Boo

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[thewriterghost]

Pretty

Pairing: James Potter x reader

Summary: You feel insecure about gaining weight. James cannot fathom the thought.

Note: Please consider leaving a comment/reblogging if you liked it! It helps a lot! 💙

It isn't always obvious what James is thinking.

You like to think you can figure him out easily. He is basically an open book. Except for the times like tonight, apparently.

The night starts with a nice dinner you made for him and a movie he picked for the two of you. The movie is something romantic and cozy. Like he wants to make sure the date night will end in cuddles and kisses. See? Easy to read.

However, when his arm slide around you on the couch and he starts giving gentle butterfly kisses to your hair, your shoulders tighten. You immediately try to relax so he wouldn't worry. Yet despite your attempt, he still pulls back to look at your face.

"Something wrong, angel?"

You can't bear to say it when he is looking at you so softly. You shake your head.

"Tell me what it is?" He still says because apparently he can read you just as easily.

"It's stupid." You murmur. He looks at you patiently, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do.

"I realized today that I've put on some weight recently..." You let it out with a tentative tone. Like for some reason you're waiting for your incredibly devoted boyfriend to realize the same thing and pull back. The weight of the insecurity presses harder over your chest, somehow.

He hums softly.

"Does it bother you?" He asks and you almost laugh at the question.

"I was afraid of it bothering you, actually." You don't think your smile is doing anything to soften the sentence.

He pulls back with a cute frown.

"Why would it bother me?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"Because I feel... fluffier than usual?" You try to say it as gentle as you can, but his cute frown deepens with confusion.

"So?" He tilts his head to the side. "If this is about me being able to lift you, you know I go to the gym daily, right?"

His question catches you off-guard and you hear yourself laugh briefly. He looks so clueless.

"Why did your mind go to that? No, I just meant that maybe you wouldn't like your girlfriend to be chubbier than usual. That's all." You manage to get it all out without your chest tightening this time.

"Angel. I like you at all times," he presses a kiss to your forehead, "in all shapes," another kiss to your cheek, "at all places," another to the tip of your nose, "in all versions," he finishes off by plastering a final kiss to your lips.

"You're always pretty to me. All the time." He says softer this time, against your lips.

You can't find your words when he is being like this. All gentle and very convincing. You must've look so, because he continues as he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes properly.

"Does that pretty little brain is feeding you lies, baby? Because I'm being completely honest. Don't listen to that traitor, hm?"

"My traitor brain is pretty too?" You can't help the little smile that decorates your face. He matches yours with his signature bright smile.

"Everything about you is pretty. I thought we established that, gorgeous." He taps your nose.

"Does it bother you?" He circles back to his first question.

"Maybe a little." You shrug. "I was more worried you'd be bothered. I didn't really check what I thought about it."

His hand plays with the tips of your hair.

"If it bothers you, we can maybe have gym dates? I can help you with whatever you want to do in the gym and you can watch your boyfriend look all strong and capable." His brows go up and down as he sends you a playful smile. Your smile widens.

"Well, how can I possibly say no to watching my boyfriend look all strong and capable?"

"That's my girl." He declares with a kiss between your hair.

His playful smile sober up for a moment as he meets your eyes.

"Just for the record though: I'm completely fine with my girl being however she is. Because she is always my pretty girl."

You choose to kiss him then, just because it would hide your warming cheeks.

[moonstruckme]

Hi mae!! I hope you’re doing okay!

I saw that you’re taking requests for the boulevard is not that bad, and I thought what if the tables were turned and reader got injured? I wonder how they’d react! Maybe reader gets lost in the crowd and thinks they’re gonna leave her, but they actually notice her disappearance and look for her. They’d get worried when they find her injured and realise they actually care about her.

Thank you so much! I’m in loveeee with this story🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Thank you for reading and requesting gorgeous! I hope you're doing well too

cw: crowd crush, rioting, police

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2k words

You're not interviewing the boys until after the show, and you reason there's no point in hanging around their dressing room if you're not getting quotes. So, you go to the crowd.

It's a half-baked plan. You can't ask fans to speculate about an album they don't know about yet, so you figure you'll ask some questions about what The Marauders mean to them or how it feels to be here or whatever. It'll come to you. Or it won't, which would also be fine, because you probably won't get anything you can use in the feature anyway. You just need a distraction.

It does feel good to be down in the action, though. You've loved being backstage at so many shows—watching the band prepare, seeing all that goes into it, it hasn't lost its sparkle for you yet—but this is where your heart is.

It's where you started. With your shoes sticking to grimy floor, neck craning to witness the live performance of a song you've heard a thousand times on the record player in your own home. Hearing and seeing the same emotions you've felt intimately grip musicians while they play. Experiencing it, along with everyone else there, all of you losing yourselves to the sort of raw feeling only music has ever given you.

You're back in it now.

The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.

It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.

You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.

In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.

Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.

You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.

The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.

The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.

You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.

A security guard pokes his head out.

"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"

He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."

You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."

The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."

A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.

The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.

"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."

"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."

The metal door shuts with a clang.

Deja-vu.

You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.

You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.

"Come on!"

"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."

You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.

Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.

It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.

It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.

You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.

You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.

The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.

"Hey? Hey!"

Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.

"Y/n!"

You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.

"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"

You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"

James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.

"Are you alright?" asks Remus.

You burst into tears.

It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.

"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"

"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"

You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.

Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.

"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.

"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"

"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.

You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."

James scoffs. "You think we'd go on to the hotel without our own live-in paparazzi?" He plants a kiss on your head as you start toward the bus. "No way."

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely! Speaking of camp counselor James, I’ve always wondered what those training days were like when he and reader first met. I love reading those early first impression moments, and I was wondering how it was for them or what James thought <3

Thank you for requesting lovely!

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

camp counselor!james x fem!reader ♡ 824 words

James’ parents raised him to reach out to people. He learned early in life how to go up to anyone, put on a smile, and ask politely if they’d like to be friends. It may have been a skill he was supposed to adapt as he got older. Remus teases that James has brought preschool social norms into adulthood; Sirius says it’s part of his charm. 

Either way, it’s that old instinct that makes James choose the seat beside you. 

Your fellow counselors are cloistered around a long cafeteria table, getting acquainted while you all wait for the camp manager to join you and training to begin. It’s early enough that the sunlight coming in through high windows is bright and buttery yellow. Those who have had longer drives to camp are nursing paper cups of coffee while watching the others chat, bleary-eyed. It’s the sort of table where you can only really talk to the few people seated nearest you, but James hasn’t seen you talk at all. You’re smiling, your eyes sweet and attentive while you listen to the others around you. 

When there’s a lull, he gets your attention. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

You turn with a look of mild surprise. Your smile takes a moment to return, hesitant, as though unsure if James had really been talking to you. “Yeah, I think they’re going to have us do name tags first thing,” you say. “Not many of us know each other.” 

“Have you worked here before?” 

You give a sort-of nod. “Last summer, for a bit. I only worked the first session.” 

“Oh.” James remembers vaguely having that option, but he hadn’t considered that people would actually choose it. He hopes it’s not common; he’d rather keep you for the full summer. “What about this year?” 

“This year I’m staying the whole time.” 

James grins. “Me too. It’s my first year. Maybe you could show me the ropes?” 

Your eyes flicker over him quickly, like you’ve done it before you could think. When you blink, they’ve stopped. “You don't seem like you'll need my help.” 

The camp manager comes in to greet you before James can ask what colors you’d like in your friendship bracelet. You don’t join in on the murmuring or commentary some other counselors do, listening patiently and raising your hand when he asks who’s been through the general training before. There are other, specialized ones counselors can take to get certified for various activities—swim instruction, archery, management of the ropes course. You raise your hand to volunteer for the last one, and so does James. 

As he watches you, he decides that he doesn’t think you’re completely reticent by nature. Just a tad shy, maybe. You seem like the sort that needs to get comfortable with people. 

Luckily, despite what Remus says, James can be patient.

He is also tenacious. 

James collects other friends throughout the day, but he doesn’t give up on you. He finally learns your name when you all paint them on wooden rectangles, and he asks you to show him how you’ve done the clouds around yours. He partners with you for your ropes course training, talking his way through the awkwardness of practicing taking harnesses on and off of each other. At dinnertime, another counselor’s story about a kid in a previous year who took a shit in her bag (not out of malice, she claims, but desperation) makes James shoot lemonade out his nose, and you laugh, bright and startled. James feels strangely proud for having caused it.

With eyes still watering, he nods at your plate. “Not a fan of grapes?”

You’ve stopped looking surprised when he talks to you; a victory in James’ book. You look only slightly chastised. “Just picky, I guess. These ones are sort of soft.” 

“I’ll trade you my fries for them.” 

You blink. “Are you sure? They don’t usually serve fries. You should enjoy them while you can.”

“Two fries per grape,” he negotiates. 

You seem to debate with yourself for a moment before deciding they're James’ luxury to give away if he likes. You push your plate towards him, empty but for the few grapes, and take a few fries in return. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.” James crunches a grape (you’re right, they are a bit soft) between his teeth and holds out his hand. 

You raise your eyebrows, but put your own in it, shaking. 

“I think we should be friends,” he says. “Do you want to?” 

Your eyebrows travel further upward. “I don’t know if anyone’s asked me that since we were little.” 

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not.” 

You smile; it makes your lashes kiss at the corners. “It’s not an insult.” 

“So?” 

“Sure, James.” Hearing his name in your voice makes James grin inexplicably, and you grin back at  him. “I’ll be your friend.”

[moonstruckme]

Our poor sweetheart of a reporter is just being used as Sirius’ punching bag left right and center! If you like this idea I would love to see a continuation of the angst from part 4 of the rockstar series, where reader kinda just accepts that Sirius hates her, and thinks the other boys just see her as a burden they have to deal with cause of the situation. So she just fully detaches, goes completely professional and doesn’t bother with the extra effort to be friends with them cause she’s not about to chase after them like that if they’ve made their feelings clear. I think the boys would realize in the absence that they miss her and maybe James and Remus would knock some sense into Sirius about how he’s been treating her. Also no pressure at all, absolutely love the series!!!

Babe the way I've hoardeddd this request! Thanks for the idea, hope you're okay with it being put to use much later than you originally thought <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You don’t leave your room until after dark, when the bus loads to bring The Marauders crew to their second show of the weekend. There’s no point in it; you won’t have a good opportunity to interview the boys until after the show anyway, and you’re too tired to be around people anytime your tape recorder isn’t running. For the feature that comes out of this to be good requires some intimacy, but you can set the limit. 

You do feel like you’ve achieved the exclusivity you were after. You’ve learned a lot. Not just the big stuff—not just Remus’ spells of poor health and James’ encounter with the unofficial queen of music recording—but details fans wouldn’t know just from seeing the band onstage. That Sirius is funnier than he seems. Not just the loud, showy kind, but funny in how he’ll let the others rag on him, how he’ll put on airs and allow himself to appear distinctly uncool to make his friends laugh. That Remus is not only moody and mysterious, but bashful at times. Often, he rolls his eyes to cover his blush. That James is…well, James is exactly as he appears. That’s the surprise of him. He’s really not too good to be true. 

These things are already enough. They’ll be of interest to fans, invite them in, make them feel privy to something that lingers beneath the music. You don’t need the other gossip-column stuff. But what you don’t have enough of yet is what you really came along for: quotes about The Marauders’ upcoming album. 

You’ve been too pliable. You let yourself get too excited about being behind the curtain. Somehow, while you weren’t looking, the curtain tangled you all up until you nearly forgot which side you were on before. The camaraderie between the boys is so easy, it’ll sweep you up, make you think you’ve known them all along, too. That’s part of the magic of The Marauders, perhaps. It worked like a charm on you. 

Not anymore, you tell yourself sternly on your way down to the bus. You’re here to do a job. You’re here for yourself. There’s a wall between you and the band by the very nature of your role here, and your role is to make that wall appear transparent, not evaporate it. You won’t let yourself get so close again. 

Closeness has only given you less to write about. 

You return Lily’s polite nod as you step onboard the bus. Sirius is giving you some kind of look, but you pretend not to notice it poking at your periphery. You ignore too James’ patting of the extra space on his bench, passing the boys by to sit instead in an empty seat a few rows behind them. Close enough to overhear; not close enough to engage. As you should have been this whole while.

“Have a lie in this morning?” Remus asks you anyway.

“Yeah,” you reply. 

James turns fully around to speak to you, folding his arms atop of his seat. “I hope you’ve rested up,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Cadbury World.” 

“Oh.” It takes a second, but you find the right smile. Pleasant and distantly apologetic. “You all have fun, but I think I’m going to stay back. I have to edit this article for Tuesday.” 

James looks put out. You pull out your notepad before you can linger on it. 

“What’s the article about?” asks Remus. It may only be your own new wariness, but you think you detect a hint of vigilance in his tone.

You glance at Sirius on instinct to see if he’s eyeing you with the same distrust. His dark-rimmed stare is heavy, but it’s not…it’s not what you expect. There’s no accusation there. Sirius seems watchful, but not like he’s anticipating something in particular. Like he’s waiting to see what you do next.

You wonder if he thinks you’re angry with him. You’re not. You don’t blame him for thinking you’d sell James out for a story; Sirius is used to dealing with real journalists. He’s learnt to be calculating, to put himself as a shield between people like you and anything—or anyone—he wants to protect. To anticipate the worst you could do so he knows when to be ready. If you were half the journalist Spellbound thinks you are, you would have done it.

You just aren’t sure if you are that journalist. You aren’t sure if you want to be. 

“It’s something I was working on before I got here,” you say to mollify Remus. 

“Are you feeling alright?” asks Sirius. 

You feel your brows draw in tight, forgetting for a moment to control your expression. “I feel fine, why?” 

He shrugs. “You seem rather tired all of a sudden.” 

You put your pleasant smile back on. Sirius frowns. “I guess all this staying up from dusk to dawn is finally getting to me.” 

“Ah, yeah.” James sets his chin on his forearms, his eyes big with sympathy. “I crashed earlier in the tour, too. I think it’s a sort of hurdle you have to get over. Sorry.” 

“We can tuck you in with Remus tonight,” says Sirius lightly. A pink blush blooms over Remus’ cheeks. “He’s got all sorts of methods for getting a good sleep. We’ll have you fully nocturnal in no time, babe.” 

You direct your stare toward your notepad, trying to focus enough to make sense of the first sentence of the article you’re meant to be editing. “I’m not sure that will work out very well for when I eventually have to be awake during the day again.” 

“Why would you ever do that?” Sirius jokes. 

You’re tempted to look up and raise an eyebrow at him; you don’t. “Once I have what I need for the feature, I’m guessing Spellbound will want me working normal business hours.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Well,” says Sirius, “I don’t know why you’d ever work for them, in that case. They sound unhinged.” 

You try not to feel anything about the obviousness of James’ upset when he asks, “Are you nearly done with the feature already?” 

It’s almost laughable. As if they’ve given you near enough information to write the feature; you hardly have enough for a few paragraphs. But, it is like James to be optimistic. “Not quite.” 

Sirius tsks. “Guess we’re not going to be rid of you very soon, then.” 

You keep your expression neutral as you look up at him. “I’ll do my best to work efficiently.” 

Dark brows descend over stormcloud eyes. “Sure you’re not feeling ill?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You should come to Cadbury World with us,” says James, looking worried now, too. “You seem like you could maybe use a break.” 

The useless mush of your heart softens instinctively at the earnestness in his voice. “Thanks,” you say, “but I think I ought to stay on task. We all want me to finish up and get out of your hair, right?” 

Remus makes a soft sound. “No one’s said that.” 

“Maybe we can do an interview after the show?” you go on. “If you’re ready, I can ask some more questions about the album. I know it’s not completely done yet, but the point of me being here is to get accounts of the process.” 

“I thought we agreed you’d be taking us to dinner first,” Sirius hums, in that teasing way of his. 

You don’t rise to the bait. “If you’d like to have the interview at a restaurant, that can be arranged.” You have no clue how you’ll finance it, but that can be a problem for later (and possibly for Spellbound). 

It’s not just Sirius who frowns at you now; all three of the boys look at you like you’ve boarded the bus with serpents for hair. 

“O…kay,” says Sirius. “We’ll see.” 

“Sure,” you reply. The familiar, hard edge of determination slots into place in your middle; a welcome feeling. “We can see.” 

[moonstruckme]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You stop back at the hotel for a few hours’ reprieve before you’re meant to leave for Birmingham. It’s only just midmorning, and your plan is to go back to your room and collapse into sleep. No sooner do you change out of your slacks and top than there’s an insistent knock at your door. 

You know by the sound of it who it will be, though you can’t fathom why he’d still be awake now that nobody’s forcing him to be. 

“Listen to me,” Sirius begins as soon as you open the door. 

Your eyebrows go up. “That’s new. You’re usually trying to get me not to pay attention to what you say.” 

“Y/n, listen.” The use of your name sobers you as much as Sirius’ tone. You’re not sure if he’s ever used your name before. It’s always doll, or babe, or gorgeous, or some other flattering but distanced epithet. “You leave James out of your magazine.” 

You feel your eyebrows come back down. “What?” 

Sirius shakes his head and steps into your room, shutting the door behind him. You’ll think later about how you let him, unhesitatingly, because even after the morning you’ve had, you trust these boys. Always the fool. 

“I could see you thinking about it on the bus,” he says. “Don’t you fucking dare. This is not part of your feature story.” 

Inexplicably, the realization of what you’ve missed only makes exhaustion pull at your limbs more heavily. You’ve forgotten what you’re really here for yet again. Whatever Sirius saw on your face as you listened to James was likely surprise, but it wasn’t you doing your job; it wasn’t the ambition your new (if they keep you) bosses are expecting of you. 

“This is celebrity news,” you say, nearly forgetting, now, that Sirius is in the room with you. 

It is, though. It’s huge. Caius Avery’s wife, taking advantage of a young musician too green to do anything about it. It’s the exact kind of sickening readers will clamor for. 

“I thought you wouldn’t write anything personal,” Sirius snipes. 

The implied accusation nettles; it’s essentially what you promised when Remus was ill. You meet Sirius’ eyes, guilt like a vine creeping around your ribs and up your throat. “Sirius, this isn’t the same. This is—it’s Lorena Avery.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What if I left James out of it? He could be anonymous.” 

Sirius actually scoffs. A crude, mean thing, like he could spit if he put just a bit more effort in. “Right, who would ever figure that out? No one would be curious enough to want to know more, or to match up the timeline, or call you a liar unless you give over a source.” His gaze is as unforgiving as if you’ve already done it. “Caius Avery would sink us.”  

An unexpected swell of indignance prickles under your skin. “Is that what this is about?” 

Sirius blinks, his ferocity wavering a moment. 

“Do you even care about James?” 

It returns just as quickly. “Fuck you.” 

“You’re just worried about the tour. You never stop to wonder if he might want to hold Lorena accountable, or to talk about it—” 

“Oh, because that’s your aim, is it? To make James feel better?” 

“This is my job!”  

“He’s my friend!” 

It stills you. For a long moment, you look at each other, you in your pajamas and Sirius still in the stage makeup he put on for the interview, all dark, impenetrable black. Sometimes, you think you see right through him, but now you have no clue what he’s thinking. Sirius isn’t what’s important now, though. 

It’s James. James is your friend, too. 

“Leave him out of it,” Sirius says again, firmly. 

“Okay,” you reply. Your earlier exhaustion returns full force. “I will.” 

“I mean it.” 

“Okay.” Irritation needles at your tone as you brush past him towards your bed. “Can we nap before we have to get back on the bus, or do you want to stay and argue some more?” 

Sirius raises an eyebrow—and you don’t know how he does this, make it seem like you’re the one impinging upon him. “I think that’ll do for now,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You push out a breath, fighting down a scream. What good are you to Spellbound, if you keep unearthing stories and then not writing them? If the magazine found out you knew about this and helped to suppress it, they’d do worse than fire you. They’d blacklist you. You’d never work again. 

Just like James if the story gets out. 

You collapse into bed, and don’t sleep a wink. 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

You’re packed and ready when the next knock on your door comes. You expect it to be Lily telling you it’s time to go, or maybe Sirius itching to guilt you some more, but you’re surprised to find Mary on the other side. 

“Hi.” She offers a smile. It’s tinged an unhappy hue. “Can I come in for a sec?” 

“Sure,” you say, stepping aside. 

“Thanks.” Mary doesn’t go far, closing the door behind herself and leaning against the wall of the entryway. “How are you doing?” 

You smile. “I’m all good. Sorry for the drama earlier.” 

Her brows bend inwards. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t drama, and even if it was, it would have been justified. That guy was pushing it and he knew it.” 

You don’t know how to respond—to thank her or to apologize again feel equally good options, though you get the sense Mary won’t approve of either—but Mary, blessedly, moves on. 

“I know you’ve already had a shit day,” she says, “but I heard about what happened on the bus earlier.” Her eyes search yours, deep brown and perceptive. “What James told you.” 

A hint of the nausea from earlier squeezes the base of your throat. “What about it?” 

“I need to know if you have any recording of it.” 

You blink. “I—no, I don’t. I didn’t even have my things with me earlier.” 

It’s a relief—and a mercy, you think—that Mary takes you at your word. “Great,” she says, “thanks. So, just so we’re clear, that was all completely off the record.” 

“I mean, literally.” You shrug. “I didn’t record it.” 

“Right, and you won’t publish it in paraphrase either. Right?” 

Mary’s tone is friendly, but there’s something beneath it that tells you she’d stop being your friend for the moment if you opposed her on this. Like Sirius, then. It had to have been him who warned her, who asked her to come in her role as the band’s publicist to negotiate with you. 

It stings. Even after how you’d spoken to each other earlier, you didn’t think Sirius would have so little confidence in you.

“Right,” you repeat, feeling bound. Not conniving enough to work, not honest enough to have true friends. You’re a mess of unkeepable promises and competing desires. 

“Great.” Now Mary looks relieved, too. She offers you another rueful smile. “I just have to be sure. It’s part of my job, you know?” 

It’s something you ought to understand. You aren’t sure anymore if you do.

[moonstruckme]

Oooh! Mae! the boulevard is getting juicyyy!

The TENSION!!

I can soo see them all going out again and having someone hitting on r, maybe when she steps away, causing the boys to get JEALOUS.

Sirius would be sooo huffy puffy, soo grumpy.

Then maybe the guy hitting on her takes it a bit too far and they can tell that she is uncomfortable and become soo protective.

OMG! protective angery Sirius!!! eeeh!

I can so see them using this as a way to get r out of the bus and into the hotel because "we can't take our eyes off of you for a second, can we?"

Aahhh! I love it so much! you're so good at setting up a story!

of course don't use this if it doesn't fit your vision for the story I just had to share my excitement!

Love you and your works <3 I hope you have a lovely day/night!

Thank you so much angel!! Love you and hope you have a lovely day/night as well <3

cw: sexual harassment and discussion of sexual assault

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2.7k words

You know it’s not fair to feel like you’re being cheated on when your band—the band, The Marauders, not yours—is booked for interviews. But it’s difficult not to feel like they’re seeing other people. 

And when Remus gives the news anchor the same polite non-answer he gave you about the muse behind their song Sweet and Easy, it’s difficult not to feel a bit smug. 

The tour bus left at five this morning to get you all to this local television station. You were sure to remind Sirius, as he moaned and groaned about the early hour, that you never make him get up anytime before noon for an interview, and he should remember that. (Remus was deadweight on James’ shoulder, but he’s too good to tease. You let him sleep.)

All your jealousy and possessiveness aside, you are somewhat intimidated. This is a more formal interview than you’ve ever conducted and a much larger-scale production than you’ve ever been part of. And aside from you, Mary, Lily, and one woman who appears to be an assistant, it seems to be being run entirely by men. 

You know how outnumbered you are in your own industry, but you’re not sure you’ve ever felt it so acutely as you are now. It’s all around you, undeniable. You wish you were someone who rose better to the challenge; you’d like to puff up and feel proud of what you’ve accomplished, and you do, some of the time, but here, with the male producers and many male reporters and male anchor asking the boys questions just this side of provocative with a conspiratorial “we all know how it is to bed women” smile, you only feel small. 

“Is this how they are with you, too?” a man asks. 

You look up from the monitor you’ve been watching the interview on. Lily’s stepped outside to take a call, but you and Mary are dallying in the control room (well, you’re dallying; Mary is talking shop with one of the station’s producers) while the boys are on live television in the next room. 

“Sorry?” you say. 

The man who’s come to stand next to you nods at the screen. You don’t know precisely what his role is, but you gather he’s some sort of coordinator, based on how he met you when you arrived and he and Mary spoke like they were already acquainted. “You’re their groupie, right?” 

“Ah.” That feels rather a demotion, but you don’t see the point in explaining why a reporter is traveling with The Marauders on their tour. No need to give other reporters any ideas. “I guess so.” 

“And are they always this charming?” 

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, they are.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Really? There’s not an off switch?” 

“Not one that I’ve found,” you say, watching as James animatedly tells a story that makes Remus flush bashfully. “I think it’s innate.” 

Sirius being the obvious exception to this. Though, really, you think the charm he lays on for press is just an amplification of what he already has naturally. Even when he was grouchy and whingeing this morning, you were still a bit charmed; it’s a talent of his. 

The man chuckles, watching the screen with you. “Is that how they won you over?” 

You shake your head. “I’m in it for the music.” 

“Right.” The shift in his tone is so subtle you can’t be sure it’s there. You might be imagining things. “So no private shows, eh?” 

“No,” you laugh. You think of Remus’ fingers wrapped around his bass. Of James tapping out the rhythm to a song no one else has heard yet on his thighs. But you don’t think either of those are the sort of shows this man is referring to. 

“Are you a virgin or something?” 

Your head actually whips up, you’re so caught by surprise. “Sorry?” 

The man’s gaze is still turned insouciantly towards the monitor. Your stomach sinks down to your knees. “It’s just the only thing that makes sense,” he says, shrugging. “I mean, how long have you been touring with them? And, nothing? Not even one of them?” 

You take a breath and try to make your voice firm. “Like I said, I’m in it for the music.” 

This gets you a sideways glance. You don’t like how amused it is; like this man knows something already, like he’s got you all figured out. “Do you mean to tell me none of them have even tried?” 

“That’s right,” you say, forcing your own stare back to the monitor. 

“Maybe you’re just not tuned into the right signals.” 

You keep your mouth shut. You can argue with this guy all day, or you can let the boys finish their interview and get out of here. Even if no one in this studio knows it, you’re still a professional; you can’t afford to make a scene.

You stop breathing when the press of a fingertip begins running along the seam of your slacks. 

“You’re a pretty girl,” the man says, quietly. 

While the rest of your body is still, your heart has a will of its own. It riots, climbing up your throat and beating against your skin. 

You’re smacked by the powerful urge to cry when you hear yourself reply, even more quietly, “Thanks.” 

The control room doesn’t feel like a room full of people anymore. It feels dark and private, and the constant low murmuring feels too quiet. Something inside your head begins to thrum as the man’s knuckles stroke lazily up and down the seam of your slacks, leaving ghostlike impressions in your thigh. 

You look around to see if anyone is watching, and it’s just as you do that Mary pauses in her conversation and glances over. You catch her stare. You see her dark gaze flit down to the movement of a hand, then back up to your face, and then she’s crossing the room to you. 

It breaks you from some sort of petrified trance. You take a step sideways, breaking the light contact. Your heart pounds.

“Hey,” says Mary, her tone easy as she links her arm through yours. Subtly positioning herself between you and the man, whose name you still haven’t learned. “I think the boys are ready to go. Let’s fetch them.” 

You look at the monitor in front of you, realizing with a shock that the interview has finished. “Yeah,” you say. 

She ignores the man standing beside you as she says, “Pleasure chatting with you,” to the producer, and then the door is shutting behind you. 

“You okay, babe?” Mary asks you, her voice soft but not small. A sort of whispered urgency.

You nod. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Thank you. Sorry, I sort of—froze up.” 

She squeezes your arm. “Don’t apologize. Hey!” She puts on a smile for the boys, jumping up on the platform of the anchor’s desk to hug Remus. “That was brilliant. They loved you in there.” 

“You must trust us,” Sirius teases. “You weren’t even out here giving us hand signals for what not to say this time.” 

“I trusted you enough for fifteen minutes of freedom,” Mary shoots back. She glances around. “Right, so I’m going to find Lily, but do you all want to head out to the bus?” 

“Sure,” says James. 

“Perfect. Um—hey.” She grabs your wrist before you can go, looking at you seriously. Her voice lowers. “Do you want me to say anything to someone from the studio?” 

You blink. “Oh. No, it’s fine.” 

Mary’s lips press together, but she nods. “Okay. No detours, boys,” she says at her normal volume. “We’re leaving in five.” 

“Do you think Lily gives her a script for what to say when she’s not around?” James wonders aloud as Mary strides back the way you came. 

Sirius is watching you with raised brows. “What was that about?” 

“Nothing,” you say. “Where are we headed tonight? Further south?” 

Your diversion isn’t subtle, but no one pushes you. A kindness, considering how often you’ve pushed these boys for answers when they’ve clammed up. 

“You’d think with all the research you do, you’d have gotten at least a general sense of the tour schedule,” sighs Sirius. 

“Is that your way of saying you don’t know either?” 

“You’ll never prove it.” 

“South, yeah,” Remus confirms. “We’re in Birmingham the next three nights.”

“Ooh.” James’ face lights up. “Think Lily will let us go to Cadbury World?” 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Things calm on the bus. Remus immediately claims a bench and shuts his eyes. Whatever adrenaline perked Sirius up for the interview wears off, and he starts grumbling about getting coffee; James bounces between consoling him and trying to get you both on board with a team excursion to Cadbury World. By the time you’ve all gotten settled, Mary’s coming on with Lily. 

The redhead peers over the benches, doing her usual headcount. You offer a smile when her gaze lands on you. The one she offers back is thin. 

“We’re good to go,” she tells the driver, making her way back to you. Lily kneels on the bench in front of yours, laying her arms across the top. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” you say. 

“Do you want to go—” She points with her chin to the back of the bus, where a few empty seats remain. “—talk?” 

You really, really don’t. “It’s okay,” you say. Smiling, not wanting it to seem like you’re rejecting her out of rudeness. “Everything’s good, really.” 

Lily’s brows twitch into a frown. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “Just, you’re alright?” 

You nod, still smiling. It’s beginning to ache a little in your cheeks. 

“Mary said you didn’t want her to say anything, but if you change her mind, she could call the station. It’s not—I’m glad you’re okay, but it’s not okay. There should be consequences for someone like that.” 

You don’t know how to reply. You can only look at Lily, an unwelcome pressure behind your eyes. 

Her voice becomes, impossibly, softer. “She can still call, if you want. Or I can.” 

“It’s fine,” you force out. 

“Is everything okay?” asks James. 

You turn to find him watching you with a confused little furrow between his brows. Beside him, Remus’ eyes have opened to slits. Though you can’t see Sirius without turning around, you’ve no doubt he will have been eavesdropping from his seat, too. Lily winces, her eyes sorry. You suppose this is partly your fault for not going somewhere more private when she asked. 

“Yeah,” you reply to James.

“Did something happen?” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re using those same words so much you’re going to wear them out, babe,” Sirius says lightly. Now you do turn to look at him. He’s wearing the contrived sort of smirk you’ve come to recognize. “Are you sure you mean them?” 

You press your lips together tightly as, to your horror, your eyes begin to well. 

Sirius’ smirk drops in an instant. “Hey, I’m sorry. It was a joke.” 

You shake your head, blinking. “No, I know. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Lily reaches down to rub your shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize, love. You haven’t done anything.” 

You give a wet laugh. “Thanks. It’s really fine, it—” You glance again at James’ worried gaze, and relent. “It was just a weird interaction with one of the guys working at the studio.” 

Sirius’ expression sharpens. “Weird how?” 

You shrug. “Like, flirty. He just asked some weird questions.” 

“Mary made it sound like more than that,” says Lily, confused. 

It is getting harder and harder to keep from bursting into tears. Luckily, Mary must overhear, because she summons your well-meaning friend back to the front of the bus under the guise of needing help with something vague. She can’t save you from the scrutiny of the others, though. 

“Was it more than that?” asks James. 

Remus clears his throat. “Might not be any of our business,” he says, to no one in particular. 

“It was…” You wave your hand. The gesture comes off less flippant than you hope with you blinking so furiously. “...hardly anything. He just touched my leg.” 

You don’t particularly want to look at anyone. You can feel their stares boring into you, but you don’t meet them, looking instead at the empty seat across the aisle from you. Somehow, being frozen stiff in a dark room feels almost less vulnerable than talking about it in daylight. 

“I’m sorry.” James sounds genuinely heartbroken for you. 

“It’s fine.” 

“And he’s still there?” Sirius peers across the bus, looking like he might shout for the driver until Remus not-so-subtly glares him into submission. 

James crosses over to your seat. “Can I hug you?” 

You shrug. “Sure. But it’s—James, it’s okay.” You’re startled by the strength of his arms around you, how tightly James squeezes. “I was mostly just worried I was going to ruin your interview.” 

“No, I get it.” His voice sounds rough, and you realize with a painful twinge that he might be crying, too. “I’m just really sorry.” 

“You wouldn’t have ruined anything,” says Remus. “Even if the interview had to stop, it wouldn’t have been your fault.” 

You hadn’t even considered that possibility. Your worst-case scenario was more along the lines of making a scene in the control room, upsetting your hosts, and causing trouble for Mary, Lily, and the boys as a consequence. The idea of them halting the interview for you seems so outrageous it’s almost laughable. 

“I know how it feels,” says James, “when something like that happens, and you don’t feel like you’re in a position to say anything. It’s so—it’s scary. It makes you feel so helpless.” 

You pat his back. “Yeah…” 

“Alright, James,” says Remus gently. 

You pull back slightly. James’ eyes are wet behind his glasses. “You know how it feels?” 

James smiles ruefully. You decide instantly that you never want to see anything like it from him again. “When you make a show of yourself the way we do, people think they have a right to you, you know?” 

Your guts twist in a tight, uncomfortable knot. “I’m sorry,” you say. “That’s awful.”

He shrugs. “It didn’t really bother me. I’ve always been pretty touchy—I mean, you know. But we had our first big event a few months ago, and Lorena Avery sort of grabbed me, and that…” 

Recognition runs cold through your bloodstream. Lorena Avery. Singer, wife of Caius Avery. Avery Entertainment is one of the biggest record labels in Europe. 

Your mind goes to an image of James at his first ever industry event, wide-eyed and shining with new stardom, being introduced to big names he’d probably never dreamed of meeting and shown all the opportunity that lay in front of him and his friends. How was he meant to tell anyone if he was made uncomfortable, when The Marauders’ position in this society was so fragile? The possibility of being on the wrong side of someone like Caius Avery was a terrifying thing for anyone, let alone a band only about to embark on its first tour. 

“...that was more than I could handle,” James finishes. Volumes left unsaid. 

Your throat constricts, and you hug him tightly. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he says, choked. “It was months ago. I’m past it.” 

You don’t think that’s true. You think of the rumors that began a few months back of James’ new, clandestine relationship, sprouting from the sudden shift in how he presented himself at shows. How he seemed less inclined to flirt with fans or flex his muscles for their entertainment. You think of yourself, prodding at him, teasing him about his “secret girlfriend,” and you feel sick. 

“I’m only telling you so that…” James clears his throat. “…you know, or…you get that it’s alright.” 

“Thanks.” Tears squeeze out of your lashes. You’re not sure if they’re for you, or James, or the whole of it all. It doesn’t matter; James hugs you tightly. 

[moonstruckme]

i am all for camp counsellor james! love that energetic man. what about like cabin vs cabin games? obstacle course, rope tugs (is that what it’s called?) etc.?

just a concept, i don’t even have a specific idea on how that would go plot wise, but i like ‘competitive but in love’ james lmaoo

ofc as always, feel free to ignore if it does not inspire :) enjoy the great weather and i hope you’re doing well!

Thank you for your request angel! I hope you're doing well and enjoying the weather wherever you are too :)

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

camp counselor!James x fem!reader ♡ 807 words

It’s the giggling that gives them away. Not James’ giggling. The kids’. And maybe a little bit of James’. 

They were doing so good. Honestly, it was a rush, sneaking through enemy territory, darting from hiding place to hiding place, the flag your cabin is guarding getting closer with you and the couple of your campers playing defense none the wiser. If James was on a team with Sirius and Remus instead of a bunch of ten-year-olds, the game would be…well, he wants to say cinched, but it’d be pretty much the same, probably. 

But Sirius never revealed their hiding spots by laughing too loudly. Not since he was eight at least. 

James hears the chatter between you and your girls go suddenly quiet, and he whispers to his boys, “Run!” 

They break away from their trees to find you already heading towards them, all four beginning to sprint towards the bright yellow bandana tied to the post behind you. 

“Go!” James shouts. Mostly for dramatic effect, but it does work to get a couple of his boys moving faster. “Go, go! Get it!” 

Their shorter legs have a considerable disadvantage over James’ longer ones, but he’s not headed for the flag. (Not that he’s not tempted. He’s working very, very hard not to go for it, actually, but these games are meant to be fun “for the kids” and all that.) Anyway, your team has you, with your longer legs. Coming straight for him. 

James can’t help the grin that takes him (okay, he was definitely contributing to the giggling) as he crosses paths with one of his campers being chased by one of yours. 

“Go on without me, Callum!” 

No protests from Callum. Ouch. James will nurse that wound later. 

As he suspected, the girl chasing Callum can’t resist the challenge of catching a counselor instead. James draws her away, with you on his heels too. He dances around a tree just as you’re catching up to him. 

“I got you!” 

“No, that was my shirt.” 

“That counts, James.” 

“It does not!” he laughs, walking backwards while you advance. 

James thinks you might have both been going easy on each other during the various cabin-against-cabin games last summer. Back then, James recalls being rather occupied with flirting with you, and his mother taught him that beating a girl mercilessly in every competition is no way to win her over. Maybe you were thinking along similar lines back then. 

This year, the competitive glint in your eye is almost frightening. 

It is also hot. 

(James is a simple man.)

The thing is, as much as James would love for you to tackle him to the ground right now, he’s competitive, too. And, at least for the moment, he doesn’t have to worry about winning you over anymore. 

“It’s really cute that you think you can catch me,” he taunts, panting a bit. Your other camper that was chasing him has given up and gone back to the action; it’s only you two now. 

You make an aggravated sort of exhale, your breaths coming also fast as you both run around the forest. “I did catch you!” 

“Clothes don’t count.” James feints left, then goes right. He feels a twinge of guilt when you nearly trip in your attempt to correct, fighting down an urge to reach out and right you. 

The next time he tries a similar maneuver, you react more quickly. Your hand snares in his shirt again, and this time you hold fast; when you go down, you make sure James comes with you. 

He manages to get his elbows underneath him to avoid falling flat atop you. Your expression is alight with triumph, your fingers still curled stubbornly in James’ shirt. 

“Does this count?” you taunt. 

“Well, you did only grab my clothes…” 

You laugh breathlessly and give his chest a push. “Don’t even try it.” 

James grins. You flatten your hand on his chest, your own eyes dancing with mirth. Despite the clear day, the air between you feels crackly and ripe like the sky before a storm. 

“You got me,” James confesses. 

You hum smugly. “I know.” 

“Guess you’ll have to escort me to jail.” 

You roll your eyes, but James secretly suspects that if he kissed your cheek it’d be warm. “I’m pretty sure that is how it works,” you say, giving him another push so that he stands up. 

“What’s this about?” he asks when you close a hand around his elbow. “You think I’m going to run off?” 

You send him a deadpan look. 

“Hey, lovely, I know how to play by the rules.” 

The look deadens further. 

James gasps in a manner he hopes is convincingly indignant. “I am insulted!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you hum. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

“Oh. Well, that works too.” 

[moonstruckme]

i'm obsessed x10000 with previous fwb sirius x reader!!! their dynamic is so cute 🥹 could you maybe do something where they get into their first argument and sirius is just so scared of messing this all up

Thank you for requesting lovely!

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Sirius finds you in the corner seat of your neighborhood coffee shop, wilted over a scone. 

His heart is in his throat as he goes over to you. He shoves down on it to give himself room to speak. 

“Hey”—You look up with red eyes, and it jolts right back to where it was—“is this seat taken?” 

You blink at him for a moment. “No.” 

“Thanks,” Sirius says, pulling out the chair across from you. 

It’s an unreasonably nice day for the dour mood. There’s enough sunlight streaming in through the nearby window to make you squint, and everyone is outside enjoying the weather. Sirius hates to think of how you must have felt leaving your flat like this, teary-eyed stepping out onto crowded streets with no shadows to hide you. He hopes he hasn’t embarrassed you on top of everything else. 

“I didn’t think you really liked scones,” he says. 

For a moment, you look confused. Then your gaze falls to your plate. “Oh,” you murmur. “I don’t. They were out of what I wanted and I panicked.” 

Sirius can’t help a small smile at that. It’s so like you, he wants to tease you and also kiss you on the tip of your nose. “Why don’t we get you something else, lovely?” 

“That’s okay.” You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “I’m not actually that hungry.” 

“A drink, then.” 

“Sirius.” You sigh his name out, and it hurts like a pressed bruise in Sirius’ chest. “You don’t have to get me anything.” 

He quiets his voice. “I just want to do something for you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you seem like you’d like something to drink. And because I’ve been a dick.” 

You don’t argue that. Which Sirius deserves—he would have only argued back if you had, but it stings that you don’t. 

Fuck. He is so, so bad at this. He can’t even figure out how to apologize properly. 

Sirius is…he thinks he’s wholer now than he used to be, but there are still parts of him that are shattered, with jagged edges that cut when you get too close. He doesn’t want for you to have to weather his damage. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, thinking that the basics might be a decent place to start. 

You nod. Then, quietly, “Me, too.” 

It shocks like a jolt. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

“I had a hand in things.” 

“No.” Sirius’ tone firms up defensively, and he has to consciously soften it again. “You didn’t do anything. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” 

It should never have been a fight. Sirius isn’t even sure that’s what it was, only that it was more tense than it had any right to be. Neither of you got much sleep last night. Your downstairs neighbor was on the phone, loud, and you wouldn’t let Sirius go say anything. He could have probably slept through it, but he was awake being irritated that you couldn’t fall asleep and you wouldn’t let him fix it for you. So neither of you were predisposed to good humor when you locked Sirius out of your flat this morning, not realizing he’d gone to take your rubbish out when you left for your appointment. He had to ring you to come back and let him in. You were irritated that you’d be late and he was irritated that he had to wait in his boxers on your stoop, but you both carried on like normal until nearly lunchtime, when you said that it felt like Sirius was annoyed with you, and he said that he was, obviously. It felt obvious to him—you were both peeved with the other, it only made sense—but your eyes welled up, and Sirius’ lungs dried out at the possibility that this was how he would lose you. He didn’t trust himself enough to try and talk to you about it until now. Here. 

Where he is still fucking it up. 

“I should have checked if you were inside before I locked the door,” you say, your voice tight with self-censure.

Sirius shakes his head. “I’m not angry about that.” 

Your brow scrunches. You don’t look like you believe him. 

“I’m not,” he insists. “I didn’t—I wasn’t even really angry at you in the first place. I was just pissed off about everything, but not at you.” 

“What’s everything?” you ask, your voice small. 

“The—your neighbor,” he can’t help but roll his eyes, it seems so petty now, “and being stuck outside. It was a shitty morning for both of us.” 

You swallow. Sirius watches in mute horror as your poor eyes begin to well again. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry,” he says desperately. “You were fine. You were—great, and I was sharp because I was tired, which is no excuse. James’ toddler acts better.” 

You make a wet snort. It’s one of the most charming sounds Sirius has ever heard, and it makes the bruise in his chest ache again. 

He stoops to catch your eye. “Please don’t cry, lovely girl.” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say, crying. 

“What can I do? Is it too late to buy you something?” 

You laugh again and wipe beneath your eyes. “I’d have a tea if you’re having one.” 

Sirius is going to be having tea, then. 

“Yeah,” he says, standing up. He grabs your plate with the unwanted scone, wondering how strange it’d be to offer it to someone sitting nearby. It feels a shame to waste it. “Hey.” 

You look up. Sirius runs his finger underneath your jaw impulsively, catching a tear off your chin. Your eyes go shy in that way that makes his heart threaten to spill out of his ribcage. 

“Are we okay?” he asks at a murmur. 

You blink. “Yeah. We’re good.” 

“Okay. I know it’s selfish, but can I ask you to do me a favor?” 

“Sure…” 

“The next time I fuck up, just give me a few minutes to get my shit together and apologize, okay? I don’t want to ruin this.” 

Your brows furrow. “Did you think we were breaking up?” 

Sirius shrugs. His cheeks and heart burning. 

You take a moment, bottom lip disappearing into your mouth. Then you reach your hand up for Sirius’ that’s not holding your plate and squeeze gently. “You’re not ruining anything.” 

“Well, give me a minute.” He squeezes back before stepping away. Only to double back and kiss you on the nose. You look rewardingly startled. “Let’s see if I get your order right before we say things like that.” 

[moonstruckme]

Hi! Idk if you still write for poly! Wolfstar or poly! Marauders anymore but if you wanted to write for them again could I request a reader that literally never shows when their in pain and the bfs wake up in the middle of the night to the reader crying and throwing up from pain due to a kidney stone/ kidney infection and freak tf out? (Literally what happened to me one time and I never got around to writing a fic about it) obvs if you don’t wanna write for them anymore totally fine! Just thought I’d shoot my shot bc I love your fics and I’ve never requested anything before lol

Thanks for requesting lovely!

cw: vomitting, nausea

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You’re so quiet that Remus doesn’t wake until the bathroom fan comes on. 

He’s aware, in the distant, half-coherent way, that you got out of bed some time ago. That’s not uncommon; at least once a night, one of you (usually Sirius, because he has a bladder the size of a mouse’s) will clamber across the mattress in a drowsy obstacle course of tangled limbs to make your way to the bathroom. Remus registered your leaving, and went back to sleep. 

Now, with the reminder of the fan, he goes to investigate.

Your name comes out soft and scratchy as he knocks on the bathroom door. Behind Remus, Sirius makes a mumbly sound that lands somewhere between irritation (presumably at realizing he’s been abandoned by both of you) and curiosity (presumably at why), but the drone of the fan drowns out any reply from you. 

Remus knocks again. When you don’t answer, he twists the doorhandle. 

The bright ceiling light is a shock even though Remus thinks he’s prepared for it. He blinks a few times, un-fuzzing your image until he can see more clearly the shape of you, which is curled over the basin of the toilet, your knees on the cold tile and face hovering above the bowl, seemingly trying to hug yourself out of existence. 

A somnolent coo drops from his lips, and Remus drops to his knees behind you. “Hey.” He lays the backs of his fingers to your nape. You’re clammy—and trembling, Remus can see it in your hands—but you don’t feel warm enough for a fever. “Not feeling well?” 

You make a soft noise that’s likely meant to be a hum of agreement. It breaks partway through and turns to a whine. 

“Think you might have caught a bug?” he murmurs sympathetically. 

You might shrug, though Remus isn’t sure if it’s only the involuntary jerk of your shoulders as you gag unproductively. 

“I don’t know,” you say after a while. Your voice is raw, and exhausted; Remus’ heart wrings itself out like a wet rag. 

He hums, sweeping his thumb over your nape as you breathe in and out through your mouths. A sort of breathing Remus recognizes, shallow and controlled. 

“Are you in pain?” he asks. 

Your breathing doesn’t change as you nod, eyes squeezed shut. 

Remus’ alarm doubles. 

You’re not one to broadcast your discomfort. You’d rather weather it on your own. This is an instinct Remus understands, and so he does his best to respect it; even when it pains him sometimes to do it; even when it means forcing Sirius to respect it against his instincts as well. There have been times when your boyfriends have learned that you pulled a muscle or hit your head days after the fact because you didn’t feel like telling them and you’re nearly frighteningly good at hiding when you’re hurting.

Now, your small nod sends fingers of dread creeping up Remus’ spine—not because you’ve never been in pain, but because you’ve never admitted to it. Whatever you’re feeling, the intensity of it overwhelms your want for privacy. 

Before he can fully reconcile with this, Sirius comes stumbling into the bathroom. Remus hadn’t heard him coming over the fan (which, he realizes now, was likely a measure you took to keep them from hearing you). Sirius blinks, his face scrunched under the assault of the ceiling light in a way that would make Remus grin any other time. 

Perhaps it’s because Remus’ expression remains so somber that Sirius asks instantly, “What’s wrong?” 

(Or a more slurred version of that, but Remus puts it together.)

“She’s hurting,” he replies. 

And Sirius, bless him, despite his still bleary eyes and his confusion and the fact that Remus knows it takes him at least a few minutes to wake up fully after getting out of bed, crouches behind you and knows precisely what to ask. 

“Where?” he says, smoothing a strand of hair away from your mouth. And at your helpless whine, “Show me, baby.” 

Remus watches you lift a trembling hand from the floor. Every movement looks like it pains you, and he feels vaguely nauseous himself at the prospect. You rest your palm over your stomach. “H—here.” 

“Can I feel?” Sirius asks. 

You look terrified at the prospect. “No.” 

“Okay,” he soothes, “okay.” Remus rubs a slow back-and-forth across your nape, wondering if Sirius has noticed your slight trembling or the wet sheen over your eyes. If he’s as frightened by them as Remus is. “Did it just start?” 

You take a moment to respond, breathing through another bout of intensified pain. Remus sees your throat work around a gag. “Yeah—” you manage “—just tonight, but it gets—it’s in waves.” 

“Do you feel done being sick for now?” Remus asks. 

You hum weakly. “I don’t think there’s anything left.” 

Sirius makes a pitying sound. He takes your shoulders to help Remus ease you back from the toilet. You look like you want to curl up on your side, but settle for leaning into Remus’ side instead. When you push out another shaky exhale, a tear slithers down your cheek. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby.” Sirius’ expression pinches and he shuffles closer to kiss your temple. “I know it hurts. Does it feel like it’s getting any worse?” 

Your reply is so soft Remus hardly catches it with you inches from his ear. 

“Maybe,” he repeats for Sirius. 

Sirius nods, his eyes clearer now and chewing his bottom lip. He sends Remus a grimace. 

“What do you want to do, love?” Remus tries asking you. Because he knows what he and Sirius want to do, but it seems worth checking. 

Your reply is near a sob. “I don’t know.” 

“Okay,” Sirius is quick to reassure you. He kisses your head again. “Let’s start by getting some painkillers in you, angel, okay?” 

Remus kicks himself internally for not thinking of that sooner. 

You nod, and Sirius gets up to find them, the bathroom now full of sound between the fan and cabinets opening and pill bottles rattling around. 

“And then,” Remus does his best to make his voice calm and lulling, “maybe we can go by A&E and see if they can help sort this out.” 

He needn’t have been so cautious. You’re in too much pain to do anything but nod, a small miracle that makes Remus feel at once relieved and distressed.

Sirius sits beside you again, but not before—seriously, Remus could kiss him—shutting off the fan, extinguishing some of the chaos in the room in favor of a more peaceful sort of quiet. 

“Here you go,” he says, dropping a couple of paracetamol into your hand. “You’ll be alright, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

[moonstruckme]

idk if ur requests are open but could i request a sirius x reader who fight(playfully) ALL THE TIME, and its to the point that people think they dont even like each other but its actually the opposite

btw i love all ur ficss

Thank you for requesting lovely!

cw: domestic squabbling

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 801 words

Sirius’ eyes are flinty, boring into you. “Tell the truth.” 

“I am,” you say evenly. “I. Don’t. Care.” 

He scoffs and crosses his arms. “You’re such a fucking liar.” 

“Can you not curse at me in public?” 

“Maybe once you stop being so stubborn.” 

You glare at him. Between you, a dessert menu sits on the table. You’re both keeping away from it like it’d be a concession to touch. 

“What about you?” You try to turn the argument around on your boyfriend. “I know you don’t want the apple crumble, because of your thing with warm fruit—” 

“Warm fruit?” Lily asks. You’d nearly forgotten she was there. Only Sirius can wind you up so badly you forget to be conscious of the four other people at the table with you. 

“He won’t eat any fruit that’s been warmed,” you explain to Lily. You side-eye Sirius and add, with disdain, “It’s a sickness.” 

James and Regulus both nod to confirm this assessment.

Sirius spreads his hands in a show of benevolence. “If you want the apple crumble so badly, let’s get it.” 

“No,” you insist, “the point is to get something we both like.” 

You jolt a little as, under the table, Sirius hooks an ankle behind yours and tugs playfully. “Stubborn,” he teases. 

“You’re stubborn.” 

“What a creative deflection.” 

You feel your features harden. “Fine. Whatever, let’s forget about dessert.” 

Sirius makes a bewildered choking sound, like the mere suggestion is heresy. “Don’t bullshit me,” he says. “I know you want dessert. You were eyeing that menu all of dinner.” 

“Well, now I don’t.” 

“You absolute—” 

“Why don’t you each get your own dessert?” interrupts Lily, clearly desperate for peace. You feel guilty at distressing her; you and Sirius’ bickering isn’t so severe as to warrant that. But you can’t think of a nice way to tell her that she doesn’t need to get involved. 

Sirius, perhaps thinking the same thing, sighs laboriously. “We can’t,” he tells her. 

“Why not?” 

“Because, she won’t eat all of hers—” 

“They’re big portions,” you defend yourself. 

“—and then we’ll end up taking it home, where it will sit in the fridge, and she’ll say I can have it, even though she really wants it herself—” 

“No, you could have it, but he always forgets about it—” 

“—and then eventually it goes bad, which is somehow my fault.” 

A twinge of genuine irritation goes through you as you remember your moldy chocolate cake from two weeks ago. “It’s your fault because you say you’ll eat it and then you don’t.” 

“Sort of like you when you order it in the first place,” Sirius hums. And you know he’s only winding you up for fun, but you must have a dangerous look on your face, because your boyfriend’s demeanor shifts. He reaches for your hand on the table, threading your fingers together. “Lovely, just tell me what you want to have. We’re frightening Mary.” 

“Oh no, don’t stop on my account,” says Mary, looking thoroughly entertained in her seat next to Lily, who’s faring considerably less well. 

“I would be happy with any of them,” you emphasize. 

Sirius rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. “Alright, sure, but you want something chocolate, don’t you?” 

You frown. Because Sirius is trying to corner you into making the decision, and not at all because he knows you too well. “I wouldn’t mind it, I guess.” 

“Right, so if I said I was between the brownie sundae and the lava cake, would you be able to choose between those?” 

You study Sirius’ face, trying to pick out the secret preference you know he’s hiding from you. His eyes glint and his mouth is tamped into seriousness, but those clues only lead to what you already know: he’s having a grand time goading you. 

“I’d want the lava cake,” you relent. 

You’re rewarded by a smacking kiss on your cheek, distracting enough that no one else notices when Sirius’ hand slips beneath the table to squeeze your leg. “Attagirl. Knew you could do it.” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t fucking condescend to me.” 

“Remind me, who was it that had qualms with cursing at each other in public?” 

You roll your eyes harder. Regulus catches your gaze partway through its trajectory. “Blink twice if you need out of this relationship,” he offers seriously. 

Sirius makes an indignant squawking sound, using an arm around your waist to pull you halfway into his chair as though to keep you from getting away. You smile at Regulus apologetically, your face beginning to burn in the aftermath of your squabble.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” James tells him. “This is foreplay for them.” 

Regulus makes a noise of surprised revulsion. Sirius kisses your cheek again when it burns too hot. 

[luveline]

explicit content Leon taught you how to kiss. He never imagined that he’d be with someone who didn’t know how. Simply hadn’t fathomed it. Why would he? But you, lovely and kind, smart and silly, had never been kissed, and so Leon taught you. Got you sitting over his thigh with a little bit of pleading and a solid arm coiled behind you like a belt.

He thinks about it sometimes when he needs to, how he’d pressed his thumb into the hinge of your jaw to get you to open up and kiss with tongue, the hesitancy of your hands on him, the soft brush of your mouth and your breathing. He remembers those first few kitten licks, and the way he’d nipped your nose to get you to laugh and calm down. Finds himself aching and hard at even the slightest reminder—you’ll wear your perfume from those shy first months together and he’ll strip himself raw remembering how he’d guided you forward, murmured about tongue and teeth and which way to turn your face, how to follow, when to give in. 

It plagues him more often than it should. Occasionally, you’ll kiss him sweet and gentle, your lips more parted than they could be, and he’ll wonder if he’s a bad teacher as his stomach turns leaden with heat. Wet kiss or chaste, casual or under his weight, he can’t be that bad. Isn’t as good-hearted as he’d like to think, maybe, when he gets hard from a peck or entices you to sit in his lap and practice. It’s spit, he’d murmured, not poison. Jus’ kiss me, honey, I don’t care if you’re bad at it. Practice makes perfect, didn’t anybody ever tell you that?

[moonstruckme]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍

Kind of a filler scene because I thought they deserved a bit of a break. Hope you enjoy <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9

rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’ve learned there are two kinds of shows that The Marauders perform: the ones that leave the band still humming with adrenaline afterwards, and the ones that leave them utterly exhausted. You think this would probably be easier for Lily to manage if they were all one way or the other; however, unfortunately, this is not always the case. 

Tonight, for instance, Remus meets you backstage with a post-show afterglow and a worn-out sigh, and James, once he and Sirius are done soaking up the cheers for an encore, skips over and kisses Remus square on the mouth. 

Sirius makes a choked sort of sound. Remus’ eyes widen, but he doesn’t look as surprised as you’d expect, which is then somewhat explained when James wipes his mouth with a look like he’s rather surprised himself, says, “Right,” and then does the same to Sirius and then you. 

You try to remember how to breathe, distantly aware of the fading impressions of James’ fingers where he’s just gripped your face. 

Sirius says, in a tight sort of voice, “James can get a bit overexcited after shows.” 

“Yeah,” James agrees, his face flushed and mouth a bit wet. You’d like to stop looking at his mouth, now. “Sorry.” 

You rub your lips together, then wish you hadn’t. “It’s fine. It was a big show.” It was. If you're measuring by crowd size, it was the biggest show the band has played yet, hence James’ overexcitement. “I, um, I get it.” 

“I’m going for a smoke,” Remus says, and walks off towards the side door. 

You stand still for a moment longer, trying to quell the flutter in your stomach before following Remus out. You’re being ridiculous. It was only a kiss, and your position is tenuous enough without rumors spreading that you’re sleeping with your interviewees. You’re here to do a job, not get all flustered and fluttery over hot musicians. 

The alleyway on the side of the building is empty, and dark enough that you all can stay close to the wall without attracting the attention of fans leaving the show on the adjacent street. By years of practiced movements or perhaps some kind of magic, Remus already has a cigarette between his lips by the time you come outside a couple of seconds after him. 

“Alright?” Sirius asks in a tone you can’t decipher, putting out his hand expectantly. 

Remus nods and digs out another cigarette. Sirius puts it in his mouth, and Remus flicks open his lighter, both of them leaning close to the flame. It lights their faces in an orange hue. You watch the flame flicker in Sirius’ upturned, searching eyes. 

Your heart stutters, and the fluttery feeling returns. 

Damn it.

For a while, everyone’s quiet, even James. It occurs to you that Remus might be more talkative if you weren’t here. 

You aren’t sure whether the hurt that blooms in you at the thought originates from guilt or offense. Remus has earned his mysterious reputation. Even though he’s always kind, he reveals very little, not like James who blurts without thinking or Sirius who talks and talks like conversation is a maze he intends to lose you in. After travelling with them for a couple of weeks, constantly in close proximity due to time on the bus and the hotel rooms Remus keeps quietly getting you and the rather clingy nature of your job, you think you’ve learned to navigate each of the members of the band fairly well. 

When it comes to privacy, James is virtually defenseless. He has a way of making everyone feel like he might be their best friend, with how he’ll march up to you and put an arm around your shoulders and invite you around to his parents’ for dinner. He’s so open-hearted it almost pains you, and such an open book you’ve stopped asking him any very personal questions because it feels too cruel. 

Remus and Sirius are each considerably more cautious. They treat you more like a friend than a prying stranger (a good thing, as you’d like to consider them your friends now too), but the walls come up when your tape recorder comes out. It’s a little bit disappointing for you every time. The difference is noticeable. Remus is never cruel, but he has a skill for making his tone convey in no uncertain terms when you shouldn’t press while he sidesteps a question with perfect politeness. When that fails—because polite or not, you are stubborn—he lets Sirius handle it. 

Sirius’ walls are bright and glittery. There’s a giant, flashing sign posted out front that says Look Over There! 

Sirius is a performer, and a good one; he knows how to show people what he wants them to see. It’s worked on many interviewers before you, and though you’re wise to his tricks, you’ve also spent enough time talking in circles with him at this point to know when you won’t get anywhere. 

You can admit, privately, that it’s sweet how these boys protect each other. There’s no hiding when a topic is sensitive, because they’ll all fall over each other to divert you from it. One time, Sirius just started flirting with you. Blatantly, with no skill or nuance. It was entertaining enough to succeed in changing the course of the conversation, though by the end of it Remus was a brilliant shade of pink and you suspect you weren't much better. 

You wonder sometimes if these are skills they developed as children, when they first met in school. It would explain how James has grown into adulthood with his heart still bleeding all over his sleeve. You admire their devotion. 

Sirius is eyeing you, the cherry of his cigarette glowing between his lips. 

“No,” he says.

You feel your eyebrows jump. “Sorry?” 

“You’ve got that nosy look about you, and the answer is no.” 

“It’s not nosy,” James comes to your defense, “it’s curious.” 

You tip your head towards James in silent agreement. Not quite looking at him, for fear of thinking again about his mouth. 

“What if I ask you an easy one tonight?” you ask. Your gaze flickers to Remus unwillingly, and you think he must know your restraint is for him, with the way he’s looking back at you. 

Sirius hums. “No,” he says in a puff of smoke anyway. 

You roll your eyes. Because no one has offered you one, you take the cigarette out of his mouth, enjoying a long pull and Sirius’ blink of surprise. It’s not often that you get to be the one flummoxing Sirius; you savor every victory you can get. 

You take out your tape recorder and turn it on. “What do you love about music?” you ask them.

Sirius blinks again. 

James’ laugh is loud and bright, echoing in the alley. “I thought you said it’d be easy.” 

“You don’t have an answer?” you tease. 

“I think you know it isn’t that simple,” says Remus. He’s watching you with that same look in his eye, half knowing and half something like amusement but warmer. It makes your stomach feel all liquidy. 

You shrug. “This isn’t about me.” 

“Aw, come on, doll.” Sirius grins that camera-ready, lead-singer grin at you. “You can’t really be asking us that like you don’t know yourself.” 

You inhale again before taking Sirius’ cigarette from your mouth and placing it back between his lips to let him enjoy the rest. “But I am asking you,” you tell him. 

He takes a drag, the cherry flaring orange. You see the moment he decides to indulge you. 

“Well, to start with”—Sirius leans closer to your recorder, as though making sure you get this—”everything.”

[ellecdc]

Reader with English not being her native language, maybe shes from rask or something.

And every time she forgets the English word for something, the ic turns it into a mini game of who can figure it out first, even amren joins sometimes, but when they all can't figure it out (because the only clues they get is her saying "its the thing!! That has the thing with the thing on it!" With vague hand gestures) they ask for cassians help.

Because for some reason he always gets it IMMEDIATELY (Thats why he's not allowed to play until they completely give up)

I wonder why 😼

Cassian x fem!reader whose second language is English [1k words]

CW: words lost in translation, family antics, fluff

Rhysand’s not entirely sure who’s more frustrated right now: you, for everyone’s inability to understand you, or Amren, when it looks like the ancient being might lose this little game they’re playing. 

There’s a small competition within the Inner Circle when it comes to you getting tongue tied—whoever can guess the word you’re looking for first, wins.

They don’t win anything other than bragging rights, but his family is a competitive one, so it’s as cut throat as anything else they put their minds to.

Though, there are three people barred from playing. 

Rhysand and Feyre aren’t allowed to play because while your mental shields are dutifully built, no one trusts the two daemati to play fair.

And Cassian’s not allowed to play either, for obvious reasons.

Well, reasons that are obvious to Rhysand, and likely the rest of the family, not that it’s any of their business; Cassian will tell you in his own time.

So it’s often down to Morrigan, Amren, Nesta, and Azriel to guess what the missing word you’re looking for is, with Lucien joining in when he and Elain visit as well.

Lucien was absolutely delighted—and horribly smug, the prick—when he correctly translated the answer to what your favourite fruit was—“an apple’s friend”—as a pear, and he hasn’t been invited back since. 

Amren’s glaring at Azriel like she’s hoping the shadowsinger might be banned next. 

“An echo?” Morrigan tries, huffing when you shake your head no. 

“And you’re saying that it’s something that people, the trees, and the sky does?” Nesta clarifies, narrowing her eyes in your direction. 

“Some animals too,” you agree, cheek bunched up where it’s resting on your fist. Cassian can’t stop smiling at you even though there’s an obvious tension in his body, poised in his seat like it’s taking everything in him not to blurt out the answer. 

“Do you know what it is?” Morrigan asks Cassian, who nods his head yes but doesn’t move his gaze. “What is it?”

“No,” Amren hisses, eyes still narrowed at you though Rhysand knows the ancient being’s gaze isn’t malicious, but rather dissecting. “I can do this.” 

“Animals too, you say?” Azriel confirms, humming when you nod your head yes.

“You lost me at trees and the sky,” Nesta admits, eyes staring at the wall unseeingly as she twirls the wine in her glass and ponders your latest riddle. 

Rhysand shoots you a questioning glance, wondering if this little game has gotten old and is beginning to weigh on you, but you shoot him a wink. It’s not easy conducting your daily life in a language that’s not your own, he’s glad you’re able to find a bit of fun in it where you can. 

“Trees, the sky, people, and some animals,” Morrigan hums thoughtfully. 

“I am unsure if the sky is responsible for the sound or if it is the clouds,” you admit. 

“The clouds…thunder?” Azriel tries. “But the trees…” 

“But in the wind the trees can groan,” Nesta muses, eyes sharpening when you sit up straighter. “Groan?”

“Animals don’t groan,” Amren mumbles. 

“But they do roar,” Morrigan tries.

Nesta gives her a strange look. “But trees don’t roar.” 

“No, you were onto something with the groan,” Azriel announces, keeping his gaze on you. “Are we close?”

“Close, yes,” you agree eagerly. “It is like a groan, but not…so unhappy? The sound is not happy, but to groan sounds…sad.”

“Groaning is too sad, but the word you’re looking for isn’t necessarily happy?” Morrigan confirms. 

I don’t know, Rhysad hums into Feyre and Cassian’s minds, Cassian used to sound real happy when he made this sound in his bedroom. 

Cassian smirks devilishly but flips Rhysand off so no one else can see. 

Don’t antagonize him, Feyre chastises. He’s barely keeping from launching himself across the table at her as is. 

Rhysand hums thoughtfully. Do you think he might-

“Growl!?” Morrigan shouts, squealing when you nod your head yes and Cassian smiles at his lap and shakes his head. 

“When the hell did trees start growling?” Amren huffs. 

“They make an awful sound when they’re about to fall,” Azriel placates. “And thunder does sound an awful lot like growling.”

“Thunder,” you hum thoughtfully, running your finger along your bottom lip as you catalogue this new word in your mind. “That is the sound of the sky?”

“Thunder, yes,” Azriel agrees. “It comes from the clouds, usually followed by rain.” 

“Sky water,” you hum, causing Nesta to snort at the memory of one of the last games of this type she won.

“How did we even get onto the topic of growling anyways?” Feyre asks then, Nesta’s brows furrowing and Morrigan’s smirk growing dangerously impish as her eyes flit to Cassian. 

“Actually, Y/N was just telling us a story about her trip into town,” she explains, everyone tensing at the mischief in her tone. 

“Oh?” Nesta chimes in, leaning back in her chair as she plays along. 

“Apparently, Cassian escorted her this afternoon, and they stopped by Corven’s.”

The group simultaneously hums as they see where this is going. 

“Corven is nice,” you offer warily, eyes darting around the room as you try to puzzle out what page everyone else seems to be on. 

The cafe owner is nice—too nice, often—and uncomfortably so to his female customers. 

“Mhm,” Morrigan agrees rather noncommittally. “And apparently, Cassian saw him getting a little too cozy with his sweet ma-”

“Alright, that’s enough story telling,” Cassian announces abruptly, standing and offering you a hand. “Would you like to help me make the pear turnovers?” 

You seem confused by his rather rude interruption, but—as mates tend to do—you can’t seem to deny Cassian of his request. The family watches as you place your delicate hand in his and allow him to lead you in the direction of the kitchen. 

Morrigan coughs into her fist obnoxiously. “Coward.”

The group laughs when the Lord of Bloodshed flips them off over his shoulder, you remaining none the wiser.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[moonstruckme]

hi, i just wanted to say i'm loving the prince!james au and so so excited to see how you end it! much love <3

Thank you angel <3

cw: muggle au, arranged marriage, discussion of war

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 1.6k words

You wonder if you should be packing. It wouldn’t take long; you didn’t come to Gryffindor with much. Maybe the prospect of how simple it would be to leave is what keeps you still, sat stiffly on your bed while James paces the room from end to end. 

You feel half frantic, twitchy, like you really should be doing something but you’re afraid to do anything at all. To move seems dangerous, which you know is a silly thought. The danger has passed, now. The war is ending. You wish your feelings about all that entails weren’t so complicated as they are. 

“Have you eaten?” Remus asks Sirius quietly. The other boy is leant on the wall across from your bed with his jaw deadbolted shut, and what is perhaps meant to be a private conversation carries through the too-quiet room.

“Not yet,” says Sirius.

“We can go see what they have in the kitchen…”

“I’m good.”

That’s it. Where James is wearing a trench into the floor and Remus is in the unusual position of doing most of the talking, Sirius seems to have shut down. The mood has changed from their joy at telling you the news about Riddle, but you can’t fully make out its new direction. 

“James?” Remus tries. 

James stops. “Hm?” 

Remus looks slightly pained, but it doesn’t wear away his fondness. “Lunch?” 

“Oh.” James blinks. “Right, yeah. Maybe in a bit? You both ate, didn’t you? Sirius, you didn’t have breakfast, are you—” 

“I’m good,” Sirius says again. 

You feel your eyes darting about like a tennis match, trying to understand what they’re each thinking. It reminds you of how most interactions went when you first came to Gryffindor, and you don’t like it. You thought you were done with feeling on the outside.

When your analysis returns to Remus, sitting next to you on the bed, he’s waiting for you. “What are you thinking?” he asks, gently. 

You swallow, shrugging helplessly. There’s less than a meter between you, but Remus feels so much farther away than he did at your picnic an hour ago. “I guess…I should talk to my family’s courtiers.” You look at James. “Have your parents heard anything?” 

James shakes his head. “Not that they’ve told me.” 

“What do they want me to do?” 

“I…” James looks distraught, and also like he’s trying to hide it (James is not a very good actor). “I think it matters more what you want to do. They only want us to be happy.” 

It’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t have believed a few months ago; anyone involved in politics always has an opinion, a directive, a motive, no matter how they try to soften it with diplomacy. If individual happiness was prioritized over the good of the people, things would fall apart. But you know Monty and Effie mean it as more than a platitude. They really will go along with whatever you choose to do. 

“Would breaking off the engagement now have any repercussions for Gryffindor or Peleria?” Remus asks. 

James frowns, tilting his head from side to side. “Some, yeah. But without the war, they wouldn’t be anything terrible.” 

You nod along. “Things could go back to the way they were.” 

You watch them each carefully as you say it. You don’t know what you’re looking for—agreement, displeasure, relief. 

“Do you think you might visit?” asks James. 

You press your lips into a smile. “If you’ll have me.” 

His eyes go melty soft. Your heart mushes similarly. “Of course, lovely. We’ll have you as often as we can get you.”

“Is that what you want?” Remus asks tentatively. “For things to go back to how they were?”

You ignore a twinge of revolt in your gut. “What do you want?” you counter.

“I think that this should be your decision.” 

“Why?” you ask. “It affects all of us.” 

Your tone reveals more frustration than you mean for it to. Since your rather ungraceful fainting incident and the subsequent monumental shift in how each of the boys act around you, they haven’t let you feel alone in this for a second. You’re not going to let them abandon you now.

After everything, all the chaos and uncertainty of the last few months, you finally feel this quiet, steady warmth between you, an ember that might grow into something new if you let it. As grateful as you are that the war is over—because you are, that part isn’t complicated at all—you’re a bit disappointed that it means this new warmth you were only beginning to acquaint yourself with will likely fizzle out. 

“But it affects you and James the most,” Remus reasons. He casts a look to the side. “James, what are you thinking?” 

James, pacing again, puffs out his cheeks with a big breath. “It just feels like everything has happened so quickly,” he confesses. 

“It was always going to.” Remus sounds almost solemn. “Even with the long engagement, you’d need to get married soon.” 

“That was too fast, too.” James weaves around your vanity chair like slowing for even a moment is out of the question. Sirius tracks him silently with his eyes. “It was always a tactical marriage. We didn’t have time to really—you know.” 

You nod, drawing your knees close. “Better to end it quickly than go through with something that was always going to be premature,” you say. 

James is nodding, nodding, nodding, but his expression is still all pinched tight. 

You turn to Sirius. He’s already watching you, and his gaze seems to catch and hold yours in that way that he does, like a challenge. 

“Sirius,” you say. 

He makes a short humming sound. 

“You’re being so quiet,” you say, rather quietly yourself. Insecurity weaves itself through the fibers of your voice. 

Sirius sighs and drops his head, fingers pressing into his browbone. “I’m trying not to be selfish.” 

You brace yourself. “What would you say if you were?” 

He shakes his head. “Like Remus said. This is your choice.” 

“It’s not just mine,” you say stubbornly. “I want to know what you all think.” You hesitate. There are some things you might feel better not knowing, but you’ve never truly thought ignorance was bliss. If you did, things might have gone very differently for you here. “Would it make things easier for you if I wasn’t here?” 

Sirius’ hand falls away, his brows hooking. “No.” The word sounds dragged out of him, rough and fast. “I want you to stay here.” 

It shouldn’t surprise you. Sirius has been possibly the most plain about his feelings of all of you—though that may be partly because the contrast after he admitted them has been so stark. You keep expecting him to go back on it. For all of them to, honestly. Now would be the opportunity to admit that they only pitied you, that they’ve been spending time with you out of kindness and a sense of obligation, that your presence here causes more turmoil than anything else. 

But Remus and James don’t disagree with him. James looks relieved; Remus watchful. Neither of them argue.

That new warmth flares between you. 

“I think we all like having you nearby,” Remus says after a while, “but we know how much you’ve missed home.” 

Your throat contracts. “If I went back, I think I’d miss you more.” 

James’ whole face lights with hope. “You don’t have to go,” he says. “You could stay here, and just visit home when you want. We could go with you.” 

“Would that even be possible?” you ask. 

“Anything’s possible,” James says easily. A true child of Gryffindor, all confidence and determination. “We could split our time, if we wanted to. Obviously, I have to be here some of the time, and so does Sirius, but—” 

“Alright,” Remus quiets him, a sweet curve at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” 

James holds his hands up. You feel your own mouth tug. When your eyes wander, Sirius finds them. 

“You still haven’t said what you want,” he says. 

You feel yourself shrink under three curious stares. In truth, there hasn’t been a question of what you want for a long time. Only whether you can have it. “I don’t want to get married,” you say. Your gaze goes to James, holding back the apology on your tongue. “It’s too fast, and it would never not be political. And we wouldn’t be able to…it couldn’t be all of us.” 

“I’m not ready either,” James agrees. “I could do it, if we had to—and I—I didn’t mind that it was you, you know.” Heat rises to your face, and his cheeks darken too. “But if we don’t have to, I’d like to slow things down.” 

“Could we do that?” you ask. “If I stayed here?”

“You always seem to forget that you’re royalty,” says Sirius, apparently feeling well enough to tease now. “We can do whatever we want, gorgeous. Is that what you want?” 

You do. You want to explore Gryffindor on your own terms, knowing Peleria is safe and open to you when you want it. You want to get to know James, and Sirius, and Remus, without the need to solidify an alliance like a noose tightening around you. You want to see summer in this place, and to develop an earnest friendship with Lily and Marlene, and to let the warmth between you grow and grow and grow. 

“I want to stay,” you say. 

Remus’ eyes are flickering with warmth, too. “Then you should stay.” 

Your first beginning in Gryffindor was forced. A stiff dress, a foreign home, a myriad of strangers who seemed to both pity and distrust you. A rough tumble into love, with a prince with a nice smile and a guard with a quick tongue and a seneschal who spoke gentleness into every breath. An engagement you didn’t know you weren't allowed to want. A war. A cruelly good kiss.

This beginning will be yours.

[moonstruckme]

would love to see some aftercare w tasm!peter where reader is just soo sleepy and he is so tender <3 i adore the way you write him

Thank you for requesting!

cw: mature themes (mdni please), afab reader

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 551 words

Peter might be a pervert for thinking you’re most beautiful like this, but he’s not that worried about it. 

Maybe he is a pervert. It’s only for you, specifically, so whatever. He has a feeling you’ll forgive him. 

You’re lying on the bed, your limbs lax now, like the last hour or so has taken it out of you so completely that you can’t move a muscle. Peter loves that he gets you like this. Completely unselfconscious. Your lips are kissed swollen, and there are little love marks on your chest to match the ones on Peter’s neck and shoulders, and your eyelids are as droopy as if they have weights sewn into them. He loves to get you like this too; completely tuckered out.

You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs. 

“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows. 

“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.” 

He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns. 

“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you. 

He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.

The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?” 

Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse. 

He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?” 

You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll carry you.” 

You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.” 

It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?” 

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“You’d do that?” 

Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.” 

He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago. 

“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?” 

Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips. 

“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath. 

“Me? Never. Who would even say that?”

[moonstruckme]

hi Mae!! I saw your comment about camp counselor James and after sitting out for 5 hours in the heat, I feel the same. Could you maybe write something with him teaching reader how to swim over the summer but shes too busy ogling him?

Thank you!!

Hi angel, thank you for requesting! I did this slightly differently but I think the important bits are still there

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

camp counselor!james x fem!reader ♡ 882 words

“Okay, so the wall’s going to help us keep our head up, yeah?” 

Amina, clinging to the edge of the pool dearly, nods. 

“Perfect.” James smiles at her. His ease in the water and confident tone emanate reassurance. “Are you getting sick of me ordering you about yet?” 

Amina laughs. “No.” 

James pffts. “You don’t have to protect my feelings.” He makes eye contact with you where you’re sitting on the edge of the pool nearby, your legs swishing idly in the water. James’ eyes glint with a conspiratorial sort of look you haven’t quite figured out how to interpret yet but makes your stomach swoop every time. 

Ostensibly, you’re here because you want to be certified as a swim instructor, like James is. Amina is also your camper, the only one this session who showed up without already knowing how to swim, and so your boss thought it would be helpful for you to observe her daily lessons with James. These are all very true and practical reasons for your being here. 

Another one is that you’d been so shocked at James’ handsomeness the first day you met that you hadn’t said a word to him for fear of embarrassing yourself, and still he’d been friendly enough to come over to you in the mess hall that night to try and make friends. You have more than one reason for wanting to be around him. 

“Well, you have a golden opportunity here,” says James, his eyes leaving yours after a drawn-out second to focus on Amina. “I’m going to step back here, and I want you to kick your legs and splash me in the face as hard as you can. Okay?” 

Amina nods. You press your lips together as James puts on a good show of dread, stepping behind her and helping to lift her ankles to the surface. “Ready?” he asks, a put upon waver in his voice. “Go!”

Amina starts kicking, and James throws up his hands, pretending to fall back. 

“Ah, oh my god! You’re so strong! I bet if you kicked with your whole legs instead of just your feet it’d be—woah, yeah. Wow, you’re drowning me back here!” 

Seemingly for effect, James does allow himself to get completely soaked. By the time he tells Amina to stop, his curly hair is dripping and slickened in spots to his forehead and his chest shines with tiny water droplets. You do not get at all distracted by either of these observable facts. 

“That was brilliant,” he says, helping Amina off the wall so she can find her footing again in the shallow end. “We’re almost done for the day, but before you go I want to practice floating one more time, alright?” 

You watch your camper’s expression cloud over. They practice this at the end of every lesson, but it’s the skill Amina struggles with the most. James’ eyes seek you out. 

“Maybe y/n can help us out today,” he says. “What do you think?” 

“Yes!” Amina agrees excitedly, while you tilt your head at him. 

“Me?” 

James nods. “Do you mind hopping in? I need a floater.” 

You shrug, standing to strip out of your clothes to the one-piece you wear underneath. It’s not a sultry process, but you’re conscious of how on display you are as you slide your shorts down your hips, stepping out of them. You accidentally meet James’ eyes when you turn around to get into the pool, and you think his cheeks may be a tad darker than they were a minute before. 

Amina cheers as you lower yourself in. James wades over to you. You don’t let yourself notice how he’s become taller than you again now that you’re on even footing. 

“I’m going to do with you just like I do with Amina, okay?” he asks, and you nod, knowing what he’s really asking. I’m going to touch you. Will you let me? 

You lean back, letting your legs rise to the surface. James’ hands come up under you a moment later. One pressing up lightly beneath your knees, the other at the small of your back. Making like he’s holding you up even when you don’t need for him to. James grins down at you, his face blotting out the sun, then looks up to say something to Amina you can’t hear with your ears below the surface of the water. 

You don’t really know what to look at. It feels silly to close your eyes, so you keep looking at James. At the shape of his neck, the way his jaw casts the top half of it in shadow, the sun-warmed shelf of his shoulders. His voice is a lulling, indistinct thrum. 

After a minute, his hands fall away, showing Amina how you float on your own, and a short while later James is tapping your shoulder to signal that you can stand up. 

“That was some superb floating,” he praises as water empties from your ears. “But I think you can show her up, Mina, what do you say?” 

You back out of their way, but James grabs your arm. 

“Don’t go far,” he says, his hand warm around your wrist. “We might need you again.” 

You don’t need any more excuse to stay close.

[ellecdc]

Okay this is kind of a broad request, and plz feel free to take the parts you like (if you want ofc) and run with them.

I’m like an ABSOLUTE sucker for an injured reader. Exhausted reader. Reader who absolutely needs to be cared for. Reader who is physically unwell to the point that those around her are mentally unwell, and then reader that’s upset she made others upset and she’s a mess. If you’d be interested in writing literally anything along those lines for any acotar guy or any poly acotar ship I would eat it right up.

I was read your requests for high stake hurt/comfort and I think this should be good? If not plz ignore lol but sometimes I just love a damsel in distress.

Love you!! MWAH

one damsel in distress coming right up 🫡

Azriel x fem!reader found in the snowy Illyrian forest [1.4k words]

CW: hypothermia, discussion of near-death/dying, possibly incorrect treatment of hypothermia, mating bonds, hurt/comfort

Azriel will find the time to be ashamed about his actions later, but right now his steps falter as he tries and fails to understand what he’s looking at. 

He knows exactly what you are though, knows exactly what the violent burst of golden warmth that rattled in his chest the moment he laid eyes on you means; it’s a feeling he’s been praying to experience for centuries. 

You’re his mate.

What his faulty, ill-equipped brain is having trouble comprehending is what you’re doing here and how Azriel came to stumble—almost literally—upon you in the dense, snow-covered forest in the Illyrian mountains on the brink of death.

You’re not Illyrian; Azriel doesn’t even think you look like you’re from the Night Court at all. 

But you’re his mate.

He’s your mate, yet Cassian is the first one to shake himself out of his shock at finding a nearly frozen fae in the Illyrian wilderness. The Illyrian General moves towards your unconscious frame.

“Don’t touch her,” Azriel growls, his mouth moving faster than his brain for once in his life. 

Cassian gives his brother a bewildered look. 

Thankfully, it spurs the shadowsinger into action. 

He’s on his knees beside you in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat of his own, at least; your pulse is dangerously—lethally—slow and weak. 

“Azriel?” Cassian cautions, taking a few tentative steps towards the heap that makes up your lifeless body and Azriel’s hands hovering over it. 

Azriel tries to respond, but the breath that leaves him is nearly sob-like. “M- mate.”

“Azriel.”

“She’s my- she’s my mate, she’s my mate. My mate.” 

Cassian curses under his breath and rips off his top layer of Illyrian leathers, the one he wears for chilly flights in the high altitudes. 

Azriel doesn’t have time to fuss about you being bundled up in another male’s clothing, nor that you’re going to reek of his brother now, and the thought of Cassian flying home without any protection from the north-chilled wind doesn’t even cross his mind as he quickly wraps you in the fabric, not even bothering with arms holes and the like. 

“Go,” Cassian commands, bending to pick up your jacket—that you seem to have peeled off your frame in your hypothermic state—and giving it a sniff, trying to figure out how you got here and who did this to you. 

“But-”

“I’ll be fine, Rhys is coming to get me and Feyre’s collecting Madja. Go.” 

Azriel tucks you tightly into his chest and dissolves into his shadows. 

Rhysand seems to have spurred the House into action at Cassian’s silent call. Azriel can hear the bathtub in his bedroom running and smells a pot of lavender tea coming to a boil in the kitchen. 

He nearly flattens Morrigan as he barrels into his bathroom—her and Nesta having quickly arranged a pile of towels a mile high and placed some clothes that look like they more-or-less will fit you once you’ve warmed up—and barely manages to kick his boots off before he’s lowering the both of you into the room-temperature water.

Azriel curses, the water feeling bitterly cold as he sinks into it fully clothed with you in his arms, but you gasp as the water saturates your clothing, face screwing up in pain. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs into your temple, slowly unravelling you from Cassian’s jacket to help submerge you further into the tub. You let out a choked sob. 

“Out,” Madja orders the two females, Morrigan immediately complying and Nesta shooting you a concerned glance and Azriel a warning one before quickly following. The ancient healer lowers herself to her knees beside the tub and feels for your pulse before moving her fingers to your pointed ears. 

“How long has she been in the tub?”

“Maybe a minute,” Azriel replies. 

“You need to submerge her more. Lay her back so that her head is floating.” 

The order is blunt and Azriel doesn’t think he’s ever heard a thing so cruel, but he’s just found you and he’ll be damned if he loses you to the cold.

“Shadowsinger-” Madja warns at his hesitation, but Azriel does as told.

Your entire body tenses, arms immediately reaching out and fisting the material of Azriel’s leathers. He leans forward, hovering over you and holding you close to his chest while still keeping your ears beneath the surface. 

He focuses on consoling you, holding your shaking frame tightly to his chest as Madja drains some of the tub and adds warmer water. 

“Burns,” you whisper, teeth chattering and giving away how cold you still are. 

Azriel focuses on not snapping at the healer as her hand shoves between the two of you and she feels for your pulse again. 

“Please.”

Azriel considers pulling you out of the water now that you seem lucid enough to beg him for reprieve, but Madja grabs Azriel’s shoulder and pushes him back towards the water when he tries to sit up. 

“She’s experiencing vasomotor failure, Shadowsinger. She’ll have no recollection of this conversation.” The healer turns the tap to add more hot water as she chastises him. “Rhysand told me you found her without her jacket. That is called paradoxical undressing which is a result of muscles that had once been constricting blood vessels becoming exhausted and failing, releasing blood back to the extremities and causing the victim to feel hot. It is the final stage of hypothermia; take her out of this water and her chances of survival plummet.” 

All that leaves Azriel’s lips is a desperate, devastated please. He doesn’t know who he’s begging; Madja to save you, you to stay with him, or the Mother not to take you from him. 

Madja’s hand leaves your frame and pats Azriel’s shoulders. “She’s shivering again, Shadowsinger; that’s a good sign.”

The treatment continues and Azriel remains silent; it’s easier to do now that you’re no longer begging him, but he’s wildly uncomfortable that you’re unconscious. The only consolation is that Madja is still here, still working, which means she’s got faith in you and your growingly steady pulse. 

Eventually, Madja deems you warm enough and drains the tub, forcing Azriel to look at the ceiling as he helps her rid you of your soaked clothing and dress you in the warm layers Nesta and Morrigan provided for you earlier. 

Azriel’s carrying you into his bedroom where he finds Feyre and Rhysand speaking in hushed tones behind the sofa that they’ve pulled towards the lit fireplace, pillows and blankets warmed by the fire piled up and waiting for you to be bundled into. 

“Azriel,” Feyre gasps, watching the spymaster as Rhysand pulls back the bedding for him to tuck you in. 

Like in the forest, Azriel finds himself on his knees before you, ensuring you’re adequately tucked into the heavy quilts yet still within the flames’ radius of heat. His hand shakes as he moves to brush some damp hair from your temple. 

Feyre dries the strands easily with a wave of her hand. 

“What do you need?” she asks, and Azriel’s face crumbles as he lowers his head to the edge of the couch cushion, his hand remaining on your blanket clad shoulder. 

Rhysand’s warm hand lands on Azriel’s own shoulder. “You need to eat, brother.” 

“I can’t leave her,” he responds instantly, never raising his head.

“I’d never ask you to.” Rhysand’s hand tightens. “Get changed, Az. Get into something dry, I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Can-”

“And I’ll make sure there’s something here for her when she wakes,” Rhysand agrees, knowing exactly where his brother’s mind went. “Get changed.” 

Azriel spares one more look at your sleeping face—your cheeks and lips having far more colour in them now than when he found you—before standing and doing as told. He keeps his attention on you, his ears locked in on the even tempo of your heart, the long, deep pulls of air you inhale, and the rise and fall of your chest against the fabric you’re surrounded by. 

Azriel doesn’t bother with the chair beside your couch, instead lowering himself to the floor and resting his back against the arm of the sofa, wings shifting awkwardly as he makes sure not to disturb you. 

Two bowls of stew appear on the low table before him a few moments later, and Azriel makes himself comfortable as he eats his serving and waits for you to come to.

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