his fingers under your chin.
Your bracelet is still on his wrist. You can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the lovesickness you're feeling.
You push his hair from his face. He, reminded of this affliction, levels you with a squinting glare. "This is all your fault."
"Sorry, Jamie," you say, biting back a guilty smile.
"It's fine," he concedes immediately. You're suddenly overwhelmed by the power you have over this poor boy.
"How long is the break?"
"Halftime? About ten minutes left."
You nod, thinking to yourself. "Well, um. You can say no, but. I can plait your hair back, if you want. Out of your eyes."
"You can?" he asks, brightening.
"Yeah, I can."
James sits on the bottom bench of the stand and you stand behind him, your fingers raking through his windblown curls in lieu of a comb. He sits strangely still, more controlled than you thought possible of him as you braid back the longest strands at the front of his scalp, sliding your fingers through his hair as kindly as you can. The small intimacy of it all has your heart racing.
Securing the dark braid with a bobble, you take in the back of his head. His soft shiny hair is oil black in the sun, his skin painted with gold. His neck begs to be kissed.
You rub your hands down the back of his neck, across the curves of his trap muscles and then down his chest, leaning on him so you can press your lips to the highest point of his cheek in a shy kiss. He tilts his head to catch your eye as you pull back.
"Done?" he asks, something indistinguishable in his voice.
"Done," you confirm.
His face is close enough to spot the beauty mark adjacent to his cupid's bow. You resist the urge to kiss that, too, and stand at full height. He copies you. You find that the stands underneath you makes you taller, his eyes are level with yours.
"How's it look?"
"I did alright," you say modestly. "Though maybe a haircut isn't the worst idea."
He laughs and looks down, reaching for your hands. He's different without his glasses, not more or less handsome, but different. The focus of his face changes, and you find yourself distracted by his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
He holds your hands like a prince, brushing his thumb over your fingernails. Then, in true royal fashion, he brings your hand to his mouth. A kiss pressed to your knuckles. One kiss becomes two, two to three, a peppering of pecks up your hand and over your pulse and up your arm. He reaches your sleeve. His hand follows his mouth until he's holding your elbow in his hand like you're a sacred being, pulling you in.
You drift together. His hands cup your upper arms and guide you slowly to the left as he ducks in.
A piercing whistle leaps through the air. You flinch apart like guilty kids, his hands a searing heat through your shirt sleeves as the call for halftime's end rings. Loudly.
He grimaces bitterly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know why this keeps happening to us, I'm-"
"Going to get in trouble," you finish, peeling his hands off of your body. "Go on, before they get mad."
"Your bracelet-"
"Keep it. It looks good on you, anyways."
He leans in and holds you by the neck. Your heart is a hammering racket for no reason - all he does is peck your forehead, quick and firm. Then he pulls back all sorry looking and scrambles over the bench and the kit to get back into position.
You sit down heavily on the cold metal seat behind you and cover your chest with your hands, taking deep breaths through your nose.
He catches your eye from the pitch and winks.
-
"Be thankful it was your mouth and not your nose."
"Explain what you mean," James demands, wincing at his split lip.
You match his stride. James, having been hit in the face with the rugby ball hard enough to bruise and cut his top lip, had refused to let you look at him, despite the horror it had provoked, and then had refused to let you walk home alone. I'm not getting in your car until you see a doctor, James, I mean it.
Fine, then we'll walk.
So you walk. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of white-pink and light blue, a bleeding yellow light throwing big shadows every which way. You step out of the shade of a towering, green leafed tree where the main road began. Before James can stop you, you jump up onto the small metal barrier that stops cars from driving on the pavement and walk across it like a balance beam.
"Please don't," James says.
You ignore him, using your arms to stop yourself from toppling into the road. A small revenge considering he had ignored your medical advice. James lets you do this for around 10 seconds before he grabs your hand in his. You wobble along the last meter of barrier with your joined hands held aloft and tight before you finally let him pull you back down onto the pavement, giggling breathlessly. Cars careen past, each one wafting a breeze of petrol and fallen leaves towards your legs.
Fingers interlocked, you walk. You take in the relative beauty of your town in its approaching dusk, meandering past roundabouts and roads, back gardens and a corner shop.
You persuade James inside the shop and beeline for the cold drinks at the back. The open fridges cool your clammy skin.
"What one do you want?" you ask him.
"Anything. Whatever you're having."
You grab three identical cans and ignore his raised eyebrows as you bring them to the front of the store, the cashier hidden behind lollipop stands, magazines, a plastic shield plastered in leaflets for upcoming events. There's a small TV in the corner blaring summer music that you can't help but hum as you emerge from the shop, swaying your hips in time.
"Who's the third for?" James asks, accepting his can. You tuck your own in your bag and grin.
"You! For your lip," you say. "It's swollen."
"Doesn't hurt."
"Don't believe you."
He reluctantly takes the can from you and complains loudly, exasperated at having two full hands, one pressed to his face. You wiggle your empty one at him in bad sportsmanship. Before long you're standing outside your home and James is hesitating.
"Do you want to come in?" you ask, half-hopeful.
He shakes his head. "I can't, I have to take Sirius to get his hand looked at again by plastics."
"Too bad," you murmur, looking at his chest and then his face. "Thank you for walking me. I know it's out of the way."
"You're never out of the way," he says seriously.
You slide your fingers into the loose hair behind his neck, rub your thumb across the line of his jaw.
"Get home safe," you murmur as you lift up on your toes, shoes creasing. You press a half-open kiss to his jaw where your thumb had been moments before and close your lips over his skin slowly. You linger, pressing a second on top.
There's an unspoken acknowledgement between you both when you pull away. A promise.
He looks a picture of defeat walking down your front path. Covered in dirt and grass and sweat and blood, hair messy and chased by the last rays of sun. You watch until he's at the end of your street, butterflies thrashing in your tummy as he presses his index and middle finger to where you'd laid your kisses, as though checking his pulse.
-
James' parents own a restaurant. He knows, in his right mind, that this is a lame place to take you on a proper first date, only it's the hottest week of the year and everywhere else with outdoor seating is fully booked.
"I don't mind, James. Actually, I'm excited. I've never seen Sirius in a uniform," you say.
He scowls and scoffs melodramatically over the phone until you apologise to him for your terrible, awful, sick joke.
Technically, the Potter's restaurant is fully booked too, and he watches the books like a hawk for a week while his lip heals until he catches a cancellation. He instantly jots down his name. He's caught in the act by Euphemia.
"James," his mum had said, words drawn out. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
So really, he isn't sure why he thinks this date will go well. Everybody who works here knows him, and even as he waits outside for you under the dark wood porch a server comes up to him and nudges him with his elbow emphatically.
You turn the corner and he stops breathing, a vision in your sundress and sandals. He watches your anklets dance as you approach, eyes roving up your body devotedly until he finds a smile that matches his own in tenacity playing on your glossy lips.
He wants to kiss you then but wants more to foster a perfect, romantic evening first, so he's careful as he brings his hands up to your face appreciatively. Your hands hook around his elbows, an excited glaze in your eyes.
"Hi, pretty girl."
"Hi," you say, hushed by shyness.
He caresses your cheeks lightly, worried about smudging your makeup. Your eyes close when his hands move up, sliding over your hair to rest behind your ears. Sparkly earrings hang from each earlobe.
"You look beautiful," he says, because fuck it if James hasn't got game.
Your smile turns pouting at his words. He wants to record your voice and play it back when you say, "Thank you, James," in the softest tone he's ever heard from you.
He wants to stay like this. He swears he could happily stand in this bubble of the world with you and count your eyelashes, memorise the flecks of colour that surround your pupil, but you shimmy out of his hands and prompt him inside.
"Come on, handsome, I'm hungry." And then, inside the restaurant. "Oh my god. It smells amazing. What smells amazing?"
He has no clue. He's reluctant to go to the bar with you only because he knows exactly who stands behind it - Sirius, in his neat uniform, a towel thrown over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand.
He's well-behaved when he sees you, though a few things he says has James reaching to wring his neck.
"How's your hand?" you ask.
Sirius sets down James' pint and grabs for another glass, shovelling ice and pouring juice. "It's alright. The bandage is for health and safety, not because it's actually injured anymore."
"Plastics said he's fine," James interjects, raising the dark ale to his lips.
"Perfect," Sirius amends cooly, "is what they said. Head to toe."
James corrals you out onto the mezzanine before you can fall in love with the uppity bartender.
It gets worse from there. A server who's known James since he was in nappies takes your orders, an extremely handsome server with a deep dusky voice and black skin so smooth he's practically carved from stone.
"And what's for you, babygirl?" he asks after airing out every embarrassing thing James has ever done on restaurant grounds.
You're still laughing, but you turn to James with all the confidence in the world as you ask, "What do I get, James?"
He feels a little better after that.
The patio is perfect. The sun's out, the breeze is light. Every now and then he has a hint of your smell, sunscreen and perfume. Your leg bounces under the table, a tinkling sound of silver, and you lean forward. He doesn't look at your chest where the necklace hanging over your collar bones disappears, thank you very much, but you're so obviously perfect and he's attracted to everything - your body and your gorgeous face, yes, undeniably, but your voice! Your laugh, your smell, the way your hands move. The way your every word about him drips adoration. The pride in your tone as you recall what should've been his perfect match (if he hadn't been hit in the face).
After a lazy dinner and a second round of drinks he's buzzing and you're lovely, like a flower, bloomed and prettier than anything he's ever seen.
You leave the table and walk along the woodchip path and kids play area to look out over the lake, a dark shimmering sheet split in half by twisting white light, the sun falling from the sky.
The evening grows marginally colder, especially at the lakefront. At the first sign of discomfort he works his arm over your back, hand pressed to the dip of your shoulder
He's waiting for you to look at him before he kisses you.
"It's so pretty," you sigh happily.
Across the lake is a backdrop of green trees and a small, rustic boathouse. A family of ducks swim past, shepherded by a squawking swan.
"Bully," he mutters.
You hum. "Why is there only ever one nasty swan per lake?"
"Gotta fill their quota."
"The poor duckies," you sympathise. "Look, there's one of the fancy ones with a green head over there."
He follows your finger but gets distracted by the bracelets adorning your wrist, can't help but think about how you'd asked him to take them off.
"James, this is… it's really perfect. It's amazing."
He pulls you in a little closer. "I'm glad," he says, though he's finding it hard to respond - he can barely open his mouth. "I wanted it to be."
You finally turn to face him. He guesses his change in tone is what does it, because you sound similarly low and love-sticky when you murmur back, "Everything. It's all been so perfect. Everything with you."
He can't take it. He darts forward, so close to kissing you that the air between you is charged with it. When his nose grazes yours he gives pause, tries to work out what you're thinking as your tongue wets your lips.
Your eyes are closed. He shuts his own and-
"James! James Fleamont Potter! You come up here and help your mam!" his father's voice calls.
He drops his forehead against yours and lets out a pained exhale.
"Dad," he calls back, refusing to move. "I'm a little preoccupied."
"What? James, look, I don't have my glasses and your mother needs someone to write tomorrow's daily special!"
He pulls away from you and sends a heated look over his shoulder, one he's sure could melt metal and that his father can't even see. "And tomorrow's daily special, this couldn't wait until TOMORROW?"
"James, I've no clue what's turned you into such a sour puss tonight and I don't have time to work it out. All I'm asking is that you do this chalkboard for us and then you can get back to-"
"Dad! Dad! Alright, I'm coming!" he hollers back, cutting his father off before he can blow a gasket. "Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, defeated. You frown sympathetically at his embarrassment.
"You should probably go help your parents," you say, sounding similarly disappointed. He nods, unwilling.
"Just, don't move," he pleads.
You smile, total understanding on your face, and he's only taken a few steps from you when you turn back to the lake and your shoulders fall.
Fuck it, he thinks.
He turns your body with his palm on your shoulder and soothes your surprised flinch with a hand on your neck, your eyes meeting for a startled, excited handful of seconds before he's finally, finally, surging forward. You gasp into his mouth and his fingers tighten on your neck, lips aligned with your lips and searching deeper, parting to invite you in. You follow, a dance, a hand pulling you out of the road, a tether, and you taste like everything he's ever thought you might all at once.
You press your spread fingers over the fine material of his dress shirt and moan when he catches your top lip between his. He kisses, again and again, feels you slip through his hands like water. He hooks his arm around your head to keep you in place as he wades into you, slowing, softening, pulling away to plant one, two, three gentle kisses over it all like a balm. You respond to each one amorously. His chest rears to explode at your dizzy, pretty panting when it's over.
He loosens his arm to pull back and take in your entire face. Your eyes are shimmering, lips wet. He wipes his thumb over your bottom lip, finds it burning hot.
"Oh," you whisper.
"Oh?" he asks, endeared and amused and insanely happy.
"I didn't think it would feel so different to all the little kisses from before."
"Good different?" he asks, the damp pad of his thumb smoothing over the warm hill of your cheek, stolen bracelet scraping your skin.
Any anxiety he has unfurls and dissipates into nothing when you smile and lean in for a second kiss. "Good different," you confirm against his open mouth, "everything with you…"
He pulls you as close as any person can be to another person. He has a pretty good picture of what you were going to say, anyways.
<3
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“I didn’t tell you,” he said, words like spun silver from his lips, “how beautiful you look today. Forgive me.”
Your heart rocketed. You took as subtle a steadying breath as you could manage, using the very tip of your index finger to push a misbehaved wave from his face. He waited patiently, his eyes drifting shut at your touch.
You dropped your hand. “So tell me,” you said, as bravely as you could.
summary you ask James to pretend to be your boyfriend. he always says yes. [6k]
warnings fake!dating, pining, marauders era, basically a love note for james. fem!reader, fluff, intimacy
requested here
"James," you murmured, edging into his space where he was standing at the bar. Mary said he’d be here and, hallelujah, there he stood.
He rolled his eyes, glancing from his friends and then down to you. "What do you want, shortcake?"
You held back a scowl, determined to be as nice to him as possible. You were hardly short. Much. At all. He was just tall. And he knew you hated the nickname either way.
"I need a favour."
His eyes softened just a smidge at your tone.
"Anything you want," he said.
You looked out of the corner of your eye at Sirius who was listening intently and Remus who was pretending not to be.
"Can I ask you in private? Sorry."
Remus cleared his throat. "Is something the matter?"
"No, it's nothing. Just a secret," you said, attempting to smile at him beguilingly.
James sent the boys a blinding what can you do smile and threw his arm over your shoulder, steering you both from the prying eyes of the local and out into the biting early spring cold.
"What's your issue?" You pulled out from under his hold to wrap your arms around yourself. "C'mon, you're making me nervous. You killed someone?"
"What? James, no!"
"You're pregnant." You laughed weakly. His face went white. "You're not!"
"I'm not!" you rushed to say. "No. Sorry."
"’Sorry sorry sorry‘. Don’t be. You didn't kill someone and you're not pregnant — I can fix whatever this is."
"My hero Jamie, always trying to fix things," you sang, trying your best to cheer up. "It's not so terrible, I'm only shy 'cos I'm afraid to ask you, not cause it's the end of the world.”
"Rip off the plaster and ask, then. I’ll say yes,” he said, patient where he leaned against the pub's brickwork.
"I know. I think that's why I'm afraid to ask." He raised his eyebrows. You looked at his hands and asked. "Will you pretend to be my boyfriend?"
His easy smile slowly faded.
"What?"
"For Alice's wedding. Please? Just for the wedding."
"I'll be your date, whatever you want."
"No… I- I'm just…" you covered your mouth with the back of your hand before closing your eyes, clenching your fist and pushing it out awkwardly. "Georgia Finningley said I'm not the kind of girl who gets a boyfriend. That she couldn't see me with someone. And I know she didn't mean it to be mean, and it wasn't mean, and I know I'm being silly, but-"
"When did she say that to you?"
"Last week, after Lily's."
"She said that to you in front of the other girls?" he asked, eyebrows scrunched together.
"No. We were- we were out on the mezzanine."
"Smoking?"
You warmed. "That's not the point."
"You're right, it's not. I'll come back to the smoking after." He stepped closer to your side, not touching but close. "She said it to be mean."
"I know," you admitted.
"I know you know."
You stood in silence, two blades of grass in the wind. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, skin warm in the dreary landscape. He was always the warmest thing in sight, even in summer.
"I'll be your boyfriend."
"Thank you.”
"But, and you know this about me already, I won't do anything by halves. Alright?"
"Right."
"We need at least a few public sightings before the wedding so people will believe it. And I'll have to lie to the boys. You'll have to lie to the girls."
"And then…"
"We’ll slowly fade off after the wedding and Finningley won't be any the wiser. We can say you broke up with me for being too handsome."
"Too irritating, more like."
"That too. If they're gonna believe us in love by Longbottom's wedding we're gonna have to put on a good show," he said excitedly, "you may be so lucky as to kiss me, you realise? We're gonna be so in love it makes other people sick."
"Thank you, James." You meant it. You knew he was offended on your behalf by what Georgia had said.
"I'm not doing it for you! Well, I am. But also 'cos I can't stand uppity wankers like Georgia fucking Finningley thinking they're judge and jury."
You fizzled. He opened his palm out in front of you and beckoned for you to take it. "We fancy each other starting now. Okay?" He was grinning too deviously for your liking.
You felt a little nauseous as you agreed, even worse when you followed him back inside the bar and found his friends sitting in a booth awaiting his return. He pulled you by the hand into the seat beside him and then dropped it like nothing had happened.
"We totally saw that," Sirius said, shocked.
Remus looked similarly surprised.
"Saw what?" James asked, taking an appreciative sip of his pint.
"You were holding hands!"
James raised his eyebrows, slipping his hand behind your back casually. "Are we five?"
Remus was at a loss for words. Sirius was enraged.
"What's happening?" Remus asked.
"What are you doing?" Sirius asked in turn.
You could feel yourself begin to sweat. James pressed his hand tight to the small of your back when he noticed your nerves before patting you firmly and pulling away.
"Nothing," he said. "She's tired."
"You're being all touchy."
"I'm always touchy."
"While I agree you're very sensitive, I think we're talking more about your sudden tactileness,” Remus cut in.
James snorted, peaking at you out the corner of his eye in a show of nervousness. "Don't know what you mean!"
"Mate, you just looked at her."
"Y/N," Sirius appealed to you, "he's not acting out of character?"
You shrugged and chuckled nervously. It wasn't fake.
"Are you two…?"
James said nothing. You, having been counting on him, also said nothing, which said enough for both Sirius and Remus to look blindsided.
"Since when?" Sirius demanded.
James smirked into his drink.
"Right, and your favour?" Remus asked smugly, zeroing in on your windblown appearance. "Little old to be tumbling in alleyways, aren't we?"
"We didn't-"
"Never too old for some fun," James said cheerily, then turned to you. "You want a drink, shortcake?"
"Yes," you said. You thought you'd probably need it.
-
You were standing outside Sirius Black's flat, nervous. Tonight was your official unveiling as a couple with James and most of your friends were going to be there among whatever company Sirius had deigned to invite. You'd worried yourself silly over the fact that James was probably going to get handsy because you desired it and knew you shouldn't, not knowing how to act in love enough to fool everyone and not in love enough to fool James.
The door cracked open, Sirius with a cigarette in hand.
"Oh, you creature. What're you loitering on my mat for?"
You crept back, eyes crinkling. "I was just about to knock."
"Sure you were. Cig?"
"Yes, please."
You accepted the cigarette and let your weight fall on his doorway, let him light it for you. You took a careful first drag and smiled as your throat burned.
"Don't tell James."
"I won't tell your boyfriend, but he'll know."
"How?" you asked, pushing off the doorway to flick ash over his railing. Sirius grinned manically under the stoop, overhead lights painting him stark pale.
"He'll taste it."
Noise from the party drifted out the door. "Big crowd tonight."
"Nah, they're all alright. Long as someone keeps Marl off the peach snapps it'll be a quiet one."
His definition of a quiet one was different to everyone else's, evidently, as things were getting quite rowdy inside after you'd finished your indulgent cig. You vaguely recalled most people's names and found yourself familiarly tucked into the group of girls, Lily and Mary having acquired a tray of jello shots.
"And where've you got all these?" you asked Mary.
She shook her head and tapped the side of her nose. "Secret."
"C'mon, I hate secrets."
"Don't we all!" Marlene said to you. "Ironic considering a little birdie told me something interesting about you this morning."
"Yeah?"
"Very, very interesting," she said, nodding.
"If it's the same thing I heard then I'm very mad at you," Lily said. You froze up and she laughed. "For not telling us!"
The girls had all leaned in for your confession.
"It just happened. I don't know when. Suddenly, we're together."
You smiled like you couldn't help it, picking at your nails. Your group of friends giggled and cheered, Mary forcing a shot into your hand. "This is a cause for celebration," she declared, similarly appointing each girl with their own jelly. Emmeline stared down at hers apprehensively. "Do it for Y/N," Mary said pointedly.
Emma took her shot and groaned. "Congratulations," she said hoarsely. "I'm not doing another one."
The rest of you took your own shots.
"I really hadn't expected it. You've been firmly in James Potter's friend zone since third year,” Dorcas began.
"I asked him out one time!"
"And he was still of the idea Lily would change her mind back then," Mary said, nodding sagely.
Lily frowned a little. "You say that like he's settling. Don't be cruel." Mary laughed, pinching Lily's arm until she was giggling and crawling away.
"That's not what I meant at all! Just that he fancied you at the time. I wouldn't call it settling, anyhow. That's like saying a poor man settles for caviar," Mary said.
"Am I the poor man or the caviar?" James asked, voice very close. You twisted to find he'd stationed himself behind you without being heard, movements covered by the general hubbub of the room. "I best be the caviar, or I'm going to be very upset." He said this as he pushed his hand across your shoulder until his palm was cupping your neck. He leaned down and kissed you quickly on the mouth, a chaste peck. "Hello, sweetheart."
You said hello back, word so quiet it got lost on the way from your mouth. He smiled at you very sweetly and then turned his attention to the ladies. "Evening, girls."
"Yeah, hi, loverboy," Lily said, squinting at him.
"Evans, always so cold. Mary, you look ravishing! Orange is your colour." It really was. Mary pressed a hand to her chest in mock swooning, leaning back so her braids pressed into Lily's shoulder.
"Potter, keep the flirting for your missus."
"Right you are, Marl." James turned his eyes to you. You imagined his expression wavering, the mark of adoration in his eyes. "You look lovely," he said, uncharacteristically quiet, and then, "good enough to eat. Mind if I try?"
"You admit, I'm the caviar?"
He grinned. "No, I don't."
"Don't like that," Dorcas complained.
"Yeah, I don't remember signing up for the tooth-rotting stuff," Lily agreed.
"Tooth-rotting! I was thinking sickening," Sirius said, grabbing James' shoulder in a manly clasp.
"Don't get too jealous, I've saved some for you." James maneuvered into Sirius' space until he was close enough to kiss him. Sirius called his bluff and stayed very still until James backed off. "You're no fun, Black."
"Don't want to catch whatever it is you've got. No offense," he said, nodding to you.
James remembered himself and smiled at you easily. "Whatever it is," he said warmly, "she's got it bad."
Half the girls cried out in disgust while the others cooed. Sirius rolled his eyes and muttered something about finding someone less insufferable to drink with.
"Didn't want to drink with that plonker anyways," James said, his hand finding a home at the nape of your neck, squeezing with his fingertips. You were puzzled at his behaviour and shuddered, pulling away to analyse his expression. He wasn't looking at you, instead his eyes were on the TV. "I hate this song."
"You hate this song?" you asked.
"What, s'hard to believe?"
"What kind of music do you like, James, besides top of the pops?"
"Stuff too mature for ears like yours, baby, don't worry yourself with it."
You huffed. "Prick."
"And proud. Want a drink?"
You could feel the warmth of the jelly shot still, and banked on getting in another. The best part about drinking was the taste becoming easier to manage the more you drank. "I want something fruity, please."
"Your wish is my command, sweet thing."
“You know what else my little birdie told me?” Marlene asked as soon as he’d gone.
“Your little birdie being Sirius Black, of course?”
“Quite right.”
“Go about it, then,” Emma prompted.
“You’ve been shagging Pots in alleyways and pub bathrooms.”
That had actually been the fun part of your deception. James had taken Remus and Sirius’ smoke break as an opportunity to plan ahead. “Right, when they come back, I’m going to look at you all subtle - as in, not subtle at all - and go to the bathroom and you can bat your dainty lashes at them both and make some excuse about needing some air, and then we’re going to fuck in the bathroom.”
You’d looked at him in total shock.
He’d lasted a further five seconds before breaking. “I’m messing with you, darling girl,” he pulled a pack of exploding snap cards from his pocket, “we’ll shoot the breeze for half an hour.”
“Half hour? They’ll definitely know we’re lying,” you’d said, laughing at your own joke as he’d pouted at you.
“Only a bit,” you admitted, ears warming. Marlene tilted her head back.
“I wouldn’t have thought it of you,” Dorcas said.
“Thought what?” you asked.
“Well. That you’d fancy James, and that you’d fancy him enough to shag in the leaky cauldron. Sirius is right, you might actually have something,” she joked, grinning. “Just saying - must be a pretty good fuck to risk dragon pox.”
“Sanitation spells are quick and easy,” James said pointedly, pressing a cold can of cider into your hands, sitting on the arm of the chair you were in with a flourish of his smart jacket. He pulled your shoulder against his thigh, hand on your other side. “But you’re right, Dor. I’m a good fuck. The missus will attest.”
"The missus doesn’t kiss and tell,” you muttered, flushing. You opened your can of cider and took a drink to avoid meeting the eyes of your teasing friends.
The night drifted on. James played a diligent boyfriend and stuck by your side even when the boys left to play cocktail waitress in the kitchen. This was, perhaps, his best move. Each of your friends seemed shocked and (to your pleasure) a little awed at his watchdog position. He only left to get more drinks and was back quicker than he had to, always returning to press you into his leg, hand firm on your shoulder. As the night progressed his hand rose, drifting slowly like the tide – up and down and up again.
His fingers in your hair had you biting back a shiver. You looked out of the corner of your eye to find his arm, muscled from the quidditch season, straining against his smart button down shirt. From under your lashes you could see he wasn't looking at you, his eyes somewhere across the room, distracted by boyish laughter.
You pushed into his side as a show of affection and whispered, "You don't have to stay here all night."
You heard the conversation around you hiccup. Your friends were listening and pretending not to be. He leaned down to talk closer to your ear.
"The point in being your boyfriend is spending time with you."
"It's been an hour. Go – stretch your legs, embarrass Remus."
He weighed his options and then dotted a kiss on your temple. "Alright, pretty girl. I'll be back," he said.
You brought your hand to your temple as he walked away, dusting the pads of your fingers across his kiss.
“That’s awful,” Dorcas said.
You winced. “It is?”
“I mean — you can tell how much he likes you,” she corrected.
“Too much,” Marlene agreed.
“Have you ever known James Potter to shy away from a party?”
“Maybe he really likes you guys,” you deflected.
“He really likes you.”
Someone said something else. The conversation span. Somebody spoke about their latest fling, Marlene made enough jokes to put Sirius to shame. You ran your thumb across the embossed cider can, thinking.
“Well,” said one of the girls. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”
There was a small silence in which you didn’t realise she was talking to you.
“What?” you asked with a sheepish smile.
“A boyfriend.”
You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.
“That’s funny,” you said, clearing your throat. “Someone said the same thing to me the other day.”
“I can see it clear as day. Maybe not James,” Lily said decidedly, “but definitely someone.”
“Our flower,” Mary said, brushing your shoe with hers.
“I just - excuse me, would you guys? Too many drinks,” you said, pushing onto your wobbly feet. It was half a lie.
You closed yourself in Sirius’ small bathroom and sighed. Considering he was a boy, he kept the space clean. You put the toilet seat down to sit and felt a sudden rush of embarrassed tears. Were you truly so off putting? You were old enough and smart enough to know by now that when people said they couldn’t see you in a relationship, it meant there was something undesirable about you. Were you ugly? Stupid?
You’d never been jaw dropping like Marl or top of the class like Lily, but you weren’t bad. You were pretty, you told yourself, staring into the large mirror set on the wall in front of the bathroom sink. You looked nice tonight. Your hair was perfect and you were dressed in something new and flashy. Maybe they didn’t mean it in a bad way. It still hurt.
You watched a tear trace the soft hill of your cheek and run down to the curve of your chin, sniffling weakly. It was the kind of hurt that made you feel pathetic, made your heart hurt.
“Shortcake?” You flinched at his gentle voice on the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”
“Yeah,” you said, too loudly.
“Can I come in?”
You flicked the lock. James let himself in and was quick to lock the door behind him.
“I hope you’ve brought your a-game tonight, these cards are burning a hole in my pocket. Literally. Hey, are you alright?”
You swiped the heel of your hand across your face quickly. “I’m fine, James.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said. His hands hovered, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“Too much cider. It’s nothing.”
He nodded like he’d suddenly understood what you were saying. “Quite right. A lady such as yourself can’t be expected to keep down two cans of cider and a jelly shot. I’m surprised you’re still standing.”
“I’m sitting.”
“Semantics.”
You giggled. He looked at you as though he were watching something terrible - an avalanche of powder white snow, a great wall of saltwater coming to flatten everything in its path. Morbid trepidation.
“What?” you asked him.
“Don’t cry, you look so pretty tonight. Please.”
You rolled your eyes and turned away to face the shower, watching the still damp curtain drip run-off down the drain. The words sent fizzing straight through your sternum.
“Has someone said something?”
“Were you expecting them to?”
“No, of course not. Just…” he leaned his weight against the sink basin. “I’m your fake boyfriend but I’m your real friend. I know what it takes for something to upset you.”
“Can people see something I can’t, James?” you asked quietly, pinching the material of your shirt distractedly.
“I’m betting I see a lot more than you do.”
“Is it bad?”
“Are you joking?” He laughed, awkward but earnest.
“No, I’m not joking.” He didn’t know what to say and neither did you. You sniffed very quickly and patted under your eyes carefully. “Doesn’t matter. What did you say about cards?”
James grinned, pulling the offending items from his trouser pocket.
“I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, doll.”
-
“Though I’m suspicious of how you found out where she works, I’m more curious about your plan.”
“My plan?” James asked, a pair of sunglasses on, his own glasses in hand. The label hung off and rested on his sun-warmed cheek.
“How you plan on explaining to Finningley why you, a fan of all sport wizard, are doing in a muggle JD’s.” You paused as he slid a pair of matching sunglasses over your nose.
He grinned brilliantly, the sunglasses doing nothing to dull his exuberant shine.
“Not I, shortcake, we. What are we doing here?”
“That’s more suspicious.”
He led you down an aisle of trainers, boxes piled so high you couldn’t see the tops without craning your neck. “We don’t need to talk to her. Truth be told, I’d rather not. She just needs to see us together.”
“She saw us at Sirius’.”
James poked at a pair of shoes with mild interest.
He looked awful today. Well-dressed, brown skin kissed by the sun over and over. His dark, thick hair was a devilish mess as usual, curls falling this way and that. The sunglasses hid away his melting brown eyes, resting on his handsome hawk-shaped nose. He was clean shaven and smelling of his usual cologne, which in itself was enough to haunt your dreams. Sandalwood unfurling into a deeply woody smell, like a pure, burning flame. You held back the want to press your face into his neckline, to stand in his arms and soak up all his sunshine heat.
Perhaps awful was the wrong word. Either way, it was awful for you.
You turned from him, eyes searching for Finningley.
“In the market for anything?” James asked.
You turned around to find him holding a small football, meant for kids. He sorted through neon coloured footballs and then moved on to expensive branded socks, to rugby jerseys, to windbreakers. The whole shop smelled of sports equipment, slightly plastic. He came across a shockingly ugly pair of football studs, bright orange and fluorescent yellow, raising his eyebrows. “I’d do well in playoffs wearing these. Very distracting.”
“They’d laugh you off the pitch.”
“An unkind sort, quidditch players,” he agreed.
“You’re a quidditch player.”
“And I’m horrid.”
“I concur.”
James grinned something wretched. “You like ‘em mean?”
You were much too fragile to play this game with him. You imagined a version of you that said yes, that goaded him, that kissed him to kiss him and not to convince others you were kissable. That version of you, that brave version, would step on the toes of his shoes and put your hand on his lean chest and say all the right things, set your mouth on his mouth and kiss him like you meant it.
This version of you faltered noticeably.
James frowned and set down the ugly shoes.
He looked like he might say something heartfelt or at least something probing. Conveniently, your reason for being there appeared. You threw open the curtains on your stage play, idling into James’ space like you loved him. You smiled coyly and looked up at him from under your lashes.
“You tell me,” you said, hoping she could hear.
James looked startled. You pressed your hand to his neck. He covered it with his own.
You eased the sunglasses from his face and tucked them into his shirt, leaning up on your tip-toes to speak in his ear. He stilled.
“She’s behind you,” you whispered.
“She’s - oh. Oh.” The undertone of his lovely smile turned from earnest to guarded but he gave it as good as he got it, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said under his breath.
You braced yourself for his mouth, a polite peck, eyes drifting closed as he came close. Then, a passion — a roughness. James was kissing you hard enough to feel your lips press against your teeth. You froze. He pulled back, nipped your lip, said, “Play along.”
You were trying, only it was difficult to suddenly be kissed so deeply by someone. It was a wish fulfilment at best and a ruination at worst. James Potter was really, truly snogging you, and you wanted it bad. He tasted of spearmint.
He pulled away. You couldn’t help it, you chased him. He appeased you with a last peck and a laugh you’d never heard before and said, “Don’t overdo it, shortcake. We’re still classy.”
You nodded, taking your tingling bottom lip between your teeth. The cheesy novels always got that part right: fireworks. He readjusted your sunglasses back over your eyes and put his own back on and you both refused to turn your head’s in Georgia’s direction. When you looked out of the corner of your eye she was looking at you both with a broom loosely on her hand. When it hit the ground James laughed and covered his mouth. You both stood there desperately constraining contagious giggling.
-
Your final appearance as a couple began on the morning of Alice soon-to-be Longbottom’s wedding. The dress code was simple — as decadent as you please but don’t get cheesy with it. The bridesmaids wore gorgeous bronze silk slip dresses with bouquets of red roses, the groomsmen each with a rose tucked into their pockets.
You’d thought that a black dress might steer people’s attention from you completely and had bought the first one you found that flattered, ending mid-thigh. The fabric at your breasts was stiff, almost an invisible corset, and the straps were settled over each armpit.
The wedding was held on the Longbottom’s four acre property, green green grass topped by long, hand-carved wooden benches set on either side of a white silk aisle adorned by red petals. You and James stood at the top of it and set about making your judgements.
“It’s lovely,” you said.
He looked dreadfully handsome, the dark tendrils of his curls immaculate above his sharp eyes. He dipped down his head to you and you thought maybe he might kiss you. “It’s very dramatic,” he said.
How ironic, you thought. You look like a perfume model and you think everyone else has gone overboard.
“What’s that look?” he asked.
“What look?”
“I know you better than you think,” he said instead, staring at you. You marvelled at his ability to melt you, propping yourself up with a hand on one of the benches. Sirius was causing a palava at the registration table, the sound of Remus’ tired frustration reaching your ears. You hoped their hubbub might distract James long enough to save you, but no such luck. He waited patiently for your answer.
“I — you look very handsome today,” you admitted, feeling hot all over.
Perhaps he didn’t know you so well, as his spine straightened and his hand came up to tug against the collar of his shirt before he tucked it into his pocket with bravado. “Of course I do. I’m a handsome guy.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, embarrassingly earnest, “you are.”
He cleared his throat. The usher was trying madly to get people into their seats, begging ‘Bride or Groom?” to anyone who would listen. This was a difficult question, as most attendees where here for both. You eventually settled on the groom’s side with James, bare thigh pressed into his muscled one.
You could see the shape of his legs through his trousers and then looked away, blushing as you realised your own ogling. He didn’t notice. Well, fair do’s, you thought to yourself, he’s gotten an eyeful of my legs already.
You shivered. A small draft moved through the grounds and wafted the smell of rose water into every crevice. The cardigan you’d worn was similarly black, stopping just below your ribs and tied by two small, soft pieces of fabric at the front. You liked it because it didn’t fully cover the dress, though you were regretting it now.
A general hush had fallen over the crowd in anticipation. James pressed his knee to your knee and leaned over to talk to you without looking at you. “Are you cold?”
“A little.”
He brought both your legs into his and covered the outermost with a big hand, roving stripes over your naked flesh. “Bit frigid for an outdoor wedding,” he said, grinning, his pearly teeth peeking out through his parted lips.
You agreed weakly. You could hardly think. Your skin buzzed under his touch.
The music began. Bridesmaids and groomsmen drifted down the aisle looking bright and excessively happy. Lily, in her lovely brown slip, floated down the white silk in her strappy sandals looking like an angel, hair curled and glossy behind her. You knew you shouldn’t, knew it was ridiculous, but you looked to your left. James looked completely normal, no lovesickness, no outward yearning. His hand didn’t pause on your leg for a moment.
“Warmer?” he murmured.
You were burning.
Alice finally came down the aisle in her knee-length gown, all shiny fresh with love and elation on her face. You’d never seen such a ridiculously happy pair of lovers, laughing all through their vows and kissing passionately enough that the pews began laughing too. James’ hand tightened over your leg when the crowd cheered. He and Sirius began whooping loudly as to break your eardrums and, you figured, the sound barrier. Frank bowed to them both with a movement like a rolling bow.
People began rising from their seats to the reception tent.
“What did you think?” James asked as you stood. He remained seated. It was strange to be taller.
“About what?” you asked.
He held his hands out. You accepted hesitantly, felt the broom-wrought callouses on his otherwise soft hands slide against your palms as he spread his fingers over your pulse point, securing them around your wrists. You did the same. You didn’t look unlike Alice and Frank had, index fingers sliding under his forearms.
He gently pulled you forward to be standing between his open legs. “About the ceremony?”
You relaxed. “I liked it.“ You hesitated to say more.
“What?” he asked conspiringly, seemingly excited by your opinion.
“I can’t say it, it’s mean.”
“Please say it,” he begged. He moved one hand so his fingers were wrapped around the fleshy hill of your thumb. “Please, shortcake, I love to gossip.”
“It’s not gossip!” you said, looking down at where his fingers held your thumb. He pulled you closer still, so close your knees touched the bench.
“It’s the flowers, right? It’s suffocating,” he murmured. You blew a relieved breath out the side of your mouth.
“A bit,” you agreed, giggling, hands tensing around his.
“Like a first year’s hair-softener.”
You laughed more and then looked over your shoulder in paranoia.
“James, shush.”
“What? It’s hardly hearsay!”
“It’s not nice. They’ve had such a perfect day so far and we’re taking the piss.” Even as you said it, you didn’t feel guilty. Your pulse was pressed to his palms, his hands drifting over your skin as you talked and laughed. Half the attendees had moved to the gazebo and yet neither of you noticed.
He’d said something terrible that had you cringing down, stomach aching. When you looked up he was giving you his beatific smile, the sun shining down on you both just right and you felt pinned by it.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” you said, smiling distractedly, looking down at his wrist. You curled your fingers inward and scratched the underside of his arm gently, feeling a little put out. After today, this would be over. You’d miss the stolen moments in bathrooms and hallways, would miss being allowed in his space like this — unapologetic, unflinching. James moved one hand up your arm, over your cardigan sleeve, to squeeze the crease of your arm.
“You…” he started shaking his head. “You make me so mad sometimes.”
“Mad?” you asked, worried.
“Furious.”
You didn’t know what to say. You tried to pull your arms away and he held on tight.
“You get this look on your face,” he said. He was smiling as he spoke, the strained kind, like he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to. “Like you realise you’re enjoying yourself and have to stop. Like you’re not allowed.”
You looked down at his sleeves, his cufflinks.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked you, suddenly, his voice loud in your ears.
“Yes,” you said timidly.
He let go of one arm to grip your shoulder, a comforting squeezing motion that made you sway. “Yeah?”
“I always have a good time with you, Jamie.”
He gave you a very long look. At first you didn’t recognise it on his face, it was so unlike him. No walls, no guarded secrets, a boy stripping back his bravado.
James let go of your elbow to wrap his arm around your shoulder blade, guiding you down to sit on his leg. You stopped breathing, pulse roaring in your ears whilst you tried to settle over his thigh without squirming. The hand wrapped around your wrist loosed go of your hands. They fell into your lap. His knuckles brushed against the tops of your covered thigh.
You had to wrap your arm around his neck to stop from falling backwards, chest against his chest, soft dark curls crushed under your hold. He smelled as intoxicating as always, sandalwood and something like smoke.
Live music had begun playing in the tent. Guests were clapping and cheering, laughter floating on the rose water breeze. The sun had begun to descend in the sky.
He let his hand rest on your hip, the other on your bare knee. All you could think of was his hands.
“I didn’t tell you,” he said, words like spun silver from his lips, “how beautiful you look today. Forgive me.”
Your heart rocketed. You took as subtle a steadying breath as you could manage, using the very tip of your index finger to push a misbehaved wave from his face. He waited patiently, his eyes drifting shut at your touch.
You dropped your hand. “So tell me,” you said, as bravely as you could.
His hand inched up your knee, spread wide over your thigh. “You’re beautiful.” He faced you head on.
This part was all on you, you realised. You had to be the brave one — he’d made it so it was your decision, had let you be the taller one. You had to be the one to lean down. You had to be the one to mean it.
You inched closer to him, little bit little. You’d never been brave all at once like him. Best he knew it from the start.
“James,” you said, words soft. His smile was gentle. You mirrored his expression unthinkingly. “James.”
You had no grand confession for him. You wouldn’t tell him you loved him, but the idea that you could know him, that he could know you, and that the both of you could make something pretty of it. Well, you’d be brave for it.
You moved down another inch.
“Ask me,” he murmured, your lips so close and not close enough, noses a whisper apart. “I’ll say yes.” What he’d said when you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend. Your heart would burst through your chest any second now.
“I know,” you said, repeating your own words, a world apart. “I think that’s why I’m afraid to ask.” He exhaled through his nose in a laugh.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked. His exhale graced your lips. Nothing, you wanted to say. Everything. “I already told you, I don’t do anything by halves.”
You shivered, shifted on his leg to be taller still. “Why’s it up to me?”
His eyes darted down to your lips. He bit his own, inhaled so sharply you felt his chest move under your hand. The sun set, poured light all over him like a blessed being dripping nectar. His hand came up to touch your face and was soaked in colour. The music lulled, the laughing grew louder.
He ran the back of his hand down your cheek. “Kiss me?” he asked you.
You set your palm over his cheek and closed your eyes. You leaned in. This time, when you kissed him, nobody was watching.
-
omg first james fic kinda nervous
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i miss u open the door pls :3 | tasm!peter parker x reader
"Babe, be serious. Let me in!" his pleading was half joking. You smiled despite yourself at his antics. "Let me hold your hair back. It'll be romantic!"
"Nothing about this is romantic," you said unhappily.
"You're being very obtuse right now," Peter said.
summary: you get food poisoning. peter parker is a loving dork [2.2k]
warnings: fluff, slight hurt/comfort heavy on the comfort, does get a bit steamy, idiots in love, sick/throwing up, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader
On your fifth ever date with Peter Parker he took you out for Chinese food. He walked the 20 minutes to meet you at your apartment and then another 20 minutes to the restaurant and didn't complain once.
"All this walking," you said shyly, looking down at your place setting, "you must be so tired."
There was something mischievous in his eyes when he said, "I get around quick, bub."
"I still feel bad. You could've just met me here."
"And have my best girl walking alone at night? I don't think so."
You felt you face heat further and averted from his playful look. When he asked what you wanted you said, "I'll have what you're having."
"You don't like what I'm having."
You tried not to smile at the fact that he'd remembered. "Anything else, then."
He pestered you for something specific. You ignored him, stretching your hand out between you both to stroke the skin of his knuckles with your fingertips. You could've sworn they looked very red and a little bruised beforehand, but now they seemed perfectly fine. Must've been the lighting.
He stopped his suggestions to quirk a smile at your small actions, turning his hand upside down to offer it to you. You accepted. He twined your fingers together and squeezed them tightly, as if in confirmation.
The very tops of his ears were turning pink. He cleared his throat and turned back to the laminated menu in his hands, peppy as he listed things he thought you'd like.
"I'll have anything," you said again.
He looked at your face, at your joined hands and then quickly at your face again. "Fine, but if you don't like it you know who to blame."
"You?"
When the food came out it looked amazing. It smelled even better, and you were only marginally disappointed when Peter let go of your hand to start eating because you wanted two hands for your own meal too.
Why dates happened in restaurants, you had no idea. It had always felt so awkward to eat in front of other people, especially when you were trying to make that other person like you romantically. Peter didn't get this memo, as he ate like the food was going to run away. You wished you had it in yourself to be disgusted, but he was still polite enough and so earnest that you were pretty sure everything he did at this point would endear you to him.
He shoved prawn crackers on the edge of your plate pointedly and smiled to himself when you ate them. You weren't sure he even knew himself that he was smiling.
When you finished he would hear about going halfsies. You grinned like a maniac behind your hand when he said, "Pretty girls don't pay."
"That's not very feminist of you," you told him, brushing yourself down for crumbs. He'd already shrugged his jacket on and leaped up to help you into your own.
"I'm super feminist. How about you pay for the next one?"
You rolled your eyes: that's what he'd said last time.
"You can call me pretty without paying for dinner," you told him bravely, letting him lead you by the hand out of the warm, fragrant restaurant and into the cold clutches of the New York streets.
It wasn't raining now, though the streets evidenced a wet spell through the day, shining black from the headlights and streetlamps.
"Okay, pretty girl. I'll hold you to it," he said. He pulled you into his side as closely as you could get and you began down the sidewalk to your home.
Ever the gentleman, Peter made small talk whilst somehow finding ways to throw you little compliments and flirts throughout. By the time you reached your apartment you were warm in the chest and believed yourself half in love with him if you hadn't already been before.
The final straw had been when you came to a pause outside your apartment building. He'd taken both your hands, rubbed his thumb carefully over your knuckles and seemed so intently dedicated to them you'd felt butterflies in every part of your body.
"I love spending time with you…" he said, voice unusually shy. "Thank you for coming out with me tonight."
It was the way he kissed you, chaste and sweet, bringing his hand up to the side of your face - specifically that, was the final straw.
You pressed your hand over his and tried to catch his gaze. He was looking distractedly at your mouth.
"Peter," you said, voice lilting, his name like lyric in your mouth. "Do you want to come upstairs?"
He beamed and kissed the corner of your mouth. "Whatever you want."
"I'm trying to tell you- I want you."
You held your breath, almost afraid of his reaction to your blatant flirting. It was more outgoing than you usually were, and in your right mind you never would've said it. You were content and full-bellied, love drunk and feeling it in your veins. Peter was so nice and pretty and magnetic, and he liked you. So you forgave yourself for the vulnerability and invited him in and only felt mildly sick in the elevator after he said yes with a quirked up smile.
Peter seemed like the kind of guy to ruin you passionately where you stood, whereas you were so shy you couldn't order yourself a coffee without stuttering. You knew he took this into account and was softer, more careful with his pursuits, and figured he would never have made this move, so you'd made it for him.
In your apartment he was calm. He looked around at your things curiously as you fought with the zipper on your coat. He glanced over his shoulder from the living room at you still in the doorway, expression softening, drifting back to you to help you out of your coat. He hung it up on the hook next to his, visibly perturbed at your shaky hands.
He rubbed his hands down your arms. "Don't be nervous. We won't do anything you don't want to do. We can sit on the couch all night."
You nodded and kissed the line of his jaw. "I asked you up here, Parker."
His hands found the skin under your ears. He held you in place, head turned up, to gaze into your eyes. "You're beautiful, you know?"
You broke out of his hold, fleeing to the living room to escape his seduction for a moment. "You're such a womaniser."
"The insults are coming out of you on scooters tonight," he remarked, settling down on the couch next to you, though he faced you where you faced the small TV. His fingers found your skin again, flesh of his palm on your cheek. He pressed the very tips of his index and middle finger to the corner of your eye and stroked gentle semi circles. "You have nice eyes."
You closed them in response.
"Hey," he said, laughing through the word, "open up."
"No," you denied him, scrunching your eyes even further shut.
"That's too bad," he said, lips at your ear now, words quiet.
He shifted your head to bare your neck, and you stilled in anticipation of his mouth. Then, open mouthed, he scandalised your neck, hot featherlight things that ended at the collar of your shirt.
"Peter," you said, giggling madly as his free hand fiddled with the button at your neck.
"What, baby?" he asked, distracted.
"Will you kiss me?"
He happily fulfilled your request, catching your lips with his own. You grinned into his kiss, ticklish as his hand found your thigh and held it like you were something precious.
Your stomach slowly dissolved from butterflies into a dull ache. You couldn't help it as your eyebrows pulled together.
Peter retracted his hands immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." You pushed in for another kiss.
He reciprocated, startled. His hands were tentative to return to your skin, so you took his hand and pressed it to your leg where it had been before.
Another roll of sickness. You grimaced, breaking the kiss to lean your head on Peter's shoulder. You looked down at his lap with your eyes wide.
"What’s the matter?"
You felt an overwhelming sense of nausea and knew at that moment you would throw up. You clambered out of his grips and barreled for the bathroom doorway, almost slamming the door shut. You locked it without thinking and then you were emptying your stomach, a horror on white porcelain.
"Hey, Y/N. Y/N! Are you alright?"
"Yeah!" you said, and then heaved again. You could hear him fiddling with the door. When it didn't open he knocked against the wood.
"What's wrong?"
"I- threw up."
"I could hear as much. Are you okay? Was it…"
"I think it was the food," you said miserably, blinking stressed tears from your eyes. You sat roughly on the ground, hands on the toilet seat, swallowing in attempts to ease your nausea.
It didn't work. You chucked up again.
The door handle rattled more. "Let me in," Peter said, his usual easygoing drawl tinged with worry.
Was he crazy? He wasn't even officially your boyfriend and he thought you'd let him see you in this state? No way.
"Maybe," you swallowed, pressed your forehead to your hand, "you should go home."
"Babe, be serious. Let me in!" his pleading was half serious. You smiled despite yourself at his antics. "Let me hold your hair back. It'll be romantic!"
"Nothing about this is romantic," you said unhappily, though you could've used his hands. You spit bile into the dirty water and felt another bout of sickness. You struggled to your feet to flush the toilet.
"You're being very obtuse right now," Peter said.
"Obtuse!"
"Unkind," he amended.
"Go home, Peter."
"No, I don't think I will. Let me in though?"
You heaved again. Not much came up besides spit.
The door handle wiggled again. "Peter, go home, please. I'll call you when I'm not disgusting."
"You're not disgusting! You're literally sick!"
Of course that was the bit he would focus on. "Please, I'm begging you to go home."
"Can't I just wait out here? I'm not going until I know you're alright."
You heaved. He took this as an answer, and you heard his footsteps retreat into the kitchen. You were too focused on the toilet bowl to listen in on what he was getting upto.
You felt deservedly depressed. This was the opposite of sexy. You'd been looking forward to intimacy with Peter tonight. Now the thing getting ruined was your relationship instead of your underwear.
You pushed the hair out of your sweaty forehead and thanked God that at least you were only chucking up. It could've been worse, you realised, laughing under your breath.
A sound from the doorway, Peter had forced a post it note through the gap. You peered at it wearily. A second joined the first.
What's funny? :0 said the first.
i miss u open the door pls :3 said the second.
You laughed wetly. "Pete, you can just talk to me."
u wont listen to me :(
"What? Peter-" you were interrupted by the sound of him ripping a post it note off.
let me in!!!
"No, I don't want you to see me."
Angry scribbling ensued.
have u considered i don't care what u want?? i am selfish let me in the bathroom
"Peter… if you see me like this you won't like me anymore, I promise you."
I promise you I will! unlock the door pretty girl
You felt so sick and miserable and he was so nice and he liked you and it was a lot. You felt tears come to your eyes, pressing your hand over your mouth to sob. It wasn't a completely unhappy sob, more an overwhelmed keen.
"Please go home," you said.
You heard sighing from the other side of the door, and then Peter getting to his feet. You sighed in relief that he was finally leaving and you could be grim in piece when the door handle was rattling again, a quick snapping sound and then the door was opening.
"Was that always broken?" Peter asked, the copper door handle in his hand.
You looked at him with unbridled horror. He held his hands up in surrender.
"I'm sorry! It was loose, I swear!"
You covered your face with both hands.
Peter walked toward you, leaning down to put both of his hands on your head. He pressed your hair down gently. "Hey, why are you so upset, huh? You want some water?"
"I really don't want you to see me like this," you whispered, your traitorous body relaxing under his touch. You knew the room smelled of sick.
"Unlucky for you, I want to see you all the time. Told you I was selfish."
You moaned and pressed your face into his legs, wrapping your arms around him. "This isn't how I imagined tonight going."
"Yeah? And what did you imagine?" he asked. You knew he was smirking.
you get abducted and worry there’s no end in sight. your boyfriend peter parker rescues you. [1.3k]
warning: abduction, implied but not graphic psychological torture, hurt/comfort, reuniting, reader wears a skirt but no implied gender
requested here, thank you <3
Someone was touching you.
You curled in on yourself as best as you could manage, arms and legs too tired to move away from the probing hands. You attempted to cover your face and the manacle chained to your wrist restricted the movement, hand stopping short, metal clinking against the freezing stone floor.
You'd accepted a while ago that Peter wasn't coming to get you. Spider-Man couldn't save you - he'd no idea where you were. Your captor, unnamed, average looking and cruel, had assured you of this. When you'd begged early on to know where you were he'd mentioned that you were a few thousand miles outside of New York.
"Spider-Man won't find you. Sit tight, doll. You're with me for the long haul."
And now he was touching you. He hadn't before. He'd taunted and name called and withheld food for information you wouldn't give him, let you pass out from hunger and woke you up to watch him eat. He'd unlock the handcuff at your wrist once a day so you could use the bathroom. It was degrading. It was so sad. When you realised that Peter wasn't going to come and get you, you'd lost any willpower to go on. Better to crawl up in a ball and die on the floor than give the man who'd taken you any sick pleasure or perverse power over you.
You'd feared this moment. Evil men usually only wanted one thing, and if you wouldn't give him anything useful, he'd take something else.
You felt tears well in your eyes. The hands were at your shoulders, one pushing under your hair.
"Y/N," he said.
You stilled, too afraid to open your eyes. It was a trick. A game he was playing. Peter wasn't here.
"Y/N, are you alright? Open your eyes. It's me."
You whimpered, so tired it was barely a sound at all curling impossibly tighter. One hand pushed the hair at the back of your head flat to your scalp. "You're okay, baby."
"Don't…" you struggled for the words, face covered by one hand. You pressed your cheek closer to the floor.
"You're okay. Let me, I'm just going to check you over, okay?"
"No," you said, as loudly as you could manage.
The hands began searching anyways, turning your wrists over, pulling your shirt up. "Don't."
"I have to," he said, voice warped and high strung, "I have to."
Your skirt got pushed up from your bruising knees to your thighs. You cringed and felt your heartbeat shoot through the roof, tensing up. He pushed it down again.
"Alright," he said, having found nothing. He sounded so relieved it made you peek at him, and there he was: Spider-Man.
He must've heard your heart skip as he was suddenly turning to you, and although you still felt like it was a trick, felt so scared, it sounded like Peter. He was in the suit, your captor had never spoken to you so kindly, and it sounded like Peter.
You watched him through your fingers, apprehensive,
"Hi, baby," Spider-Man said, voice rough. You let your hand fall from your face. He edged closer to you. "It's me. It's me. It's me."
He said it like he was trying to convince himself of it, too.
"How'd you find me?" you whispered to him.
He seemed weary to touch you again but he shifted from his crouched position to kneel at your side. "I've been looking for you. I haven't stopped, I swear it to you. I never would've until I found you."
"How'd you get here?" you asked suspiciously.
He wasn't touching you now. "We're in New York."
You lifted your hand to his neck, hands so tired they shook. He was quick to realise what you were doing and thumbed the seam, pulling the mask off in one quick motion. You let yourself relax. Peter was perturbed by your sudden change in demeanour.
"Y/N?"
"It's you."
"It's me."
You smiled for the first time in days, maybe weeks, because it was him. It was Peter. He leaned over your chest, face blocking the heavy white industrial light from your eyes. The relief was tangible, your aching eyes opening properly for the first time in days.
You couldn't expend the energy to tackle him like you wanted to. Everything felt underwater, your movements sluggish as though your clothes were wringing wet and weighing you down. You felt his arm under your hand where you could reach it, trailing down to his gloved hands, squeezing his skin, desperate to feel it was him.
"Peter," you said, quietly. "Where is he?"
Peter frowned deeply. "Don't worry about him."
"He hit me. I- he was in my apartment."
"I know," he stretched his fingertips across your cheekbone, gentle against your mottled skin, "I'm so sorry."
"Why?"
"He wanted details on Spider-Man's secret identity."
"I didn't tell him who you were."
"Did he hurt you?"
Physically, no. You shook your head vehemently. "I'd never give you up."
"I know." The way he said it, it sounded like, I wish you would.
He jumped to his feet and took the chain in one hand. It was like pulling a hair from your head, you thought, how he pulled it from the wall. He was careful not to jostle you but the strength behind his action was enough to feel in your bones.
"Baby, I'm gonna pick you up."
"No," you said.
He stopped, hands stuttering at your armpits. "You can't stand. You can barely move."
You reached up. Your arms burned. Your hands felt disconnected at the wrist. You did it anyway. He took your hands, a question on his lips.
"Hug me?" you asked, voice so small. "Please?"
Peter was a rubberband pulled too tight. Your question had snapped him: he was quickly wrapping his arms around your back, pushing his head into your neck. He inhaled sharply, you could feel his chest moving against yours as you wrapped your hands around his neck as best you could, heaving with his ragged breaths.
"I'm so sorry," he said again. His eyes were hot on your skin, his lips a burn. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry," he brought his hand up to your neck, "I'll never let anything like this happen again."
"He was watching you. He followed us home," you told him.
"I know," he said. It was awful, the way he sounded. So sad. Defeated.
"He said I wasn't in the states anymore."
"We're in Brooklyn," he said, the words unfolding like a blooming flower against your tired skin, achingly comforting, "ten minutes outside Queens."
"I didn't think you'd ever find me," you said, your panic most evident.
He squeezed you so hard you worried you'd bruise or explode like a tube of toothpaste. A breathless groan felt pushed from your chest and he loosed you go, just enough to breathe.
"I'll always find you."
He pulled back to look in your face, hands on your cold cheeks, his own covered in tear tracks. "Do you understand me? I'll always find you. I don't care if you're ten thousand miles away. I don't care if I have to do it blind. You understand? I was never not going to find you."
You felt at this moment you would've cried had you any to spare. You covered his hand with yours and shut your eyes. "I'm glad. I'll persevere to stick it out until you do."
He kissed you fiercely on the temple.
"I'm gonna pick you up now, alright?"
You nodded, scooping his discarded mask up into your fingers. Peter lifted you into his arms, mouth barely opening as he said. "Alright, dove, don't you worry about putting your arms around me. I've got you. You just rest, okay?"
You pressed his mask to his chest with your eyes closed, the edges of sleep already creeping in. "Alright, Spider-Man."
does that answer your question? [remus lupin x reader]
“I don’t know if I can, sir,” you worried.
“I’ll make it fit, lovely girl. Wanna see you all split open on me, yeah?”
summary: you have a question for professor lupin. you are quickly derailed.
wordcount: 3.5k
warnings: 18+ only, smut, nsfw, professor remus, age gap (reader is 22), size kink, impact play, praise, slightly mean!remus, roleplay, safeword in place, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader
"Professor, I was wondering-" you began, knocking on Remus' open door to announce your presence. He was sitting at his desk.
His deep, chest-filling voice met your ears. “Come now, Y/N, I haven't been your professor for years."
Your cheeks filled with colour. You shook your head at his words, amused despite your embarrassment. "You were still my professor," you defended. "Tell me you still don't call McGonagall Professor."
"We always called her Minnie."
You blinked. "Minnie?"
"Minerva," he provided.
Your eyes squinted shut when you made the connection, smiling. "Maybe I should give you a nickname too."
"Yeah?" Remus asked quietly, closing the book on his desk. You'd forgotten what help you'd wanted originally, too amused by this new game.
"Remmie?" you suggested.
He cringed. "Absolutely not."
"Mussy?"
He stood up from his seat behind the desk to sit against the lip of it. His new height over you made you feel less confident, and the next suggestion came out weak.
"Loopy?" you mumbled, heat growing in your chest and abdomen.
"I think we'll stick with Professor, hmm?" he asked, expressionless.
"Yes," you said, shied by his stern words.
"Yes what?" he asked, standing at his full height. You took half a step back and he followed. "Where are you going?"
"N- nowhere," you stuttered, twisting the ends of your jumper in your hands.
He laughed with little humour, reaching out to grasp your shoulder in his hand. He kneaded the flesh there none too gently, fingers digging into your tricep. You felt pinned under his gaze, heart racketeering out of your chest.
"Nowhere? Looks to me like you were running away," he said.
You blanched. "I was not!"
"No?" His other hand came up, cupping the side of your face.
"No," you affirmed.
He flattened his thumb against your cheekbone roughly, the delicate skin under your eye being pulled with his motion. You closed your eyes instinctively.
"God, you don't fucking listen, do you?" he asked quietly. You struggled to understand what he was saying. His grip on your shoulder became punishingly tight. "No, what, Y/N?"
"...No, sir," you tried meekly.
He smirked. His grip on your shoulder and face became kinder, his thumb sweeping soft, loving circles into your skin. "Good girl," he praised, "my smart girl, aren't you?"
You swallowed. "Yes, sir."
This pleased him indefinitely. He leaned down to kiss you in the centre of your forehead, hand holding you in place. "Sweet girl. I think you deserve a reward for being so smart, don't you?" he asked. He didn't wait for you to answer, spinning you around to guide your back against the lip of his desk, hardwood pressing into your arse.
Professor Remus smoothed his hands down your shoulders, the lengths of your arms, eyes heavy with approval. "All dressed up today?"
"For you," you admitted in a murmur, and then remembered, "sir."
He laughed, hands on your waist. He lifted you up suddenly and you giggled in surprise, allowing him to set you out on the desk like a doll. He stood in the space between your legs, looking much too tall and unfairly handsome.
"For me?" he murmured back, big hands on your thighs, one inching up, tantalisingly slowly, until he was under your skirt. He pushed the fabric back, exposing your underwear beneath your tights. He encouraged you out of them and you assisted, lifting your hips to give him the space to pull them off. He barely looked at your underwear before pulling them off too.
Remus pressed as close as he could between your legs, one hand in your hair, the other probing at the apex of your thighs. Neither were gentle. He pushed your head to the side for clear access to your neck, nipping at the skin just below your ear. This wasn’t nearly as distracting as his other ministrations, where he’d began petting your cunt, spreading you open with his middle and index finger to dig his thumb into your clit. You jumped at the sudden touch.
“So flighty,” Remus murmured, pulling away to look down at his hand teasing your cunt. He pressed the flat of his palm against your clit, working the tip of one of his fingers into you with little preamble. You sighed, toes twitching at the feeling. He made a spectacle of you, barely pushing in before adding a second finger. He’d worked them in almost halfway when he pulled out, parting his fingers to show you the wetness that covered them. “Barely touched you,” he said, voice heavy.
You squirmed as his fingers entered you again, pushing up to his knuckles inside you. He curled his fingers inward repetitively and had to use his free hand to clamp down on your thigh, holding you to the desk. You couldn’t help wiggling from it, the feeling of his fingertips against your walls enough to make you woozy.
“Oh, you’re just perfect. Perfect little cunt, you like this too much,” he spoke softly, totally focused on your leaking cunt. You figured it was like a game to him, seeing how big a mess he could make of you. He started thrusting his fingers quickly, the sound of his hand connecting with your skin lewd, the sound you were making even worse. He pushed deep inside you and fingerfucked from the hilt, inspiring the alarming feeling that you might wet yourself.
“Remus, don’t, don’t-“
"You know the safe word, don't you?" he asked, pausing. There was patience on his face, genuine concern.
You nodded furiously. Of course you knew it.
“You wanna use it?”
You shook your head.
He, frowned, grabbed your face to squeeze your cheeks in his large hand, your lips pushing into a pout. "If you're not going to use it then shut the fuck up."
He pushed you away disdainfully, refocusing on his fingers inside you. "You know the rules. I know you know them. Toys don't speak unless spoken to," he said, punctuating this with a cruel thrust of his hand that had you gasping, covering your mouth to smother the sound.
“‘Remus,’ she calls me,” he said darkly.
He edged the tip of his index finger inside you to join his middle and marriage, and you realised you were being punished. You grabbed at his wrist before he could push in, scrambling, “Professor, please, I’m sorry-“
“I know you’re sorry, baby,” he said, pulling his hand away, you sighing in relief, and he said, “too bad.” And pushed three fingers inside you.
You moaned sharply, letting him splay you open on his desk with little shame. His hand was so big, fucking you out with a stretch that numbed you, pushing your chin into your chest to fight the oncoming trembling. He pulled your face into his front, murmuring little comforts, stroking your hair with an oxymoronic softness as he wrecked your cunt. He started slow, each pull and push an ache that made you mewl, desperate small sounds that evidently pleased him, as you could see his cock straining against the material of his smart slacks.
His thrusts turned faster. You blinked away tears, overwhelmed and indulging in the aching pleasure, the rough slap of his palm against your clit, all of it too much and yet exactly what you wanted.
“Convince me to let you cum,” he said into the shell of your ear, pushing the hair back from your face delicately.
You moaned, knees inching inwards, trying not to move away from his hand. “Please, sir.”
He laughed, shaking his fingers inside you like he had earlier. The fullness of it had you gasping for breath, hand clamped around his wrist. He allowed this, though he didn’t slow.
“That won’t do at all,” he said, tone injected with an acute, cruel humour.
He slowed down. Your head was in the curve of his shoulder now, both of you staring down at the mess he was making, your swollen cunt, his shining fingers. Your eyes were blown at the sight of your cunt stretching with every entry.
You tried again shyly. “Please, Professor,” you whispered, voice choked with unshed tears, with ragged pleasure, “I’ll be good. Really good, I’ll-“ you blinked hard, his thumb finally returning to your clit, “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” he asked, tracing tight circles into your sensitive bud.
“Yes,” you breathed out, legs tensing up.
He ceased his thrusting to bury his fingers as deeply as he could, searching for the sweet spot inside you. When he found it, advised by your catching voice, he ruined you, the combination of his movements, his tight circles on your clit, his deep voice in your ear, saying, “That's it baby, that's it. Cumming all over her professor's fingers, what would people say? If they knew I’d stretched out this lovely cunt? If they knew how much you liked it?”
Your legs tensed and your stomach burned. Your mouth pulled up into a grimace as you came hard, half sobbing into the skin of his neck. Remus continued his abuse on your clit, chuckling as you contracted around his digits. His efforts prolonged your climax until you were crying earnestly, attempting to pull his hand away from your soft cunt, moans tinged with overstimulation.
Only when you went slack against him did he stop, pulling his hand away from your cunt to cup your face with his wet hand, the smell of sex between you. “Oh, I’m sorry baby, I couldn’t help it. You sound so lovely, you know that,” he apologised.
You nodded, brain in a fog as he kissed you quickly on the lips before pushing you back into his neck, shushing the last of your moans. You pressed a shaking hand to your cunt as though to will away the sensation.
He squeezed your shoulder in silent question.
“I’m okay,” you said, hand climbing up his shirt.
“You wanna move?”
You shook your head, leaning back on the desk and out of his reach, hands behind your back. “I’m fine. I kinda like ruining your desk,” you said, voice weak from the crying but in good spirits otherwise.
He ran his hand up and down your arm. You smiled at him in what you hoped was a disarming way, still trying to garner his affections despite evidence that you’d obtained them already.
He dragged your skirt out from under you, grinning at the damp fabric.
His hand fell down your arm to take your hand into his, pulling it towards his crotch. He’d unbuttoned his trousers, guiding your hand between the fabric of his slacks and his underwear, closing your hand around his hard cock. He held it there. "Feel how hard you made me?"
You held your breath, flexing your fingers around his cock. It was big in a way that made you nervous and excited at once, moving your hand slowly up the length of his and down again. If you set your palm at the base of his cock your middle finger missed the tip by an inch.
“Professor…” you whispered anxiously, “when I said anything…”
“You can take it,” he said firmly.
“I don’t know if I can, sir,” you worried, biting your lip, hand loosely grasped around him.
He roughly dragged your palm up his length, hand hot on your own. “I’ll make it fit, lovely girl. Wanna see you all split open on me, yeah?”
You whimpered. He laughed at you, pulling his dick free from the constraints of his trousers. It was even more intimidating unclothed, head red and weeping precum into your open palm. You reached out to play with it and Remus was already pulling your shirt off and pushing you down onto your back, neck craned so your head didn’t hang off the edge of the desk.
You brought your hands up to cup your tits, glancing over your chest at his movements. He spat into his hand, taking his dick into his hand familiarly and pumping the length. He was warm, face shining with perspiration, sandy brown hair falling in his eyes whilst he looked down at himself. The only light in the room was the warm amber sconce on his wall that reflected a golden light on your bared body, the lines of your tummy glowing with sweat and mess, Remus’ eyes shadowed.
He took one of your knees into his large hand and pushed it up, spreading your wider on the deep chestnut wood. You stared down at the place where your bodies met, at his veined cock, the red head of it. He guided it up the crease of your cunt and down again, huffing at the slickness. “S’fucking wet. Toy’s enjoying this too much, isn't she?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slapped your cunt lightly, not enough to really sting but you jolted anyways, knee pulling up to cover your cunt. He pushed you open again roughly, tutting. “Wasn’t talking to you, silly girl. Stay still, or the next one will hurt.”
He pushed the head of his cock to your opening, finally meeting your eyes again. His own softened. “You’re so fucking pretty. You know how pretty you are?”
You shook your head.
He grabbed one of your tits, pushing into the skin, palm open over your heart. “My pretty girl.”
He pushed in. You liked this part most, the initial stretch, the feeling of being melded into a shape meant for him and him alone. He fucked shallow to begin with, a gentleman at heart, giving you time to cope with him. As humble as he was outside of the bedroom, this version of Remus knew he was well-endowed and he acted like it, cocky and insufferably careful despite the big talk he put on.
You whined, pushing your hips down to encourage his speed. This time when he spanked your cunt, it did sting. You flinched, moving your hand down to cover the area, your tummy burning with lust.
“I thought you’d learned your lesson,” he said, pushing in further, sudden inches that made you cry out, “obviously not.”
“Professor-"
He pushed in further again. You let your back drop flat on the table, gasping, gasping, the feeling of it making you keen. He didn’t pull out all the way, just enough to offer you some relief before he was pushing in again. You moaned, sounding strangled, hand reached out between you as if you’d stop his approaching abdomen. “Shh,” he soothed, pulling out again. He didn’t go to the hilt yet, fucking halfway in. Truthfully the last thing you wanted was for him to stop, but instinctively you shied away, lips parted, head dizzy.
He was suddenly buried as deeply into your cunt as he could be. His hand was braced on your chest, the callous of his palm against your painfully erect nipple, and with each thrust he was brushing up against it. He was so deep you could feel yourself changing shape around him, feel him touching a part of you that normally went untouched.
“Fuck,” Remus said, fucking deep, slowly. In the lowlight, his face looked frustrated, creased at the eyes. You reached up tentatively to caress the side of his face with the back of your hand, eyes flicking between his to read his expression.
“I feel so full,” you told him breathlessly.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he said, emphasising the last word with another heartless thrust.
Your hand stuttered against his face, the barest hints of stubble scratching your skin. You grabbed onto his shoulder for support, forcing him to bend over your body. He took the opportunity to pepper pecks to your chest. His soft kisses soon turned mean, nipping at your skin like little pinches, leaving a trail of irritated skin over your sternum. You knew what was coming before he did it, settling his teeth over the skin just under your tit. He set about leaving a hickey there, his thrusts leisurely, slow, each one teasing the tight ring of muscle at your entrance and pushing against your walls, a cruel cycle that made you writhe.
He pushed his hands under your arms and picked you up in a display of strength that turned you on impossibly moreso, his cock never leaving your cunt as he walked you over to the sofa. He threw you down, the air crushing out of your body. He wasn’t gentle when he pushed both of your legs up to your chest, kneeling so his legs were either side of you. He pushed in again, your new angle somehow making it feel as though he was deeper again. When he pushed into the hilt on his first re-entry you started babbling, ah’s and oh’s that dissolved into drawn out moans, eyes slammed closed at the feeling. He leaned so heavily into your body that you could feel your kneecaps in your ribs, thrusts shaking you, spine embedded in his sofa cushions.
He stayed hilted deep for a moment, pushing the sweaty hair out of your eyes. You opened your eyes, perturbed by his pause. He pulled the skin of your cheek with his thumb and started making circles with his hips, eyes tracing your every shudder, the way your lips pressed together to stop the embarrassing whimpering you’d begun to make.
“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, pressing forward emphatically.
“Feels like you're in my tummy,” you whined, hands pressed to your chest uselessly.
“In your tummy? My poor baby.” He thrusted again, hard.
“Can’t take it,” you whined.
“You can, you can, you’re taking me so well,” he assured you, “you’re so fucking good, feel so fucking good, pretty pussy all puffy and wet. You’re fucking stunning,” he praised you.
You would’ve blushed if you weren’t flushed with exertion. You grabbed his wrist, dug your thumb into his pulse point to feel his heartbeat as he fucked into you like he was trying to break you.
His thrusts were a constant, mind-numbing tempo, his pelvis hitting yours so hard you wondered if you’d bruise. You didn’t bother trying to move back onto him, his thrusts were too quick, too rough, you’d only break his rhythm with movement. Besides, you liked feeling like a toy, a sleeve for him to fuck into.
He fell back, reaching his hand between you both to spread you open, watching your entrance stretch, pulling it open with his thumb. “You’re gaping, baby,” he cooed, “pretty pussy all ruined.”
You mewled, pressing his hand under yours against your tummy where it felt like he was fucking into you. He spread his fingers open and pushed down, spearing into you again. His free hand found your clit, making big circles that soon turned into a fast, sloppy back-and-forth.
You protested, moans ripped from you much too high and much too loud. He ignored you, leaning most of his weight on your body as his moans, which only served to make you dizzy with want, reached a crescendo. He slammed into you one final time, the warmth of his climax filling you up. He pulled out slowly, and quickly behind him was his cum, dripping out of your contracting cunt to defile his leather sofa.
He leaned back and pushed the damp hair from his eyes, taking in the sight of you, pliant and fucked out. He spread your entrance open with his thumb, encouraging the remainders of his cum to drip out.
“Thanks, Professor,” you said impishly, letting your legs fall onto his thighs. He took both of them into his hands and kneaded the flesh there lovingly.
He chuckled. “Merlin, I shouldn’t let you rile me up like that.”
“Oh, you definitely should,” you said, pushing your index finger into the button of your clit to draw lazy circles.
“Remmie was really the best you could come up with?” he asked, hands still rubbing your legs kindly. He leaned down to kiss your knee, smiling at your embarrassed face.
“We never planned past ‘Professor, I have a question’!” you argued.
“Loopy?” he teased.
You flamed, hiding your face with your hands. He took the opportunity to replace your fingers with his, pressing his thumb into your clit to draw shapes. You wiggled your hips to make it harder for him.
“Stay still!” he scolded.
“Maybe next time I should be the professor.”
“Mm,” he humoured you, drawing and drawing until your tummy was burning with your oncoming climax again. You tensed. Remus held your legs down and then you were cumming again, hips moving of their own accord.
“And how would you punish me?” he asked, stretching his hands up your stomach, smoothing your skin in a half-massage.
“I’m sure I’d think of something,” you said weakly.
"You just let me know, dove. I’ll be there."
-
thanks for reading!
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reader is suicidal. remus just wants to listen. [1.6k]
requested here
warnings: reader is suicidal, suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader
You woke up gasping for air, throwing yourself into a sitting position.
That dream again.
You struggled to remember the details. Every night the same, you’d wake up with the smell of salt in your nose and the sensation of crushing weight on all sides. You fought to recall what you dreamt, what could’ve possibly caused such a visceral feeling of unease, but it was like chasing the tide.
The only sound in your room was the beating of your own heart and the thrum of your desktop fan, whirring weakly in a losing battle against the stuffiness of your room. Pressing your hand to your clammy forehead, you let yourself fall back into the damp sheets beneath you with a long suffering moan. Your alarm clock told you it was much too early to be awake. Unfortunately, you knew from experience you wouldn’t find sleep again today.
You traced the cracked ceiling with aching eyes, feeling the weight of your fatigue deep in every pore. You imagined yourself much like the alabaster ceiling, a girl - fragmented. Slowly, the fissures in your ceiling, which had started very small, almost unnoticeable, had widened, had crawled, and now filled even the peripherals of your vision.
Like a pane of shattered glass.
You crinkled your eyes shut tightly and groaned. Every night you traversed this slippery slope. It always began with the dark presence of your dream, quickly moved to the bisected ceiling, and finally moved to the self delusion, the idea that you were somehow a mirror of your surroundings. You huffed a breath through your nose and tried to picture what Remus would say if you told him this idea.
You’re you, dove. You’re a person, and you’re real, and the ceiling really doesn’t matter.
Remus never took anything beyond the surface level, and it was something you loved about him.
But Remus, you’d say, don’t you get it? It’s cracked because it’s my ceiling.
And he’d pet your head so softly and say, No. it’s just cracked.
The idea that your surroundings were a mirror plagued you deeply and perturbed your boyfriend only slightly. And now the damp sheets around you, what did they mean?
You struggled from the clawed hands of your mattress and into the dimly lit kitchen, squinting at the street light outside through the open window blinds. It’s yellow light aged your hands, and when you poured yourself a glass of water you didn’t recognise them. You set the glass which was swathed in condensation aside on your hard wood table and frowned at the rivulets that fell and soaked into the grain. You could hear Remus’ voice in your head. Use a coaster.
Tables are for dishes, Remus.
Right, but if you take care of something, it’ll last longer.
You made to pick the glass up and find something to lay underneath it when it fell from your grasp, bounced on the wood and sprayed frigid water across the length of mahogany and down your front. You blinked a droplet from your eyelashes and listened to the water pitter to the floor, counted the sound until the time between each was so long you thought the river had finally run dry. No such luck.
The cold on your face reminded you of your dream. If only you could remember what it had been about.
You had the sudden and all-encompassing realisation of worthlessness. You couldn’t even get yourself a drink of water without messing it up. You didn’t take care of your things. You didn’t take care of yourself. It was so early and you were so tired and now you were mildly damp and moderately distressed. How childish the pipeline seemed, a small inconvenience felt like catastrophe these days, each incremental weight added to the scales proving to tip you further and further downward.
You wondered after the bleach in your kitchen cupboard. How much bleach would you need to drink to die? And the knives in the knife block, were they sharp enough to do any real damage? And what about your medicine cabinet, was anything in there potent enough to end your life?
Remus’ belt was still in your bedroom.
You sighed very heavily and put your face down against the wood, letting the puddle soak into your hair and your skin. What silly fantasies to have, you thought. And still your hands itched.
If Remus could see the state you were in he’d be terribly upset, you thought. If you did anything worse, he’d be furious. You wallowed for a few minutes more and then gathered your bravery to take the telephone from its hook and dial his number. When he didn’t answer you tried a second time.
“Yeah?” his voice said, familiar even through the line, edged in sleep.
“Remus,” you said. You paused to wet your lips.
“Doll? What time is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
There was a small silence. “Bad dream?”
“Can I come over?” you asked in ways of answering.
“Course you can. Do you want me to come and get you?”
You breathed a sigh of relief and let your head rest against the wall. “No, that’s okay. I’m sorry to wake you up.”
“I’m not. I missed your voice.”
You glanced over your shoulder at the spilled drink and smiled for the first time in a while. “I missed yours.”
“Get over here.”
“Right. See you in a few.”
“I’ll unlock the door.”
“Okay,” you said, word warped with fondness and the inklings of oncoming tears.
What he heard he didn’t like. “Are you sure I can’t come and get you?”
“I’ll be fine. There before you know it.”
“…Alright. Come quick, sweetheart.”
The walk to his flat was peaceful and cold. You let yourself in through the building's creaky front door, permanently broken to be unlocked, and stepped up flights of plain stairs to his front door.
It was open like he’d promised. You entered as quietly as you could and toed your shoes off, throwing your coat over the back of his sofa as you walked through and found him half sleeping in bed. He perked up at the sight of you standing in his doorway, moving the quilt so you could wiggle in close to his side.
His arm came around your side, his lips graced the skin of your forehead.
“You’re freezing!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
You laughed under your breath and whispered back, “It’s cold out!”
“Should’ve let me pick you up.”
“And have you drive like this? You can barely speak.”
“Cold would’ve woke me up.”
“Yeah?” you asked, spitefully pressing the backs of your cold hands into his side. He flinched away from you and grumbled his indignation before taking his revenge, pinching at your sides until you were laughing, squirming away from his ticklish endeavours.
Your laughs slowly turned gasping, falling away until you were crying dribbling tears down the sides of your face. Remus’ own giggles turned to gentle shushing sounds, like shifting silt on the riverbank.
“You’re okay,” he said quietly, words half-smothered where his mouth rested at your temple, arm wrapped fiercely around the back of your shoulders so you were held closely to his chest.
“Sorry. I can’t remember why I’m crying,” you told him.
“No?”
You shook your head.
“Don’t be sorry for crying. It’s good for you.”
You cried against his soft sleep shirt for a while, hands digging into his skin. If he minded he didn’t say.
“Have you… been having those thoughts again?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you admitted, nose buried in his side.
He squeezed you from his side and up onto his chest, hugging you. “Thanks for calling me. My brave girl.”
“I’m a coward.”
“I’m not sure why you’d think so,” he said.
Remus liked to do this thing when he knew you were hurting, in the way he held you close. His hands were firm, like he was squeezing all the pain from you in waves. It almost worked.
“You’re so pretty. Oh, pretty girl,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re so kind. You know that?”
“Remus, you don’t have to.”
“I do. Let me, okay? You’re my favourite girl. You’re my favourite person on this whole planet. All I want is for you to see yourself like I do, see how lovely you are.”
"I don't feel very lovely," you said.
He slowly began to shift you from side to side, like a waltz with no music. "You are, I swear on my life.
"Inside and out. I'd miss you so much, I know it's selfish of me to say it. I'd miss you like I'd miss my hands, should they miraculously fall off," he said, good humour colouring the second half. You laughed if only because he wanted you to.
"I'd miss you like the earth misses the moon, I should think. Like a part of me had been stricken from my body, thrown somewhere I couldn't reach."
It was kind. It was cruel, in a way, because although you loved him and felt the weight of his words, your hands still itched for the heavy handle of a kitchen knife. You tightened your hands around him and sighed in pain.
"I'm so sorry," you told him. A confessional.
"I know," he kissed your forehead, "I don't want you to be."
"I'm sorry."
"You want to tell me why?"
You couldn't describe it if you wanted to. He nodded.
Hi!! I’m mot sure if you’re taking requests, but I would love to see what situation (and with who) you would use the quote, “You’re always a gentleman.” “And you’re always difficult.” With! :D
I was thinking something short and sweet? Idk lol
Thanks! 💕
this is definitely short and sweet, ty for requesting!
"If you don't stay still, I'll do it wrong," Fred warned you, dye brush hovering just over your hair.
You giggled to yourself, seeking out another biscuit from the biscuit tin between your crossed legs.
"And," Fred added, frustrated with how you weren't listening, "it's disgusting, eating in the bathroom."
"The germs can't climb," you protested, mouth full of crumbs.
He slid his fingernail across your scalp, gathering a section of your fading hair to re-colour. You shivered, head following his movement where he was kneeling behind you.
"Tickles?" he asked you.
You nodded. He did it again.
"Spiteful," you murmured, twisting to look him in the face with judgemental eyes.
He kissed you on the nose and then straightened your head without remorse. "Stay still."
"If it's so disgusting, I'll assume you don't want one?" you asked, already digging into another biscuit. The wet brushing sounds paused.
"I never said that," Fred said.
You picked out one of his favourites from the tin and held it up for him to take a bite, weary of his dye-covered fingers. He did so, careful not to bite your hand.
"Are we almost done?"
Fred huffed indignantly. "You wriggle too much. Just the front bits to do after this."
The radio pitched into a high frequency and then settled again. The signal in Diagon Alley was always terrible, messed up by the sheer amount of magic and wards in place.
"That's my favourite part," Fred joked.
You snorted, stretching your legs out over the cold tile. He'd taken his sweet time dyeing your hair. It would've been adorable had you been able to feel your legs.
He pulled you gently by the shoulders and started brushing colour onto the face-framing strands at the front of your head. His wrist hovered over your mouth.
You leaned forward to kiss the pale skin, his veins stark. Your movement jolted his wrist, you felt the brush swipe against your forehead.
"Idiot," he said softly, scrambling to wet a flannel and rub it against the offending dye. He was achingly gentle, you felt your stomach turn with his attentive touch, overcome with the want to kiss his wrist again.
"And you're always difficult," he scolded, kissing the damp part of your forehead. "Now for Merlin's sake, stay still!"
"You're always a gentleman," you murmured, chin jutting up to give him easier access.
