kei

writing is therapy || 19 ||

[wetfeline]

MASTERLISTS ! (I DONT WRITE ANYMORE LOL ITS BEEN YEARS)

JUJUTSU KAISEN

RED & BLUE gojo satoru x reader platonic

summary: gojo satoru is now gone, locked and sealed. if he were the moon, you were the sun. when the moon goes out, the sun shines; but now he's gone who were to lit up your fire? you wanted blue back.

THE CORE OF THE EARTH getou suguru x reader

summary: getou suguru is your world and you always have been a curious person; so no doubt you'd follow it to the depths and ends.

IT'LL PASS satoru gojo x reader

summary: unrequited love from satoru gojo

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA

SCARS bakugo katsuki x reader

summary: he may of had protected you but he didn't know the mental scar you would carry until the very end

I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITHOUT YOU (I MISS YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING) bkg x reader

summary: he doesn't know what to do. raising a child all alone was something he hadn't even thought about. now you're gone.

HAIKYUU

coming soon . . .

ATTACK ON TITAN

coming soon . . .

[colouredbyd]

made from man’s rib

remus lupin x reader (7.3k)

summary: the wizarding world still refuses to accept werewolves, and despite all its magical advancements, lycanthropy remains barely understood. one thing, however, is certain: there is no cure for it.

— after years of loving remus and navigating his condition together, you’ve come to terms with it. he trusts you, but the one thing he keeps to himself is that he’s getting much worse.

tags: struggles of chronic illness, hurt/comfort, lycanthropy, deteriorating health, remus' pov (therefore lots of self loathing), post-hogwarts, disability, implied ableism, established relationship, isolation, transformation aftermath, implied sucidal ideation (very brief like u need to squint to see it), background drarry, happy and hopeful ending ofc.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

Truth was, no matter how many full moons Remus went through with you, you never seemed fully prepared for what they entailed. 

Every transformation arrived with its own particular cruelty, never quite repeating the last, as though the curse itself delighted in refining its brutality, shaping new ways to make him endure and then remember that endurance meant nothing at all.

You had learned how to brew Wolfsbane potion long after graduating Hogwarts and during the first wizarding war. Life outside its walls had offered a fragile kind of privacy, a quieter place where Remus no longer had to vanish in order to transform. 

Yet even that careful structure, built painstakingly between the two of you, had begun to feel increasingly insufficient, as though time itself were eroding whatever small mercy you had managed to construct.

The potion still did its work in the most technical sense. It kept the wolf from fully claiming his mind, from tearing away whatever fragment of recognition remained at the height of it. But it did nothing for the body. 

By morning, there was always blood seeping through his wounds to the point where recovery no longer felt like healing, only preparing himself to endure it all again next month. 

And over the years, that pattern had not lessened. It had only intensified.

It had begun to feel, in a way neither of you spoke aloud, as though the more he endured it, the more it demanded in return. Healing took longer. Recovery left deeper scars. 

Remus understood, that none of this came from a lack of effort on your part. You had been meticulous in your care, learning the potion and refining it until it reached a consistency that could be trusted. 

You prepared for each moon days in advance, arranging everything with precision. You stayed with him through the transformations in your Animagus form, close enough that he would not wake up alone.

Afterward, you remained without needing to be asked. You tended to him through the days that followed with attentiveness. You even made sure his wounds were cleaned and treated, his potions brewed and adjusted as needed, and every small change in his condition was observed with care.

It was not that your efforts fell short. It was that the situation itself had begun to exceed what care alone could contain.

There were moments, when Remus found himself entertaining thoughts he disliked almost immediately. 

The idea that perhaps it would be easier if the Wolfsbane failed entirely, if there were no partial awareness left to endure, no memory of what had happened after each transformation. The thought never lasted long enough to settle into anything resembling desire, because even in its most detached form it carried consequences that were impossible to ignore.

Especially for you.

So he kept it contained, as he did most things that felt heavy to speak of outloud.

Later, after another full moon, the flat carries the faint, lingering scent of iron and crushed herbs that no amount of cleaning removes. You find Remus curled beneath several layers of blankets, his body drawn inward in a way that suggests he’s in pain more than usual. 

The light coming through the window makes his condition easier to read than he would prefer; bruising spreads across his skin in uneven patches, some fading while others remain dark enough to look fresh, and overlapping scars trace older patterns beneath newer damage. 

Even the freckles you once pointed out to him at Hogwarts, tracing them across his shoulders with fondness, have begun to disappear into the accumulation of all his recent scars

You step closer without hesitation. “Remus,” you murmur, voice softened as you crouch beside him. “Are you sure a heating charm won’t help? It might lessen the bone aches, love.”

He exhales through his nose, and shifts slightly beneath the blankets. “I’m alright,” he says.

You spend the rest of the night tending to Remus, cleaning blood from his split skin and binding clawed-open scratches while dark bruises bloom violently across his body beneath your healing charms. 

By the time you manage to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup, exhaustion has already begun dragging him under completely.

He feels a little better, or at least better enough to convince you that sleep will handle the rest. That has always been the hope after transformations. A good night’s sleep. A few days of recovery. Another potion. Another full moon survived.

The night ends with you fluffing the blankets securely around him before climbing into bed beside him yourself, exhaustion pulling you under quickly enough that you fall asleep believing Remus has done the same. 

Remus spends the entire night awake, silently crying in pain.

He knows everything that used to work does not anymore when it comes to easing it. The truth is one cruel, harsh thing: he is getting worse.

And if you do not notice the tear tracks left across his pillow the next morning, well, you remain none the wiser.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

During their years at Hogwarts, Remus had gone through every full moon with the help of James, Sirius, and Peter.

Though that had been a lifetime ago now.

Back then, before the war took James and Lily, before Sirius was imprisoned for murdering Peter, things had been simpler. Not easy, but simpler in a way Remus found himself aching for more often lately. 

The full moons had still been painful then. He remembered far too many important moments spent curled up in bed in the boys’ dormitory or recovering beneath the sharp medicinal smell of the Hospital Wing while Madam Pomfrey fussed over injuries that never seemed to shock her anymore. 

The slow splitting of bone beneath his skin, the horrifying stretch of transformation, the knowledge that society viewed creatures like him as dangerous and unworthy; none of that was new.

One thing had been different, though.

The pain had been less.

The irony of it almost made him laugh sometimes, because if someone had told seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin that the transformations would someday become worse, that his body would continue finding newer and more unbearable ways to suffer long after adulthood, he was fairly certain his younger self would not have endured it nearly so long.

Standing at the kitchen counter making tea later that evening, Remus found himself relishing the memory of how much easier it used to be, even when those years had still been filled with pain. 

There was a particular sort of bitterness in realising your old suffering had once been the better option. It left him wondering whether, a decade from now—assuming he survived another decade at all—he would look back at this version of himself and wish for this pain instead.

The thought settled heavily in his chest as his eyes drifted across the small home the two of you had built together.

Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of a good life.

Photographs from Hogwarts lined the shelves, moving portraits of him and his friends grinning after graduation, Lily laughing somewhere in the background while James nearly knocked Sirius over trying to celebrate. 

Another frame held a much younger Remus sitting stiffly beside Lily while she carefully placed newborn Harry into his arms, his expression caught somewhere between terror and awe. 

There were pictures from the years after James and Lily died too, quieter and sadder ones, the first photograph ever taken of you and Remus together where neither of you quite looked like yourselves yet. Then came the later years. Harry growing older. Summer holidays spent in this very house. Scarves abandoned over chairs. His spare glasses left forgotten on tables. A broom leaning carelessly near the back door after Harry had visited last.

Evidence.

Evidence of love. Of survival. Of family.

Your yarn basket sat beside the sofa exactly where you always left it, overflowing with tangled wool and half-finished crochet projects. A collection of horribly misshapen mugs crowded the kitchen shelves because neither of you could ever bring yourselves to throw them out after you made them together one winter.

Remus stared at all of it and suddenly felt sick with guilt.

Because what sort of person looked at a life like this and still thought, I cannot keep doing this anymore?

The thought stayed with him for the rest of the evening, settling heavily beneath his ribs while exhaustion slowly wore down what little patience he still had left.

So when the argument finally happened later that night, it had really only begun with a careless slip of the tongue.

“How are you feeling?” you had asked gently from across the kitchen while Remus sat at the table nursing a cup of tea gone lukewarm in his hands. “Do you want me to make something for the pain, love? Or maybe I could—”

“There’s nothing you can do to help,” Remus had snapped, the words coming out far louder and sharper than he intended.

The silence afterward had been immediate.

You stared at him from across the kitchen, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt, as though the outburst had physically struck you. Remus looked away almost instantly, jaw tightening the moment he realised what he had done.

“Well,” you had said after a moment, your voice noticeably more restrained now, “sorry for trying.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Remus?”

He exhaled heavily, dragging a tired hand across his face. “Forget it.”

“No, because you don’t get to bite my head off for asking if you’re alright and then tell me to forget it.”

“I said it came out wrong.”

“And I’m asking you to explain it properly.”

The exhaustion already sitting heavily in his bones made patience difficult to hold onto. Remus pushed his tea aside with more force than necessary before leaning back in his chair, visibly agitated.

“There isn’t anything you can do,” he said again, quieter this time but no less tense. “That’s all I meant.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You say that as though I’ve been trying to fix a bloody cold.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Remus said, sharper than intended, the words coming out clipped with exhaustion rather than real anger. “Bloody hell, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what are you saying?” you asked, frustration finally bleeding through properly now, no longer softened by patience. “Because every month you pull further away from me like I’m doing something wrong and I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong here, Remus, I just don’t get it. You won’t let me help you, and if I am doing something wrong then just tell me so I can stop.”

Remus immediately shook his head. “You are not doing anything wrong.”

“You act like I am.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you shot back, voice rising slightly. “You barely speak to me after transformations unless I drag answers out of you, and half the time you won’t even tell me where it hurts. You just sit there pretending you’re fine until you can’t anymore, and I’m left trying to figure out what’s changed every single time because you won’t say it out loud.”

His expression hardened slightly. “What exactly do you want me to say?” 

“The truth would be a good start.”

Something bitter flickered across his face at that, quick and involuntary. “The truth?” he repeated more quietly now, almost as if testing whether it was worth saying at all. “Fine. The truth is I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“I know that.”

“Clearly you don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Because I have spent years trying to help you through this, through all of it, and lately it feels like you resent me every time I do. Like I’m making it worse just by being here and trying to help you get through it.” 

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask you to spend years taking care of me!” 

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Your face crumpled for half a heartbeat before anger rushed in to replace it.

“Right,” you said tightly. “Because that’s the problem here, Remus.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said at once, shaking his head slightly as if he could undo it by force. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No,” you replied. “Apparently I don’t, because you refuse to actually say what you mean. You just say these things and expect me to somehow translate them into something else, and I can’t do that anymore, Remus. I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m speaking to every time something goes wrong!”

The argument only escalated from there, both of you too exhausted and emotional to pull back once it had begun.

“You shut me out constantly now,” you said, your voice louder than before as you set your mug down against the counter with a sharp clatter. “Every single month I watch you suffer through this and you act like I’m some stranger hovering around you instead of the person who’s been beside you through all of it.”

“You think this is easy for me?!” Remus snapped.

“I think watching you slowly destroy yourself while refusing to talk to me about it isn’t exactly easy for me either!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this!”

The words rang through the kitchen harshly enough that both of you fell silent for a second.

You looked furious now, but beneath it Remus could still see the hurt sitting there untouched.

“I don’t know what else you want from me,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m trying my best, and somehow lately it still feels like I’m failing you.”

“You are not failing me because there’s nothing left to help!”

Your arms folded tightly across yourself as though holding yourself together. “James, Sirius, and Peter could help you through transformations,” you said quietly now. “You always talk about Hogwarts like the four of you got through it together, so clearly they managed something right that I can’t.”

Remus physically flinched at that.

“It isn’t about you not being enough,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then why does it feel like it?” you demanded. “Because every time I try to help you lately you tense up like I’m doing you more harm than good.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Then what is happening, Remus?” you asked, sharper now, because the uncertainty was starting to feel worse than the argument itself.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sounded too horrible once spoken aloud. That his body was getting worse faster than either of you realised. That every transformation hurt more than the last. That no amount of love or care or healing could stop what lycanthropy was slowly doing to him. And perhaps worst of all, that he had started wondering whether there would eventually come a point where surviving it simply was not worth the pain anymore.

Instead of saying any of that, Remus looked away from you and said bitterly, “You cannot keep acting like there’s some solution to this, Y/N.”

Your face fell immediately.

“I never thought there was a solution,” you said quietly. “I just thought I was helping.”

Eventually, the two of you spent nearly an hour apart cooling off in different corners of the house, the earlier shouting leaving behind the sort of silence that felt raw rather than peaceful. Remus remained in the kitchen long after his tea had gone cold, staring blankly at the dim light above the sink while guilt settled heavier and heavier in his chest with every passing minute.

In the end, he was the one who came back first.

You were sitting curled up in bed when he stepped quietly into the room, still looking exhausted, shoulders slumped with defeat that made him seem younger than he was. The anger had long since drained out of him, leaving only regret behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice rough from exhaustion and shouting alike. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

You looked up at him immediately, hurt still lingering faintly across your face despite how quickly you always tried to hide it from him.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know.” Remus sat carefully beside you, every movement betraying lingering pain no matter how much he tried to conceal it. “And you are helping. Merlin, you help more than anyone ever has.”

Even if it was becoming less true every month.

You softened almost instantly at that, the tension in your shoulders finally easing as you leaned into him. Remus wrapped an arm around you automatically, holding you close while you settled against his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the old scars scattered across his skin where freckles had once been more visible years ago.

“It scares me when you shut me out,” you whispered quietly.

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”

“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured after a while, more to reassure yourself than him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He felt something inside him twist painfully at the certainty in your voice.

By then, you had already forgotten most of the argument entirely. You believed him when he said your care was helping. You believed the exhaustion would pass the way it always had before. You believed Remus was okay, or at least that he would be.

Somehow, your kindness hurt him more than your anger ever could.

Remus genuinely did not understand why you tolerated him and all the endless complications that came along with loving him, even—especially—the ones you did not know about.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

It had been nearly a week and a half since the previous full moon. Usually, this period served as recovery time for Remus, where you helped him slowly settle back into his regular routines and day to day life before the next transformation arrived to tear through it all over again. 

It was always a tumultuous stretch of time for him because although his body would gradually improve; the physical pain easing little by little with each passing day, the mental burden only seemed to worsen in its place.

It was a Friday, which usually meant you and Remus would head out for one of your little dates with Harry and his boyfriend Draco, a pairing Remus still struggled to fully accept despite how many years had passed. 

(He had insisted for ages that Draco was a “weird” fit for Harry, though he had never once stood in the way of Harry’s happiness. At this point, the stubbornness of it had become almost amusing).

Now, however, Remus stood in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, supposedly in the middle of getting dressed, though he had not moved in several minutes. 

Half dressed and exhausted already, he could see every flaw reflected back at him with painful clarity. Every scar. Every faded freckle buried beneath damaged skin. The bruises still linger faintly yellow and purple along his ribs. Loose skin. The slight softness now settled around his stomach from the weight he had gained over the years.

And really, Remus could not help but feel like throwing up.

He looked repulsive; he looked like a monster wearing the shape of a man.

The thought struck him so violently that his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he was crying before he even fully realised it had begun, harsh sobs forcing their way out of him as years worth of self loathing finally cracked open all at once. 

There was so much disgust festering inside him that he no longer knew how to contain it. So much bitterness and exhaustion and loneliness that had nowhere to go except inward, rotting quietly beneath his ribs month after month after month.

Because really, his entire life had become nothing more than a series of arithmetic checks designed to ration what little energy he had left: If I leave the laundry until tomorrow, then maybe I will have enough energy to cook dinner tonight. If I visit Harry this weekend, I will probably spend the following day unable to get out of bed. If the temperature drops tomorrow, my joints will ache worse. If it rains, the old injuries in my back will flare again.

If. If. If.

Everything had become a calculation.

It was exhausting constantly trying to predict whether his own body would betray him from one day to the next, and worse still was the humiliating awareness that half the time the calculations failed him anyway.

A few weeks ago, you had caught him sitting far too long at the kitchen table, quietly trying to plan the coming days around a stack of apothecary receipts and potion ingredients, and had teased him for treating something as simple as rest like a timetable. (“Remus, you don’t have to schedule everything like it’s an exam revision plan,” you had said, smiling as you leaned over his shoulder. “Merlin’s tits, do Muggles seriously plan their entire lives like a to-do list?”) 

Remus had laughed along with you at the time, forcing out some amused remark while something ugly twisted sharply in his chest. You would never have to think about these things. You would never understand what it was like to ration your own life in increments because one missed recovery day meant everything else unravelled after it; because agreeing to see someone meant paying for it in pain later, because even rest itself had to be carefully budgeted or it stopped working at all. 

Still, he had memorised every detail listed there anyway. He added all of it into the endless equation running through his head every waking moment now.

How badly will it hurt tomorrow?

It never truly helped, but the illusion of preparation gave him something dangerously close to control, even if that control was entirely fabricated.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open before he could stop crying properly, and you stepped inside still talking before you even looked at him.

“I swear the washing machine has a personal vendetta against me,” you rambled distractedly. “It ruined my dress completely, the threads along the sleeves are all coming apart and now I’ve nothing to wear tonight unless I—”

You stop abruptly once you notice him standing there.

Your eyes flicker from his tear stained face down toward the sweater clenched tightly in his hands, the old knit fabric stretched a little too tightly now across his frame.

“Oh,” you say quietly, immediately gentler. “Love, if it’s too uncomfortable I can charm it a little looser for you.”

And somehow, pathetically, that tiny act of kindness became the final thing that shattered him completely.

Remus broke apart with a noise so wounded it frightened even himself, sobs tearing violently out of his chest as he bent forward, one shaking hand pressed hard against his mouth as though trying to physically force the sound back down.

You were beside him instantly. “Oh, love, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur frantically, hands cupping his face before moving to steady his shaking shoulders. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Remus, breathe. What happened?”

He could not answer.

“Remus, listen to me,” you continued gently, clearly trying to piece together what had upset him so badly. “Y’know it’s normal to gain a little weight in your thirties, right? You’re fine, really, the sweater probably just shrunk a little in the wash and—”

That only made him cry harder.

Because he was not crying over the extra weight.

God, he wished it were only that.

He wished this entire breakdown could be explained away by something as ordinary and fixable as weight gain or tiredness or stress from work. He wished he could simply laugh weakly and let you reassure him and move on from it like any normal person would. 

Instead, the tears kept falling harder and harder no matter how much he tried to stop them, humiliation curling painfully in his chest because he knew you still did not understand what he was actually grieving. 

Everything hurt.

It all hurt so much.

Remus had spent his entire life in pain in one form or another, but there had once been spaces between it. Small mercies; periods where recovery felt possible, where he could almost pretend the transformations had not left permanent damage behind each time they tore through him. 

Lately, though, it felt as though those spaces had disappeared entirely. The pain no longer arrived only with the full moon. It threaded itself through ordinary moments until even standing at the kitchen counter making tea could leave his back aching badly enough that he needed to sit down halfway through. 

And the worst part was how normal it had all started becoming. 

Remus could no longer remember the last time he had experienced a day completely untouched by discomfort. There was only manageable pain and unbearable pain now, and lately the line separating the two had begun narrowing in ways that frightened him. 

It was exhausting living like that.

Exhausting having to calculate every outing, every chore, every responsibility against how much pain it would cost him afterward. Exhausting pretending he was coping better than he truly was because the alternative meant watching concern settle into everyone’s faces all over again. Exhausting knowing his condition was getting worse while everyone around him still spoke about it as though recovery remained possible if he simply rested enough or took the right potion or waited for things to improve.

Things were not improving.

That was the part he could no longer force himself to ignore.

The wolf was destroying him slowly, and Remus had become painfully aware of it in ways he could not explain aloud without terrifying both of you.

A selfish part of him wanted everything to simply stop for a little while so he could finally rest, properly rest, without having to calculate and ration and recover endlessly. He wanted to wake up without immediately assessing what hurt that morning. He wanted enough energy to finish the mountain of unfinished work piling up around him. He wanted to be the person everyone around him believed he still was.

And somewhere beneath the panic clawing viciously through him, Remus knew some of this was simply the panic attack dragging him downward into its familiar spiral of despair.

Remus just wanted to be gone, whether that meant dying or disappearing or simply ceasing to exist for a little while. Anything, anything, so long as he no longer had to feel this way anymore. 

Your voice continues drifting toward him through the panic, gentle and grounding and desperately trying to pull him back, though for several horrible moments it does not seem to reach him at all. 

Remus can still barely breathe properly, his chest tightening painfully as tears continue spilling down his face no matter how hard he tries to stop them. The room around him feels distant and warped at the edges, every thought inside his head collapsing into noise until suddenly your hands are cradling his face firmly enough to force his attention back onto you.

“Remus,” you whisper shakily, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “Look at me, love. Please look at me.”

And he does.

The second your arms pull him against your chest, something inside him completely breaks apart.

A sob tears out of him so violently it frightens even himself. The sound is rough and wounded and horribly animalistic in a way that makes humiliation immediately claw through him afterward because it does not sound human anymore. 

He can feel the way his breathing keeps hitching uncontrollably against you while you hold him tighter instead of recoiling, your hand moving shakily through his hair while you whisper soft reassurances against his temple.

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly. “Remus, talk to me.”

For a few seconds all he can do is cry harder.

Then eventually, brokenly, he whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You pull back just enough to look at him properly, immediate concern flashing across your face as you rush to reassure him.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to go see Harry and Draco tomorrow, love, it’s alright. I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not feeling well enough—”

Remus shakes his head almost desperately before another sob catches painfully in his throat.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

His hands shake violently where they clutch weakly at your sleeves.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” he cries. “All of this, I can’t—I can’t keep—”

The realisation slowly drains the colour from your face. Remus watches the exact moment you understand what he actually means.

Without a word, you carefully lower both of you onto the floor until you are sitting together against the side of the bed, Remus half collapsed against your chest while he struggles to breathe through the sobs still wracking through him. Your arms remain wrapped tightly around him, one hand gripping his almost desperately now as though you are frightened he might disappear if you let go.

“It’s gotten worse,” he finally admits through broken breaths. “So much worse.”

You stay silent, letting him speak.

“It hurts every day now,” he whispers. “Every second. I wake up hurting and I go to sleep hurting and sometimes it feels like my body never recovers properly anymore.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “The transformations are worse and recovery takes longer and the pain doesn’t leave afterward like it used to. I thought it would pass, I thought maybe I was just exhausted or stressed or getting older but it just keeps getting worse.”

Tears continue slipping down his face faster than he can wipe them away.

“My knees hurt all the time now,” he admits shakily, the confession sounding pathetic enough to make him hate himself for it. “My hips ache after every full moon for days afterward and sometimes my hands shake so badly I can barely hold things properly and I’m so tired all the time.” 

A horrible, humourless laugh breaks weakly through another sob. “I keep trying to adjust to it and then it gets worse again and I have to learn how to live in my body all over again because this keeps becoming my new normal and I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get.”

By the end of it, he can barely get the words out at all.

Your own tears have begun falling quietly somewhere during his rambling, though you continue holding him through all of it, your thumb rubbing shakily across the back of his hand while he cries into your shoulder.

“Love,” you whisper brokenly once he finally falls silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus squeezes his eyes shut.

“I knew something was wrong,” you continue softly through your own tears. “I’m not a bloody fool, Remus. You’ve been shutting me out for months and refusing to tell me what was happening and I kept thinking maybe I was doing something wrong somehow, but you could’ve told me.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I would’ve been there for you.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he mumbles weakly. “Didn’t want to ruin whatever image you still had of me. At least the half decent one.”

You lean forward carefully and press a soft kiss against his damp cheek before resting your forehead against his.

“Remus,” you whisper, “I love you. Not whatever version of your body you think you’re supposed to be.” Your fingers intertwine more tightly with his. “Bodies change, love. Mine has changed too. That doesn’t make you harder to love.”

Remus cries quietly for a long while after that.

When the two of you finally crawl into bed later that night, his hips still ache, his knees still throb painfully beneath the blankets, and every joint in his body still feels bruised and raw from years of damage that no longer heals cleanly.

The pain has not disappeared.

Neither has the fear.

Though for the first time in months, the ache inside his chest feels just a little less unbearable than before.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

And as it turns out, the road toward being okay is a tumultuous one, painfully non linear in all the most ordinary ways.

It takes time for Remus to learn how to ask for help when he needs it instead of silently enduring until he reaches a breaking point. It takes time for you to learn not to immediately offer help every time you think he might need it, because sometimes the loss of independence stings worse than the pain itself. 

Most of all, it takes time for the both of you to learn each other all over again, for you to recognise the moments where he does need help even when exhaustion leaves him too tired or ashamed to verbally ask for it.

Eight months later, the two of you have fallen into something that cannot quite be called easier, though it is no longer as unbearable as it once was either. The pain still exists. Remus still has bad days where getting out of bed feels impossible, and the full moons still leave him aching for days afterward in ways neither of you can truly fix. 

There are still moments where frustration gets the better of him, where pain and humiliation twist together until they come out harsher than intended.

(“I can do it myself,” Remus had snapped once while trying to stand from the sofa after a particularly bad full moon, exhaustion making his hands shake with the effort. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”)

Other times, though, there are moments that would have once been unimaginable to him, moments where he finally lets himself ask for help.

(“Can you help me up?” he had whispered one winter morning after his knees locked painfully beneath him halfway down the stairs, his voice thick with embarrassment. “Please. I just… I can’t do it right now.”)

And there are some rare times where Remus had stopped pretending he was fine when he clearly was not, and you had stopped trying to fix every part of his pain, understanding now that sometimes all he needed was someone willing to sit beside him through it. It did not make the lycanthropy easier, nor did it stop him from getting worse, but somehow carrying it together made it easier for Remus to survive.

Slowly, very fucking slowly at that, Remus begins pulling himself out from beneath all the burdens that have haunted him for years. Not perfectly and not all at once, but enough that he starts noticing the difference in small moments before he notices it anywhere else.

He begins accepting what has happened to him and what continues happening to him in this painfully mundane life of his.

Because that is the thing about chronic suffering in the end. Most of it is not a cycle of great torture. It exists in ordinary moments. In aching joints while making tea. In needing help buttoning a shirt after a difficult transformation because his fingers hurt too badly to cooperate. In learning how to build a life around pain without allowing pain to become the only thing life contains.

More often now, Remus finds himself staring at the photographs scattered throughout your shared home, though the feeling they stir in him has changed. Once they had filled him with grief for everything he had lost and guilt for all the times he had wanted to surrender beneath the weight of it. 

Now they bring peace, or something close enough to it.

The memories of everyone he has loved and lost no longer feel solely painful. James and Lily smiling brightly from moving photographs, Sirius finally free and laughing so hard during Sunday tea that he nearly spills his drink across the table, even Peter lingering painfully at the edges of memory despite everything that happened; all of them remind Remus that his life has contained something meaningful enough to grieve in the first place.

It is bittersweet in a way he suspects life often is.

The glass is not entirely full, nor entirely empty either, and for the first time in years Remus finds himself capable of accepting that perhaps it does not need to be one or the other.

He has come a long way from the quiet, scrawny twelve year old boy crying in Madam Pomfrey’s office after full moons because he could not understand why this had happened to him. 

He is no longer the twenty one year old standing shell shocked at James and Lily’s funeral believing he had lost all three of his best friends in a single night. 

He is no longer the twenty five year old convinced he was ruining your life simply by remaining in it. 

He is not that thirty eight year old lying awake wishing he could die just so the pain would stop for a little while.

Now, Remus finds solace in the people who remain.

In meeting Minerva every once in a while and sharing grief neither of them ever fully learned to put down. 

In listening to Luna ramble happily about all her strange adventures across both the wizarding and muggle world with the sort of sincerity only Luna could possess. 

In sharing tea with Tonks while she animatedly complains about work and laughs halfway through her own stories. 

In watching Harry build a bright, beautiful life for himself despite everything that should have destroyed him. 

In accepting Draco slowly and reluctantly at first before eventually recognising the great devotion with which he loves Harry.

Most of all, Remus finds comfort in you.

In your patience. Your stubbornness. Your quiet insistence on loving him through every ugly complicated part of being alive.

And these days, when Remus looks around the home the two of you built together, his chest no longer twists with guilt alone.

Now it twists with gratitude—because somehow, impossibly, he found a group of people so deeply convinced he was lovable and worthy of care that they spoon fed the belief into him for years until eventually, one day, he finally learned how to feed himself.

And it is at that point, almost two years later, that Remus realises this had been the point all along.

Not on some grand life changing day either, nor during one of the dramatic moments he once believed revelations were meant to arrive within. 

The understanding comes to him quietly on an ordinary evening while he lays stretched across the sofa with your legs tangled absentmindedly with his own, watching you knit some sort of ridiculous mug warmer for his tea that he already knows he will treasure for the rest of his life simply because you made it.

You continue rambling softly about his upcoming birthday, asking what sort of gift he might want this year despite Remus insisting repeatedly that he truly does not need anything.

“It doesn’t have to be something big,” you tell him while counting stitches distractedly. “I just want it to be something you’ll actually like.”

“I’ll like whatever you get me.”

“That is not helpful at all.”

A smile tugs faintly at his mouth despite himself.

“You made me that scarf three years ago and I still wear it constantly,” he points out lazily.

“That scarf is falling apart.”

“And yet I continue wearing it.”

You laugh softly at that before finally looking up at him properly, and the expression on your face nearly undoes him where he lays.

Because your eyes are so unbearably full of love that it feels as though the feeling itself might spill over and drown him entirely if he stares too long. 

You look at him with such uncomplicated affection, such complete certainty, that sometimes Remus still struggles understanding how a person like you can exist at all. It is as though you carry some endless bright thing within yourself and insist upon turning it toward every monstrous, complicated, ugly part of him until even he cannot help but stand inside its warmth eventually.

And unexpectedly, his ribs twist painfully around his lungs, though not with the familiar agony of transformation. This ache arrives differently, softer and deeper all at once, and the realisation settles over him so suddenly it nearly steals the breath from his chest.

Just like his ribs twist and split beneath the full moon to form something monstrous, they twist for you too.

Just like his heart clenches in pain, it also clenches whenever he looks at you.

The feeling is not the same, and somehow it is exactly the same.

Because the wolf is made from his flesh and bones no matter how much he despises it, and love is too. The worst parts of him and the best parts of him come from the very same place. They exist within the same body, beneath the same battered ribs that have endured both agony and tenderness so profound it frightens him sometimes.

It reminds him suddenly of Eve being created from Adam’s ribs, of love itself being born from flesh rather than separate from it.

And perhaps that is what finally frees him; the thing he has hated most throughout his entire life is made from the very same parts of him capable of love.

The same ribs.

The same heart.

The same body.

For years Remus believed the wolf had made him fundamentally unworthy of being loved properly, as though suffering and monstrosity somehow cancelled out tenderness. Yet here you are beside him still, years later, knitting ugly little mug warmers and arguing with him over birthday presents and looking at him with enough love to make his chest ache from carrying it.

And so, Remus accepts it.

All of it.

He accepts the wolf even as he continues hating the pain it causes him every month. He accepts the scars carved into his body and the exhaustion that still follows difficult transformations. He accepts the strange fragile joy of being loved so thoroughly despite all the parts of himself he once believed impossible to live beside.

Most importantly of all, he accepts himself.

Remus feels almost foolish for only now stumbling upon something human beings seem to have instinctively known since the beginning of time: that accepting the love you are given requires accepting yourself enough to believe you deserve to receive it in the first place. That fear has a way of blinding people not only from happiness, but from recognising love even when it sits directly before them. That the entire point of loving another person is to allow yourself to be loved in return despite how frightening and vulnerable and immeasurable that exchange truly is.

Slowly, Remus reaches for you.

You pause your knitting immediately when he tilts your chin upward gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. The expression you wear afterward is so fond it almost makes him laugh.

“I love you,” he whispers quietly.

You smile instantly, warmly, beautifully, as though hearing those words from him will never become ordinary no matter how many years pass between you.

“I love you too,” you whisper back with such overwhelming sincerity that he feels his chest tighten all over again.

His ribs contract once more beneath the feeling, though this time it is not from pain.

And although Remus knows they will ache again soon enough because of the wolf, knows another full moon will eventually arrive as it always does, he finds himself breathing through the feeling instead of fearing it.

His ribs are constant reminders of every pain he has endured, of every person he has loved, and of every ounce of love somehow returned back into his hands despite everything he once believed made him unworthy of receiving it. They ache with old grief and survival alike, though somewhere within that ache lives the proof that he was loved through all of it anyway. 

Remus Lupin has lived a hard, complicated, painfully ordinary life.

Though for the first time in a very long while, when he looks at it now, he realises it has also been a life filled with love. 

And finally, after all these years, he wants to keep living it.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

a/n: pheww this was so fun to write, i love writing angst and that includes making remus suffer. this fic is so, so special to me <3 some scenes were inspired by an ao3 fic i read a few months ago but i cannot find the @, i just remember it had the name rachel, so if u find it lmk please :))

[dailydoseofmusicality]

I'm pretty sure I just discovered the holy grail of Moony fics and it is downright stunning and breathtaking.

[prettybabybaby]

¡¡ a lot of my work is some variation of dark !!

¡ remus lupin !

¡ sirius black !

¡ james potter !

¡ regulus black !

¡ lily evans !

lily + babysitter!reader (featuring… james potter !)

¡ main masterlist !

¡ navigation !

[theemporium]

[REQUESTS OPEN—based off this request]

[7.3k] the five times your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend was almost exposed to him and the one time it was. 

. 

The first time your brother almost caught you and Sirius, it was a miracle he was as gullible as he was. 

Growing up with a brother like James Potter had its highs and lows. 

The highs: someone who loved you unconditionally, who was there for you regardless of your mistakes and flaws, who had your back even if the whole world was against you because that was just how he loved. 

The lows: he was an overbearing, overprotective helicopter busybody who seemed to make it his goal to make sure you didn’t have a life. Well, not really but his interference sure did make it difficult to have any sort of social life without him getting involved.

A keen example of such would be your dating life. 

Keep reading

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Yes, Baby... Part 7

You little brother just doesn't know any better. Or does he? cw: pseudo!incest but actually real bone i think now, didi caleb/jiejie mc, dub!con/non!con, jealous paranoid unhinged caleb, pussy inspection, just the tip, xav sort of appears again hence the previous, choking (not the sexy kind), emotional blackmail, soft launch of caleb's mommy complex/kink, mc should not have been the one raising caleb,

Caleb tries to calm you down in the days that follow. He keeps insisting that it isn’t a big deal, and that the girl hadn’t heard much. That she was just pissed off that she couldn’t get him off and he had to do it himself in her bathroom. 

But you know better. You have seen the comments spreading across the DAA’s social media platforms like wildfire immediately after that night. The posts featuring Caleb in his flight gear looking like a movie star as he stands in front of his aircraft went from being flooded with smitten comments and endless praise for the handsome young pilot to questions and mocking remarks about his suspected incestous tendencies.

Is that the guy who gets off to his sister?

He’s so hot, but don’t bother. Total siscon.

Isn’t his sister older than him? Wonder what she did to him to make him turn out this way. 

I’ve heard he jerks off to his sister. Is that true?

Why are all the hot ones such freaks? 

So this is why he can’t stay with a girl for more than two dates. She gotta be related to him or his dick goes limp lmao

I’ve met his sister before. She basically plans his entire life for him. Poor guy.

Heard she literally called him in the middle of sex because she was jealous he was with someone else. What a psycho.

Damn, she must be insanely hot if he’s that obsessed. Anyone got a picture of her?

Though the comments only stay up for a few moments before they’re scrubbed clean, with the posters receiving warnings from the faculty about spreading harmful rumors, they still send you spiraling. Not just for Caleb who still doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation despite this shitstorm, but for yourself too. People are asking questions about you, their curiosity to know more about this older sister that has fractured the image of the DAA golden boy is dangerous. If any of this leaks beyond the academy and reaches your coworkers at the Hunter’s Association, your job could be in jeopardy. The thought alone makes your blood run cold.

Caleb tries to tell you that none of it means anything and that it will all blow over soon. It fucking drives you up the wall. How can he still downplay the severity of the situation? People know now! Your lives could be ruined forever! What will it take for him to finally get it?

But to your shock and utter disbelief, he’s mostly right.

After the initial flood, the comments taper off. The deletions and warnings do their job. What remains are only occasional stray remarks here and there, quickly dealt with. Caleb has no shortage of admirers, and they quickly take over the narrative, painting him as the victim of haters who can’t compete with him, can’t have him, or are simply jealous of him.

Soon, the tide shifts back in his favor and his fans fawn over him even more for oh-so-bravely weathering this hate campaign. 

Caleb relays all of it to you in the hopes of convincing you that it’s all over now, but you know better. You know these things never truly die. You know people are still talking about you, just amongst themselves and behind his back.  But he doesn’t care. If anything it’s as if the idea of it spurs him on. He doesn’t shy away from mentioning you. He talks about you even more openly now, daring anyone to question him. Nobody does. And his college life carries on as usual. 

But you can’t do the same. 

Those comments were only a taste of what your life could become if your secret is found out. You would spend the rest of your days plagued by judgment and suspicion, even if no one ever learns the full truth—that seed of doubt is like a weed, once its roots have dug in, it’s impossible to get rid of.

If this ever breaches the confines of campus gossip and gets into the real world, would you be able to hold on to the few friends you've managed to make for the first time in your life? If Tara or Simone hear about this, what will they think of you? Will they understand why you’ve had to do it or will they absolve themselves of you? Will you be able to find a partner? How would anyone tolerate such rumors about their lover? Especially when all they need is to take one look at how Caleb behaves around you for all their suspicions to be confirmed? 

Yet despite it all, you know you can’t solely blame Caleb for this. You know this mess is as much your fault as it is his. You should have told him no that night. You should have ended the call as soon as you realized where he was and what he was doing. But you were hurt, your pride was wounded, and some ugly, starved part of you had wanted to be wanted so badly, you were blinded by it.

But it’s not just that. You shouldn’t have started any of this in the first place. The problem is, you can’t even pinpoint when it truly began. Agreeing to jerk him off that first time had pushed the floodgates wide open, but the water had been rising long before then. He had told you as much. Had it started in your teenage years? In childhood? Had the current always been there inside him, waiting to sweep you under? Or had you been the one slowly feeding it, drop by drop, until it could no longer be contained?

Your thoughts rise and churn, turning more tumultuous by the day, and yet Caleb isn’t the slightest bit phased. Once the worst of the storm had passed and he was still standing tall, he stopped trying to calm you. His tone shifted from flippant reassurance to reckless excitement, maybe even triumph.

“See, jie?” He says happily, pulling you into his arms with a bright smile. “Even if they know about us, nothing bad will happen. We can be together. No one will stop us. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your stomach drops. Nothing bad will happen? Is being ostracised as incesteous freaks nothing bad? Is the chance of losing any existing or potential meaningful relationship outside of each other nothing bad? Is spending the rest of your life whispered about, judged, and isolated nothing bad?

“I don’t want that, Caleb.” You answer in frustration. This is not what he’s supposed to learn from this. He’s meant to realise how wrong this is and snap out of it, not grow bolder in his delusions. “I don’t want to live a taboo life. I don’t want people smiling to my face and cursing me behind my back.”

“So this is what it’s really about, huh?” His tone turns accusatory. “It’s not about me or what’s best for me. You’re just ashamed of what being with me will bring.”

And so what? Are you not allowed to not want to be a pariah? Is that such a terrible thing to him? Must you throw everyone and everything else away to make him happy? You would lay your life down for him in heartbeat, but to be forced to live in ridicule and isolation… that may be too much for you to bear, even for your precious didi. 

“It’s about both of us.” You snap back defensively, “You’re fine with this now, smug even, but how long are you going to tolerate being ridiculed? Being abhorred? Having everyone look at you like you’re some disgusting freak?”

“Forever.” He says without hesitation, his gaze burning into yours. “As long as I get to have you.”

Guilt wells up in you at his simple answer. You hate yourself once for making your little brother this way, and twice for then not being strong enough, or selfless enough, to sacrifice everything for him the way he wishes you would. 

But this is for him. He may think he wants this now, but years down the line he will come to resent you. He will see everything he’s lost—all the love, relationships, and community he could have had, and he will hate you for it. And then neither of you will have anyone else to turn to. Your anger and bitterness will build and build until you—

You rub your forehead, a pounding headache throbbing behind your eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get ready for my work social.”

“Then let me come with you.” He springs up quickly. 

“No.” You hiss at him with all the ferocity of a cornered kitten. “This is my work, Caleb. I can’t let you fuck it up.”

He regards you with offense, his jaw tightening. “You think I did it on purpose? I wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t forced me to do it under the threat of leaving me!”

“Oh, cry me a river, Caleb.” You retort, your frustration and guilt making you more unkind than you’d ever wish to be to your baby brother. “You could have controlled yourself until the next day. But that’s impossible for you, isn’t it? Golden boy Caleb can’t go a single day without getting off to his big sister.”

He barks out a bitter laugh. “I controlled myself my entire life living around you while you were flaunting your tits and ass in my face.”

You flush hot, the emotions burning through you so fierce they all meld together, kicking your instincts into overdrive. Here he goes giving voice to your worst fears again—It's all your fault. You did this. You've broken him and now you can't fix him. Dammit, why won't he let you fix him?

“Well, if you were fucking normal, you wouldn’t have been looking!” You lash out at him in your frenzy. 

“Normal?” He breathes out with a strained smile. “What am I then, jiejie? A freak? A disgusting pervert? Is that how you see me?”

The fire in you wanes and almost gutters out. “No, baby, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, jie.”

You flinch back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“If I’m a freak, what does that make you, jiejie?” His smile turns cruel. 

“Don't.” You warn shakily. You can't handle this right now, but Caleb doesn’t stop pushing. 

“You’re the one who raised me.” He says it like he’s delivering your sentence. 

“Stop it, Caleb.” You bite out, voice rising with panic.

“What kind of sister lets her brother sneak into her bed at night?” 

“You were having nightmares.” You justify yourself. What’s wrong with providing your baby brother comfort? Maybe it was more intimate than what most other siblings would have done but how could you have been expected to turn away his scared little face? 

“What kind of sister helps her brother shower into his teens?” He counters, and your breath hitches. Your defense sounds more tenuous this time. “You refused to clean up after basketball unless I helped you!”

He cocks his head to the side, and his teeth glint like fangs within his gleeful smile. “What kind of sister lets her baby brother suck on her tits?”

You feel yourself choke. The memories come flooding back unbidden. You had almost forgotten all about that, blocked those memories out of your psyche for the sake of your sanity, and hoped the years had stolen his away too. But the world isn't so kind, and neither is Caleb. 

You… you had both been so young. You weren’t sure what you were doing. You didn’t know the first thing about caring for yourself, let alone a baby brother. All you knew was that Caleb was prone to anxious fits. He would cry and cry sometimes over the littlest things. You knew from a young age that the only way to shut him up was to give him something to occupy his mouth. You’d witnessed it in the way he would suck at his own thumb, soothing himself despite your grandma's discouragement. He had been much too old for that even back then, but he never outgrew it, perhaps because as a baby he never got to experience the comforts that only a mother can provide, and he had to make do with what he's got—Josephine who was too old to give him what he needs and you who were too young to know what that was. 

For a long while he had contended himself with his self-soothing, but as he grew older and his world filled up with more than just you and your grandma, there were more things to stress him out—fear of failing a class, or losing a game, or someone else stealing your attention from him… 

And suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. His thumb was a poor substitute for the nurture he needed. In his frustration, he started biting down on the digit, and pulling at his nail, trying in vain to calm himself down. When you had seen that first drop of blood, you’d panicked, replacing his finger with yours, and braced for the pain. But it never came. He didn’t bite you. Instead he sucked on your finger gently, and slowly settled down. 

You should have stopped there but the way he had looked at you then, like you were the solace he had been seeking, had you doing it again and again. For a long time, it worked like a charm, though you had to do it behind your grandma’s back after she scolded you harshly the first and only time she caught you doing it.

Until you started middle school and had to leave him behind to go to a different school. He fell into one of his fits again, worse than any you’d ever seen, and neither your fingers, nor endless promises of walking him to school, picking him up, and spending every after-school hour and weekend with him could calm him down.

Caleb had cried so hard, his face had turned red and his tears had gone dry, yet he still wouldn’t stop. You held him in your arms and rocked him for what felt like hours with no relief. His tears and saliva had soaked completely through your shirt when his listless mouth found one of your nipples through the fabric and latched on. Suddenly, he had quieted down, distracted with his desperate, hungry suckling as if he’d be able to pull something out of you if he tried hard enough. You would have said something—you should have said something—but he had cried so much, he had worn both of you out and you were just happy that you’ve finally managed to make it better. So you just held him close, stroking his hair and whispering that everything would be okay until he finally went to sleep.

For some time after that, it became your well-kept secret, your last ditch solution to calm him down, the only thing that could soothe his anxious fits when all else failed—though he had tried many times to get under your shirt at the smallest inconvenience or upset. 

Deep down, you always knew it was wrong. That's why you made sure your grandma never found out about it. The shame had burned hot in your chest even then. But it worked so well! He always became so calm, sweet, and obedient in your arms whenever you allowed it to him. He listened to you. He went to school. He did his homework. He attended his practice. It was like your secret weapon, and you used it more often than you’d like to admit. 

You only stopped when one day he had sighed into your chest and said something unthinkable. 

“You knew what you were doing.” Caleb scoffs, “You made me this way… mommy.”

Your hand flies up before your mind can catch up. Your palm meets his cheek with a loud smack, his head snapping to the side from the force. For half a second, he stands there frozen, head tilted to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. Then his head whips back around and he surges forward, kissing you hungrily, almost violently, as if he’s avenging himself. 

You push at his chest, trying to shove him away, but he’s stronger than you and it takes everything in you to get him off. His knees hit the bed as you push him back, and he topples onto it. You try to step back, but before you can escape, his arms fly out and grab onto you, pulling you on top of him on the bed.

“I am exactly how you raised me, jiejie.” He tells you miserably, “Why are you running away from me?”

You slap a hand over his mouth to silence him, but he opens his mouth and kisses your palm filthily. “Stop it.” You demand, almost pleadingly, but he ignores you, grabbing your hips and pushing you down against his hard cock. 

“This is what you’ve always done, Caleb.” You hiss down at him bitterly, “You never let me say no. You keep pushing and pushing until I give you what you want.”

He moans against your palm, as if proud of his doing, and his hips roll up again, rubbing his hard cock against you shamelessly.

“Are you listening to me?” You ask desperately, begging to be heard, but he just stares up at you with heavy, needy eyes—wanting, wanting so much from you, always wanting. 

“Fucking listen to me!” You snap, anger and despair taking hold of you, awakening your darkest thoughts and giving them grotesque shape. They puppeteer your body, making you surge forward and wrap your hands around his throat. 

For one terrible second you feel relief as he finally stops, his eyes flying wide open in shock. You’ve done it. He’s finally looking at you. He’s finally listening to you. 

“Jiejie?” He chokes out, and the vibrations of his voice, of the air struggling to pass through his windpipe, shock some sense into you. You blink and the haze of fury melts away to reveal your baby brother’s face, and what you see there—shock, worry, confusion, fear—smothers every tendril of rage licking up your body, freeing you from its murderous blaze.

You fling yourself away from him and stumble to your feet with a horrified gasp, your hand burning where it had just gripped his neck.

“I need to go.” You wheeze, your entire body shaking. But Caleb stops you, his fingers locking around your wrist as he too rises, chasing after you like a moth to flame. “Take me with you.”

“I already told you no.” You tell him raggedly. Please, please, get away from me. Just this once. 

“I won’t make a scene, I promise.” He begs pitifully, still seeking comfort in you despite the unforgivable pain you've inflicted. “Please… I can’t be alone right now. Not after this…” His hand drifts up to touch the sides of his neck where your fingers had been moments ago. “I’m scared, jie.”

You heave in a choked cry and reach out to cradle his face in your hands, your knees buckling when he flinches ever so slightly. 

“I would never hurt you.” You vow, guilt strangling you the same way you'd strangled your baby brother. “You know that. You just… frustrate me so much.”

He shakes his head. “You want to kill me.” 

“No!” The word bursts out of you in scream as if it could banish the troubling thoughts away. “No, never!”

“You keep pushing me away.” He insists, tears gathering in his eyes like storm clouds breaking the skyline. “That’s killing me.”

“Baby, stop it…” You plead, drowning under his tears. 

“If you leave me, I’ll die.” He tells you, his voice surprisingly steady in its condemnation. “You know that, jie. You know I can’t live without you.”

“You’re being so unfair.” You lament. All you want is a good, well-adjusted, happy life for him—a normal life where he has a lover and a sister that aren't the same damned woman.

“I don’t care about fair. I only care about you.” He says as if you ever needed to hear that. You knew it all too well, that Caleb will continue to fight that perfect future you dream for him every step of the way. 

_______________________

To your surprise, Caleb is on his best behaviour at the gathering. His tears have dried, leaving his pretty eyes shiny and full of stars, and his broken voice has taken on that boyish, inviting lilt that disarms everyone who meets him. 

He’s dressed up in one of his nicer shirts and a pair of tailored dress pants. They’re nothing fancy but you’re not used to seeing him in something other than his sweats and tanks or cargo pants with a million pockets and three jackets on, and you don’t like the way this unfamiliar outfit shows off his physique. The shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled arms and the fitted pants draw attention to his thick thighs and round bottom. Even his hair is slicked back neatly, revealing his forehead and thick eyebrows, and you wonder what the purpose of the new look is. 

To you, he still looks like your baby brother putting on a grownup’s skin, but to others he must look like an alluring young man they could sink their teeth into, because they gravitate towards him like flies. Most of them content themselves with stealing glances they think go unnoticed, however some braver ones—or perhaps more idiotic—gawk openly, while a brazen few come up to speak to him directly. 

Your coworkers take to him faster than they ever did to you, and you swallow back the complicated emotions that bubble in you in response, and that you refuse to name.

For most of the night, he stays close by your side, chatting up your coworkers who come up under the pretense of wanting to talk to you, only to end up directing most of their attention toward him. And when they learn he’s your brother, they coo and fawn, praising you for raising such a charming, well-mannered young man. 

Caleb keeps one arm wrapped securely around you the whole time, his smile growing wider with each compliment, and his chest puffed out as if he’d achieved some secret goal he’d set out to prove. 

“I like playing brother and sister more than boyfriend and girlfriend. But I think I’d like it more if I could kiss you right now.” He whispers in your ear the moment the two of you are left alone. “They wouldn’t mind right? Your friends all love me.”

“That’s not funny, you little shit. You promised you’d behave.” You scowl at him. So that’s why he’s dressed like this and acting this way. He thinks your friends liking him as your brother will make them accept him any more as your lover. It’s almost endearing how delusional he can be sometimes, his way of thinking so child-like it makes you wish you could protect him from his own misguided beliefs. 

“Besides,” You say with a sickening sense of deja-vu. ”They’re not my friends.” 

“Really, what about Tara? I thought she was your best friend.” He pushes back, recalling all the times you’d told him about her. “She loves me too. You saw how she invited me to come along on the camping trip next month.” 

“I’m going to text her tomorrow and tell her you can’t make it after all.” You glare at him.  Really, what was he thinking accepting her invitation? That he’ll impress them all so much, they’d overlook the fact that he’s your brother? That he’d be so amazing, they’d congratulate you for being with him? 

“But I want to come.” He whines. 

“And I said no.” 

“But jiejie—”

“I’m going to get a drink.” You snap at him, already turning away. He immediately starts to follow, but you put a hand out to stop him, pointing to the floor where he is standing. “Stay here.” 

“Jie—” He pouts but you don’t wait to listen to his whining. 

It’s probably not the smartest idea to leave him unsupervised and surrounded by a bunch of your coworkers, but you desperately need that drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night and the whirlwind of emotions that bringing him into the your workplace have conjured up… and it’s not just because you’re afraid of what he might do and how he could cost you everything if he so wishes, but also because he’s once again invaded the one place that belonged only to you. 

Your little brother has never really been good at letting you have anything that didn’t also involve him. 

“So that’s your little brother, huh?” Simone’s voice makes you jump out of your skin as you’re pouring yourself a drink, and you almost drop the cup to the ground.

“Yeah.” You mutter, a little unfriendly, not really in the mood to discuss him when you’ve finally managed to get a couple of minutes away from him.

As if she can hear your thoughts, she laughs. “He’s… clingy, isn’t he?” 

You snort in response. “What gave it away?”

“Well, for one, he’s currently staring at you like a dog waiting for its owner outside of a shop.” 

You throw a glance back towards him, and his sad face perks up for a second as your eyes meet before you force yourself to look away. 

“He seems like a good kid.” She continues, and you feel a pang of guilt in your chest as you almost contradict her. Instead, you force out a small smile. “Yeah… he is.”

“Is everything okay?” She frowns, finally noticing your gloomy mood, and you kick yourself internally for failing to control your emotions.

“Yeah. He’s just a bit of a handful.” You wave her concern away. What can you even tell her? That he was a good kid up until he started demanding you give your body to him? That you don’t know how to control him anymore? That… your own little brother scares you a little bit?  

Instead, you plaster on a bright, fake smile. “But you’re not wrong. He’s like an overexcited puppy—very needy and high maintenance. He wouldn’t even let me come today if he didn’t tag along.” You spin it in a humorous way and she laughs again. “If he’s that needy, why don’t you get him a girlfriend so he’ll bother her instead?”

“Believe me, I’ve been trying.” You mutter, and pretend it’s the drink you’re sipping on that is the cause of your sour expression. 

“Is he into jiejies?” Her question catches you off-guard, and you choke on your drink, the alcohol burning your nose as you cough. “What?”

“Does he like older women?” She repeats with a knowing smile that almost brings you to your knees. But then she continues, “Because if so, I think Christine is trying to gobble him up.”

You snap your head to where she is looking to see your brother cornered by Christine, one of the Captains at the association, her hand gripping his bicep and her tits practically shoved against his chest. 

“Better go save him before the poor boy has a heart attack.” 

You barely hear Simone’s amused voice over the ringing in your ear. You discard your glass, uncaring that it topples over and ruins the tablecloth, and march quickly towards them. 

“Didi, there you are!” You exclaim, tiptoeing up on your already high-heeled feet to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down in an exaggerated sisterly manner. “What are you up to, you little rascal?” 

“Jie…” He whines as you mess up his hair. “Stop.”

But he’s smiling down at you, happy to have your attention again. You stare up into his bright eyes, his height still taller than you even with the uncomfortable hunch you’ve forced him into, and suddenly you’re pushing his hair down, fixing it back into the boyish banged look he has always sported, your anxiety only settling when he’s all patched up and back to being your baby brother. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes you jump, but Caleb’s own hands around your waist stop you from pulling away from him completely. That’s fine. You’ll let him have this for now. You have more important things to focus on, like pinning the older woman down with a fake smile.  

“Oh, hey Christine. I see you’ve met my baby brother.” You tell her pointedly, hoping she'd get the hint to back off.

"Oh, he’s your brother? I didn’t know.” She lies horribly, and you fight to keep the ugly scowl off your face. Bullshit. Caleb has been proudly proclaiming to anyone and everyone who will hear him that he’s your little brother. No way she didn’t know. 

“Gosh, you’re a pair of good looking siblings, aren’t you?" She chirps, and you don’t miss the annoyance in her eyes at you interrupting them, before her gaze flits back towards Caleb, sliding up and down your brother’s figure brazenly. And god how you wish you could throw your body over him to hide him away from her lecherous eyes. "Bet you're as popular with the ladies as she is with the guys."

You feel Caleb tense against you. 

"Is that so?" He turns towards you, still smiling but you can see the start of a fire in his eyes. "Are men bothering you, jiejie?" 

And suddenly you feel like you’re the one being warned.

"She's just flattering me." You wave your hand in the air, trying to dispel the tension you feel building up. But Caleb isn't satisfied with that answer, and Christine keeps running her mouth, "Nonsense. She's such a heartbreaker, your big sister. She’s got so many admirers but they’re all too scared to approach her because they know she’d coldly brush them off.”

What the hell is she talking about? Men don't approach you because you're not the type of girl they like. You’re not fun and bubbly like Tara, and you’re not cool and charismatic like Simone. You're not sweet or nurturing either—it’s hard to be when all your supply of those goes towards caring for your full grown brother. You just go to work and focus on your job and get on with your day. The only men who ever talk to you are Xavier and Nero, and that’s probably because they have to.

“Now I know why. She is just too busy spoiling her little brother.” The woman laughs obnoxiously, and you feel queasy by how close her little joke is to the truth. “Maybe I can keep her brother busy so she can finally have time to date."

"She's not interested." Caleb says curtly, no longer smiling. "She needs to focus on her work. And I also need to focus on my studies. I'm still in college, you know."

Despite her cluelessness, whether real or feigned, Christine gets a little thrown off by the sudden change in Caleb’s demeanor—sudden for her anyway. But it seems she doesn’t know when to quit. 

"But you're an adult, right?" She asks shamelessly, "Besides, she already seems to have her eyes on someone."

"Who?" Caleb barks, all pretense gone now, and you feel a dragging sensation in the pit of your stomach that you know isn’t just your nerves. 

Christine’s smile turns anxious, and you know she must feel it too. But she has no fucking survical instincts because she keeps going. "Xavier, her mission partner. They're always together, talking secretly about god knows what. The sparks are definitely flying."

"We're just discussing mission details. It’s classified intel." You interject, but the stupid woman rolls her eyes and winks at you. "Suuuure. Missions. Is that why you were grinding against him at the club the other day? Did his—ah!”

Her eyes widen as you feel the force of Caleb’s Evol crushing down on all of you. 

“We have to go!” You squeak, grabbing his arm and frantically attempting to pull him away, every step heavy as if you’re wearing boots of lead. “Caleb, stop it!” 

But he’s not looking at you. Instead, his eyes are darting all around, searching the crowd for a face he doesn’t know. “Which one is he?” 

“Don’t.” You plead with him, gripping his arm tightly. “Caleb, this is my workplace. You’re making a scene.”

"Oh, I haven’t even started yet, jiejie." He spits out and finally looks at you, his gaze dark and spiteful. "You wanted me to date so you can be free to fuck him, huh?"

You gasp, panic flooding your veins as a few curious heads turn in your direction. You quickly press your palm to his chest, catching him off guard and forcing him to resonate with you, allowing you to finally move him. You yank him toward the nearest exit, muttering hasty excuses to your concerned friends about your brother not feeling well and you needing to take him home right away.

The second you’re out of the main hall and away from prying eyes, Caleb pushes you against the wall, his breathing comes out fast and heavy as his large frame cages you, like a rabid animal waiting to pounce. 

“Did you fuck him?” He demands, the rage in his voice making you tremble, and you shake your head vehemently. “No.”

But your denial doesn’t calm him down. 

“Let him eat your pussy?” He asks and you flush. “No!”

“Sucked his dick?”

“Caleb, no!” You whisper furiously, mortified at his wild imagination that is getting him all worked up. “I did none of that!”

“Just grinded against him in front of all your coworkers?” He spits out and you cower, suddenly not feeling so righteous anymore. 

“We were just dancing.” You insist weakly, the fear of being caught by one of your coworkers with your little brother in this compromising position, and the mortification at having been caught by Caleb for your drunken fuckup twisting together so tightly around your throat until it’s hard to breathe. “She‘s exaggerating.”

“So you were dancing with him.” He latches onto the wrong part, his eyes narrowing down at you. “Why?”

“It was a work outing, just like this one. Everyone was dancing.” You try to justify yourself but Caleb will not let this grave sin against him slide. “You could have danced with Tara or Simone. Why did it have to be him?”

“I don’t know!” You lie, all the humiliation from that night flooding back in. “I was drunk, okay?”

“You were drunk?!” Caleb barks, incredulous. “You know how useless you get when you drink. Why the hell would you do that around strange men? What if you were so out of it, you didn’t even know what he was doing to you? What if he took you home and fucked you while you were passed out?”

“Is that why you used to try so hard to get me drunk?” You bristle, refusing to let Caleb chastise you. He has done so much worse than drink and rub against a coworker. He has forced you to defile him again and again, and now he’s mad at you for the one thing you shouldn’t feel guilty for. 

“And what if I did?” He sneers, not even denying it. 

You falter, shocked at how brazen he’s being. ​​”That’s disgusting, Caleb.” 

“That’s what I am, isn’t it. Disgusting.” His lips curl around the words bitterly, “But this isn’t about me. This is about you getting wasted and rubbing your ass against some other man in front of everyone.”

“I told you I didn’t do that!” You lie through your teeth. This is about him. Everything in your life has always been about him, even your stupid decision to dance with Xavier. 

A strange expression suddenly takes over your brother’s usually sunny face, and you have nowhere to run as he leans down, trapped as you are between him and the wall, unable to escape from the darkness in his eyes and the unsettling smile on his lips. “You think he’ll still want you if he finds out what you’ve been doing to me?”

You gape at him. What is he saying? Doing to him? Everything that has happened between you was to try to contain his desires. You didn’t want any of this. He made you. But who would people believe? The precious, little brother who loves and trusts his jiejie so much or the reclusive, unfriendly older sister who never had a man in her life and barely has any friends? You had to have been the one to latch onto him, to blind him so he can only see you, to sink your claws into his heart so it bleeds for you, to break his bones so he could only crawl into your arms. 

“Are you threatening me, Caleb?” Your ask, your voice wavering. “How could you?” 

“You’ve left me no other choice.” He says it like it hurts him more than it hurts you. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You hiss at him, feeling your heart stutter at his betrayal, and you know it would rather stop all together than believe he’d ever do such a thing to you. “After everything I did for you. I let this go on for so long because I didn’t want to hurt you, and now you’re threatening me?”

“Liar.” He snarls, “You’re hurting me! You don’t give a shit about me!”

“What are you talking about? I do!” You whisper harshly, “I care about you so fucking much!”

“You left me!” He cries, “You abandoned me again and again, and every single time I was the one who had to run after you. I was the one who followed you to your college apartment, and I was the one who followed you here, even though it takes me hours to get to you and back, yet I still do it every single week just so I can see you!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” 

“I know! Because you don’t care about me!” He says, eyes wild now as if he actually believes his own words. And you don’t know if you should be hurt for him because you’ve somehow made him doubt your love towards him or hurt for yourself because he refuses to see all the things you’ve done for him. “You never even tried to contact me after our fight. Would you have never talked to me again if I didn’t reach out first or if I refused to get into the DAA?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You scoff, “You’re my brother.” 

“And you sent me away!”

“So you could pursue your dream!” 

“My dream means nothing without you.”

“Don’t say that.” You protest. It can’t all hinge on you and this forbidden love. There has to be hope still. You need to believe it, otherwise you don't know what you'd do with yourself… or him. 

“Do you love me?” He asks and your reply is instantaneous. “Of course, I do.”

“Then how could you bear to force me to be with someone else?” 

“Because ours is a different kind of love.”

“Then I don't want any other.” He says with conviction, “You can be everything for me. You are everything for me.”

You shake your head. “Caleb, please. I am your sister. I can only ever be your sister. You need to get that through your head.” 

He scoffs and looks away for a moment, the pain clear on his face even with his head turned away.

“Baby—”

His eyes snap back to yours, and you take in a shuddering breath at the vulnerability you suddenly see in them. “Do you find him attractive?”

You hesitate for half a second too long. “I—”

His face twists in anger. “Did you let him touch you?”

“I told you, I didn’t.” You lie again. 

“How can I trust that?”

“Caleb, me and Xavier aren’t even together.” You try to convince him but he snorts derisively. 

“And we’re apparently not together but you’re letting me touch you.” He mocks, and as if to make his point, a hand comes up to palm your breast as he presses his body flush against yours. “If you’re letting your own brother touch you like this, why wouldn’t you let a man you find attractive do it too?”

“That’s low, Caleb.” You growl and try to push him away but he doesn’t budge. He’s using your over-indulgence of him against you, treating you as if you’re just giving it away to anyone, and not like it’s taken everything in you to give him what you thought he needed because you love him that much. 

“Do you love him? Is that it? You found someone better and now you're throwing me away?” He interrogates you, and the fury and pain you see in his eyes almost pull you under. “What do you like about him? Is it the way he looks? The way he treats you? His voice? His profession? I can change. I can be anything you want me to be, jie.”

But you can never not be my brother. 

“I don't love him.” You insist, pained at seeing the way your little brother is so willing to mangle himself in order to try to fit into a mould he thinks you might want. “We barely even talk, Caleb.”

“That’s not what that woman said.” He mutters accusingly and you frown. “It’s what I’m telling you.” 

But like anything you’ve tried to tell him lately, it goes into one ear and out the other. 

“I won’t let you make a fool out of me, jie.” He shakes his head, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “I only hooked up with that woman because you forced me to. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you fuck around with other men.” He spits out, his gaze hardening. “If I find out you’ve been with him, I’ll—”

You feel it before he even finishes his sentence… the harsh, oppressive weight of his Evol pressing all around you, making your spine creak, your muscle ache, and the air in your lungs feel like water.

“I haven’t! I won't!” You proclaim frantically, not trying to defend your right to a hypothetical date you know would only end in disaster.

“Prove it.”

You look up at him helplessly, and croak out, “How?”

__________________________

“Caleb, please, I promise, nothing happened.” You plead, laid back on your bed with nothing but your underwear on. The same underwear he’s now tugging down your legs. 

“I don't believe you.” He grunts, peeling them off completely. The moment they’re off, you instinctively press your legs together, a rush of embarrassment flooding through you. But Caleb’s hands grip onto your thighs and shove them apart. “Let me see, jie.” 

You bite your lip and look away, squeezing your eyes shut as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. For a long moment, he’s completely silent. All you can hear is his heavy, uneven breathing as he stares down at your exposed pussy. You can feel tears stinging your eyes, moments away from flowing freely, exposing your shame to his greedy eyes as bare as he’s exposed your body. 

He hates it. He doesn't like how you look. He’s disgusted by you. 

But then his voice comes out soft and awed. “You're so pretty, jiejie. Better than I ever imagined.” 

You gasp, daring to sneak a glance at him, fully expecting to see a mischievous smile on his face as he mocks you. But he’s not looking up at you at all. Instead, he’s staring down between your legs like a starving man. 

“Look how wet you are.” He bends down, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, sending tingles racing up your spine. “Is that because of me? Or him?” 

You bite down on your lip harder, and stay quiet. 

“Tell me, jie. He demands, and you feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. “Or I’ll be really mad.” 

You shiver, recalling his threat from earlier. Swallowing harshly, you taste your own blood, metallic and nauseating, just the same as your shame. “It's you, didi.” 

A pleased sigh escapes him. “I knew it. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”

You feel yourself drowning in self-loathing as his fingers trace over your slick folds, unable to deny your unforgivable desire when the evidence of it is right at his fingertips that spread you open so he can commit every debauched inch of you to memory. 

“So pretty for me, jie.”

“Just get to it.” You squirm, your cheeks burning with a flush that spreads down your neck and into your chest at how closely he’s staring at this very intimate part of you—a part of you that no one else has seen before, and yet once again you’d given it away to your little brother. 

“So demanding.” He huffs as if you’re the one who wants it. But you don’t dare contradict him. You just lay there quietly and wait to be vindicated so you can finally put this behind you. You’ll never try anything with another man again, not until Caleb has moved on and whatever this is between you is dead and buried six feet under. 

Caleb gathers your slick on his fingers, coating them generously before pushing one inside of you slowly, only managing to get to the first knuckle before it meets a tight resistance that makes him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re a virgin.” He breathes, and you can hear both the relief and arousal clearly in his voice. 

“There you go. I'm untouched.” You mutter in resignation, feeling so mortified and helpless at having had to prove it in this humiliating way. But it's your fault really. You should have never danced with Xavier. And you should have raised your brother better. 

“You should be touched. You’re perfect. Prettier than any pornstar. I knew you would be.” He sighs dreamily. 

You open your mouth to scold him but you're cut off when he lowers his head between your thighs, his mouth descending on you eagerly, his lips enveloping your slick folds and his tongue dragging along the full length of your pussy. 

You feel more than hear him groan in appreciation, his lips and tongue working to lap up every drop of your arousal as if just that could sustain him for the rest of his life. 

“Caleb!” You squeak, flustered by the sight of your little brother between your legs, kissing your pussy the same way he kisses your lips. 

He looks up at you, not shying away from staring you dead in the eyes as he pulls his face back every so slightly so you can see how his tongue sticks out to flick at your clit, the wet sounds of his saliva and your juices squelching in your ears. 

“Baby, baby, wait—” You plead out, feeling yourself hurling towards a nauseating orgasm. You cannot handle the way he looks up at you, so blissful and hungry like he’s finally where he wants to be, and you fucking hate how sinfully arousing he looks doing it. 

Will any man ever want you as much as he does? Did you do this to him because deep down you knew it would be the only way to get the love and attention you so desperately needed? Is this a trap of your own making?

“Didi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” You cry out as you cum, soaking him in more of your sin. But Caleb is not interested in your pathetic pleas for forgiveness. He feeds on your guilt and arousal like a ravenous beast come to collect your soul. 

And he keeps feasting even as your shameful cries of pleasure turn to sobs of pain. “Please, didi, stop, it hurts.”

It all hurts so much. 

He finally pulls back with a whine, taking his mouth off your pussy so he can climb up to kiss your lips, feeding you your own sin, the taste of it sour and bitter on your tongue but Caleb moans around it as if it’s the sweetest nectar.

“Baby, it hurts.” You repeat, whimpering when you feel his finger continuing to prod at your hymen, pressing against it again and again as if to make sure it’s still there.

“Yeah? It’s because you’re so tight, jie.” He blames you once again. “So tight I don’t know how you’ll fit my cock.” 

You squirm uneasily, trying to get away from his persistent finger. “Stop it, Caleb. I don’t like it when you talk like that.” 

But he’s not listening. He pushes your hips down with his palm, keeping you still. “It’s okay. I’ll make it fit. I was made for you,” 

And then he’s reaching for his pants, fumbling with the zipper in his haste as he stares hungrily at the spot where part of his finger disappears into your heat. 

“Caleb, no!” You cry out in panic and try to snap your legs shut, but his Evol slams down on you, making you yelp in pain as your legs are suddenly forced back open, your thighs spread for his scrutiny and his cock that now rests against your pussy. 

You’ve seen it many times before. It has always been impressive in length and girth, but seeing it resting on your pussy now, the length of it reaching all the way to your belly button makes you break out in a cold sweat. 

“Baby, what are you doing? Please, don’t do this.” You tear up as he rubs his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, preparing for something terrible.  

“Caleb, stop it!” You yelp when he presses the large head right at your entrance, your pussy screaming in protest as he tries to force his way inside. 

“Shh, it's okay, jiejie.” He leans forward to kiss away the tears that escape you. “Just the tip, okay? Even your little pussy can take that.”

You shake your head harshly. “Didi, please, don’t do this. This is wrong.” You try to reason with him but your words only bring back that anger that started it all. “What's wrong is you sending me away and pushing me onto other girls so you can whore around with him.” 

“You—” You shout, but your words come out garbled as he shoves himself inside you, forcing your pussy to stretch around the flared head.  

“Stop, stop!” You hit his chest repeatedly as he continues to push, bullying more of himself inside. You feel him reach your hymen and then press further, the pain of it making your head spin. 

You stare up at your little brother, his angry face swimming in your vision, and you wonder if you’ve truly lost him. 

But true to his words, he stops. “F-Fuck, jiiieee. You—ngh—feel so good.” He moans, his head falling down to the crook of your neck as he pauses to catch his breath, his entire body shaking. 

“Why?” You croak out, the fire between your legs nothing compared to the ache in your heart. 

“I can't let anyone else—hah—have you, jiejie.” He pants, covering your neck in wet kisses. 

You shiver, and reach your arms out to wrap around him, seeking solace but knowing you can only hope to find it in the same boy, no… man, who hurt you. Your baby brother who used to cry if he even mistakenly upset you, has somehow turned into a man who takes what he wants regardless of how you feel. And he wants you intimately, profanely. “I told you I didn’t do anything with him. I proved it.”

“You only proved that he hasn’t had you yet.” He grunts, and pulls back to stare at your bodies where you're so precariously connected, his expression turning desperate as his eyes flick back to yours, and you feel queasy seeing the same look your little brother always gives you when he asks for something he knows he shouldn't, but also knows you wouldn’t deny him either. “Fuck, do I have to wait? I don’t want to wait. I want you so bad. What if I wait and you fuck him. I'd go crazy.” 

As if he’s not already there. 

“I won't, Caleb.” You promise with all the conviction in your rotten soul. You won’t. You won’t. You never want to see him like this ever again. 

“I wish I could believe you.” He murmurs sadly, his gaze locked with yours as he pulls his hips back only to thrust forward again, the tip of his cock barely slipping out before he's burying it back inside you. You don’t hold back your whimper of pain from him, and he doesn’t hold back his vengeance from you. “Holy shit…That woman said you’re with him all the time, hiding away from others. She saw you rubbing against him in front of everyone, yet you won't even let me kiss you in public.” 

“It’s not true, baby. She’s lying.” You deny, still hoping it would save you from an even worser fate. 

“Why would she lie?”

“Why would I lie?” You implore the part of him that trusts and respects his jiejie, hoping it's still alive. But the smile he gives you is not that of your doting little brother. “Because you know I'll chop his hands off and feed him his own dick if he touched you.” 

Bile rises in your throat. You can't tell if he really means it or if it's just the heat of the moment, and that fucking terrifies you. Would your brother really try to hurt Xavier if he finds out the truth? How far does his obsession really go? Is there any remaining hope at all?

“It didn't happen, okay?” You cower, unwilling to face the possibility of your precious baby brother doing something so violent, even as he unleashes some of that same violence upon you. “I promise, di.” 

“I want to believe you, jie. I really do.” He sighs, his hand gripping your chin tightly as he stares deep into your eyes, trying to seek out the truth. “I will lose it if I find out you’re lying to me.” 

You cradle his face in your hands and pull him down for a passionate kiss, coaxing him to soften for you. “I’m not, baby. I promise.” 

Let me in. Don't do this. Please, come back to me.

And he does, his face crumbling into the needy look you're so familiar with, his eyes shining wet and pitiful with yearning. “I love you, jie.”

You sigh in relief. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

“You don’t. Not as much as I do. Or you wouldn’t keep saying no to me.” He whines, and sits back on his heels, his hands gripping your hips as he resumes his thrusts, watching the head of his cock disappear in and out of your hole again and again. “I want you s-so much, jie. I wanted you before I even—hah—knew what my cock was for.” 

Because there is something seriously wrong with you, didi. 

And there is something seriously wrong with me. 

And I can’t tell which one of us had this sickness first. 

But the disgust that his confession brings up in you does nothing to dampen the pleasure you feel as your pussy slowly starts getting used to the intrusion, moulding around his cock in order to accommodate him. Every part of you will always yield to your little brother, even this. 

“You were made for me.” He moans and your pussy flutters around him in answer, producing more slick that makes the slide of his cock easier. It sucks him in hungrily, and suddenly you can feel just how empty you are inside. 

Do it. He can fill up that hole inside you. He feels it too. Just give in. Take what you both need. 

A voice calls out from deep within your mind, the sound distant and muffled as if buried under layers of rubble. Something in its enthralling tone seems so terrifyingly familiar to you, like a desire you'd long buried but has now returned from the dead to drag you to hell. 

But you resist its call. It’s not your little brother’s duty to fix what you lack. If you have influenced him to think he needs to then you must correct him before you ruin him completely. 

"Does it feel good for you too, jie? Tell me, please..." He whimpers, the anticipation and worry on his face almost have you spilling to reassure him. “It feels so good for me. This is where I belong. Fuck, do you feel it too, jie?”

His thumb brushes over your clit, the friction making your hips rock against his hand involuntarily, mindlessly chasing more of that pleasure.

“Please, say it, jie.” 

You shake your head, trying to rebuke both your brother's delusional pleas to join him in his lunacy and the incriminating demands coming from your own mind. 

This is not right. He should have never known what the inside of you felt like, let alone think he belonged there. It would have been less abominable for him to dig his hand into your chest and stifle the life out your heart that you'd already given to him so many years ago. 

Caleb sees your denial for rejection. “If you can’t feel it then maybe I’m not deep enough.” He grunts, his thumb flicking over your clit more roughly now as he pushes his cock further inside you, the head of it painfully stretching your hymen. “I need to go all the way inside you. I need to feel your blood that runs through my veins dripping down on my cock.”

You don't know if it's fear or arousal you feel at the thought of the blood that you both share staining your little brother's cock after he takes you in a way no other man has, and no brother ever should… but whatever it is, it pushes you over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as you scream, an overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body. 

“Fuck, jiejie—” He groans, his hips twitching as he tries to fuck your pussy, but it clamps down on him, mercifully preventing him from acting on his threats. “Shit—shit—you're milking my c-cock, jie. You're gonna make me cum… fuck, please, jie, please—I need—I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

Amidst your violent orgasm and his frenzied reaction, a rational thought somehow makes it through the swill of shame and pleasure, and you yelp out. “Caleb, pull out. You need to pull out, baby. I'm not on birth control.” 

You hear nothing in return but his delirious babbles of ‘I love you. I love you. Jiejie, I love you so much.’

“Caleb, did you hear me?” Your voice rises with panic, “Pull out!”

Though his eyes are locked on you, he doesn’t acknowledge your frantic pleas. 

You feel his cock twitch.

Oh god. 

Your little brother is going to cum inside you. You're going to get knocked up with your baby brother's child. Your lives will be ruined forever.

But at the last second, he pulls out, and you feel his hot cum land on your pussy, covering you in his seed that thankfully wasn’t given the chance to take. 

“Fuck…” He groans, staring down at the mess he made of you as if mesmerized. “You… you bled a little.”

Your eyes snap down to see the ever so small streak of your blood marring his otherwise pearly white cum. 

He must have slightly torn your hymen when he tried to go all the way. Shivering, you think of how close he got… and that emptiness inside you yawns wider. 

“Shit, jie.” He sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers smearing his release over your swollen lips. “You came so hard on my cock. Did you like hearing what I want to do to you?”

"No, Caleb." You croak, voice strained as you shake your head weakly. “I didn't—I don't like it.”

“Liar.” He purrs, grabbing his still-hard cock and dragging the thick head along your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess of your blood and his cum. “I felt how tight you got around me when I said—”

“You were playing with my clit.” You snap quickly, “That’s why I came.”

Caleb shakes his head as he slides his cock lower and lines the blunt tip up with your entrance once more. “That’s not what happened. You want it, jie. You want your little brother’s cock—”

“Stop it, Caleb!” You push your legs shut and kick at his hips, trying to shove him back. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s fucking disgusting!”

He catches your legs easily, forcing them back down onto the mattress as he climbs over you again, caging you beneath his larger body.

“You can deny it all you want, jie, but I know the truth. I felt it.” He growls, and you cower into the sheets, but you have nowhere to run away from this frightful version of your little brother he blames you for. 

“Caleb, you’re hurting me.” You tell him meekly, and worry if that even means anything to him anymore.

“What about me?” Caleb counters, pressing his hips forward so the thick head of his cock stretches your sore entrance again. The burning overstimulation makes you whimper, your abused pussy clenching involuntarily around him. “You hurt me every time you deny our love.”

“Caleb, please… don’t do this.” You plead, the jagged pieces of your broken heart cutting up your throat. “Not this way.”

He glares down at you, his entire body taut as his wants and desires battle with his need for your acceptance and approval. 

“You don’t want your first time to be like this.” You press on, trying desperately to reason with him. 

“Our first time.” He hisses, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. But, finally, he pulls his cock out, making you both shudder, and you tell yourself it's from relief. “You’re mine, jie. You can’t run from it much longer. You’re my sister… my best friend… and my mother.”

You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he pushes his thumb between your lips, pressing down on your tongue to silence you.

“And one day soon, I’m going to take your pussy and make you my woman too. Then you’ll be all mine and no one will ever take you away from me. Not even you, jie.”

A/N: didi is really starting to lose it now, however will mc control him now (she won't). i need to know what you think of the mommy aspect bec mc is in a way his mom. i won't go too heavily into it, it will still mostly be jiejie kink but during moments of extreme duress or when he's trying to get to her he'll use it. also next chapter is the dreaded other woman entrance that will really throw jiejie for a loop. how do you imagine another woman can fit in caleb's jiejie obsessed life? and will jiejie feels when another woman seems to finally challenge everything she's been telling himself and her? oh btw there are only 2 (maybe 3) chapters left! follow me on twitter @/Wildernessunto1! taglist for all my caleb fics: @mcdepressed290, @monoidmango, @seraphineash, @lewdcifer778, @strayy-kidz, @virtualdonutcashdeputy, @airachniide, @deceptive-solitude, @mimiluvzu2, @smmnlz, @secretarykitten, @fukyachickennuggets-blog, @joannafaustus, @rose3heartzzz, @unadulteratedtranquility, @pixiu-palindrome, @iwillstealyouruwus, @lilkittenskiss, @remnantsofgildedcages, @cinnabean3, @pookiei-bookie, @cembreeee, @ariapok, @bypanana, @the-shape-of-water, @applecrow613, @heesitation, @calebsmyapple, @valiantchaosvalkyrie, @letharue, @salynaa, @bebiappl3, @muttwithnoname, @big-juicy-yap

[sunnami]

you'd be the love of my life when i was young

summary: gryffindors wear their heart on their sleeve when they fall in love. slytherins keep their heart locked far away to keep it from breaking.

pairing: poly!marauders x reader (sirius x reader, remus x reader, lily x reader, and james x reader)

tags: slight angst, fluff, lucius malfoy, happy ending

note: i have a chemistry quiz due in 50 minutes but this takes priority. . . i haven't written in a while so forgive my rusty writing skills, they've only been let out from the basement today. not proofread, we die like the marauders. (title is taken from the song, 21 by gracie abrams, because that's roughly around the age jily die. hehe.)

They said when you fell in love with the right people, everything would fall in place after.

What a load of bullshit.

You had come to a conclusion one winter morning, laying in the Gryffindor common room dressed in your woolly, green jumper. You rested on the worn-out leather seat, nervously fiddling with your fingers as you stared at the ceiling, thinking about how it was going terribly wrong. How funny it was, that the 30th of December greeted you with an existential crisis instead of presents and hot chocolate. 

There was something quite wrong with you, you had noticed for the past few months. 

Every time Sirius Black smiled at you, showing off his pearly canines and the crinkles by his deep-grey eyes, you would experience a painful, tightening sensation in your chest — like someone was squeezing at your heart. Most people knew Sirius Black, the prankster, but you were lucky enough to know Sirius, the kind and spirited boy who had a heart that loved fiercely more than anyone you knew.

Cosy afternoons found you in the library with Remus Lupin, and a strange feeling would erupt in your stomach whenever Remus leaned down, and you’d catch a whiff of pine needles and fresh mint. Shaggy, blond hair falling over his eyes as he came to life, talking about your common love for muggle books. He made time feel like an illusion, minutes fading away into hours as the two of you shared stifled giggles, cheeks numb by the time you left the room. 

And James, oh James Potter. It was difficult to describe what you felt with him — but with James, the brightest colours in the world couldn’t even compare to him. James was like putting on a pair of brand-new eyeglasses and seeing everything clearly for the first time. And without a doubt, you knew that James would never let you get hurt. But these days, you were weak in the knees as you’d see him across the Great Hall, waving at you excitedly as he bellowed your name, and to come and sit next to them. 

Last, but certainly not the least, Lily Evans. Her sweet, airy voice was a warm hug on a cold day. And her actual hugs were second to none — don’t tell Sirius, however, he liked to shift into Padfoot to steal Lily’s title as the queen of cuddling. Lily flowers were delicate, she was anything but. The spitfire of Gryffindor, who would raise her chin and defy anyone who would harass you for hanging out with them. 

(“You’re our emotionally constipated Slytherin,” said Lily as she mushed your cheeks, cooing when you tried to glare at her, and the three boys guffawing in the background. They liked to tease you often, being a year younger than them.) 

Were you dying?

That was the only plausible explanation to your palpitating heart and rickety knees. 

No, it was definitely not because you had gone and fell in love with your best friends. 

That was absurd. 

You had tried venting to Lucius Malfoy once. Narcissa often doted on you, sneakily leaving treats on your desk before she left for her class, and fussing when you got sick — which was quite often. That meant, when you weren’t with the marauders, you were trailing after the Slytherin power couple, or Severus.

(Lucius curled his lips in disgust, Narcissa sipping tea by his side, failing at hiding her knowing smirk. “I am above such childish matters,” hissed Lucius, scowl deepening when Narcissa laughed heartily, looking happier than she had been since returning home for the holidays. “I do not know why you’d even think to come to me for this.”

You huffed. 

Maybe you’d try Severus next. 

Naturally, he stormed off the moment Lily’s name fell from your lips.

Your resident seventh-years were confusing.)

Fortunately, you were stripped from your thoughts when the entrance to the common room slammed open, the paintings clamouring as they were disturbed from their slumber. One by one, the marauders piled inside the room, a string of melodious laughter and boisterous conversations following their arrival. Hastily, you sat up, heart thudding against your ribcage. Silence, you wretched beast, you told it. Don’t let them see how I burn for them.  

“There you are!” Sirius came into view first, grinning widely as he crossed the room to reach you. “Who said you could be this pretty in the morning, love?” 

Ba-dump!

Sirius plopped down head first onto your lap, manoeuvring your hand to comb through his hair as he sighed in contentment. “Bloody hell,” He exhaled shakily, “Last night was the worst one we’ve ever been through.” 

Your fingers ghosted through the new scar etched across his sharp cheekbones — it was nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn’t fix, but you still didn’t like the sight of them bruised and wounded. Swiftly, Sirius grabbed your hand and intertwined your own with his. “I’m sorry,” You whispered. 

Sirius chuckled tiredly, tightening his hold on you, as though you were a tether that kept him afloat in his sea of nightmares. 

(And you were. If only you knew.)

“It’s not your fault,” said Sirius. 

Then, your eyes landed on Remus limping towards you, his bare skin littered with scrapes and marks, supported with an arm around James’s broad shoulders. He sent a toothy smile your way, despite the tired lines on his forehead and deep bags beneath his eyes. “Waited up all night for us, huh?”

“I just couldn’t sleep knowing you guys were out there,” You whispered sheepishly. “It’s too dangerous, what happens if something goes terribly wrong, and it costs you your life? We need to tell someone.” 

“Everyone who needs to know, already knows.” Remus bit down a pained expression as he sat by your side, head lolling on your shoulder. “This is the best we have for now.” 

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it at all.

Before you could reply, Remus turned his head, lips feathering against your exposed skin. His voice was low as he said, “‘Sides, it’s our job to worry about you, not the other way around.”

“Well, I apologize for interrupting your job,” You whispered back harshly, wondering if that was all you were to them, a younger friend they felt the need to look after. Oh, how mortifying that would be.

James chuckled from behind you, bending over the back of the couch, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering for a few moments that felt like an eternity. “You’re too adorable,” said James, tweaking your nose. “Our angry, little Slytherin.” 

“I’m not little.” You glowered at him.

“Perhaps not.” James smiled cheekily. “But you’re ours.” 

Often times, you had wondered how the five of you came to be so tight-knit, knowing their disdain for most of the Slytherins. 

(Little did you know, you smiled at them once in Potions, and they were a goner.) 

Something stirred deep in your belly. 

You sucked in a breath. “Don’t say things like that, James.”

People could get the wrong idea.

You could get the wrong idea.

“Well, why not?” Lily appeared in your peripheral vision, the scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh rain filling the room. Like the three boys, her skin was sallow from lack of sleep, but her bare face and blinding grin left your heart racing. “It’s true, isn’t it?” 

It could be, just not in the way you wanted it to be true.

You sighed. “Class is going to start in a few hours, I should get going.” 

“Or,” James began wickedly, throwing a thick blanket onto the floor by the fireplace, and tossing a bunch of throw pillows at Sirius’s face. “We could have a sleepover right here.” 

“Sounds good to me,” said Lily merrily, stealing James’s blanket as she placed a pillow beneath her head. 

“I really have to go—” You reasoned pathetically.

“Stay,” whispered Sirius without even opening his eyes as he curled his lithe fingers around your wrist. “You being here makes us feel better.” 

They were too cruel, saying all these sweet words, not knowing how it drove knives through your heart. 

James yawned as he laid on the carpeted floor, hiking the blanket up to his shoulders as he threw a leg over Lily, pulling her close to his chest, nuzzling the crook of her neck. “D’you have your textbooks with you, love?” He asked you drowsily. 

“No,” You answered, any other words lodged in your throat. 

“That’s fine.” James hummed. “I’ll just get the cloak and sneak into the dungeons later to get the books for you.” 

“Sleep,” Remus urged you, unaware how you shivered at his words. 

“You can’t be comfortable like that,” You told him in disbelief, watching his neck bend at an angle to lay on your shoulder. 

“Trust me,” said Remus gently, eyelashes tickling your skin, “I’m right where I want to be.” 

You had grown silent for a few beats, unaware how Sirius’d opened his eyes, staring at your worried expression. 

(How could one person be so perfect, he wondered.)

“You alright, darling?” He reached out to trace the curve of your jaw with his thumb, the palm of his hand holding your face as though you were a pureblood’s antique treasure. (Mine, mine, mine, his heart screamed.)

But like the Slytherin you were, you lied as easily as you breathed.

“I’m fine.”

As you laid in between Remus and Sirius, watching the peaceful rise of Lily and James’s chests, you had come to a daunting realization. 

You were irrevocably and agonizingly in love with your best friends. 

And because fate liked to spit in your face, the four of them were already in a beautiful, committed relationship. 

Who were you to get in the way of that?

—

They would understand, you convinced yourself. 

They would understand that you had to stay away from them. You had to protect your heart and keep it safe. The marauders were a dangerous bunch, and they had played the biggest prank on you, and by Merlin, would you fall for this particular prank over and over again if it meant you could hear their voices and fall into their embrace. 

But you couldn’t stay. They would only crush your heart otherwise. 

If Gryffindors wore their heart on their sleeves when they fell in love, Slytherins protected theirs with every fibre of their being, locking it in a cage where no one else can have the power to break it. 

Like what any love-stricken teenager would do in the face of heartbreak, you began to ignore the objects of your affections — ignoring the way your soul called out to theirs. 

It wasn’t as obvious the first few days. You would escape their company under the ruse of studying for McGonagall and Flitwick’s practical tests. 

(“They’re notoriously difficult after all,” You told them, a nervous laugh accompanying your lie. Peter eyed you curiously, noticing small details the others could not see — your quivering lips, your nails digging into your palms, and the way your eyes wouldn’t meet any of theirs. “I just don’t want to fail.” 

You could have cried at the way James held the back of your head as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’ll do well, love. You always do.” 

“You can study with me, if you want,” Remus quickly offered. “I’m not as good as James in transfiguration, but I can definitely teach better than those two.” 

“Hey!” Sirius exclaimed in mock offence.

“Thanks, it’s sweet of you to offer,” You told them, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “But—”

“Say less, darling,” Lily interjected kindly, wrapping her scarf around your neck. She smiled at you, holding both your cheeks in her palms. “They’re the worst lot to study around, I know. Just don’t study too hard, okay? Take breaks, have a cup of tea now and then, and remember it’s okay to ask for help — don’t give me that face — if it gets too overwhelming, just ask. We’re here for you in every way you need us.” 

Oh.

You were well and truly screwed. 

“Thanks,” You croaked.)

But it was getting harder and harder to come up with excuses. 

(“Wotcher!” Sirius grinned, encasing you in a tight hug after bumping into you in the corridor. “Haven’t seen you in a while, busy bee. Fancy a lunch with us in Hogsmeade?” 

You scrunched your nose, red and bitten from the winter frost, stepping away from him and ignoring the way his face fell. “I. . . I can’t. I’ve got practice with the Frog Choir.”

Sirius shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “S’alright. I can wait and pick you up right after, then we’ll swing by that shop you really like—”

“I can’t, Sirius,” You interrupted harshly, wrapping your arms around your chest as your gaze dropped to the ground. “Sorry. I just. . . I’ll just catch you some other time.” 

Sirius flinched. “Sure, love. Other time, yeah?”

But only the wind replied.

Saturday came, and along with it was the long-awaited match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. James, decked out in his uniform, bounded over to you at the Slytherin’s side of the Great Hall, oblivious to the death glares some of your housemates had sent his way. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, lifting you from your seat. 

“It’s Quidditch day, pidge!” James tilted his head, awfully resembling a lost, confused puppy. “Why aren’t you dressed yet? It’s the game of games! Even Remus is announcing the game later.” 

You bit your lip before responding. “I’m not going, James.” 

“What?” He furrowed his brows. “Why not?” 

Ever since you had become friends with James Potter in your first year, you had never missed a single game of his. Except for the one time you had fallen sick during his match against Hufflepuff — and the moment he knew you were ill, the game ended in less than two minutes, by his sheer determination to get by your side quickly and make sure you weren’t alone. 

You sighed. “I don’t know, James, I’m just not feeling up to it today.”

It was a big, fat lie, and he knew it too. 

You didn’t go to his match later that day.

It was one of the biggest losses James had ever experienced — he wasn’t talking about Quidditch.)

Your housemates were beginning to realize was something was off as well. They might not be particularly fond of the Gryffindors that captured your heart, but they were fond of you, and they guarded their own. 

You had a stare-down with Regulus Black in the common room — and you weren’t about to lose — before he blinked and asked, “What did my brother do?”

“Nothing,” You replied, pretending to be engrossed with your herbology textbook. 

Severus rolled his eyes before plucking the book out of your hands. “Spit it out, woman. We’ve had to watch you mope around pathetically for days now. It’s irritating the rest of us.”

You sniffled. “Then just leave me alone! No one asked you to check up on me!” 

“Unfortunately, we can’t.” Severus took a seat beside Regulus. With a pained grimace, he said, “So you can. . . pour your heart out to us.” 

“I can’t.” You wailed. “I’m a Slytherin, we’re the worst at that.”

Regulus shrugged his shoulders. “It’s true. We’re hopeless.” 

“But,” He raised his wand, “We do speak in jinxes and curses.” 

“Don’t you dare!” You blubbered, wiping at your tears — but somehow, without having to express it in words, they understood, and you had felt lighter.

Still, you missed them. 

“This is pathetic.” Lucius enters the common room, Narcissa holding onto his arm, watching the scene before him with blank eyes. “Black, Snape, get out, you’re only making whatever this is, worse.”

Narcissa was by your side in an instant, dabbing at your wet eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief that cost more than your life. “Hush now, darling. What’s wrong, hm? Was it that idiot cousin of mine? Don’t worry, Lucius can tell his father, and we’ll have them begging at your feet by tomorrow.”

You cried louder. 

“I jest, I jest.” Narcissa softly chuckled, pulling your hair away from your face as she tugged you close. “Please tell us what’s wrong. It’s been awful seeing you like this for the past few days.”

Lucius sat on the loveseat across you, resting his feet atop the glass coffee table. “Yes, I beg you — do as she says, for the love of Merlin. But, really, what else did you expect, associating yourself with that ragtag of miscreants?”

Narcissa glared at him.

Lucius raised his arms in surrender. 

Narcissa clicked her tongue before returning her attention to you, eyes softening at your tear-stricken face. She smiled, albeit sadly, as she said, “Perhaps, I know what is wrong.” She gestured to the way you clutched at the front of your shirt. “It is the matters of the heart, is it not?” 

You nodded weakly. “I love them.”

“And they, you,” said Narcissa. “So, what is wrong?” 

“I love them!” You hiccuped.

“Unfortunately.” Lucius handed you a tissue. “The whole of Hogwarts knows this already, so I do not understand why you’re blowing snot all over my fiancé’s robes about it.” 

“They don’t feel the same way about me,” You confessed with a sob. 

Lucius stared at you incredulously. “Please do not tell me that you are this daft.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked him through narrowed, teary eyes, Narcissa rubbing the tips of your numb fingers from crying so much. 

“I did not sign up for this.” Lucius rubbed at his temples as he stood up. “I will only say this once, so make sure you are listening. Those Gryffindor idiots are so disastrously in love with one another — let me finish, damn you — and if you cannot see that they love you too, then it is your own fault. It physically pains me to see the way they smile when you are near. They would move the earth for you, and they would shake the heavens for you.” 

—

Gryffindors must have hearts made of steel, because you didn’t know how they could be so brave, to look fear right in the eyes and say: I’m ready. 

Because you surely weren’t. You were headed towards your usual spot in the courtyard by the clock tower, legs heavy and swell deep in your throat. Then, you found them, looking so achingly beautiful under the sunlight, huddled together for warmth as they smiled and laughed at lame puns and mistimed jokes. 

Did you have a place with them? 

You were about to find out.

“Hey,” You greeted once you were right in front of them. A month of evading them, and now you were here. It was like finding a piece of your soul that you had lost.

(For them, seeing you was like finally being able to breathe again.) 

“Hey,” said Lily, devoid of any warmth, and that broke you. 

Bravery was poison, you decided. A trap for weak-hearted fools like you. 

Sirius shot James a look before clenching his jaw. “No choir practice today? No study sessions with Cissa or Reg? Wait, no, I’ve got it. Slughorn’s dinner party? Or is it detention with McGonagall today? Does her highness finally feel up to talking to the peasants?”

You inhaled sharply. “Never mind. This was a bad idea.”

But this — is what you deserved. You had hurt them badly, so it was only right for them to stomp on your heart for everyone to see, just as you did to them many times this month. 

A sob tore from your lips as you swivelled on your heels, ready to flee the scene and never show your face to anyone else ever again. Yet, before you could leave, Remus clamped his hand over your wrist. 

“Why?” He stared at you, searching for anything that could explain your sudden behaviour. Remus looked at you with such emotion, tightly holding onto you — but never enough to hurt, because Remus could never be capable of hurting you. He’d die before he would ever cause you pain. 

 (You made him feel unafraid of the moon.) 

“Was. . . was it something I did?” Remus asked, laying his wounds bare for you to see. “Was it me?”

“I love you!” You shouted in the midst of panic — you had never wanted to cause Remus to doubt himself. Your loud declaration had caught the attention of some, but you stood on, curling your fists firmly. You needed to do this. 

“I love you.” You said once more, breathlessly, staring right into James’s eyes. Such a beautiful shade of hazel. “I love each one of you. And it. . . it hurts right here.” Tears dripped from your eyes to the side of your chin as you splayed your hand over where your heart rested. 

“Because you don’t feel the same.” 

The four of them simply gazed at you, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. 

You took that as confirmation for what you had been fearing all along. 

“And that’s okay if you don’t,” You snivelled, unable to see clearly with the streams of tears in your eyes. You thought of how Sirius melted at Lily’s touch and how Remus was the anchor to James’s wild streak. How they all complemented each other and fit perfectly like puzzle pieces. “Just give me a few months, and I’ll get over it. It’s a stupid crush anyway, it’s my fault. The four of you are perfect together, how could—”

“Shut up,” James hissed before cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. Cherries and pumpkin pasties. He kissed you deeply once more before pressing his lips to your eyes, desperately washing away your tears with his devotion. “Was that it? We could have been doing this ages ago.”

“What?” You rasped, knees buckling at the weight of his gaze.

James only smiled, stealing your third kiss. 

Sirius pulled your hand, his arm encasing your waist as you stumbled to his chest. Like James, he kissed you fervently, like he wanted to chase off all your fears and doubts. His lips were warm against yours — firewhiskey. You wanted to be burnt by his flames again and again. He held you close, committing every inch to memory. 

(You were art that he wanted to worship.)

He kissed your forehead. “We love you, daft girl.”

He kissed both of your eyes, chuckling when a new wave of tears came. “We have loved you ever since you burnt my mother’s howler in fourth year, and gave us poorly-knitted sweaters for Christmas.” 

“I love you,” said Sirius. “As certain as the spring that arrives after winter, I love you.” 

You snuffled. “I. . . I don’t understand.” 

Remus stepped in your line of sight to place his jacket over you — it was Sirius’s leather jacket, really, but Remus liked to claim it occasionally. He bundled you in earmuffs and rested his chin atop your head, exhaling in relief. “I thought it was me.” 

You shook your head, clinging to the front of his shirt. “No, never. It was me. I’m sorry.” 

Remus grinned wolfishly, eyes swooping down to your kiss-stained lips. (There you were, standing in the snow that threatened to melt, eyes rimmed with tears, hair wildly ablaze from the cold breeze, cheeks damp and red — but how devastatingly beautiful you were.) “May I?” 

You nodded. “P-Please.”

Blueberries and dark chocolate. Remus whispered against your lips, “If it wasn’t already clear, the feeling is bloody mutual — we love you, just as the moon loves the sun enough to chase after it every day.” He grabbed your hand and placed it over his heart, you were surprised to see him holding back tears of his own. “All my life, I thought I was this monster who didn’t deserve to live. But you, all of you, make me selfish enough to want to belong here.” 

He kissed you desperately, words of adoration and love falling from his lips. 

Finally, your eyes settled on Lily. You waited for her reaction with a bated breath. 

You hadn’t expected for her to burst into tears as she rushed over to you. 

“Don’t you ever do that again,” said Lily angrily before circling you in her embrace, burying her nose in your hair. You hugged her back, drowning in her scent and warmth. “You are deserving of all the things you want, so don’t run away — if you run, we’d follow you, idiot girl.” 

Then, Lily captured your lips with her own. 

She tasted like happy endings.

note: 4k words and 6 hours later, here we are! let it be known i was THE poly marauders enthusiast years ago. i always wanted one with lily in the polycule so here we are. this is me manifesting my college romance, y'all. look away. anyways, i hoped u enjoyed it!! brought a smile to your face and all!! might make a part two for more fluff and to establish more relationship dynamics since this was written on a whim ;D also i planned a cute scene with peter as well, so i'll just write that in part two el em ay yo.

[sunnami]

❝we can't be friends (wait for your love.)❞

[credits to @artofpan for the lovely art! title is taken from ariana grande's song, we can't be friends.]

summary. fortune favours the bold, so they say. but you're an awkward ravenclaw in yearning.

pairing/s. poly!marauders x reader (james potter x reader, lily evans x reader, remus lupin x reader, and sirius black x reader.)

word count. 11.4k

tags. childhood friends to ex-friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like remus and tonks, also a bit of spice ;3

note. asdhjf while im working on the last part of the time traveller au pls enjoy this fluffy piecee ueueue

‘TIS THE SEASON OF raucous jeering and gaudy paraphernalia in the corridors, the unmistakable scent of overly-polished brooms, mud trekking through the cobblestone floors, and jerseys soaked in sweat, rain, and grime after hours of vigorous training. The dreaded second week of school where arrogant fledglings end up in the infirmary on account of broken noses, dislocated shoulders, or sprained wrists.

In other words: Quidditch tryouts. 

You’re just not fond of the havoc wreaked in every corner and alcove of the castle. But to your relief, the library remains untouched through it all. 

Needless to say, you absolutely hate Quidditch. 

It is a fact you simply will not elaborate on. The skies are blue, the grass blades are green; you and the Marauders are as different as night and day. 

On your way to the library, the last bastion of academia, you weave past the crowd in the courtyard corridor, ears ringing from the shouting match earlier in the Great Hall for breakfast—something about the Cannons versus the Magpies. There’s a pile of books shoved inside your leather satchel, painfully bumping into your hip with each step you take. You traverse through the Romanesque architecture, blissfully unaware of the misfortune to come. 

“If I study for Charms now, I can take a nap for the rest of the day,” You say to yourself, pensively tapping at your chin. 

“Watch out!” 

You barely have any time to react before a Quaffle comes crashing straight into your face. 

“Merlin’s hairy arsehole—fuck!” There’s a sicky sound of bones cracking, a dizzying flash of white before your eyes, and something viscous trickling from your nose down to your lips. Your hands fly to your face—instantly flinching when you catch a glimpse of your fingers dipped in blood. Your eyes grow wide in panic, chest rapidly heaving—it’s only now that you realize that you’re sitting on the ground, textbooks laying haphazardly around you, shoulders quivering from the adrenaline. The crowd’s concerned murmurs are lost in the cacophony of hysteria. 

“Move!” 

To your rescue, is Alice Fortescue, a fellow prefect. She cuts through the onlookers of petrified first-years and nosey fifth-years. You have no doubt this incident will grace the school’s gossip column for the next few days. She grabs your arm and wraps it around her shoulder with ease. You’d write poetry of her gallant display, but you were too busy moaning in agony. She utters a few incantations to stop your nosebleed from worsening, though there’s not much she can do to help with the possible concussion. 

“Did you know Bludgers used to be called blooders?” You mumble languidly, nearly crashing into one of the knight statues. 

“I do now,” replies Alice, tightening her hold on your waist, the ghost of a fond smile on her face. (She’s missed you, actually—three and a half years of radio silence. There used to be a time where running into you in the Gryffindor common rooms was an everyday occurrence. Even the Ravenclaw prefects knew where to look first if they wanted to find you.)

After what feels like an eternity of trudging through the castle, you finally reach the infirmary. The matron, Poppy Pomfrey, shrieks in alarm at the sight of your soiled blouse and blood stained lips. She gently ushers you into her hold, guiding you to a vacant bed. Alice hangs back, awkwardly shuffling her feet, gaze worriedly trained on you. 

“You may return to your classes, Miss Fortescue, thank you,” says Madam Pomfrey, tipping your head upwards and grimacing.  “Oh, good heavens, what happened?” 

Your head droops in her palms, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—you must have bit your tongue earlier. You blubber pathetically, “Got hit by a stray quaffle.” 

Wordlessly, Madam Pomfrey summons a vial from her stash in the cupboards. She hands the small bottle to you, uttering various healing spells under her breath with a deft expertise of someone who’s been doing this for years upon years now. “There,” says Madam Pomfrey, lips firmly pursed. “That should help with the fractured cheekbones.”

With—what?

As your eyes bulge out of your head, Madam Pomfrey looks over you once more, a floating quill at her side hastily scribbling on a parchment. “Concussion, mild blood loss, fracture in the cheekbones, broken nose cartilage.” She illuminates the tip of her wand, and moves it left and right in front of you. “Hmm. Any nausea at all, dear?”

“There’s a six point four chance I’m going to get amnesia,” You whisper solemnly, head hanging low as your voice cracks from the unbearable pain. “I don’t want to get amnesia.”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that while you’re under my care.” Madam Pomfrey gently nudges you to lay on the pillow. She hands you a folded blanket. “Rest now. We’ll keep you here until the morning in case your condition worsens.”

“I can’t.” You groan, sitting upright—Madam Pomfrey pushes you back onto the bed with a stern glare. “I’ve got to study.”

“And I’ve got three other students to tend to. Mister Lockhart has been dealing with food poisoning all week.” Madam Pomfrey places her hands on her hips, sighing sharply. She jerks her thumb behind her back—that’s when you notice that three certain people are staring back at you. Sirius Black and James Potter squeezing together in one chair—and miserably failing—and Remus Lupin, resting cozily on the infirmary bed with bandages around his arms and head. “And don’t even get me started on this one.”

“You love him, Poppy, don’t lie.” Sirius grins wolfishly at the matron. You make out the sunken bags underneath his gray eyes, pale lips and his unkempt heap of dark curls. 

Pomfrey huffs exasperatedly. “It would be easier to wrangle a hoard of Hippogriffs than to keep you three out of the infirmary past visiting hours.” She spares you one last glance, nodding when she deems you safe and healthy—as can be, anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart rolls out of his bed, his cries echoing around the room, threatening to barf up his entire breakfast, and Madam Pomfrey is gone in an instant. 

There is an awkward silence that envelops your side of the room—you roll over on your left, desperately ignoring the three of stares burning intensely into your back. 

THE STORY GOES like this: 

You know their names more than you know your own. Each morning finds them at the Ravenclaw common room’s doorstep—while waiting, Lily, Sirius and Remus try to figure out the password as James attempts to brute force his way in. (He had actually figured out the riddle minutes ago, James would just rather play along with his friends.) The blue-tied prefects watch endearingly as one of their first-years rush out of the tower, squealing deafeningly, and jumps right into the lion cubs’ embrace. (It’s not that Inter-House friendships are rare, it’s more common than one would think; usually, it just takes more time for the eaglets to break out of their shell.) 

“I got a hundred and twelve!” You exclaim merrily, hair in disarray and eyes puffy from having just woken up. Lily grabs your hands; together, the both of you jump up and down, excitedly giggling in celebration of the success of your History of Magic essay. (You had ignored them for a day to focus on your homework—Sirius did not like that at all. It wasn’t as fun to play if one of their friends were missing. Gone off to study, of all things.) 

The tale of your friendship may be an unsolved mystery to some, but to you, it’s like finding jigsaw pieces that perfectly fit together. Magic isn’t only centaurs in forbidden forests, or ceilings bewitched to look like the night sky—sometimes it’s stumbling into a random train compartment and shyly offering your bag of assorted treats. Next thing you know, Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon are constantly with you in the library, oohing and aahing over pages of the fantasy novels Lily had brought from the muggle world. 

There’s rarely a day where you aren’t spotted in a sea of red and gold. Except when you’ve studied yourself sick—and the Marauders are never fond of that. 

(“I’m sorry, she can’t come down today,” says one of the fifth-year prefects, Lalita Burman, a rather tall girl with intricate curls, brown skin, and eyes that stare into one’s soul. She wakes up to banging on the tower entrance, not even eight o’clock in the morning yet—on a Saturday. It doesn’t come off as a surprise anymore when she opens the door to five red-faced children. “She’s come down with the flu. Most of the firsties have, actually. Madam Pomfrey says they’ll get better by tomorrow but Alex and I have been running ourselves ragged looking after them.” 

James Potter narrows his eyes at her. “Okay. Then we’ll go inside.” 

“Maybe we can help,” says Remus. 

Lalita holds up her hand to stop them from barging in. “That’s really sweet, but we can’t risk any of you getting sick as well.” 

Sirius stands on his toes to spy past Lalita’s shoulder, frowning when he finds nothing of importance—or really, when he can’t find you. He couldn’t wait to call you stupid for getting yourself sick—you just missed out on frog hunting. “That’s alright.” He huffs, shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Our immune system can take it. Will you let us in now?” 

Her eye twitches. “Come back tomorrow.” 

With that, she slams the door in their faces. 

The Marauders then declare you are never, ever allowed to get sick again.) 

Your second year in the castle creeps up on you without you noticing. 

“Remus Lupin, I am going to kill you!” 

No one bats an eyelash when you stalk up to the Gryffindor table, twelve years old and on a mission, fresh from the summer holidays. You slam your hands down onto the table, eyes ablaze as Remus stares at you, head resting on his palms, shaggy blond hair falling over his brows—no thoughts, head empty, just sheer adoration. 

“Hello there, stranger,” Remus says, grinning fiendishly. “You look rather lovely—did you have a good holiday?” 

You scoff, pointing an accusatory finger at him—Peter watches at the scene with wide eyes, slowly chomping on his shepherd’s pie, not an inkling as to what was going on. “Don’t try me, Lupin!” You exclaim sternly. “That book you gave me—you said it would have a happy ending! Tell me why I stayed up until bloody five o’clock in the morning crying me eyes out! You. . . you—!” 

“Wanker, dingbat, berk, git,” Lily supplies helpfully with an innocent smile, pulling you down to sit with her. “And my personal favorite—toerag.” 

You gape at the pretty redhead, jaw falling to the floor. “How do you even know these words?” 

She hums nonchalantly, spreading blueberry jam onto her buttered toast. “A lady must arm herself with the necessary ammunition.” Lily points to a certain pair of boys—James and Sirius are currently engaged in an eating contest, shoveling pancakes after pancakes inside their mouths; so far it looks like Sirius is winning. Lily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, “Especially if she wants to survive that kind of company.”  

“Him, even more,” says Lily, gesturing to Remus. “He may be Professor McGonagall’s golden boy but I see right through him.” 

“What can I say?” Remus smirks, helplessly shrugging his shoulders. “I’m a monster.” 

Lily glares at him. 

Then, you turn thirteen—the dreaded age. Suddenly, you’re dealing with oily skin, acne, body odor, hair growing out of places you didn’t even know could grow hair, hormones messing up the way you look at everyone else—something awakens in you the day you see Dorcas Meadowes in the Quidditch pitch wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck—and hormones messing up the way you look at yourself. 

Everything is starting to change. 

You usually never blink twice when James wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head on your shoulder. Except this time, he’s gone from a gangly bean sprout, to a heartthrob with perfectly messy hair, newly defined muscles from his countless hours of Quidditch training, charming smile, eyes that one could get lost into for hours, and a tantalizing scent of mint and bergamot. 

“Are you really not going to our game this Saturday?” James whispers in your ear—the five of you had been hanging out in the library. 

You sigh. “Can‘t. Sorry.” 

“Scared your House is going to lose to us, pet?” Sirius teases from where he’s sitting backwards on the chair next to you, engrossed in twirling locks of your hair around his finger. 

You bristle at the nickname—they have been brazen with the endearments lately, you’ve noticed. “It’s not like we’re going to win anyway,” You mumble, tapping your quill on the empty parchment—there’s never any work done while they’re around. “There’s only a sixteen point seven percent chance of Ravenclaw winning against Gryffindor.”

James wrinkles his nose, now sitting on the edge of the table. “Percent, shmercent. What matters is how everyone plays that day.” 

He kicks his legs against yours, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, will you come watch?” 

“We have that History of Magic project, remember,” You say defeatedly. “I need to get started on it this week otherwise I’ll be behind all the electives I signed up for this year.” 

Lily frowns, looking up from her own homework to glance at you in concern. “How many did you even pick?” 

“All of them.” 

“What?” Lily screeches in terror, suddenly rising from her seat to lean over the table. “How is that even possible? How did McGonagall even allow that?” 

“Professor Flitwick,” You correct, wincing when Lily and Sirius glare at you. “It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I wore him down. All I had to do was rework some of my class schedules and promise him over a thousand times that my wellbeing wouldn’t ever be compromised by my studies. Otherwise he’d take back his decision.” 

Remus doesn’t seem all too happy. “No wonder we don’t see you at Transfiguration anymore.” 

“Or in Kettleburn’s class,” Peter pipes in. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be taking that many classes at once?” Remus grimaces, sharing a worried look with James. “The limit is three, and even that is too much to handle.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

(Peter knows a lie when he hears one.) 

James tenses up, jaw tightening. “So you’re saying you’re going to miss a game because of school? Like all the other times? That’s bullcrap!” 

Remus hisses his name in warning. 

Tears prick your eyes instantly—you’ve heard him speak like this when quarreling with Slytherins, but never to your face. “That bullcrap means a lot to me, Potter. You’d understand that if you took your studies seriously more than just going around and playing silly pranks on everyone!” 

James scoffs. “Like how you take us seriously? Did you know that Lily is the youngest ever to be invited to Slughorn’s club? Yeah, she got the invitation last week. Did you congratulate her for that when she was staying up late with you to revise for your practical test in Herbology?” 

“I—” You stammer, guilt pooling in your stomach. 

“No, you didn’t.” James sneers. “You only see yourself. Do you know what Remus has been going through? Do you even care?” 

“That’s enough, James,” Lily says vehemently. 

“Well, if you think like that, maybe we all should just stop being friends!” You retort.

Before anyone else can reply, Madam Pince comes around the corner, and everyone falls silent—a tense atmosphere that threatens to choke you. With a heavy heart, you gather your belongings and run out of the library. 

The months pass by, and Frank Longbottom wonders why he doesn’t wake up at midnight anymore to find five students having a sleepover in the common room with a certain eagle, each of them trying to contain their giggles and  failing. (One time, the Prewett twins had run down the stairs in panic, only to find you and Peter screaming from Remus’s theatrics in telling his ghost stories during an awful thunderstorm.) You no longer visit the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and they no longer wait for you after your classes. 

“It’s probably just a tiff,” says Alice to Mary Macdonald. “They’ll make up—they always do.”  

Mary nods, though unsure—while Peter is gut-wrenched about it all, the other four in particular seem like heartbroken puppies when you enter the Great Hall and barely acknowledge their presence. 

The snow melts and time catches everyone unaware.

“I can’t believe I’m going to graduate and you idiots haven’t made up yet,” Lalita sighs as she pulls you in for a hug. In a few weeks, she and the other seventh-years are due to leave; you’ve grown real close with her over the past few terms. Her departure is going to be truly difficult for you to handle. “Just talk it out with them, okay?” 

You sniffle, holding onto her robes. “I’m trying, but they’ve been ignoring me, too.” 

Lalita squeezes you tighter. “Don’t worry. These kinds of things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

At the end of the term, you present your final project to Professor Binns. The ghost nearly returns to life. It was a research study on the Evolutionary Analysis of Magical RNA Manipulation in the Catalonian Fireball. Days after your paper is published, you’re featured on the Daily Prophet; dragon tamers and professors from Spain are owling you letters of praise and congratulations. It goes without saying that such a feat had naturally catapulted Ravenclaw to the top, ultimately winning the House Cup. 

(But what you don’t tell everyone is that you’re so severely burnt out after that—to the point where you didn’t want to ever pick up a textbook again. For the first time in forever, learning had become a chore, not a passion. You’d been puking out of anxiety, hands trembling as you forced yourself to write on the parchment, the sides of your fingers constantly swollen and raw. You’d study until four o’clock in the morning, and wake up an hour later to complete all of your homework. You’ve begun to masquerade as the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower; lifeless and indifferent. Xenophilius and Pandora fuss over you, but you just lock yourself in your room and say: “I’m tired.”

Perhaps, it is why Professor Flitwick isn’t surprised when you withdraw from most of your electives. 

“The pursuit of knowledge is a rewarding journey,” says Professor Flitwick on the day you visit his classroom—hours away from needing to be on the train platform. He sighs and sets his spectacles on the table. “But it is a perilous one, too. I trust that you have understood the consequences of your actions. As a teacher, I can only offer guidance when it is needed. The other professors may disagree, but I find the best learning method to be, what is it the kids say—fuck around and find out.” 

You snort. 

Professor Flitwick chuckles, quite pleased with himself. “If I may be so bold as to leave you with another piece of homework, I would like to ask you to truly enjoy the holidays. I hear the summer is a time for discovering new things about oneself, for new beginnings and growth. After all, learning does not happen only within the castle grounds.”) 

Later that day, you board the express, purposefully choosing the farthest compartment where you know they’ll be staying in. You share the cabin with two people whose names are Regulus and Narcissa Black—this is the first time you’ve ever met them. Narcissa shares her green tea flavored candy with you.  Afterwards, you spend the rest of the ride back to King’s Cross asleep. 

(Right before the train arrives, Remus is nervously searching for you in the crowd of people. 

“We’ve got to say goodbye, at least.” Lily nibbles on her lower lip uneasily. She once joked that she could find you anywhere—as if you two had a red string tied around both your pinky fingers. Now, it seems you’re too far away for her voice to reach you. 

James drops his head down in shame. “I never got the chance to apologize.” 

“She’ll appear somewhere,” says Sirius unwaveringly with a nod, taking Lily’s heavy suitcase from her as steam whistles are heard in the distance. “She could be in our special compartment, waiting for us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter questions dubiously. 

“Of course I am, she’s my best friend,” Sirius counters resolutely. “She’s there, I can feel it.”)

You’re fourteen when you return back to the castle—you hadn’t touched a single book throughout the summer, but you find yourself well-rested; you learn how to swim from your mother; staying up all night to accompany your family dog as she gives birth to seven beautiful puppies, and scratching yourself on the bark of sycamore trees with your poor attempts at climbing.

You find out that you don’t like Arithmancy at all, strongly preferring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve also garnered a curiosity for Ornithomancy, the oracle reading of birds. 

This year, you signed up for the Gobstone club, despite your unfamiliarity with the game. It’s led by a Slytherin girl named Haerin Seong. (It’s properly read as Seong Hae-rin.) She has pin-straight hair, a sharp nose, and the mouth of a drunken sailor.

You also decide that you want to become a professor after Hogwarts. The groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, belly laughs when you declare this to him one afternoon, right in the doorway of his hut. 

“Well, go on then!” Hagrid bellows, patting you on the head. “Anyone who tries ter stop yeh has got ter go through me!” 

On the dawn of your fifth-year, an owl delivers a prefect badge to your doorstep. Your father, born and raised as a Muggle, doesn’t understand the significance of this, but he cries harder than you on that Sunday morning. (“My child is a prefect!” He sobs into the telephone after dialing your aunt’s number.) 

The fresh batch of Ravenclaw firsties aren’t the only new additions to the castle. According to the gossip mill, James and Lily are finally dating, so are Sirius and Remus apparently. (Then, months later, everyone would be shrieking about how they’re all dating. )

You hear of the news as you guide the first-year eaglets to their next class. You’re climbing up the spiral staircase when you see the Quidditch pitch through the window. They look like flying ants from this distance. You can imagine the wind in their hair, the tense muscles as they chase after the Quaffles, the crowd roaring in their ears, victory within their reach if they just fly fast enough. 

You hate the way you envy them—how easily they soar up in the skies while you watch from below, much like a flightless eagle, shackled by your own shortcomings. 

You hate Quidditch.

It’s bound by no rules, unpredictable and barbaric. Most of all, it looks down on the cowardly. 

In your sixth year, you have your first kiss with a boy named Augustine Fenberry. It’s extremely short-lived and awkward. You date for three months until it’s unanimously agreed that you two are better off as friends—until you catch him laughing about you with his mates in an empty corridor, saying that you were clingy, too much, and needed to learn how to shut up. (You wonder if that’s why they grew tired of you, too.) 

You handle him with a quick, “Entomorphis.” 

It’s probably one of the more cruel jinxes; Augustine bawls piercingly as he grows antennas atop his head, the spell forcing him to get on his hands and knees; his friends hover around him in panic, but all Augustine can do is chirp like a grasshopper in the night. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but Haerin tells you that’s exactly what Augustine is—vermin. 

You also, with great satisfaction, deduct thirty points from his House—which happens to be Ravenclaw. 

(Nobody knows this about Peter, but he’s nimble on his feet, a bit of a wallflower—and he is now the newest editor of Hogwarts’s newspaper column, The Golden Snidget. By the next day, everyone knows what he’s done. Argus Filch, who’s in charge of his month-long detention, should be the last of his worries. Peter sympathizes with the wizard—but only for a fraction of a second. Because it’s not even the werewolf Augustine has to be scared of, not the pureblood heir who could ruin anyone with just a lift of his finger; not the Quidditch prodigy with a sharp mind, knowing a thousand ways to seek revenge. 

It’s Lily Evans. 

“Go near her again and I’ll rip your balls off!” Marlene flips the bird to the group of cowering boys. “Matter of fact, if you treat anyone like that again, I will come for your bloodline.”

“Fucking toerag!” Lily wildly swings the Beater’s bat she had stolen from the Quidditch changing room. “If you even look at her, I’ll hunt you down and shove this up your arse—until you feel it in your throat!” 

Peter shivers in fear. He didn’t ever want to be on the receiving side of Lily’s wrath. 

“This is the same girl who cried for an hour when she saw the ducklings in the Great Lake separated from their mother,” says Remus, horrified. 

“Honestly, I feel so, so conflicted whether to find this terrifying. . . or attractive,” James whispers to Sirius.

“Attractive. Definitely attractive,” Sirius responds breathlessly, all eyes on Lily.)

Gryffindor wins the House Cup that year, to no one’s surprise. You find yourself clapping along with everyone else, but can’t help it when your gaze drifts to the left-side of the Gryffindor table. You watch as Sirius lifts Lily in the air, her giggles somehow louder than the thunderous cheering, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. James stands on the table, encouraging everyone to sing more of his praises—there’s a split second where his eyes find yours, you look away immediately—as Remus covers his face with his palms, flushed from all the attention. After James, Remus had won the most points for their House. 

They seem complete—a puzzle that never really needed another piece. (You miss them, heartachingly so.) Maybe it was for the best that all of you drifted further and further apart. You now forget the way they call your name.  

And so, the story ends just like that. 

YOU HAVE FOUND yourself in a very tricky position. 

It’s past midnight when you wake up—you nearly scream bloody murder when James, Lily and Sirius materialize out of thin air. They stare back at you, frozen in place, unblinking for the last twenty seconds. 

“Oh God, I’m hallucinating.” You cry to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist. “I hit my head and now I’m seeing things.” 

“No, no, no, no,” James stammers, shaking his head. “It’s an invisibility cloak—see?” He wears the cape, then abruptly takes the cloak off—his body disappearing and reappearing in time with his actions. “Not hallucinating, I promise.” 

“That’s even worse,” You say hoarsely, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Y-You’re out past curfew—visiting hours are over. Someone could catch you. Madam Pomfrey will have your heads.” 

Remus chuckles—he had missed your voice so bloody much. He barely contains his grin when you glare at him. (Finally, after three years, you look his way again.) 

“We snuck in here to see you all the time,” Sirius tells you, the corner of his lips tipping into an overfond smile. “At some point, Poppy just stopped trying to keep us out.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Your gaze falls to the floor as you mousily toy with your fingers. The infirmary falls painfully silent. Again. You clear your throat. “Anyway, I–I should get going.” 

“Oh.” Lily’s expression turns crestfallen, words cracking from the thick lump wedged in her throat. (This is the first conversation she’s had with you in years—one that isn’t awkwardly bumping into one another with shallow, hesitant greetings, before you scurry off like a timid squirrel.) “R-Right. But why don’t you have dinner first? We brought some from the feast and—” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” You rasp, slipping into your shoes and throwing your cardigan over your shoulders. (More than anything, you want to hug Lily and congratulate her for making Head Girl—but you have to wonder if it’s too little, too late; if the distance between you and her is too great to try and  cross.) 

You toss Remus a wary glance. There used to be a time where you could say anything to him, and now it feels like ice-cold hands are stapled over your mouth. “F–Feel better soon.” 

“Thanks.” Remus coughs. 

Sirius’s eyes bounce from you to Remus, mentally ripping his hair out from exasperation—this whole thing is going nowhere. 

You sprint out of the infirmary without a word, hands trembling from the nerve-wracking encounter inside. You take a moment to catch your breath, to shove your heart back inside your ribcage, as you lean sideways on the wall. It’s like running into a pack of wild chimeras in the mountains bare-handed. 

“That was so scary.” You breathe out deeply, clutching the front of your shirt tightly. 

The loud call of your name slices through the hallway and you jump in fright. 

Luckily, it’s just James—but just James sets your heart aflutter and your knees wobbly even after all this time. He bridges the gap between you in quick, long strides; murmuring your name once more like a prayer. “Hey,” James says quietly, as if afraid to spook you off. 

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, tucking your hands inside your pockets. “Hey.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say—back in the library, all those years ago. I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry. Sirius decked me in the face that day, which I definitely deserved.” James nervously scratches the back of his head. “It was stupid of me—and I never should have said any of those things. I know it’s been years since then, you don’t even have to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know—”

“It’s fine, James.” You cut into his rambling, having already forgiven him for that day. “Really. Water under the bridge.” 

In fact, some of what he had said made you realize how much you isolated yourself without even knowing. “And, I—uhm.” You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” 

James widens his eyes, then instantly shakes his head. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A dark red blush spreads from his neck to his prettily carved cheeks.  “So. .  . uh. . . are we okay?” 

“We’re okay,” You say and he exhales deeply in relief. “And James, I. . . I. . .”

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he takes one more step towards you—achingly patient, but there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. 

“I—” You look away and the words fizzle out in your throat. “Never mind.” 

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said that day. I miss you more than life. Thank you for staying by my side all those years—for being one of my best friends. You make me feel safe, James Potter. You are one of the most intelligent and caring wizards I know. How  anyone can think otherwise is baffling to me. I’m sorry if I don’t let you know that more often. 

“See you around, James.” With that, you turn and leave. 

Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. 

(So why is your heart shattering into a million pieces?) 

“TODAY, WE ARE GOING TO be interpreting messages from the divine!” 

On a lovely Friday morning, Professor Nasenyana drags the class out to the grounds for a hands-on Divination lecture, the groundskeeper’s hut within sight. He unlocks the barn nearby, where flocks of various bird species take to the skies instantly. He’s a rather eccentric fellow with one of the friendliest smiles you’ve ever seen. Most of the Ravenclaws are also star-struck, hanging onto his every word. As it turns out, Nasenyana is a graduate from Uagadou, the top school for Astronomy and Divination.

“Ornithomancy—!” He proclaims, flashy cloak billowing, startling some of the Gryffindors from their sleep. “It is a form of divination that looks into the behavior of birds—celestial creatures blessed with the ability to traverse through the heavens and the earth. But, you see, it is more than that. It requires utmost concentration and mastery. To pass this class, you will need to—” 

“I told you we didn’t miss anything important!” 

“Pads, shut up.” 

Sirius and Remus come rolling down the hill. Remus’s robes are disheveled, whereas Sirius’s tie is loosely hanging around his shirt, sleeves folded up. They nearly crash into Professor Nasenyana—who doesn’t appear to be pleased with their tardiness. You notice Remus’s flushed cheeks, the sweat running down the sides of his forehead, and the pinkish bruises on the column of Sirius’s neck. 

Lily chortles. 

Oh. 

You blush deeply—that is so none of your business. 

“Mister Black! Mister Lupin! So nice of you to finally join us.” Professor Nasenyana exclaims. “I trust that it won’t take you thirty more minutes to find a place to sit?” He gestures to the assembly of students sitting down on the grass, some shielding the sunlight from their face with the Divination textbook, and others transfiguring their school robes into a picnic mat. “Take your seats, gentlemen.” 

“And that is five points from Gryffindor. Each.” Professor Nasenyana declares just as Remus and Sirius plop down on the closest patch of grass to them. 

Which happens to be right beside you. 

You pour all your attention on the teacher, and not how warm Sirius feels next to you. 

“As I was saying,” Professor Nasenyana continues, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “In order to pass this class, you will form groups of three where your task is to read each other’s fortune based on the information presented to you and document your findings. Everything you need for interpretation is in your textbooks. You will hand this assignment in after the winter holidays. I expect excellence from each and every one of you. Failure to comply will result in a Dreadful.” 

Gilderoy’s arm shoots up in the air. 

“Shall I guess your question, Mister Lockhart?” Nasenyana grins blindingly. “Your groups will be determined by fate—those closest to you will read your fortune, and you theirs.” 

He lowers his arm with a bright blush. 

You, however, are frozen in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a robe strewn over your lap—you even hold your breath from the shock. Fate must be mocking you right now. Spending the next few weeks in close proximity with the boys who held your fragile, little heart in their hands.

How fun.

Not.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in forever, you don’t pay attention in Charms.

The thought of working with Remus and Sirius haunts you so much that you burrow your head in your arms for the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lesson. Your seatmate, Xenophilius, watches in horror as you flub the enunciation for Ascendio. Thankfully, no one is accidentally flung into the air—except for Gilderoy who is unfortunately blown away from his chair.

“Sorry.” You twinge empathetically as he climbs back onto his chair, glaring at you. 

Xenophilius nudges your shoulder, whispering, “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” You respond hurriedly, almost choking on your spit. “What ever gave you the idea that I was not fine? I’m bloody fantastic even. The sun is shining, fishes are swimming, and there’s not a single thing out of the ordinary in my life.” 

“It’s cloudy outside,” Xenophilius says impassively. “And Lockhart is looking at you like you’ve just attempted murder.” 

“Lockhart always looks like that.” You brush him off with a wave, busying yourself with flipping the pages of your Charms textbook. 

Xenophilius pokes you in the side. “You are avoiding the subject. Is it because of Lup—”

“Ascendio!” 

This time, it’s too perfect of an incantation that even Merlin weeps from his grave.

At the end of class, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. Just as you leave the classroom, you find Sirius and Remus standing in the corridor, so absorbed in conversation that they don’t notice the sixth-year girls giggling as they walk by—either that, or they have had plenty of practice when it comes to  ignoring attention from the entire student body. It’s not like you can blame everyone else—they’re a duo carved by heaven’s finest. 

Sirius realizes instantly when you walk out of the doors. He smiles blazingly at you, instantly rising to his feet, hands shoved inside the pockets of his trousers. You can’t believe this is the same boy who’d give you piggyback rides down the hallway. Dark layered curls tumble messily past his shoulders, a smidge of dark liner around his eyes, multiple piercings in his left ear. He’s grown taller, certainly more confident, too. 

“Ready to go, pet?” He asks, as if casually inquiring about the weather. 

“Go?” You echo, nonplussed. “Go where?” 

“Birdwatching, obviously.” Sirius grins devilishly before grabbing your hand and leading you to the courtyard, Remus hot on your heels—who, for some reason, now has your bag hanging from his shoulders. 

“D-Do I even get a say in this?” Truthfully, you had thought that you could finish the project without meeting up. Ever. You even think of collaborating with them via owl; staying far, far away from one another. So that none of you get hurt again, and you don’t risk another heartbreak. 

“Not one bit, darling.” Sirius looks back at you and winks—this cheeky bastard!

You’re in a daze by the time the three of you reach the middle courtyard. Sirius happily plonks down under a tree, further unbuttoning his shirt until a hint of a tattoo peeks out—you gape. Remus chuckles before urging you to sit as well, before he settles on your other side. 

“This is nice,” says Sirius as he leans his head against the tree trunk, eyes closed. “Bloody missed this.” 

“Missed what?” You dare to ask, heart hammering in your chest. 

He opens one eye, cheek dimple flashing. “Being by your side.” 

“Oh.” 

One does not respond to that, actually. One just simply passes out and fades away. 

And as you typically do when facing hardships in life, you ramble about homework. Clearing your throat and staring straight at the earthworms crawling out of the mud, you say, “So, about our project. . .” 

“I was thinking we could get started on it next Saturday,” You splutter, fiddling with your fingers. “Or I could start on everyone’s reading and we’d put it on paper sometime next month—but I could do that myself, too. I-If you wanted. Just so that it’s easier for everyone. We really don’t have to rush, honestly.” 

“Procrastinating on schoolwork?” Remus laughs heartily with a slow shake of his head, stretching his long legs on the ground. “Who are you and what have you done to our best fr—” 

The word falters on his tongue, and his smile fades into a somber line. 

To save everyone from the awkward tension, you carry on, ignoring the way Sirius stiffens, “If you want to start early, I can head to the library after lunch to find some books on Ornithomancy. The more references we have—”

“What happened to us?” Sirius interjects gravelly. 

You let out a deep sigh. 

You suppose this conversation has been a long time coming, given lions and their stubbornness. 

“It’s simple,” You say gingerly. “After that. . . that day, the distance kept growing and growing until we went our own separate ways without looking back.” 

A single teardrop slides down your cheek before you can stop it. “You changed. I changed, too. The difference was, you all had each other while I had no one.”

(Though Pandora and Xenophilius were the truest and most honest friends one could ask for, they didn’t hold your soul captive the way they did.) 

Sirius stares at you as if you had just spit acid; a thunderstorm forming within his gray eyes, his jaw locking painfully. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Remus asks softly, leaning forward to offer you his handkerchief. His voice sounds strangled—as though your words physically torment him. He pulls away just as your gaze falls on his. 

“That’s what happened, though. But I suppose it doesn’t really even matter anymore.” You flinch away, electrocuted from his touch. 

There’s a stretched silence that blankets the three of you. It carries on for a few minutes, the breeze flowing by, and the slow, clamorous bell chiming in the distance. You’re about to speak up when Sirius breaks the quietude first.

“Be ready,” He says decidedly, looking straight ahead. 

“For what?” You ask in disbelief. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair with a loud exhale. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin carelessly set on his palm, eyeing you intensely. “We’re going to prove you wrong from now on.” 

“What exactly are you going to prove?” 

Sirius chuckles, coiling a strand of your hair around his finger. “That it’s always been you and us for life, princess.” 

Merlin’s saggy balls. 

THE GRYFFINDOR TABLE descends into a coalescence of wide eyes and rapid, hushed whispers when you arrive sometime during dinner. It’s not out of your own volition, of course, but your own duty and responsibility as prefect to return the handkerchief that Remus had lent you earlier this afternoon. You hoped it would be a quick in-and-out; dishing out more forced smiles, and some half-baked banter until you could finally run away, tail tucked between your legs. Like most things in your life, it does not go the way you want. 

“You could keep it, if you want,” says Remus, hesitantly taking the embroidered cloth from you. 

If the world knew how many trinkets Remus Lupin had gifted you during your friendship, you would be swimming in gold—and cursed letters from his devoted fangirls. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” You placate him with a crooked grin, the words spilling from your lips like a jumbled mess. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon and Fabian Prewett nudging each other’s shoulders whilst pointing at you, keeping their heads low. You have no idea what that’s about. 

“Well. That is all. E-Enjoy your dinner.” You nod, mentally patting yourself on the back for not passing out in the den of lions. “Goodbye.” 

Though the Ravenclaw table is placed next to Gryffindor’s, you have the bright idea of sitting with your backs to them, lest you engage in a round of cloddish staring contests with the Marauders. Just as you pivot on your heels, ready to make it to Pandora’s side, an achingly familiar voice calls for your name. 

“Wait!” Marlene is partially out of her seat, bright blonde hair in a loose, messy braid; hand outstretched, as if reaching out to you. Her pale cheeks blossom with shades of scarlet as she receives miffed glares from the students nearby—such is the curse of a Gryffindor; if this were a fantasy novel, they would be the perfect protagonist. “Why don’t you eat with us? F-For old time’s sake. It’s been so long and I really would like to catch up with you.” 

Your resolve nearly crumbles. This is the same girl who would bring sweet candies in her pocket in case you got hungry during class. But, if this were a fantasy novel, you would only be an extra; fated to walk a path so different from the likes of James Potter and Lily Evans.

“Maybe next time,” You say, unconvincing to even your own ears. 

FROM ACROSS the Great Hall, another conversation is taking place. 

“I am telling you, Minerva, I caught them talking again in the infirmary,” says Poppy Pomfrey to her fellow teacher, a spry grin on her kind face. 

“Poppy, as I’ve told you, I do not make a habit out of discussing my students’ personal lives,” McGonagall replies tiredly, slicing into her dinner plate of steak and kidney pie. She pauses for a few moments, before pushing up her spectacles with a wrinkly smile. “But, perhaps, I’ll let this slide just this once. Tell me all about it. I’ve also heard that—” 

“ACTA NON VERBA.”

Deeds, not words. 

Truly a befitting password for the House of bravery and recklessness. The Fat Lady’s portrait gasps in delight, raising her champagne glass to you. Seconds later, the Gryffindor common room is revealed to you. (Most of the Ravenclaw prefects have the House passwords memorized, in case they encounter a lost student outside the dormitories who has forgotten the passcode. It happens more often than one would like. Although it isn’t just first-years who are often stuck outside. You’ve stumbled upon Frank Longbottom many times before in a heated argument with the Fat Lady.) 

“Oh!” Alice, bundled up in a red scarf and a wooly jumper, is startled to find you at the entrance. She breathily says your name, eyes crinkling as she smiles widely. “What a pleasant surprise! Oh my Gods—it’s so nice to see you again. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding everywhere.”

“I didn’t get amnesia. So that was good.” You head inside the room, instantly enveloped in a familiar warmth, a welcoming hug as if you had never strayed far. “Thank you. For that day, I mean. For bringing me to Madam Pomfrey.”

She waves you off. “Don’t mention it.” 

“But. . .” Alice cocks her head with a conniving smile. “Don’t tell anyone else this, but when James found out it had been the Gryffindor team’s co-captain who hit the Quaffle your way, I heard James put him through some intense training. He must’ve had to run a hundred laps around the pitch for a week straight.  Poor guy even had to wash everyone’s jerseys without magic.” 

“What?” You shriek. “But it was just an accident. Surely, James wouldn’t—”

Alice tweaks your nose with a chuckle. “Oh, for you? He would.”

You have the strangest urge to throw yourself out of the tower. 

You cough into your first, desperate to shift the conversation topic otherwise you’d spontaneously combust. “S-So, where’s Remus? We agreed to work on our Divination project here—if that’s alright with you and the others, of course.” 

“Ha!” Alice exclaims, palming her forehead. “So that’s why the tower stinks of flipping perfume.” She snickers at your bewildered expression, before engulfing you in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

“Thank you, Alice.” You squeeze her back, giving yourself just this one time because you really did miss her.

Alice takes a step backwards before roaring loud enough to shake the ceiling. “Remus!”

“Get down here! Your girlfriend is waiting!”

You break out in a coughing fit. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” Alice winks at you, patting your cheek before skipping out the common room. 

You hear the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. Moments later, you see Remus Lupin beaming at you, casually dressed, hair damp and tousled over his brows, broad shoulders stretching his white top, and fluffy, mismatched socks over his feet. He walks over to you in record speed. 

“You came,” He says huskily. 

“I did.” 

“You look beautiful today.” Remus grins wolfishly, dimples poking out of his cheeks, flecks of light in his hazel eyes. 

You blink owlishly, dumbfounded. You peer at your clothes—nothing fancy or experimental. “This is how I normally dress, though.” 

“I know.” 

Remus smiles, swiftly taking your bookbag from you. (Alice was right. He smells like a basket of green apples, old leather tomes, and sandalwood. Not that you mind.) You follow him to the couches by the fireplace. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You look around the common room as you sink into the red sofa. There’s a pair of third-years playing chess, a young girl feathering her hand across the bookcase; sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. 

But no sign of Sirius Black. 

“Miss me, did you, love?” 

Sirius chuckles into your ear—you jump out of your skin, clutching at your knees in fright. 

“Merlin’s tits—!” 

You gasp for air while Sirius and Remus laugh at your expense. “You fucking wanker!” You grab one of the quilted pillows as Sirius jumps over the back of the couch. “You’re an idiot, Sirius Orion.” 

“There.” Sirius flops right down on the sofa; his hair tied up in a low bun, silver rings around his fingers. “Now you don’t look so bloody scared and nervous around us. We don’t bite, you know.” He pauses, then grins devilishly at you. “Unless you ask.” 

You slap your palms against your lap. “Anyways—!” 

Nostrils flaring as you take a deep breath—this is going to be a long day. You begin setting the parchments, feather quills, and Divination textbooks on the coffee table, along with a notebook where you had written some observations during the week. “When we were out—erm—birdwatching the other day, I noted down the birds that flew by for our readings. For Remus, it was a flock of Firecrests. And—” 

“I’m very sorry, loveliest love, but none of this makes any bloody sense to me.” Sirius goes through the Divination volumes you had checked out from the library, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Tea reading, I can tolerate. But studying bird droppings really isn’t my thing.” 

You glare heatedly at him, oddly defensive about the subject. “We’re not studying bird droppings, you plonker. There’s so much more to Ornithomancy than what meets the eyes. You see, nature connects everything. From the number of birds you encounter, to which direction they fly, their pattern of flight, down to the colors of their wings.” 

You point to the glaring page from Snallygasters and Omens: Vol. 1 where a picture of a Jobberknoll jumps out. “This bird flies to the east because the east governs new beginnings and warm springs after winter. Blue wings symbolize reliability. One day in the future you’ll be tasked with a huge responsibility. A family could entrust their godson to you, who knows? You have to be clear-headed, Sirius. Your emotions can get the best of you if you’re not careful.” 

Without even pausing to breathe, you say, “Remus. The firecrest. Smallest bird in the wizarding world, but will dare to fly higher than any other creature, even the king of birds. The firecrest and its flock were flying to the south that day, Remus. To the place of passion and life. Love. Beauty.” 

“So it’s. . . it’s more than just bird droppings!” 

By the end of it all, your chest is heaving, fingers trembling with adrenaline; Remus and Sirius gazing at you with stars in their eyes, devotion pouring from their growing smiles. (Oh, how their hearts beat for you.) 

Sirius tips your chin with his knuckle, leaning closer until you feel his breath on your nose. “Welcome back, princess.”

NIGHT FALLS WITHOUT anyone’s permission. James, Lily, and Peter make their way back to the Gryffindor tower, patches of sunburn on their nose after spending the entire day outside observing bird flight patterns. Like Sirius, Lily has her mind firmly set against the philosophies of Divination; the mumbo jumbo not really all that comprehensible to her. As they enter the common room, her hand in James’s, they’re greeted by a rare sight—one that Lily didn’t think she would see again. 

Sirius is sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wand tucked behind his ear, a pile of books at his side, his brows contorted in frustration as he drowns in the pages of When Fortunes Turn Fowl. He presses his finger to his lips when his silvery eyes fall on Lily and James, jerking his head to the scene across him. 

Lily fails to bury her smile when she sees you snoring away at Remus’s lap, his fingers absentmindedly knitting through strands of your hair. The space is bedecked in loose pages with scribbled notes on them and ink stains on the carpet. 

“I take it you three got further along than we did,” Lily whispers as she kneels beside Remus, softly nudging his chin as she captures him in a fond kiss. 

Remus smiles into her lips. “A month’s worth of progress, at least. Thanks to this one here. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bird the same way again.” 

“Who knew our little eagle had a knack for Divination?” Lily chuckles, gaze softening as she delicately drags her knuckle down your cheek. “It’s getting pretty late. Should we wake her up?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No. Let her sleep a bit more.” 

Selfishly, Lily agrees. She traces the tip of your nose, the pillows of your lips, before retracting her hand with a long sigh. “We used to talk about anything and everything until the sun rose. Now, it seems like I can never catch up to her no matter how fast I run.”

“Lily—” 

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “I am nothing if not stubborn. She’ll know my wrath soon.” 

Sirius snickers. “How charming.” 

The fire crackles and you mumble something, deep in slumber, shifting in Remus’s hold, “Only one percent. . . of the world’s population is . . . is naturally redheaded.” 

“Is that right?” Lily grins from ear to ear. 

Just you wait, Lily is going to sweep you off your feet.

(Something she should have done years ago.) 

“IS THAT A new jumper?”

Pandora simpers knowingly, heterochromatic eyes uncovering your every secret—the beads in her long braids click as she keeps in time with your brisk pace. She teasingly pulls at the oversized sweater. “It looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, watchfully twisting your arms around your waist. “It was cold this morning, alright? Remus lent it to me. It’s not a big deal. It’s what friends do, right?” 

“So, you’re friends now?” Pandora muses. “Well, thank the Gods, because it has been excruciating watching you tiptoe around one another. It only took you lot three years, but it’s better than never, eh?” 

“Wilderwood! No magic in the corridors! That’s five points from Slytherin!” You bark at the stubborn fifth-year who grins sheepishly at you, before you reply to Pandora, an ache forming at the back of your head. “It’s complicated. Everything was sort of awkward in the beginning.” 

You think of last night, how Sirius was especially keen on making you laugh every few seconds; Remus would inch closer to you, head nearly on your shoulder as he peeks at the notes you’ve jotted down. You could barely think straight in their presence. Then, you remember waking up earlier this morning, James sprawled all over Sirius and Lily on the couch; Remus’s nose fully buried in his drawing book.

“But. . .” You trail off, remembering Remus’s arms around you as he sent you off, careful not to wake the others. (“I am a selfish bastard, pet,” He whispers into your hair, “I’m sorry, but let me steal this morning from them.”)

“It’s like coming home after a long day.”

“Brilliant!” Pandora exclaims, roughly laying her hands on your shoulders as she ushers you past the cobblestone walkway and into the grassfield, where the Quidditch Pitch rests in the near distance. You hadn’t even realized that you were a little ways from the castle already. “Tell them that!” 

“What?” You squawk. “Are you mad, woman?”

You hear the sound of brooms zipping by at an unimaginable speed. The crowd clamors over the announcer’s intense commentary. Your legs feel like they’ve been jinxed to feel like jelly. You hate Quidditch. 

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES! — That’s one-hundred and twenty in all! — Still no snitch yet! Hurry on, Potter! Mulciber’s got nothing on you– Ow! Professor! — Fawley heads for the goal! — Great deflect by Black! — Bletchley misses! — Another point for Gryffindor! We might as well end the game now!”

“Mr. Prewett!” You hear McGonagall scold into the charmed megaphone. 

“Sorry, Minnie! Anyway! — Mulciber and Potter race for the Snitch! Potter reaches out! — Surprisingly good manoeuvre from Mulciber! — Come on, James! — He’s almost got it! — It’s right there!”

You wait with a bated breath.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

“Potter’s got it! — GRYFFINDOR HAS WON!” 

“Go on now, treasure. Before the Wrackspurts get inside your head again.” Pandora urges you forward, dusting the invisible creatures off your shoulders. As you take one step into the field, fireworks of gold and scarlet light up the sky, the Gryffindor teams’ cries of victory shake the ground; you hear Fabian screaming into the megaphone. Your fingers go numb. “Don’t let another day go by without expressing your heart,” says Pandora into your ear, almost a gust of wind if you hadn’t been paying attention. “Go to them. They are waiting for you.”

“But what if they aren’t?” You watch as the sun descends on the Gryffindor team lifting James in the air, Golden Snitch in his gloved hand. Sirius catches Lily by the waist, twirling her up high; her smile more dazzling than any other gem you’ve seen. As James is set back down on the ground, he snatches Remus unaware and bends him down for a fervent kiss.

“Dora, what if I’m the only one who feels this way? I can’t do that to them. What are the chances that I’ll ruin everything? That would hurt more than anything.”

Pandora cups your cheeks and lays her forehead on yours. “You won’t ever know unless you go out there.”

With that, she pushes you into the Quidditch pitch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, ears ringing from the crowd chanting James’s name, and your heart pounding in fear. 

“J-James. . .” You call out weakly as he drowns in the sea of students.

Perhaps it’s a sign.

This really wasn’t a good idea.

Love is a fool’s game.

Don’t you get it? They don’t need you in the picture at all.

“N-No!” You shout, chest heaving. If everything happens for a reason, maybe you were meant to meet in that train compartment all those years ago. You’ve lost three years with them already.

If you don’t go to them right now, you could lose a lifetime. 

If bravery is for the reckless and arrogant, you’re prepared to be the most depraved witch in the castle just to stay by their side. 

“James—!”

“Go, go, Gryffindor!”

You bite your lip in frustration—but you can’t just give up. Not now. 

Once more.

“JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!”

Please.

Time stops as you stand at the edge of the field; James whips his head around and finds you instantly. The glow of having just won a match doesn’t even compare when his eyes land on you. He pushes past his team members and some of the Gryffindor students, his gaze unwavering, some of them call out his name but he doesn’t bother looking back. Before you even know it, he stands in front of you, breathing heavily—but not from the rush of the game.

“You’re here,” He says, eyes disappearing into his smile. “But you hate Quidditch.”

“I do.” You grin wearily. “But I love you more.”

Without even giving James the chance to speak, you ramble on, hurricanes whirling in your stomach, “You’re a bloody brilliant wizard, James Potter. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before. I see you. I see all of you. How could I not? I love you. I think I’ve loved all of you before I knew it was even love. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same w—” 

James grabs the back of your legs and hoists you up, tendrils of hair falling over his glasses as he beams at you. The sun can’t even dream of competing with him. 

“Put me down, James, I am going to hurl—!”

He spins you one more time for good measure before placing you on the ground. James barely gives you a second to gather your bearings as he seizes your lips with his own, hand cradling the back of your neck. 

“You’re here,” He says, unable to believe his very eyes, gently chasing after your lips, breaths mingling until you don’t remember where either begins or ends. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You promise breathlessly as James pecks the tip of your nose, the arch of your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Beautiful.” He kisses you until you’re gasping for air. “And all ours.” 

There’s not a moment where you don’t feel loved, not even when he lets you go, and it’s Lily who encompasses you in her arms, bright hair filling your vision; you willingly burn in the warmth of her body. The mellow scent of pomegranates and red roses fill your nose. You see a never-ending horizon of kindness in her emerald eyes. (How could you have stayed away for so long?) It’s like finding a missing piece of your soul that you never knew that was lost. 

Lily laughs—it sounds like an orchestral symphony. Her gaze cascades to your lips, the prettiest of smiles on her face; she cradles the curve of your jaw with utmost sincerity, a few drops of tears shimmering against her freckled skin. “May I?”

“Please.” You feel her breath tickling your lips, deftly pulling you in for a kiss until all you can feel is her. She consumes every inch of you, and you are happy to surrender, heart and soul. 

“You must be the thickest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met,” says Lily, giggling as she kisses you once, twice—thrice. 

“And that means?” You scoff lightheartedly. 

She steals another kiss from you. “That means: I hope you know that we have loved you ever since, you daft witch. That I’ve loved you all this time. And now that you’re ours, we are going to make sure you remember that. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” 

You smile, holding onto her hand, dizzy with a hundred emotions. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

(Your Divination project is a point lower than Lily, Peter and James’s, but you find that it’s the luckiest fortune you’ve ever had.) 

EPILOGUE:

“I LOVE QUIDDITCH!” 

You are twenty-two years old, nose bitten from the chilly air, lounging in the best seating area the Quidditch World Cup has to offer; an unobstructed view of the players. The match is between the Brazilian and Japanese National Quidditch teams. Much to Sirius and James’s chagrin, your cheek is painted in yellow and green stripes, the vibrant flag around your shoulders. 

You scream along with the crowd, nearly spilling your Butterbeer popcorn, as the Brazilian players enter the vast stadium. You ardently shake Lily’s shoulders. “That’s him! That’s him! Lily, it’s Brazil’s youngest ever Seeker! Vinícius Silva! I watched a replay of his matches and he’s got a seventy-eight percent win rate!”

“Watch out, love, you’ll fall off the edge if you aren’t careful,” Lily says worriedly.

“His fastest record for catching the Golden Snitch is ten minutes and thirty seconds! He’s won Most Outstanding Player in the Junior Division twice! I’ve got a good feeling about this team—I knew those auguries were a lucky sign.” 

“The only Seeker you should be obsessing over is me.” You hear James grumbling behind your back, stealing a kiss from Lily’s lips before pressing his mouth to your cheek. “And you bloody well know that Japan’s Chaser, Kurosawa, is going to steal the limelight in this match. An average possession time of thirty seconds per play. A beast, that one.” 

You wave him off, more confident in your statistics. “Did you place my bets? I’m telling you, we’re going to be rich.” 

“Yes, darling,” He says, utterly loving his role as the dutiful husband. 

Moments later, Sirius appears at his side, fussing over your scarf, and kissing you just because. “Can we take off your bloody hat now? I think you just blinded Malfoy and his little blonde gremlin.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You simper fiendishly before smacking his arm. “And don’t call your nephew that.” 

Sirius grins.

You pull at one of his curls. “Besides, if you’re good you can take off everything later tonight.”

He pulls you in for a deep kiss, hand at your waist, nose brushing each other’s. “And that is why I love you, dear wife.” 

You pout, albeit seeing right through his white, little jape. “Truly?” 

Sirius lands another kiss to your forehead. “Are you doubting me, loveliest love of my life? The lighthouse in my ocean storms. The apple of my eye. Fire in my loins—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “I get it, thank you, my love.” 

Sirius beams from ear to ear. “Glad to have eased your doubts, darling.”

Thirty minutes into the match, Remus arrives, dressed in a muted gray suit, light brown hair flopping over his eyes. He greets everyone with a tired kiss. 

You immediately wrap him in a hug, nuzzling your nose into his neck. He had a particularly difficult full moon some nights ago. You press a tender kiss to the scar right below his jaw. “How was work? Did you bring my binder? It has my lesson plan for next week, I don’t want to return to the castle unprepared, and—”

The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor squeezes your waist. “Work was fine, pet. And no, I didn’t bring the papers because right now we are not working. We are going to watch Brazil win the bloody match and get right home to Harry after.” 

You, the newest Divination teacher of Hogwarts, tug him by his necktie, smiling coyly. “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.” 

BONUS: 

“REMUS!”

The empty classroom is filled with soft, fervid moans—two professors especially drunk on the taste of each other’s lips. You’re seated on the desk, Remus wedged between your thighs, his hand inching dangerously higher and higher; the other hand slipping under your shirt and thumbing the bare skin underneath. He captures your whispers and mewls with his lips. Jackets and ties are tossed carelessly to the side. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He nips at your lower lip. 

“Rem. . .” You whimper, tugging at the strands of his hair. “Remus—please!” 

The door to the DADA classroom slams open and you two detangle from each other’s embrace in record speed. As you pat down your hair, Remus draping his blazer over your shoulders, you watch Lily and Harry stalk over to you in lengthy strides, reaching the both of you within seconds. You clear your throat, awkwardly averting your gaze from your son’s precious eyes; Lily, a moment away from throwing her head back in laughter. 

Harry, fourteen, and not at all ignorant to what couples do in the castle alcoves, sees the ruffled hair, the lipstick over his father’s cheeks and neck, and his parent’s misbuttoned blouse. 

He grimaces. “You two are disgusting, you know that right?” 

You guffaw, pinching his cheek. “Now, is that any way to greet the person who’s changed your diapers since you were a baby?” 

Lily cackles from Remus’s side, fixing the collar of his shirt. “Harry’s got a bit of a problem. Go on, tell them, my love.” 

Harry immediately throws his hands in the air, groaning frustratedly. “It’s Ron! He thinks I put my name in the bloody Goblet—!” 

“Which, I will still be having a word with Dumbledore about,” You say decisively. You’re not about to endanger your son. The Minister of Magic and the Headmaster be damned. They can also take it up with your husband, James, Head Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement department. 

“And now Ron’s not talking to me, Hermione’s not talking to me because I’m not talking to Ron—Colin’s following me around everywhere I go! I’m going mad, mum!” Harry slumps on one of the empty chairs, huffing. “Stupid bloody tournament.” 

You chuckle as you walk over to him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “Take it from me.” You press a warm kiss to his forehead. “Talk to them, otherwise you’ll lose time that was meant to be spent together. It doesn’t matter who was wrong or who was right. It’s important that you have the courage to reach out. They’re your friends. They will understand your heart soon enough.” 

Harry blinks. “Thanks.” 

He exits the classroom in a daze, heavily pondering on your words. 

The door clicks shut, and Lily wordlessly locks the entrance. She turns to you and Remus, a sultry grin on her ruby red lips. “What are the chances we Floo home, and invite Sirius and James to join us?” 

You take her outstretched hand. “A hundred and twelve.”

a/n. i wasn't satisfied with the angst here.. so expect a hufflepuff!reader and enemies to lovers next time (i promise to do better in the next fic aaakfsh) tell me what u thought of this one EUEUEU HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS FIC!! heart heart

[sunnami]

the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.

summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.

pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.

wc. 4.1k

tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.

cws: brief mention of violence and blood.

note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.

i. 

SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.) 

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them. 

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted. 

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks. 

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays. 

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you. 

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.” 

He thought so, too. 

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.” 

You had not replied. 

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you. 

(But you had done so first.) 

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you. 

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.) 

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love. 

ii. 

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.) 

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive. 

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it. 

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”) 

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb? 

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you. 

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”) 

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded. 

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed. 

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you. 

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

 (But not to love.) 

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe. 

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.) 

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you. 

James did not love you. 

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you? 

Not. Love. 

iii. 

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No. 

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that. 

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain. 

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones. 

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.” 

One question lingered in your eyes: Why? 

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.” 

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone. 

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms. 

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return. 

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you. 

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile. 

It was the least he could do. 

For failing to protect you. 

But that was not love. 

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv. 

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered. 

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before. 

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better. 

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .” 

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you. 

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”) 

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight. 

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily. 

And that was that. 

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side. 

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much. 

“Is that. . .?” you croaked. 

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—” 

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever. 

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.” 

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence. 

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

v. 

YOU did not love them, either. 

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know. 

Because you did not love them. 

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love. 

Surely not. 

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend. 

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny. 

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel? 

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows. 

Was love that unkind? That merciless? 

Then, you did not want to love at all. 

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish. 

You were no different. 

You wanted. 

Oh, how you yearned. 

“I LOVE YOU.” 

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts. 

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?” 

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.” 

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.” 

–

“I love you.” 

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him. 

And you had loved him fiercely for that. 

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.” 

-

“I love you.” 

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice. 

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch. 

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” 

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 

–

“I love you.” 

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.” 

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.” 

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.” 

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread. 

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.” 

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.” 

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them. 

And they loved you. 

a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

walk him like a dog (s.o.b.)

Pairing: Sirius Orion Black x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner

A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that

credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider

The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.

You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.

And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.

"Alright. Listen up."

Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.

“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”

You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.

“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”

You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.

Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:

"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."

That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.

You smirked.

Held out your hand.

“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”

One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.

“Slytherin!”

You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.

She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.

“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”

You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”

Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.

Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.

Black.

Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.

“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”

“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”

His grin widened. Typical.

It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.

Merlin, he lived for it.

Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”

“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.

“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.

Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”

You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.

His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.

You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”

“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”

Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.

When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."

"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.

You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.

You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.

You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.

After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.

So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.

But the truth was clear.

You were the one in control.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.

Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.

But not you.

Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And God, it was driving him insane.

What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.

“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.

At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.

“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”

His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.

He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.

“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.

You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.

“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”

He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.

You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.

“Sorry, puppy.”

And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.

Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.

Utterly wrecked.

Something changed after that night in the corridor.

Well—he did.

Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.

He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)

But after that?

He changed.

The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.

The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”

He just wasn’t interested anymore.

Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.

He wanted you.

And the castle knew it.

Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.

Everyone still knew.

Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.

Wondering when you’d notice.

Wondering when you’d give in.

Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…

You never would.

You loved partying.

Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.

But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.

The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.

You’d never been prouder of that name.

Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:

“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”

The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.

The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.

“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”

You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”

Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.

He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”

You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”

You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.

“IT WAS A FLOP!”

Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.

“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.

You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.

“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”

Now that made your brow twitch.

You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.

“Watch your mouth.”

Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”

That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.

Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.

You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.

“Down, boy.”

His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.

You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.

“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”

Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.

You exhaled, turning to Sirius.

And yeah… he looked hot.

Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.

He looked good defending your honor. Too good.

You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.

“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”

You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.

But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.

Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.

You smirked. Winked. And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.

Come.

His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.

Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.

“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.

And Sirius? He sprinted.

By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.

“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.

He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”

Bonus:

If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.

The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.

It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.

“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.

You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.

“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.

Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”

You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.

“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.

Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.

You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.

“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.

“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.

You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”

He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.

“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.

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[mischievousmoony]

just another morning oct 26 ⋆ free use / aftercare poly!marauders x reader

summary: a typical morning ever since you’ve given your adoring boyfriends free use of your body ♱ 1.8k warnings: 18+ mdni, free use, somnophilia, spit as lube, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms, creampie, cock warming, aftercare, fem!reader wears a dress, as twovials says everyone subs for remus kinktober masterlist

note: i love this one 🫦

You’re roused by someone kneeling between your legs. His long cock, slick with his own spit, prods at your entrance. Slowly sinking into your warm and welcoming hole.

A low whine stirs in your throat, and you’re not quite awake enough yet to open your eyes. You’re disoriented, lost in a dream-drunk haze, making it ever so hard to make sense of the warm sensation between your legs. All you know is that it’s divine.

“Shh, darling,” he whispers, pressing sweet, soothing kisses to your lips. He stills his hips, allowing you a moment to adjust both to his size and the morning light.

“Rem,” you moan, recognizing him by the feeling of his lips on yours, and how deeply his cock spears you. Your voice is hoarse with sleep, which he finds adorable, his heart swelling with affection.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting Remus’s warm brown irises and even warmer smile. Messy strands of his mousy hair fall over his forehead as he leans over you, half concealing the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“G’morning,” he murmurs, beginning to slowly rock in and out of you. Heat rushes to your core, and you start to breathe in pants as the delicious grind of his hard cock against your gummy walls fully drags you out from your slumber.

Remus supports his weight with his forearm pressed into the mattress by your head, his hand lovingly cradling your face. His other arm snakes beneath you. With his palm flat against your lower back, he presses your naked body firmly into his. Your arms wrap around his middle, too, your nails lightly scratching at his skin.

Remus grunts, slowly picking up the pace of his thrusts. He drops his head to your shoulder to nip at your collarbone. Over his head, you see James watching from the bathroom doorway as he brushes his teeth. When his hazel eyes meet yours, he winks. Shortly after, he disappears into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

Later, Remus finishes inside you as your walls clench around him, pulsing from your first—and definitely not your last—release of the day.

Remus cradles you against his chest, whispering sweet praise and inviting you to go back to sleep. But he’s woken you up now, and you can hear the shower running. The warm water calls to you, so you leave Remus with a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Jamie?” you murmur as you stumble into the steamy bathroom. He’s already on you by the time the first syllable slips past your lips, tugging you by the wrist under the spray of the shower with him.

“Hi, love,” he says, grinning. He hugs you tightly from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You lean your head back to look at him, and he plants a minty kiss on your lips. “Moony didn’t wake you too early, did he?”

“No, ‘m fine,” you sigh, content. The warm water feels wonderful on your skin, and so do James’s hands as they skate across it, tracing arbitrary patterns.

“I bet you are,” James hums teasingly. One of his hands slowly drifts south. You gasp as his fingers part your folds. Remus’s cum is still warm inside of you, and James groans as he spreads it around, his fingers brushing over your clit with every pass.

Whiny, helpless little noises slip past your lips as James teases you. You’re still sensitive from when Remus fucked you mere minutes ago, which James considers, but ultimately it only makes him want you more.

He spins you around to face him, and he walks you back until your skin comes into contact with the shower tiles. You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth because the smooth tiles are unexpectedly cold, but James quickly distracts you from it.

He hikes one of your legs around his hip and continues playing with your clit with his thumb.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, eyes raking over your bare body, mesmerized. Water droplets glisten on your skin as he watches the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

He guides his cock between your folds, circling the head around the sensitive bud before burying himself in your sweet pussy. You moan his name as he begins pounding into you, and you’re glad Remus had you first. Remus is long, but James is thicker, and having him first made it easier for your walls to accommodate James’s girth now, especially with how ruthless James is in his movements.

James has you in the shower until the water runs cold, your fingers have shriveled up like raisins, and the noises you make are nothing but whiny babbles. He has a hand pressed against your pelvis, and his thumb is rubbing tight circles on your clit. It’s already made you cum for him once, and he’s yet to stop. It’s a little overwhelming, enough to make your legs shake.

You bury your hands in his wet mop of hair as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking greedily. The combined sensations draw out another orgasm from you.

“Gonna fill you up, love,” he grunts, hips stuttering as he nears his own release.

A broken “please” falls from your lips, and with one final, powerful thrust, his hips stall, and you feel his warm release coat your inner walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting his head to press a kiss to your temple. “So good.”

He helps you clean up under the water afterward. It’s slightly uncomfortable since it’s no longer warm, which is why he works quickly, but gently, so that he can wrap you in a fluffy towel and warm you back up with fast strokes of his hands over your goosebump riddled arms.

James continues to take care of you. Applying your morning skincare while you sit on the sink, styling your hair while shooting you occasional warm smiles in the mirror, and even dressing you. He picks out a flowy little dress for you to wear, and that’s it. Wearing short dresses around your home, with nothing underneath, is something you’ve grown accustomed to. It stirs up a certain warmth in your tummy, and your boys love it. Easy access, and all that.

“Beautiful,” James murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before leading you to the kitchen. He sits you down on one of the stools while he starts preparing breakfast for the four of you. Remus is in the kitchen too, brewing James’s coffee and putting a kettle on for himself.

You squeal when a pair of arms suddenly wrap around your waist. Sirius tucks his face into the crook of your neck, attacking you with kisses.

“Good morning, baby,” Sirius says, his voice muffled by your neck.

You giggle, the vibrations from his words against your skin tickling you.

Sirius lifts you from your stool, planting your feet flat on the ground next to it. His hands roam your body, running up and down your sides, massaging your shoulders a bit, sharply smacking your ass.

Your yelp prompts James to cast him a sideways glance. “Careful with her, Pads. She’s had quite the morning already.”

“Yeah. I heard,” Sirius smirks, and a heat to rushes to your cheeks. You’re sure overhearing Remus and James have their ways with you is what has Sirius so worked up—a little jealous, probably—as he pushes your dress up and over your hips. “Bend over for me, sweetheart,” he instructs, and you do as he says. Bracing yourself over the counter.

Remus keeps his eyes on you the entire time Sirius fucks you, casually sipping his morning tea as if he’s not rock hard in his trousers. You try your best to hold that eye contact, even with your cheek smooshed against the granite by Sirius’s hand in your hair.

Sirius angles his hips so that the thick head of his cock bumps into that sensitive, spongy spot with every thrust. Your legs shake violently, and if it weren’t for the counter and Sirius’s bruising hold on your hips, you’re not sure you’d still be standing.

An arm circles your waist. Sirius’s fingers dip between your folds, and you cry out in pleasure as he circles your clit.

“Gonna cum for me?” Sirius asks in that heady voice that makes you feel dizzy.

James is finished cooking breakfast by then. He passes by with plates of food, placing them on the wooden table in the corner of the room. On his way back, he stops at your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. When he straightens back out, Sirius grabs him by his shirt and tugs him into a sloppy kiss. James threads his fingers through Sirius’s dark hair, pulling on it sharply. Sirius promptly cums inside of you, and your orgasm follows shortly after.

James has a smug little smirk on his lips as he finishes setting the table, but Sirius is only focused on watching his cum leak down your thighs.

With two fingers, he collects the creamy liquid and stuffs it back in your poor, overused hole.

A broken whine parts your lips, and Remus, still watching, frowns. Sirius’s fingers brush across your oversensitive clit, and your whole body shudders violently.

Sirius chuckles, but Remus takes pity on you.

“Enough teasing her,” he says, putting down his mug.

“She’s still eager for it, the way she’s squeezing my fingers,” Sirius responds, pumping them inside you again.

Remus sighs. “Come here, lovely,” he says in a gentle command, opening his arms.

Sirius is quick to let you go, knowing it’s a command for him as much as it is for you. You melt into Remus’s embrace, his long arms enveloping you in his warmth.

Remus presses his lips to the crown of your head. “That true?” he murmurs. “Still want more after we’ve all fucked you?”

You hide your face in his chest, embarrassed. A low chuckle rumbles through him.

Remus guides you to the table to enjoy the delicious breakfast James made for everyone, and to sit you down on his cock, hard still from watching you take Sirius’s.

As you sit pretty on Remus’s length, your boys dote on you. Remus rubs any tension from your shoulders, peppering little kisses on the back of your neck as he does. Sirius whispers sweet nothings to you as he massages your scalp. The sensation is so delightful, you have to fight your eyes from rolling back so you can focus on the breakfast James feeds you. And the syrupy kisses he gives you between bites of pancake.

It’s pure bliss, and whether or not you’ve always been a morning person, you sure are now.

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[colouredbyd]

She Will Be Loved

james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (extra)

synopsis: while everyone else seems to move on and heal from their pain, you are left behind with doubt. but james, steady as ever, stands beneath the rain and reminds you that you will be loved, no matter what.

cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!

w/c: 6.5k

a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3

part one part two masterlist

“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”

Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command. 

She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer. 

The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.

She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest. 

You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.

You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.

You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”

A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.

“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”

Love. 

The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.

So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.

You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.

The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort. 

There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.

The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave. 

You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.

From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.

“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.

“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.

And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice. 

You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest. 

He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.

“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.

You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.

“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”

You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”

James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”

And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion. 

Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.

Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.

You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are) 

It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.

The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful. 

“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.

“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.

You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.

James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”

You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”

“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”

Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right. 

You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.

That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.

There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.

James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash. 

Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.

So instead, you learn to make frosting.

You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden. 

There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.

And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.

Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it. 

Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”

And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.

Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory. 

You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.

“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”

Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.

And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.

You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.

“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”

You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.

It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.

From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”

You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”

Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”

And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.

Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.

You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.

The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still. 

Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back. 

“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.

Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.

One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.

You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.

Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones. 

It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.

You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.

Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.

Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.

Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache. 

You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.

Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.

“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.

The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.

James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.

And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.

“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”

Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”

You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”

James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”

“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”

James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”

That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.

Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.

The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.

You hesitate. “The ugly one?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”

Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”

You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.

Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”

It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.

You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.

He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”

Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.

James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”

“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.

Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”

The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you. 

You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.

You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.

You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.

James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.

He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.

“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”

Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.

He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.

James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.

Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”

He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”

“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.

“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”

James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”

Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.

You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.

The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.

Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.

You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”

James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”

You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.

The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.

Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.

Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.

“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”

“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.

He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.

He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”

You blink. “What?”

“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”

Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”

You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.

“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.

“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”

“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”

James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.

And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.

Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.

The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs. 

You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.

He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.

Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.

Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”

And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.

Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest. 

When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.

For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.

Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.

You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.

—

The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss. 

You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.

You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.

But two days later, it’s harder to rise. 

The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth. 

The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.

 Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.

But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.

You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.

James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.

You won’t be the shadow in their light.

So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.

And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.

You breathe through it, quiet and constant.

Because what else can you do?

You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place. 

The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.

You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay. 

It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.

You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.

Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.

Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.

 And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.

Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.

Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.

But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.

Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.

And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.

They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open. 

You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe. 

You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.

Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers. 

You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore. 

You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.

And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.

Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you. 

You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin. 

She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence. 

You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.

You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one. 

And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded. 

Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.

You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream. 

You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.

Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.

And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.

Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.

It starts at your spine.

A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you. 

But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving. 

By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore. 

It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.

You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.

And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.

Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?

You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.

You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.

And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.

If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.

You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip. 

Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now. 

You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind. 

A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.

And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.

His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.

Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.

He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain. 

You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.

The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow.  And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden. 

You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.

His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”

Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.

James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.

And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”

“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”

Something in your chest gives in.

And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.

“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.

“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.

Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.

“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”

James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.

“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”

You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”

He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.

“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”

You swallow. He goes on.

“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”

You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.

“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”

You hate how seen that makes you feel.

“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”

You look down, heart a mess in your throat.

“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”

You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.

“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”

He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.

“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”

He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.

“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”

You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.

“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”

You want to look away, but he won’t let you.

“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”

“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”

His voice is almost a prayer now.

“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.

“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.

“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”

“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.

He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”

His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.

Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go. 

His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.

You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.

He leans in.

Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.

And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“I love you, Jamie.”

He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.

Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”

You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.

He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”

“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”

You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”

You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”

You don’t answer right away.

You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows. 

Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.

Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.

James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose. 

You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath. 

Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.

He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.

He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred. 

The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.

Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.

Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light. 

She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.

Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.

A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.

“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.

Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”

“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”

Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”

Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”

Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.

“He’d give her anything.”

“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”

There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,

“She’ll be loved.”

And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house. 

There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays. 

But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain. 

The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest. 

Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again. 

And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again. 

He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.

Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.

[colouredbyd]

Share Your Girl

sirius black x reader x james potter

summary: sirius black knows exactly how badly his best friend, james potter, secretly wants you. all those dirty thoughts he tries to keep buried whenever you’re around are no secret. wanting to stir things up a bit, sirius decides to finally share a taste of his girl.

word count: 8k (and yes, all of it is smut)

warnings: threesome (m/m/f), oral sex (male and female receiving), spit play, cum play, choking, light gagging, praise kink, degradation kink, hair pulling, cream pie, blindfold, bondage. fingering, jealousy as foreplay, corruption, humiliation, possessive behavior, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, anal sex, cunnilingus, squirting, james is in love w reader, overstimulation, double penetration, reader being very into it, they fuck on a piano (?), co-written with my lovely friend mari ;) consensual from all sides, some messy emotions between the smut.

This is a dream. This must be a dream. Otherwise, how could you explain it?

There’s no other way to explain it—how else could you make sense of being pressed between two boys whose names alone make people turn their heads, whose reputations precede them in every hallway at Hogwarts?

Sirius Black is on your left—your boyfriend, your beautiful, reckless mistake of a love—and James Potter is on your right, with those golden brown eyes and that effortless grin that always lingers a moment too long.

They’re dressed for the party, both of them in open-collared dress shirts, ties loosened, cloaks discarded somewhere on a dusty sofa in the abandoned Astronomy classroom Sirius had dragged you into after the Gryffindor common room had become too loud.

You’d barely had time to ask what he was doing before he kissed you, hard and fast, only to pull away and glance behind you.

That’s when you saw James, closing the door with one hand, his mouth parted in disbelief.

Now, you’re caught between them in the dim candlelight. Sirius’s lips claim yours, hungry and territorial, while James trails soft, burning kisses down your neck, right where your pulse betrays you.

The thudding in your chest is deafening. The cool air of the castle seeps through the cracked window nearby, but your skin is flushed, feverish from the heat of their bodies.

Sirius still wears his signet ring, the same one he twisted nervously the first time he asked you out under the Quidditch stands. His all-black attire makes him look like sin wrapped in velvet.

James is the opposite—white button-down, sleeves rolled up, maroon tie hanging loose around his neck. He smells like firewhisky and something sweet, like the fruit punch he swears he didn’t spike.

You remember the party. You remember laughing with Lily, music pulsing through the common room, someone shouting about a drinking game.

But you don’t remember how you got here—back pressed to cold stone, breath stolen by Sirius’s kiss, hands fisting into James’s shirt as he groans softly against your collarbone.

Are you drunk?

You don’t feel drunk. You feel alive, aching, suspended in something you don’t quite understand. Your body moves like it remembers something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet—how it feels to be desired by both of them at once. How easy it is to let go of reason when Sirius is biting down on your lip and James is whispering something sinful against your ear.

You’re the center of their attention. Of their hunger. Of their want.

Their beauty is almost unearthly, and some part of you—hazy and overwhelmed—thinks maybe they don’t belong to this world. Maybe they’re not boys at all, but something else entirely. Maybe they fell for you like stars crash through the sky—bright, brief, and destined to burn.

And now they’re burning you from the inside out.

Wicked, beautiful, untouchable. Except you’re the one they’re touching now. The one they want. The one Sirius called mine before he looked James in the eye and whispered, only if you’re gentle.

And Merlin help you, James said yes.

“Keep your voice down,” your boyfriend warns in his gentle, seductive husky voice. “You can do that for us, can’t you, love?” His teeth grind against the skin of your neck, tasting the scent of your perfume with his tongue while his best friend goes down to his knees before you.

A pair of warm hazel eyes, flecked with gold and honey, look up at you through a tousled mess of dark curls.

James, cheeks tinged with rose like the first bloom of spring, gazes up at you with a longing so deep it steals the breath from your lungs—years of affection, buried and burning, now surfacing all at once.

His fingertips trace your thigh with a reverence that borders on worship, each touch sparking heat beneath your skin.

“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice thick with awe, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh as he wraps one arm around your leg, grounding himself in the moment.

“My beautiful, beautiful girl…”

The words fall from him like prayer—soft, aching, and meant only for you.

You chew on your lip to refrain yourself from making sound, giving your boyfriend two tiny nods to his earlier question. 

Sirius chuckles, his hand sliding down to cup one of your breasts over the fabric. Though your dress spills down to the floor in elegant waves, the high slit running along your thigh offers James easy access to you—something he takes full advantage of.

He kneels before you, eyes gleaming behind his glasses, and presses a trail of feather-light kisses along the length of your exposed leg.

“Merlin,” he breathes against your skin, voice low and reverent, “you’re so soft…”

His hand glides slowly up your thigh, fingers splayed, teasing, as if he's memorizing the feel of you—every inch, every breathless shiver under his touch.

before he settles his head between your thighs. “Your body is a dream. So beautiful…” His breath fans your skin, elevating the tiny hairs on your nape. 

“You’re like an angel.” The pet name and the praises he gives you feel just as foreign as the way he touches you, but James is only eager to make you feel at home.

“An angel?” Sirius snickers, his lips grazing your earlobe, his fingers curling around your throat. “What kind of an angel, are you, Sweetheart? Wanting another man’s face between your legs when you already have your boyfriend satisfying you all night. What, one cock isn’t enough for you, baby? Want my best friend to fuck you too, is that it?”

You can’t answer, your thighs quivering when you feel James kissing you over your underwear.

You’re much more sensitive as you never fantasized to be in such a position with the boy you shared hours of conversations with about your favorite books and he spilled his Quidditch strategies to you. 

James has always been attractive. You noticed that from the start—he was all charm and careless smiles, with eyes that lingered a little too long when he looked at you. It wasn’t exactly a secret, either. 

Everyone knew he had it bad for you, and James was never subtle about it. But you never paid it much attention. Not because you didn’t see it, but because Sirius knew—and didn’t care. If anything, he liked it. 

There was something twistedly satisfying to him about watching his best friend want the one thing only he could have.

You never thought of James that way before. He was always sweet, almost boyish—blushing at the idea of holding your hand. Innocent, in his own eager, golden-hearted way.

And yet now… now he’s on his knees in front of you, hands reverent, eyes dark with want. And there’s nothing innocent about him anymore.

“I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” James says, professing the words like it’s a form of reassurance.

Your high heel slides down the floor when he separates his lips and presses his mouth hotly against the lace of your panties. You would’ve lost your balance if your boyfriend wasn’t there to catch you.

“Sensitive, are we?” Sirius croons, purring delightfully next to your ear as he moves to stand behind you. 

“What is it, honey? Does it feel good?” You weakly nod, biting the corner of your lip to contain your whimper. 

Sirius’s eyes glaze, his voice drops a pitch lower as he takes in your expression, loathing the fact that another man can make your face contort in pleasure. “He hasn’t even started yet.” He holds you close, his face hovering past your shoulder to lock gaze with the shorter male. 

“Isn’t that right, James?”

James, keeping his eyes on you, hugs your legs close and does a little mm-hmm as he mouths against your clothed heat. You softly whine, leaning your weight on your boyfriend’s chest. 

It’s funny how responsive you are right now, acting like this is the first time someone has performed oral sex on you when your boyfriend has done that almost every day since you started dating.

“Sirius…” you moan, your body flinching when you can feel the shape of James’s tongue gliding over the cloth. “What are we—What is happening?”

“We’re making your dreams come true,” he answers, his arm shifting down to grapple your leg. Lifting it high enough for your dress to slide to the side, Sirius exposes your thigh and your center at once.

“Show him, baby,” Sirius tells you. “Show him how fucking wet that pussy is.”

Your heart is hitched in your throat but you follow nonetheless. Reaching down, you push your panties to the side. 

“Good,” your boyfriend says. “Now, spread them apart.” With your cheeks burning brightly, you bring your other hand down, spreading your lower lips apart until James can see your dripping cunt, your entrance twitching in anticipation.

“Take a good look, James,” Sirius utters, his tone conceited and cold. “This is what you want. Been thinking about fucking my girl behind my back for a while, haven’t you, Prongs?”

James has the hardest time tearing his gaze away from you, but he manages. Exchanging stares with your boyfriend, he solemnly utters, “I wouldn’t have done this if you didn’t give me permission to touch her.”

“That’s right,” he smiles pompously, shooting one hand down to join your fingers, putting you on display. 

“This pretty cunt here belongs to me. You don’t get to taste it. You don’t get to fuck it unless I let you to. You’re only here because of me.” He dips his index finger deep inside your hole before he retrieves it and plunges it into your mouth. 

You whimper around his finger, tasting your own slick. “You better take good care of her. Better make her cum and lick her clean. Do that, and maybe I’ll forgive you for this. After all…” Sirius turns his face to the side, the tip of his nose nudging against your cheek. 

“I’m just here to please my girl. If she wants to be a fucking slut and have her holes stuffed with our cocks at the same time then I would gladly do it.”

Your boyfriend spreads your legs as wide as possible with one hand circling your waist protectively to keep you standing on your feet. “Go on,” Sirius urges, eyes gleaming dangerously as he peers down at the other man. 

“You want to fuck my girl’s cunt with your tongue, don’t you? Do it before I change my mind.”

James breathes out heavily. His fear, desire, and overwhelming thrill add pretty colors to his pale face. Sirius tells you to keep your hands where they are. 

James tentatively darts out his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit, his nose bumping against your finger. He removes your hand, placing them on his head so you could guide him. 

His moan reverberates to your skin when he feels you tightening your hold around his curly strands, leaving his hair all disheveled. Now that he has more room to reach, James eagerly latches his mouth against your folds, tongue flicking obscenely before his lips close around your clit.

Your body jerks. “Ah—mmph!”

Sirius slaps one hand over your mouth, stopping your voice from thundering down the hallway. “Shhh,” he titters, stuffing two of his fingers inside and pressing them flat against your tongue. 

“You want people to catch us like this? I won’t mind if you ask me. I would love to fuck my girlfriend in front of everyone. Want them to see how good I am at making you cry out my name like a fucking little bitch you are.”

Moments like this make you realize that your boyfriend was never an angel. He’s been the devil, Lucifer himself, from day one. 

James’s little grunts are muffled against your skin, his cerulean eyes turning hazy as he watches your expression twist in pleasure. 

He sneaks one hand behind your leg, palm splayed against your calf before he guides you to rest your thigh on his shoulder. 

You’re now lifted off the ground, trusting your bodyweight entirely on the two males to fight against gravity. “sweetheart…” He bestows a gentle kiss on your clit, pulling away slightly just to replace his mouth with two of his fingers. 

Gliding them down over your folds, there’s a hint of curiosity and nervousness as he speaks his sentence. “Do I make you feel good?”

You’re not sure what to say. No, you’re not sure if you should speak at all as your boyfriend is right behind you. But Sirius removes his fingers from your mouth, your saliva dribbling down your chin as he frames your face and forces you to look down at James. 

“He asked you a question.” Sirius’s voice is just as melodious as it is perilous. You sink your teeth on your bottom lip, too afraid to be honest. “It’s only polite to reply.”

“B-but–”

“Answer him.”

“Yes,” you vocalize in a tattered breath. “Yes, it feels good.”

You expect your boyfriend to be upset, maybe curling his fingers around your throat a little harder to remind you who owns you but Sirius chuckles, saying, “That’s my good girl,” as he grants you a soft kiss on your shoulder. “Now, relax, love. I want you to enjoy everything while it lasts.”

James, encouraged by your answer, dives down to taste you again, this time focusing more on abusing your already swollen clit. Your hand tugs harder against his roots as your hips start to move on your own.

“Aah, look at you,” Sirius says, drawing your earlobe between his teeth. “Riding his face like that… Just how much you’ve been thinking about this, hmm?” His hand slips under the garment of your dress, taking possession of your breast and squeezing it until your whole body jolts. 

“Filthy whore,” he growls, teeth-gritting as he says it.

He’s angry. Even if he pretends he isn’t, there’s no denying it. He’s swallowed by the rage of seeing another man pleasuring his girlfriend right before his eyes but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. 

He keeps holding one of your legs in the air, commanding him, “Fuck her with your tongue. If you can’t make her squirt, I won’t let you fuck her.”

James groans, the dazed look on his face morphs slightly into a glare, vexed by his words. He retracts his fingers, stretching your pussy’s lips as wide apart as possible, tongue darting out to tease your entrance before he plunges it inside your hole. 

Your body lurches forward, eyebrows stitched together in pleasure. You have one hand clawing against your boyfriend’s shirt, your reaction fueling the jealousy raging in his chest but Sirius simply tilts up his chin, an arrogant smile breaking upon his lips.

“That’s the spirit, James,” he says, a moment before he sinks his teeth against the spot that connects your neck to your shoulder, rewarding you with the pain while James tortures you with pleasure. “Keep it up. I want to see her cum all over your face.”

James doesn’t have Sirius’s practiced touch—the kind born of years of experience and confidence—but what he lacks in finesse, he more than makes up for in sheer, devoted eagerness. There’s something dangerous in that kind of want. Desperate to please, desperate to unravel you.

And when he slides two fingers inside you, thrusting with an intensity that betrays how badly he’s imagined this, how long he’s wanted it—it takes no time at all before your body begins to tremble.

“Ah—Sirius…” you gasp, voice catching as your knees buckle beneath the weight of pleasure. Your hand shoots out blindly, grasping at Sirius’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

“I’m—I’m about to cum—James—“

Sirius grabs your face, smashing your mouths together and kissing you harder than he’s ever been before you can finish pronouncing the word. 

“Don’t say his name,” he growls, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand as the knots inside your belly grow taut. “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Understand?” The sudden drop in his pitch makes your skin crawl in both fear and excitement.

You’re breathing hard, fogs clouding your thoughts as James drives you closer to the brink. “I—Sirius—”

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you sob out. “Yes. Only you, Sirius.”

Satisfied, he kisses you again, whispering between the collision of your mouths, “Good. Now, cum, baby. Give him what he wants.”

Not two seconds later, you reach your high, your scream strangled in your throat as you give in to the blind pleasure. Your orgasm hits you so hard that you end up squirting. 

James’s eyes shut close in reflex when your cum stains his face, a little bit of your juice dripping to the floor before he catches the rest of your essence in his mouth, lapping you clean and swallowing everything you give him as promised.

Sirius sneers, the tip of his nose brushes against your ear. “Squirting on another man’s face,” he titters mockingly, “I can’t believe it.”

James returns to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chin still glistens with your slick, your taste sitting thickly on his tongue. 

He offers you his usual angelic smile, the adoration he holds for you never falter even if you’re his best friend's girl. “Let’s move somewhere else,” he says, his thumb sliding across your lips as he holds back the temptation to kiss you. “The party will be over soon. I don’t want anyone to see us like this.”

Sirius untangles his arm from your leg, letting you stand on your own. Your knees still wobble from the aftershock of your orgasm, leaving you with no choice but to have your body pressed flat against his chest. 

Despite the terms he used to degrade you a moment ago, your boyfriend soothes you down with a little kiss on the side of your temple, his arm holding you still by your waist.

“You okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

Turning bashful, you respond with a timid smile and a weak, “Yeah, umm… I think I just pulled a muscle from the way you were holding me.”

Sirius laughs, landing a playful peck on your cheek. “Not as flexible as you were before, huh, grandma?”

“S-shut up.”

James watches with his jaw clenched, jealousy starting to gnaw at him just as much as the one that was blazing inside Sirius’s chest. “Come,” he says, pivoting on his heels and leading you down the hallway. “I know a place we can use.”

***

You’ve been in this room before.

It’s tucked away in one of Hogwarts’ forgotten towers—a space James had claimed long ago as his own. He called it his sanctuary. With its high, arched windows and shelves crammed with weathered spellbooks and Muggle novels alike, the room feels more like a secret study than a part of the castle. 

The stone walls are softened by old rugs and scattered cushions, a few armchairs charmed to stay warm no matter the season. 

At the center sits a white grand piano, slightly out of place in the magical chaos—its ivory surface gleaming in the candlelight, its lid closed, waiting.

You remember the last time you were here. It was his birthday. He’d snuck you away from the party in the common room, tugging you by the hand through secret passageways only he seemed to know. 

You’d sat beside him on the piano bench, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and listened as his fingers danced across the keys. That was the night James declared his love for you, but you could’nt seem to be able to return it.

Because even then, with all that tenderness spilling from him, you couldn’t give it back. Your heart already belonged to someone else. And he knew it.

But that was then.

Right now, you’re lying down on the same piano, your dress thrown away haphazardly on the floor, your chest exposed and your legs opened wide with no fabric covering your skin. 

It’s been an hour since you started this. You’re in a haze, your body enervated after your boyfriend gave you your second orgasm that day only by using his fingers.

The two handsome men now stand tall before you, their eyes still fixated on the way your bare chest is heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath. 

Sirius had shed his formal robes long ago, trading them for something far more him—a loose black button-down, completely undone and hanging open over his bare chest, the fabric slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to contain him. 

His white undershirt is nowhere to be seen, tossed somewhere across the room, and his sleeves are rolled carelessly to his elbows. 

He smirks, eyes dark and wild as ever. “I hope you’re not tired yet, love. We’re just getting started.”

James, dressed in nothing left but a shirt and slacks, unfastens the three top buttons of his shirt with a little tremble in his fingertips. He’s visibly nervous at what your boyfriend has planned for the rest of the evening but he doesn’t file a word of protest. 

The curly-haired boy still feels jittery even after he was holding you close from behind as your boyfriend fingered you until you drenched his fist with your juices. Sirius tells him to take off his robe and he follows, sliding it away from his collar.

“Let’s play a little game,” Sirius announces with mischief in his tone, walking to the other side of the piano where you have your head resting a few inches away from the edge. 

His sensual, devilish smirk is the last thing you see before your boyfriend covers your eyes with his tie. He lifts your head, knotting the tie securely behind your skull.

“Sirius—”

He lowers his head to close the gap and kisses you upside down, silencing you at once. “Relax, love,” he coos, the shape of his smirk pressing against your lips. 

“I’m gonna take care of you real nice, okay?”

Now that you’ve lost your vision, you rely heavily on your ears to figure out what’s going on. You can hear James’s footsteps closing in at the same time you feel Sirius moving away from you. 

“Lift your hands, sweetheart,” his honeyed voice echoes near, a lot gentler than how your boyfriend spoke to you. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

Trying not to tense so much, you raise your hands in the air. James wraps his tie around your wrist, careful not to hurt you, unlike your boyfriend who always loves to tie it hard enough so it will leave angry marks on your skin for him to marvel in the morning. 

Once the fabric wraps around your wrists, binding you gently, James guides your arms down to rest across your stomach. His touch is patient, reverent—like he’s memorizing every inch of you with his hands alone.

He leans forward, fingers tilting your chin toward him, and kisses you upside down—mirroring the way Sirius had kissed you just moments earlier.

But James kisses differently. He kisses like you’re fragile, like pressing too hard might break you. There’s something achingly soft in the way his lips move against yours, careful and searching. You exhale quietly through your nose, letting yourself fall into the simplicity of it—just breath and warmth and the subtle hum of magic in the air.

Then you feel it—his tongue, timid and slow, tracing along the seam of your lips as if asking permission, tasting you like you’re something sacred. Your heart stutters in your chest, racing in time with his, even though the kiss is barely there.

Time feels suspended—like the world has curled in on itself, quiet and dreamlike—until—

“James.”

The boy stiffens, breaking off the kiss at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice rumbling through the air. 

He raises his face, a muscle in his jaw twitches as he sees Sirius’s eyes turn dark and piercing. Both males are jealous of one another. 

James wants you for himself, while Sirius, despite giving him his permission, grows even more resentful in sharing you with another man, even if it was his best friend. The tension between the two is enough to smother you but fortunately, you’re too distraught by your own thoughts to notice.

What are they planning to do to me?

You take a deep breath, trying to unwind your muscles as best as you can as you wait. You can hear footsteps again, Sirius and James circling your body before they stop. 

There’s a silence where you can hear nothing but your thundering heartbeats in your ears. 

There’s a sound of belts being pulled away from their loops, zippers being tugged down. None of the men make a sound. When two pairs of lips begin their journeys from your ankles to your thighs, you realize one thing.

It’s a guessing game.

Sirius doesn’t have to tell you the rules for you to know how to play, or maybe this isn’t a game at all. 

Maybe he just wants to fuck with your mind, injecting more thrill into your veins at the thought of being embraced by two males without knowing who’s doing what to you. But if this is a game, then you know how to win. 

You’ve been dating Sirius for years. You know how rough he is–you love how rough he is–how sinful and obscene his touches are, how he clamps his mouth against your clit—you’ve memorized everything. 

Plus, Sirius and James are two different species. While Sirius is the fire that burns you with his passion, James is the salve that soothes you down. The devil and the angel are not the same. It’s easy to differentiate the two, even if you can’t see or hear a thing.

The two have their heads settled between your legs, fighting for space and a chance to please you. 

Each man is pinning one of your thighs on the piano, wanting to spread you apart as much as possible so they can taste how sweet you are. 

You can tell almost immediately that it’s your boyfriend who is now latching his mouth on your clit, sucking hard enough until your hips buck forward. 

The other man—James—takes his time kissing the sensitive skin on the inner part of your thigh, his hand stroking and kneading soothingly.

“Ah, Sirius—” You squirm, hands going down to his head, tugging on his bun.

Your boyfriend laughs, his voice dulled by your sensitive parts. “How can you tell it’s me?”

You always do that, doing as you please, overstimulating me. But you don’t voice your thoughts out loud. No, you can’t, as you feel James joining in, their tongues dart out eagerly to lap at your wetness at the same time. 

You’re being pulled to the edge of the piano to make it easier for them to share space. 

“Oh—” Your whole world shakes. The mental image of two pairs of eyes looking up at you with their desire blazing inside, hungry and lustful, occupies every part of your mind. 

It’s too much. The sensation is too much.

“Relax, sweetheart,” James says, circling his tongue around your nub as Sirius lowers himself enough to plunge his slick muscle into your hole.

“Please, I’m—” You whine, your nails digging into your palms, “I’m about to cum—“

“Again?” Sirius jeers as his sinful smirk resurfaces. “Well, then, allow me.” Pushing James to the side, he pushes two of his fingers inside his mouth, making them wet before he drives them inside you at the same time. “You know what to do, baby,” he coos.

He wants you to squirt just like before and with the way he works his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you in a come-hither motion, he’s leaving you with no other choice. 

As embarrassing as it is, you find your body doing exactly what he wants, cumming hard with a silent cry until the trickle of your juices drenches his hand all the way to his wrist. 

Sirius retracts his fingers, licking each digit clean while his eyes traverse down your body. “That’s fucking hot,” he says, while James dives down to lick your pussy’s lips clean from every bit of your cum.

“You taste amazing,” James breathes out in bliss, kissing your clit and slowly eating you out to soothe you down from your crashing orgasm.

You’re all spent, eyes turning vacant as they’re transfixed on the ceiling but they don’t stop. One of them walks away to the other side of the piano, stopping once they stand on the other side of your head. 

He hovers above your face, refraining himself from leaning in for another inverted kiss, afraid that the sweet taste of his mouth would reveal his identity too soon. 

Instead, he frames your face, angling your head to the side so he can latch his mouth against the side of your neck. He uses his teeth almost instantly, suckling hard on your skin, marking angry bruises for everyone to see.

“Siri—”

He clasps his palm against your mouth before you can finish pronouncing his name, knowing that the game would be over once you guess it correctly. 

He then slides two of his fingers inside, forcing you to part your lips wide so he can see the shape of your tongue as he presses his digits flat against your slick muscle. 

Sirius thrusts his fingers inside and you know what he wants you to do. You suck on them, in the most obscene way possible as if you were treating them as something else. 

Your boyfriend always loves to do this. Loves enjoying the look on your face when you hollow your cheeks around his fingers, giving him a vivid image of how pretty your lips are going to look when you wrap them around his cock later on.

You flinch when you feel the other man leaning half of his body forward over the piano, peppering soothing kisses on the inner part of your thighs just in the way James did a few moments ago. 

His soft lips, the way he’s still a bit awkward and shy as he tries to please you, send goosebumps breaking all over your skin.

 James can’t seem to get enough of your taste. Knowing that this could be his only chance at having you in such a position, he places his mouth on your center again, kissing you down there so languidly as if he had eternity to please you. 

He hugs you close by your thighs, his nose pressing against your pelvis. You can’t hear his soft groan but you can feel its vibration directly on your clit.

You moan between sharp gasps when the man—Sirius—who’s standing over your head starts to clamp his hot mouth around your breast, rolling your nipple between his teeth before he sucks hard. 

He grabs a hold of your mound, squeezing it hard enough to make you squirm then he flicks his tongue around the bud. The material of his shirt grazes your face when he pulls back, pushing down his pants to break himself free. 

You’re being tugged forward, your head falling over the edge of the piano with the head of his cock pressing against your lips. 

Sirius doesn’t do anything. He wants you to do all the work. With your hands tied, you reach up and circle your fingers around his cock, kissing the head and tasting the salt of his pre-cum. 

He’s hard, throbbing and twitching in your hands at the slightest touch. Exhaling sharply, you take his tip into your mouth, and Sirius, without warning, shoves everything inside at once. 

You choke, groaning around his dick as he lands both palms on the piano to balance himself, trapping your body between them as he rocks his hips forward. 

Your throat constricts around his length and he can see how far he goes from where he is looming tall above you.

James’s patience is starting to run thin as well. He starts using both hands, stuffing three of his fingers inside you while his other one abuses your clit with his thumb. 

He pumps you hard and fast, perfectly imitating the way Sirius did to you a few minutes ago. 

You mewl, moaning around Sirius’s cock, your legs sliding down until they fall onto the keys. 

The sound of broken notes fills the air, startling you enough that you pull your mouth away from his cock, coughing and gasping frantically as you try to refill the air in your lungs.

James suddenly grabs you by the back of your knees, yanking you down until you’re close enough for him to seize you by the waist. 

He hoists you away from the piano, forcing you to return to your feet and turning your body around. Your vision is pitch black, your hands still bound together, reaching out blindly for support until you find yourself balancing your weight on the keys. 

James lowers his trousers to his mid-thighs, his cock springing free out of his briefs. Spitting onto his palm, he lathers himself quickly with his saliva before he nudges his tip against your entrance.

Despite his nervous, awkward demeanor, James is not taking it slow, propelling inside you with one hard thrust until your entire body is pushed forward, a strangled cry stuck in your throat. 

He’s being uncharacteristically aggressive, stretching you out almost in the same way as your boyfriend does. 

He bends himself down, wrapping his hand around the front of your throat and pulling you up until your back is plastered against his chest.

The butterflies inside you flutter their wings, a sob of pleasure threatening to break free. “James—”

“Wrong.”

Your heart plummets to your stomach, the fingers he has around your neck threaten to crush your windpipes. 

“You’re breaking my heart, love,” Sirius chuckles right next to your ear. “How could you forget your boyfriend filling you up like this? I thought I’d fucked you hard enough for you to remember the shape of my cock.”

It’s Sirius? Your heart palpitates fast, panic rising to the surface. The one who was inside my mouth before was James?!

“You seem surprised,” your boyfriend laughs mockingly, ramming his hips against yours over and over again with his nails digging painfully into the flesh of your waist. 

“You thought I was him, didn’t you? I treated you gently and you started thinking about another man. Can’t say I’m not hurt.”

“Ah—Siri—” You’re breathing fast, your cheek pressed against the closed lid as Sirius pinned you down to the piano by your nape. 

Your stomach is bumping against the keys with each thrust, both of you making music of your own, accompanied by the sound of his pelvis slapping against your behind.

James watches you from the other side of the piano with his cock pulsating hard in his hand, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries not to make noise. 

It feels terrible, humiliating even, to pleasure himself as he watches you being taken hard by Sirius but he can’t restrain himself. 

At the sound of your name escaping his lips in a breathy, longing moan, Sirius’s eyes dart to his face, the corner of his mouth twitching into an impish smirk at the sight of another man masturbating to his girlfriend being fucked. “There’s room for one more if you want to join, James,” he arrogantly says, “That is if you can’t stop yourself from cumming within seconds.”

The thought of you being watched caused warmth to pool in your belly. 

Taking off your blindfold with one hand, Sirius grabs a fistful of your hair, hauling you up until he can hug you close as he stands. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his long fingers framing your face. 

He forces you to look at James who’s fisting his dick in one hand, while his other one grips tightly against the edge of the piano. 

He’s giving himself a string of pumps that matches the way Sirius is driving himself inside you.

“Y/N…” He sighs in yearning when your eyes meet, absolutely wrecked from how much effect you have on him, turning a shade redder than he already does. “You’re beautiful…”

“Yeah,” Sirius sneers, whispering in your ear, “My beautiful, beautiful slut.”

He penetrates you with aching shallowness between your legs, teasing you, moving with a rhythm like an inevitable sea tide. 

You squeeze around him, keening as your body starts to crave more. “Fuck, taking my fucking dick so good,” Sirius hisses, drowning in rapture.

“Sirius, please…” You glue your thighs together, clenching your walls around him.

“What, honey, do you want more?” Sirius questions melodiously, even when he knows you want him to lose control. “Want me to give it to you harder? Or do you want James too? Maybe find out if he can fuck you as good as I can.”

He must have been fucking you so good that your brain turns all mushy because right now, you want to turn his teasing words into reality. 

You’re not sure how you’re able to find the bravery within you to answer but your lips form the words before your mind can finish your thought. “Yes,” you whimper, and James almost moans at the sound. “Yes, please, I want him too—”

Sirius stops. For a moment, the smirk falters from his face, before— “Is that so?”

Siriu’s thrust turns forceful within an instant, pouring all his rage and jealousy in every plunge of his cock inside you. Your jaw turns slack, mouth wide open in a silent scream with your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

He’s fucking you to prove a point, one hand rubbing furiously against your clit, slapping and abusing it until you cry out.

Sirius keeps his gaze on James, his eyes glowing menacingly as he growls out the words, “You think he can fuck you like I do?” He pulls himself out without giving you a chance to answer. 

Before you can groan at the loss of the frictions he gave you, Sirius whirls you around until you’re face-to-face.

“He can’t,” Sirius says, squeezing your face with one hand. 

“No one can fuck you like I do. This fucking cunt won’t be satisfied until I fill it up.” He emphasizes by slapping a hand over your heat, making you jump and whine at the pain before your whole body shakes at the way he’s pumping his fingers into you again.

“I’m the only one who can please you this way, Y/N. You got that?”

“Yes!” you reply in a faint cry, getting lightheaded as if he’s blocking oxygen to your head.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sirius.”

“Good.” He retracts his fingers, shoving them inside your mouth so you can taste yourself as he nudges his head, telling James to come close. “Let’s move to the couch. I want to fuck her mouth.”

Sirius sweeps off your feet, carrying you in his arms before he forces you to go on all fours on the couch. 

He tells James, whose shirt is sliding off his shoulders and his pants hanging low on his hips, to get into position as Sirius moves to stand on his knees before you.

 “Show me how much you love me,” he purrs as he unfastens the tie around your wrists.

Obediently, you curl your fingers around his shaft and start your ministrations by giving him lazy strokes. Sirius threads his fingers through your hair, pushing back your hair as he thrusts himself into your mouth. 

“Pretty girl,” he praises, watching you flick your tongue over his tip. “I love you so much. Can’t go on a day without you. Need you so fucking bad.” He hypnotizes you with his words, your insides melting as they resonate through your brain.

James, settling himself on your other end, bends down to spit onto your cunt, spreading his saliva all over your lips with two of his fingers before he does the same to his cock. 

He prods his tip along your folds, breathing hard in anticipation with his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. 

You both groan at the sensation of his head passing your entrances just slightly the second you push your hips back. Fuck me, James can hear the unspoken words and he’s ready to oblige.

“Sweetheart,” He paints soothing kisses along your spine, one hand splayed against your stomach. “I’m putting it in.”

Unlike Sirius, James moves slow, taking his time and waiting for you to adjust until he’s fully sheathed inside. 

Though he’s an inch shorter than Sirius’s, he’s wider in girth, rubbing against your walls and stretching you out in a way that has you whimpering around your boyfriend’s cock.

You can hear James taking a sharp breath, and a low, “Fuck…” It’s the first he ever let expletives depart from his pretty mouth, his silvery voice turning guttural.

“Tight, isn’t she?” Sirius asks him, pride sitting thick on his voice.

“Y-yeah…” James rocks his hips once, feeling your walls tighten even more at the friction. “And so… hot inside too…”

You slide Sirius’s cock out of your mouth, taking a breath and a moment to relish in the sensation of having another man fucking you in front of your boyfriend but Sirius’ not having it. 

He slaps his dick against the side of your face. “Who told you to stop?” He says.

“Pretty little whore wants to be filled in two holes at once, doesn’t she? Come on, baby.” he shoves himself inside your mouth, making you gag around his length. 

He buries himself to the hilt right at the same time James does the same. Tears start to prickle at the corner of your eyes.

“Ah,” James breathes out as he picks up his pace, giving you shallow, pointed thrusts that hit your spot just right. “Wish I could see your face… Wish I could see how pretty you look as you take me in…” He closes the spaces between his chest and your back, kissing you softly on the nape. “You feel like heaven to me.”

An idea submerges in Sirius’s mind. Telling James to pull out, Sirius flips you over to your back, his cock hovering above your face as you take him in one hand. 

“There you go, Potter,” your boyfriend says.

“Now you can fuck my girl as you watch me fuck her mouth.”

James, now seeing you spread your legs for him, your pussy dripping and waiting for him to fill it up again, is on the verge of turning absolutely feral. 

The juvenile, innocent side of him has disappeared — replaced by a man with his blood boiling with desire. 

He pushes your legs forward, his hands gripping tight at the back of your thighs as he pushes back in — his cock standing hard enough that he can slide in without using his hands. 

He folds your body in half, knocking you forward and robbing a moan from the back of your throat.

 Gasping in surprise, you throw your face to the side, your filthy moans are spoken against the side of Sirius’s cock. You try your best to bring him back into your mouth, not wanting to upset him as you can see his rage flaring in his eyes.

“So good,” James grunts, his hips swaying obscenely. His shirt slides off his shoulders, stopping to pool around his elbows. “You’re perfect, so perfect, I love you—ah—”

At his confession, your walls flutter around him and you release Sirius from your mouth, shifting your gaze down to see James watching you with sentiment in his eyes, your stomach flipping in delight at the sight. 

It’s true that he can’t fuck you as good as Sirius can, but at the moment James exudes more feelings, pulling more emotions out of you. It pleases you just the same in such a different way.

Sirius, unsettled by the chemistry between you, clamps one hand around James’s throat and yanks him forward until their lips collide above you. 

Sirius kisses him forcefully, tongue thrusting inside, sloppily moving together inside James’s mouth until he has his drool dripping down his chin. 

James thrusts begin to stutter as Sirius breaks his concentration, mewling helplessly against his mouth. James had never been kissed this hard, never felt like his oxygen was stolen right from his lungs. 

When Sirius breaks away, a string of saliva connecting their lips, he tightens his fingers around James’s throat, making him wince from the pain.

“You get to fuck my girl,” Sirius growls. “But you don’t get to have her heart. It belongs to me. She belongs to me. Know your fucking place, James.”

“Sirius—” he chokes, one hand curling around Sirius’s wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip.

The brunette kisses him again, hard enough to turn James’s lips all swollen before he tells him, “Lie down.”

James, receiving a hard shove on his chest, falls on the couch, his limbs all tangled with yours as he’s pressed flat on his back. 

Sirius lifts your body, grabbing you harshly by your hair as he forces you to lie down on top of James, your face hovering above his. 

James gulps at the sudden proximity between you, shaky eyes peering into yours. 

You look breathtaking with your lips all bruised and your lipstick smeared to your cheeks, your chin wet with saliva, and Sirius’s pre-cum. 

You’re so beautiful and dirty at the same time, reek of purity and sensuality.

“Sit on his cock, baby,” Sirius says, and with wobbly legs, you position yourself on James’s length, sinking agonizingly slowly onto his dick until he’s buried deep, your clit grazing the trimmed hairs on his pelvis.

“Ah—mmm,” James turns into a moaning mess, his cock pulsating hard inside you. Your body is weak but you still find the strength to smile when he gently strokes your face. 

“Feels good?” He questions which you reciprocate with a feeble nod, your eyes shifting to his lips and James gets the message. 

You meet each other halfway, lips molding, slow dancing with one another. For a moment, serenity hugs you both, moaning softly against each other’s mouth with him whispering praises between kisses, “Sweet… You taste so sweet… I can kiss you for eternity and it won’t be enough…”

You’re about to move your hips when Sirius stands on his knees behind you, each hand on your ass cheeks, spreading them apart. 

Your body jolts, almost accidentally biting on James’s tongue when you feel Sirius spitting harshly onto your hole. 

Shock runs like electricity through your veins. “Wait—Sirius—”

“Relax, baby,” he says, closing his eyes as pushes his face forward, his tongue circling the rim of your hole, giving you the sensation you’ve never felt before in your life.

“Oh—God—” You cry out, both thrilled and a bit terrified from how strange it feels.

James, aroused by your expression, slightly bucks his hips upward, thrusting into you. “sweetheart…” he whispers, “Pay attention to me too…”

At the feeling of Sirius’s tongue probing against your hole, James’s hot, throbbing length rubbing against your walls, you can barely think about anything but you try your best to comply. 

You lean down to kiss him again, your eyebrows furrowed as you feel James driving himself a little further inside you. You both muffle each other’s moans, soft lips hugging another pair in a way that can only be described as romantic.

Sirius glides one finger inside you, doing as gently as he can to not hurt you. Your body turns rigid in discomfort and your boyfriend calms you down by placing open-mouthed kisses on the skin that covers your tailbone. 

“Love, relax,” he says, losing the venom that once coated his tongue. “I won’t hurt you. I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

“We’ll make you feel good,” James corrects, casting a smile too innocent to be thrown in this situation as he pushes a lock of your hair behind your ear. “We love you. All we’re trying to do is to please you.”

“That’s right,” Sirius chuckles, dipping his tongue inside your heat this time before he licks a stripe up and returns to your rear. “So be a good girl and relax for me, okay?”

You draw a deep breath. “Okay…”

James props one elbow on the couch, raising his body slightly so he can whisper in your ear, “Just focus on me. Focus on the way I’m sliding inside you. Can you feel it? Can you feel where we’re connected?”

You shakily nod, feeling his smile pressing against the contour of your jawline.

Now that you’re loose enough to take one finger inside, Sirius spits onto his hand again before he brings another one of his digits, scissoring you wide open. Every time you flinch, your boyfriend would reward you with another tender kiss on your skin. “I won’t rush,” Sirius assures you. “I’ll wait as long as you need until you’re ready.”

The sudden change of his attitude works perfectly on calming your nerves, and once your body relaxes, Sirius pushes his third fingers inside. “I think you can take me now, baby,” he says, rising tall on his knees. “I’ll take it slow, okay?”

James holds you close, shrouding you with his arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here.” He kisses your ear, murmuring, “Just focus on me…”

Sirius pushes his length into your rear as slowly as he can, muttering a gravelly, “Fuck, you’re even tighter this way,” under his breath.

“Ah,” you whimper, fingers clenching into fists. “Sirius, I can’t… It’s too much…”

“You can, baby,” Sirius replies in a guttural moan, leaning forward to mouth his words against your nape. “Just a little bit more–ah, Christ–”

“Siri–”

“I know,” he swallows his breath. “I swear I’ll make you feel so good after this, baby.”

The friction burns to the point that you almost feel like giving up but Sirius is trying his best to be gentle. James kisses you to swallow your groan, distracting you from the pain. 

It takes another few seconds before Sirius is fully enveloped by your warmth, just like James is and he chuckles, rewarding you by showering kisses down your back. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl. I’m so proud of you.”

Having two men inside you at the same time is something you wouldn’t even have the bravery to imagine and yet here you are.

“I’ll start to move, okay?” Sirius says after giving you a moment to catch your breath, and you spin your head to the side to slant your lips together with him.

“Okay…” you breathe out. Your boyfriend rewards you with a smile and one last kiss on your bare shoulder before he straightens his back, places his hands on each side of your hips, and begins to move.

“Ah—fuck—” You can feel tears stinging your eyes, from pain or pleasure, you’re not sure, probably both. 

With every drive of Sirius’s hips, you’re sinking lower onto James’s cock, the three of you grinding against one another — it’s awkward for the first few seconds, each of you trying to match your rhythm but once you find it, waves of pleasure start to come crashing in.

“How do you feel?” Sirius asks, uncharacteristically solemn as he’s worried of your well-being. “Does it hurt?”

“N-no.”

“Does it feel good?” James chimes in, peering into your eyes.

“Yes,” you exhale in bliss. “I feel so… full.”

Sirius smiles, exhaling in relief. “Well then, how about we take it up a notch?” He adds more force into his thrust, sending you toppling down with your head landing on James’s chest. 

James can feel it too, the snap of his hips and the way your walls are hugging him tightly. Sirius is in control, leaving both of you under his mercy.

“How is it, baby?” Sirius speaks between his labored breathing. “Feels good?”

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, clawing against James’s chest as you feel like you’re trapped between heaven and earth. James’s thick hardness opens you up while Sirius’s penetrates deep inside your body.

“Wanna fuck you harder,”Sirius says once he feels your muscles unwinding, your tight hole finally adjusting to his size. “Wanna fuck you so hard until I cum, baby, can I?”

“Me too.” James takes one of your breasts in his hand, tongue circling your nipple. “I want it, sweetheart.” He mouths against your skin. “Want to feel you clench harder around me.”

You bite the corner of your lip, nodding your head as your heart rate escalates fast. “Ah—mmm, yeah.”

With your permission, both men hastily pick up the pace, robbing a scream from the back of your throat when James lifts his hips at the same time Sirius pushes forward. 

You feel like floating — it’s insane how your body can still handle this instead of breaking apart. Sirius penetrates deep but James grazes the spot that makes your vision turn white. 

Gasping in surprise, you blurt out his name. “Ah, James—”

Sirius’s hand slithers from behind, clasping firmly against your mouth. “I’ve already fucking told you,” he snarls, “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Don’t piss me off.”

Sirius never hurts you, he would rather die than lay a finger on you but at that time, anger radiates off of him in a way that sends fear crawling on your skin. You nod your head, eyes wide open in shock, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Now what do you say?”

“I want you, Sirius.”

“Want me to do what?”

“Want you to fuck–ah–want you to fuck me–”

“Scream for me, baby.” Sirius turns to hard, pitiless thrusts, grabbing one of your hands and pinning it against your back. 

He snaps his hips, once, twice, emphasizing his next words. “Scream. my. fucking. name.”

He’s forcing it out of you, making you cry out his name in such a pathetic way, you turn the other man jealous. 

James, now wanting nothing more but to get your attention and reach his high, starts to abandon his effort in being docile. “I want you to look at me,” he begs, rutting his hips harder against yours. “I want you to look at me as I cum—”

“Cum inside her and I’ll kill you,” Sirius growls, his nails digging painfully into your hips.

“But—ah!” James throws his head back, feeling like he’s already on his limit. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

Sirius breaks away, wrapping an arm around your stomach and yanking you close to his chest until James has no choice but to slide out of you. “On your knees,” Sirius orders him. “You can cum in her mouth.”

It wouldn’t feel as delightful nor as satisfying compared to shooting his seeds inside your walls, but James — knowing his position — takes what he can get. 

You return to your hands and knees as James stands before you, the tip of his cock, coated with your slick, hanging a few centimeters away from you.

Sirius pushes himself inside your pussy this time, sending your body forward right at the same time you’re taking James into your mouth. 

He fucks you fast, knowing that he doesn’t have to be gentle this way. James winces at the vibration your mouth gives him, his hips slowly moving on their own. 

He lands one hand on your hair, stroking your strands first and tugging at the roots when you moan harder around him at the feeling of Sirius pulling out only to slide his dick inside your ass. 

“Goddamn, I love this,” Sirius rasps, giving one thrust inside your hole, and another one in your cunt next. “Both your ass and your pussy feel so good. So fucking tight. All for me.”

Your face is burning, your heart soaring high, and you’ve been standing on the edge for so long, your body can’t keep up with this any longer. Stroking James’s cock in one hand, you plead, “Fuck, Sirius, don’t play around—I—I need to cum.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, still constantly changing from one hole to another. “You want it, baby? Tell James who’s making you feel good right now.”

You chew on your lip, your hazy eyes drifting up to meet his azure ones. James’s face is set in resigned sad lines, his heart breaks in his eyes when you say, “Y-you, Sirius!”

Sensing the hesitation in your voice, Sirius fills the dip of your spine with his chest, his hand sneaking to your throat before his fingers frame your jaw, forcing you to whirl your head around to face him as he hovers right above your shoulder. 

“I can’t hear you,” he says, “Who fucks you the best?”

You put more pressure on your words. “You, Sirius.”

Sirius fixates his gaze on James’s face, smirking both contemptuously and arrogantly. “Louder, Sweetheart.”

“You, Sirius!”

Keeping his eyes on the other male’s face, he croons, “Well, I guess I have to live up to my name then.”

Sirius moves back and forth, burying himself so deep in your cunt that you can feel his tip kissing your cervix. 

He’s urging you on to your ecstasy, giving you a glimpse of what heaven feels like, by brushing his fingers over your sensitive clit and then presses, over and over again, teasing and taking as he claims your everything.

James flinches when your grip around him gets a little too tight, your orgasm approaching fast that you forget to pay attention to the man kneeling before you. 

“Fuck my mouth,” you tell him, as you have no strength to spoil him any longer. With your hands balancing yourself on the couch, you relax your jaw and let him push in as much as he wants into your mouth.

A sudden snap of Sirius’s hips makes you moan louder and James gasps, the muscles in his abs tautening as he’s drawing closer to his climax. “Ah, —I’m gonna cum—“

“What about you, love?” Sirius’s breathing turns labored. “Gonna cum too? Gonna cum hard on my cock while he cums in your mouth?” He lands his palm on your head, shoving you harder onto James’s cock. 

“Do it then, you filthy whore.”

James moans loudly, his blush spreading to his ears. “G-God,” he nearly whimpers as he hits the back of your throat. “sweetheart–”

Within seconds, the waves of pleasure inside you crest higher and at last, your orgasm crashes over you, stealing your breath and sending the roar and rush of blood ringing in your ears. 

You have no choice but to pull away from James and thankfully, he lets you even when he was so close to achieving his ecstasy.

“Ah, I can feel it,” Sirius chuckles, his hips moving erratically as he’s nearing his brink. “Squeezing around me like that. Been my girl for so long and you still have the best fucking cunt in the world, baby.” He keeps moving his hips, overstimulating you until you let out a spurt, drenching the leather material of the couch with your juices.

“Wait, Sirius—” You sob out, your thighs trembling. “I’m still—”

“I know, baby, just give me a few seconds more,” Sirius says, panting hard, losing his rhythm. This aural evidence of his impending orgasm triggers another for you—smaller, but no less intense. 

“Gonna fucking cum—I’m gonna—ah, fuck—” You can feel it exactly the moment he hits his orgasm, giving a forceful thrust one last time before he slows down, a drawled-out moan fleeting from his lips. 

He still rocks his hips, fucking his seeds back into your hole, his head thrown back as he relishes in the sensation.

Dazed and wrecked, you watch James going down to his knees before you, one hand stroking his shaft while his other one finds your face, pulling you into a kiss. 

He lays his temple against yours as he closes his eyes, nibbling on his lower lip as he pumps himself faster. 

Seeing how rough Sirius fucked you earlier sends his blood pumping and James needs his release. “Touch me, please…”

Sirius, hearing his words, untangles his fingers from your hair. He pushes you down by the nape until your closed lips are pressed against the head of James’s cock, his pre-cum staining your mouth. 

“Take care of him, baby,” your boyfriend says and in your haze, you separate your mouth, taking him in as much as you can. James groans, your mouth feels scorching hot and wet compared to his cold hands.

“Mmh—” you moan around him, giving James the final touch that he needs to send himself to cloud nine. James ejaculates inside your mouth with his lips —  his hand lands on your shoulder, conflicted between pushing you away so he won’t stain you with his essence more than he already does, or keeping you still so you can swallow everything down your throat. 

None of you are given any chance, however, as Sirius says, “Keep it in your mouth.”

Sirius pulls you up, your back flush against his chest as his face hovers above you, staring at you upside down. 

“Open up,” he commands and you do, parting your lips to let him take a glimpse of James’s thick, white semen pooling inside your mouth. 

Sirius smirks. “He came a lot, didn’t he?” Before you’re given a chance to respond, your boyfriend spits into your mouth, his hand pressing against the underside of your jaw. “Now, swallow.”

James watches the scene with his jaw hanging slack, unable to believe that this is the reality he’s seeing. He watches you share another inverted kiss with his best friend, with Sirius moaning against your mouth as he tastes the rest of James’s cum on your tongue.

James finally snaps out of the haze—though just barely—after watching you kiss Sirius like your life depends on it. His eyes are still glazed over with lust, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. He looks like he’s forgotten where he is—forgotten everything except you.

Then Sirius leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is dark silk. “What do you say, baby? To Potter?”

You turn your head slowly, gaze locking onto James’s. There’s no teasing in his expression now—just raw want, wide and open. He’s still watching you like he can’t believe you’re real.

Your voice is soft, shaky. “Thank you, James.”

A slow, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

Satisfied, Sirius peels himself away from you and strides toward James, the tension between them simmering just beneath the surface. The space narrows until it vanishes altogether—Sirius grabs James by the throat, rough but controlled, and drags him forward.

It’s James who breaks first—slamming his lips into Sirius’s like he’s been waiting years for this.

You feel the heat rise again in your chest, between your legs, just watching them.

When they finally part, their lips are swollen, breaths ragged. James leans in close, voice low and reverent, and whispers against Sirius’s mouth:

“Thank you for sharing your girl, Black.”

[wetfeline]

this did things

[starry-eyed-moony]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ the time turner part three | poly!wolfstar

pairing: poly!wolfstar x reader

summary: PART THREE (FINAL) when Sirius and Remus travel back in time for an Order mission, they come face to face with you: their girlfriend who died during the first Wizarding War

ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ content warning: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, grief, age gap due to time-turning magic, dark themes, morally grey wolfstar, gory scenes, blood, younger and older wolfstar and there is nothing they wouldn't do for you

word count: 7.7k

author's note: sorry for any mistakes. proofreading was attempted, but i am incredibly bad at it! also, inaccurate canon for time turning magic rules but i really don't care. this is the marauders fandom guys xx

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read part one here

or part two here!

Getting the timing right on the time turner proved to be quite the challenge. Remus was already nervous about the amount of time they were warping and messing around with, and Sirius agreed that it was best to cut it as finely as possible—in order to not alternate too much.

However, when time flickered and they blinked back to the past, Sirius’ stomach dropped at the sight of the front door cracked open a little. It was pitch black outside and the lights inside the house glowed warm. The garden was still, not a single sound coming from anywhere besides Remus’ ragged breaths. 

He surged forward. Sirius grabbed his arm. 

“Remus, no,” he managed, “the door’s open. We’re too late in this one."

Remus’ face was strangled, his large hands curling into fists. “What if it’s not too late? We can’t leave her.”

He rushed down the path, shrugging off Sirius’ desperate hands. 

“Remus,” Sirius choked. “You don’t want to see her. You don’t want to see how he left her!”

“Get off of me, Sirius,” Remus snapped firmly, and the slightly shorter man was shoved backwards, stumbling onto the cobblestone. 

He landed on his ass, his hands breaking his fall as he watched helplessly while Remus stormed inside of the house. Sirius swore he could smell the sickly sweet scent of cinnamon from here. 

His heart was hammering in his chest like it had been the time had found you, stuttering and hard, violent and already broken. 

He didn’t hear a commotion inside the house. There was no screaming or punches or bursts of magic. Nobody came running out. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, only at some point, he was shaking from the cold as well. 

You were dead in this version, too. 

Sirius buried his face in his hands. He wanted Remus to come back so they could use the time turner and get out of here, so they could finally save you and maybe, just maybe, he’d never have to see that horrible image of you curled on the kitchen floor again. Maybe he’d forget all about it, and it would feel like it had never happened. 

Remus had been in there for nearly an hour when Sirius forced himself back up from the floor.

He found the confidence to stand by the front door, his fingers trembling as he held onto the door frame. Sirius’ nose curled, his face pulled together in grimacing agony. He forced one booted foot through the door. 

“Remus?” Sirius called pathetically, like a scared child, his voice wobbling. 

His ears strained when he heard what he believed to be a whimper. 

Sirius remembered when he had found you, and how one thought that had occurred to him then, and then every night in Azkaban since: He’d had to deal with it alone. 

He remembered how much he wished Remus would turn up, and how wrong it had felt to grieve you while Remus was off somewhere, none the wiser. He hated every second in Azkaban, with no clue how Remus was feeling, wondering if Remus had also wished he had been there. 

With that thought, Sirius took another step through the door. 

His legs felt like lead as he forced them through the corridor, the smell of baking becoming even more apparent in his nose. Then he saw the streaks of blood that met the kitchen door, and as he grew closer and closer, his eyes wider and wider and less believing, he found himself in the frame, staring at Remus cradling you.

Every nightmare came soaring back, and with it, the indescribable sensation of his heart being ripped from his chest and stomped on in front of him. His knees felt weak again, his whole body heavy as he dropped to the ground. Sinking, sinking, sinking, sinking…

Sirius choked and Remus finally tore his gaze from your face.

Remus’ back was against the kitchen counter, his jeans covered in your blood, his hands crimson as he cradled your body to his chest. Sirius could only stare at you, your bloody chest, your messy hair, your eyes shut. Remus was shaking as he cupped your head. His face was so pale it was almost translucent. 

“How could he do this to her?” He whispered. 

Sirius sat a few feet from them, his face as heavy as his heart felt. “Because in some sick, twisted fucking way, you have to mean the killing curse. He didn’t mean it. Not like he did with Marlene and her family.”

Remus closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to yours. “She loved him.”

Sirius buried his face in his hands. “Rem, let’s go. Please,” his voice broke.

“I can’t just put her back on the floor,” Remus whispered. “I can’t.”

“I’ll find her soon,” Sirius tried to reassure him, though the words felt bitter and he felt sick at the thought that in the world of time travel, there was a version of him who lived in a loop, continuously opening that door and finding his girlfriend in a puddle of her own blood.

Sirius forced himself over and helped Remus to move your body back onto the kitchen floor. He placed his hands over your stomach, and he gently shut your eyes like he had the first time. Remus stroked your hair. 

“We can find her and save her now,” Sirius said quietly. 

“I want to kill Peter,” Remus admitted. 

He had the same dark look in his eye that he wore around the time of the full moon. Sirius wasn’t sure if he was supposed to try and comfort Remus, or if he was supposed to try and talk him out of it. All he knew was that he also wanted to kill Peter. Whether Peter lived or died had never been important to things working out the way they did—it only mattered when he resurrected Voldemort in that graveyard during the second war. Peter had been alive all those years that Sirius had rotted in Azkaban. If he killed him, it wouldn’t make a difference.

But the point was that Sirius couldn’t go back to Azkaban. The point was that he would be free, you would live, and Harry would come to stay with the three of you. Peter would rot in his cell, and the second wizarding war would never happen.

“Azkaban is worse than death,” Sirius assured him. 

Remus gave a small nod. “Let’s go then.”

The front door creaked open. Sirius went rigid, only moving when Remus grabbed him by his shoulders, hauling him into the pantry cupboard nearby. Sirius hissed as his leg caught on one of the corners of the shelves. 

“Baby?” He heard his own scared voice, slightly younger, and a lot shakier. “Sweetheart, why’s this door open?”

He could remember his exact thought process at that moment. Sirius had known something was wrong. He remembered thinking that maybe if he called out to you like everything was fine, then maybe you’d call back and say you’d burnt something in the oven and you were just airing the house out. Then he’d scold you for keeping the front door unlocked during the height of a war, but would ultimately kiss your pouting lips and sneak a slice of whatever you’d made. 

“Come on,” Remus breathed. “You don’t need to relive that.”

He wrapped Sirius’ hands with his around the time turner just as his younger version stumbled upon you. As the younger Sirius began to cry out, words of disbelief growing louder and frantic, Remus flipped back the turner and they were back on the pavement outside. 

 The door was open. 

Sirius turned to Remus angrily, tears pouring down his face uncontrollably. 

“We’re too fucking late, again! Stop making us too late!” Sirius seethed at him. 

Remus looked furious himself. “You know how temperamental this thing is, and it’s hard to get it right when all of that just bloody happened!”

“Wait!” Sirius called, and stopped Remus from grabbing the time turner again. “Do you hear that?”

There was crying coming from inside the house. His heart clenched and he nearly emptied the contents of his stomach over the floor. 

“She’s alive,” Sirius choked. 

Remus hesitated, chewing his lip. “It’ll be too late.”

“Fuck that,” Sirius growled, and he raced through the door first that time, barrelling into the corridor and through to the kitchen. 

Sirius had spent years wishing he could have been even a little bit earlier. If this version of you was already dying, he’d give you someone to hold onto. He couldn’t just leave you there. 

“Sirius!” Remus called after him. 

He could hear Remus’ heavy footsteps, but he did not hesitate. He nearly slipped on the blood in the kitchen, his heart lurching as he grabbed the white frame of the door to stop himself. You were laying there, choking on your own blood. 

“Baby.” Sirius dropped next to you.

Your glassy eyes found him. The crease between your brows made him coo, and he sniffled as he wiped at your wet face. You strained to open your mouth, a bitter smile beginning to form before your teeth clamped down, a wave of pain rushing through you. 

He held a hand over your bleeding chest. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re alright. Remus and I are waiting for you.”

When all you could form was a raspy breath, Sirius choked. He dipped his head into your arm. Part of him had always hoped that maybe it hadn’t been as painful as it looked. He doubted it, considering the sheer amount of harm Peter had done to you, but it made him ache so much more knowing he’d left you to choke on your own blood, cold on your kitchen floor.

“I know it hurts. You can let go, though,” Sirius reassured her. 

He felt a presence behind him. Remus put one hand on Sirius’ leg and the other in your hand. His throat was bobbing as he tried to control his sobs.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Remus whispered. His voice caught. “Sirius is right. We’ll come and find you.”

There was some sort of recognition in your eyes as your fingertips spasmed in Remus’. Your eyes began to flicker, and as soon as your lashes touched your cheeks, you were gone. 

Sirius beamed wetly, and laughed bitterly as he wiped at his face. Remus grabbed him and yanked him into a tight hug. 

“Fifteen years I’ve been desperate for just that,” Sirius admitted. “Not even to save her—I just—I just always wish I had been there sooner. So she wasn’t all by herself.”

Remus nodded, his words getting stuck in his throat for a moment. “I wanted to be there, too. I wanted to be with you both so badly. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking of you both alone afterwards.”

“We won’t be ever again,” Sirius swore, and grasped Remus’ hands so tight that he thought he might accidentally break his fingers. “All three of us. We’ll always—It will always be the three of us.”

Remus dropped his forehead to Sirius and nodded tearily. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Salty water combined at their chins. Joined hands reached for the necklace hanging around Remus’ neck. They turned it, once, then twice.

This time, the door was closed. Sirius sighed in relief as Remus dug through his bag for the de-ageing potion that they had stolen from Hogwarts. 

“We have to be quick about this,” Remus warned, and Sirius only nodded in agreement, accepting half of the drink from him, both men downing it at once. 

The effects of the potion worked quickly. Like before, there was an uncomfortable jolt and then everything began to become slightly brighter, and slightly sharper, too. Sirius patted his face when he was done, blinking to rid the dizziness, and checked Remus over. He didn’t look a day over twenty-two. He pressed a kiss to Remus’ lips. 

“Let’s do this,” he breathed.

Remus smiled nervously, and took Sirius’ hand, leading him down the cobblestone pavement. He pushed the front door open. The aroma of cinnamon had become so normal that he hardly smelt it now, but his heart nearly stopped in his chest when he heard the sound of music playing through the record player in the dining room. 

Your voice chimed in quietly to the soft sounds of Fleetwood Mac, and Remus nearly choked on the memories of your first kiss with him. He always liked to put their self-titled album on because he loved the way you flushed, also remembering back to a time where he had you in his dormitory. Every now and again, after a few drinks, Sirius would put it on and sit back so he could watch the two of you dance in the middle of the living room, as if you were back in the Gryffindor tower.

He shared a look with Sirius, who smiled wearily. They both stepped forward until they were in the kitchen doorframe. The tiled floors were pristine, perhaps even freshly mopped as Remus scanned them, as if looking for drops of blood, despite the fact that you stood with your back to them at the sink. 

You were washing up an abundance of dishes and baking trays, your bright yellow gloves pulled up to your elbows. You grabbed the mixing spoon and stuck the end in your mouth, licking the cake mixture off when you seemed to notice the eyes on you. 

You flinched, your heart skipping a beat. “Merlin’s beard!” You scolded them. “You both made me jump.” Then you glanced at the spoon in your hand, your cheeks flushing as you dropped it into the soapy dish water. “Every great baker tests their treats along the way.”

You always said that. Sirius had forgotten you always used to say that.

Your gaze flickered across both of them, your face softening as you peeled off your gloves. “Are you both going to just stand there and say nothing? I am sorry for trying to force you both to work your argument out, only you don’t realise how hard it is to be in the middle of world war three.”

Remus cleared his throat. “Don’t apologise for that. You should never apologise for that.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Have you talked?”

“We have,” he said softly. “We talked for a very, very long time.”

“And?” You prompted.

“We’re both the worst,” Sirius concluded. “We’re both irrational and stupid and over emotional, and you must be the kindest, most special person in the whole world to put up with all of our bullshit.”

You shook your head and sighed. “Neither of you are stupid or the worst. Over emotional, yeah. Irrational? Definitely. Especially you, Black,” you smiled. “But you shouldn’t say those things about yourselves. You’re both just scared. I’m scared, too. I’ve not been perfect either.”

Remus shook his head disbelievingly. “You have been perfect forever. Not once have you let us down.”

“Hm. Is that why you both stormed out when I was trying to help?”

Both their faces fell as if you had punched them. You furrowed your brows. The devastation that crept over their features was unlike anything you had seen from them before, and you wanted to ask them why, but Sirius surged forward and squeezed you into a tight hug. 

“We’ll never storm out again,” Sirius mumbled into your hair. “I don’t want to. I really don’t want to.”

You glanced concernedly at Remus, stroking Sirius’ back. 

“You were only gone a few hours. I’ve kept myself busy. I made some of that carrot cinnamon cake.”

When Sirius pulled back, he kissed you hard on the lips. 

“It smells amazing,” he said. He was sure it did, but he knew he never wanted to smell it again after today. 

You smiled softly at him, and then Remus reached across, and you were pulled into another kiss. Remus kept both his hands on your lower back, dragging you up to him, kissing you for slightly longer than usual. You held his jaw as you moved away. 

“I love you both,” you said softly, and ran a hand through Sirius’ hair. “I’m so happy you were able to work everything out in the end. What was the verdict?”

Sirius cleared his throat as you turned back to your dishes. “Erm, that life’s too short to hold grudges against the people you want to spend the rest of it with.”

You turned from the dishes, cooing at him. “Those hours away have made you smarter, Black. You’ve come back a wise old man.”

Remus’ eyes softened even more, if that were possible, and he melted into the back of you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his head dipping to rest in the crook of your neck. You giggled, but relaxed back into him. 

“This is the song that was playing when you first kissed me,” you reminded him, as he always did. 

Remus laughed quietly against your skin and swayed his hips as he always used to, holding onto you so that you were forced to copy him. He closed his eyes when he felt them start to burn, and tore away from you gently once he felt them threaten to squeeze past his lashes.

You didn’t notice the emotions that had stuck your boyfriend, and finished washing your last dish, placing it on the drying rack. 

“There’s magic for that, you know,” Sirius reminded you softly. He wanted you to stop so he could hold you properly. He was itching to. 

“I like the smell of the washing up liquid,” you said. “And I think the dishes are cleaner afterwards.”

Sirius watched you carefully as you placed the gloves over the tap to dry, and then popped your rings back on from the windowsill. He couldn’t believe how quickly everything came flooding back. Small parts of your routine that had left his head completely came rushing in now, to the point where Sirius recalled exactly which ring went on which finger.

He watched you grab a tea towel to start drying up, and it was then that he realised he hated what you were wearing. Your dress felt like a costume now; part of a scene that Sirius wished had never played out. Once you took it off, he swore he’d get rid of it, and he’d never have to see it ever again—not in the back of your wardrobe, nor in the back of his head.

“I still think that perhaps we should have that conversation together,” you said, a hint of nervousness in your tone. “I think it’s absolutely wonderful that the two of you have made up, but the things you were accusing each other of…” You shook your head, and faced them as you multitasked. “I never want to hear you say things like that ever again.”

Sirius ducked his head, ashamed. Remus was the first to speak, “You’re right. We can have the conversation tonight, if you’d like.”

“I was wrong,” Sirius admitted. “I never should have pointed fingers at Remus. Neither of us would ever do anything to put James, Lily, or Harry in jeopardy, or to help Voldemort in general. I just… Don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“Neither do I,” Remus agreed. “We are so sorry.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to us,” you whispered worriedly, furrowing your brows. “What if you two fight so badly one day that we can never come back from it?”

Sirius swallowed. “You worry about that?”

You nodded timidly. “I don’t want you to feel guilty. It’s just, sometimes when you argue, I feel this horrible sense of dread that one of you will take it too far, and we’ll all have to deal with the consequences.”

Anguish splattered Remus’ face and he couldn’t help but grab you, yanking you into a bone crushing hug. You squeezed him back, one of your hands wriggling to blindly invite Sirius over too. Remus opened his arm when he realised what you were doing, and you both grasped onto him. You felt safer than ever wedged between both men, your head resting against Remus’ chest. You could hear the soft drumming of his heartbeat, like your favourite song.

Your face pressed painfully against something cold and hard. Peeling away, you kept Remus at arms length and clutched at the necklace around his neck, your brows furrowing. 

“What’s this?” You asked, and then you blinked. “That’s a time-turner.”

Sirius stilled. “How do you know what a time turner is?”

“You had one. Back at school…” You said, shaking your head. “It’s all foggy. I’m just remembering now. I completely forgot you had one. Where did you find it?”

Remus pulled it back from your fingers. “I never had a time-turner at school. This isn’t… it’s not a time-turner, sweetheart, it’s just…”

“It’s jewellery I gave him so he’d forgive me,” Sirius attempted.

You scowled and shoved the tea towel at him. “Don’t you dare both act like I am stupid.” You folded your arms against your chest. “What have you both been up to?”

Remus cursed, running a hand through his hair. “Baby, just… Do you remember anymore of us showing you it, or is that all?”

Sirius had never even thought to suggest to Remus that they check his advanced Obliviation spell worked. It certainly couldn’t have been strong for the sight of the time-turner to jog your memory, either that or the laws of time-turning had some sort of effect on Obliviation spells.

You thought for a moment. “I remember Sirius being really upset—wait, no—Sirius was in the hospital wing, he’d been hurt during the full. You were showing me because—no, you were in the hospital wing, too. I was dreaming because I was stressed and…” You glared at the floor, and then back up at them.

They knew the moment it clicked. 

Your mouth dropped open and you backed up further, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. Your eyes darted between them both, suddenly brimming with tears. You held a hand over your pounding heart. 

“You said you’d come back to—” You breathed. “Oh, Merlin’s beard, you’re the same Sirius and Remus who visited me that night, aren’t you? You’re from the future. How did I just forget all of that? You said you’d come back to the day I die—is—is it about to happen?”

“It’s supposed to,” Sirius said roughly. “It’s not going to happen.”

You clutched your forehead, blinking rapidly. Remus placed a soothing hand on the small of your back, rubbing circles.

“Peter…” You exhaled. “Peter asked…”

Your legs became heavy beneath you and you slid to the floor slowly, your back against the counter. Sirius gulped at the sight of you, in that dress, on this kitchen floor. Remus knelt beside you, ignoring the clicks in his knees.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” Remus promised through gritted teeth. “Do you remember what we said about Peter framing Sirius?”

“Vaguely,” you nodded. “Yeah. Yes, I do. Sorry. It was three years ago for me.”

“Three hours for us,” Sirius mumbled teasingly, and joined you on the ground. “We’re going to get him tonight, sweetheart. He’ll be the one who goes to Azkaban, and you’ll live. We’ll all be with each other for a very, very long time.”

You buried your face in your hands as you thought hard. Minutes later, your face emerged.

“How will Peter go to Azkaban if he never kills me? He’s not committed the crime, then,” you said.

“He kills the muggles,” Remus said quickly, before Sirius could speak.

“Then surely he goes to muggle prison.”

Sirius’ mouth trembled. “You’re not the only person he gets killed tonight,” he burst.

Remus shot him a furious look. “Sirius,” he scolded scathingly. 

“Who?” You demanded, your voice wobbling, and your heart caught when you saw how upset they both looked, and it all pieced together. “It’s Harry, isn’t it? He gives him to Voldemort, doesn’t he? No. That’s impossible. You’re the secret-keeper, Sirius. So who is it?”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Sirius was never the secret-keeper. It was Peter. James asked Sirius, but Sirius thought it'd be better for them to choose somebody nobody expected.”

Your mouth fell open and your eyes brimmed with tears. “But—but— So–so Harry dies tonight? Baby Harry?” 

“Not Harry,” Sirius grunted, and turned away in an effort to avoid you seeing his face.

“No,” you gasped, and you grasped Remus’ jumper, and this time the tears poured down your cheeks as if the faucet had been switched on. His thumbs wiped them slower than they came. “No, no, no. Not James. Not Lily! No! No!”

You smacked at Remus’ chest, and he grasped your wrists gently, closing his eyes. Sirius buried his face in his hands, as if to save himself from the sight. He’d never had to watch someone mourn their best friends before. It was like someone had ripped out the stitches he’d so messily patched himself up with.

“No!” You sobbed. “No, no. Remus. Remus, we need to go and help them. Like you’re helping me! We need to get to them.”

“We can’t,” Sirius croaked, and his fists clenched by his sides. You didn’t understand him in the slightest. “Voldemort wants Harry. It’s Lily’s protection that ultimately kills him.”

“You said he comes back anyway!” You bellowed.

You still didn’t understand. How could they just stand here?

“If we save Lily and James, Voldemort won’t die,” Remus said. “He’s winning right now, isn’t he? It’s getting worse out there. Peter is the reason Voldemort’s resurrected in about thirteen, fourteen years. We can send Peter to Azkaban instead of Sirius, and that will be the end of him. No second war. Minimal sacrifice.”

Your lip wobbled and you clutched him tighter. “There has to be another way. You worked it out for me. We can work something out for them, too. What if we can defeat Voldemort? How did Lily do it? Can’t we warn them?”

“It was Lily’s sacrifice that killed him,” Remus whispered. “Nobody could ever recreate such a thing.”

You turned away from them both and paced the room, back and forth, back and forth. 

“We’ll save Harry,” Sirius said quietly, as if that would make you feel any better. “If we’re all here, Harry will have a home.”

“He doesn’t if we’re not?” 

“He gets sent to his muggle aunt,” Sirius scowled. “And she’s awful to him.”

You wiped away tears, and then some more. “He deserves to be with his mum and dad. He deserves Lily and James, not us. I’m—I’m too young. He’ll be so confused.”

Remus hesitated. “Harry suffers a lot thanks to Peter. He lost his parents, but at least he’ll grow up knowing the sacrifice they made, and he’ll live a happier, longer life. We just need to stop Peter.”

You turned away from them, your chest hollow. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Lily rang me this morning. Harry was trying to babble down the phone to me, like he does. James was—he was trying to tell me about the costume he picked out for Harry, even though they can’t go trick or treating, and I was just—I was so upset about all of the stuff going on between the three of us that I was hardly listening. I didn’t even pay attention when Lily said she had to go, I can’t even remember if I told her I’d see her soon—or—or if—” you choked, burying your face again.

Sirius grabbed you, and wrangled you into his arms. “We will get through this together,” he whispered. “We will make sure it’s justified. I promise you that.”

You shook your head. “There must be another way to defeat Voldemort. There must be something else.”

“Nobody has worked it out,” he murmured. “Nobody but Lily.”

You rested your head against his arm, relishing in the way he ran his fingers through your hair. Your heart ached painfully, mourning the friends who weren’t gone yet.

“Can’t we work that part out later?” You mumbled solemnly. 

Remus joined you, placing a hand on Sirius’ arm. “Maybe one day we can come back, but… we’re not sure how much that would impact our timeline, sweetheart. The… If Voldemort keeps winning for much longer, there’s a chance he’ll tip the scales completely. James, Lily, and Harry would all die later, we could all die too, in battle. There’s too much possibility.”

“But you’re saving me,” you whispered, and then you pulled away to keep Sirius at arm’s length. “What if that’s the wrong thing to do?”

Remus swallowed. “Your death was completely unjustified and only saved Peter in the grand scheme of things. It damned Sirius, it damned me. It’ll have minimal impact on the outcome of the war, and…”

“A great big fucking impact on our livelihoods,” Sirius finished.

Your silence was deafening. Your eyes were slightly swollen, your lips redder than usual. You brushed your hair from your face and breathed in and out, focusing on the floor.

“How could Peter do this to all of us?” You croaked after minutes.  

Sirius caressed your face. “He only cared about himself.”

You tilted your head so his hand cupped your jaw, and his thumb wiped some water from above your top lip. His grey eyes watched you so softly, so earnestly, and you could see that he was breaking down inside, too. The thought of your Sirius spending the rest of his youth behind prison bars made your skin crawl. It made you want to find Peter and kill him there and then. 

“What’s the plan, then?” You mumbled.

Sirius reached out to kiss your forehead. “We get as far away from here as possible, so Peter can’t hurt you.”

“He’s going to frame you,” you tell him angrily. “Whether you are here or not, Sirius, he will try to frame you for James and Lily’s deaths, if not mine.”

You felt sick as your friends’ names left your mouth. You felt like you were betraying them for not helping. You wondered if Remus was telling the truth about potentially going back in time at a later date to save them once they knew how to defeat Voldemort. For your own sanity, you chose to believe him. 

Remus furrowed his brows. “What are you suggesting?”

The oven began to beep, and all your gazes flickered over. You switched it off so it would stop the noise. 

“Well, Peter asked to come over tonight,” you swallowed, and grabbed the oven mitts, placing them over your hands before retrieving your cake. “I made him his favourite and everything. I suppose it’d be rather rude if I didn’t welcome him.”

Both men felt sick as pieces of an old puzzle began to fall into place. You had invited Peter over that night and baked for him specially. You’d sat with him and talked, and he had killed you anyway. 

Sirius looked horrified. “You want to… do what? Let him in?”

Remus thought for a moment. “You want to trap him.”

“The aurors can deal with him, but if he runs away, we’re screwed,” you said. “And I’ll be damned if Peter gets away with it again.”

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” Sirius said. “You—what if he—what if he gets you again?”

“You two will be here. He won’t know it. I’ll get him.”

“We can grab him,” Remus said.

“No. I want to,” you scowled. “If Peter thinks he’s clever killing his unsuspecting friends, then we’ll have to see how clever he feels when I already know what’s coming.”

“No, no way,” Sirius shook his head. “No. I can’t—I can’t see it happen again—I can’t—”

Your eyes turned softer, and you grasped his face. “I want to get him. I am a capable witch.”

“More than capable,” Remus agreed after a moment, though his eyes were strained. “You should know that he doesn’t use magic.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No,” Sirius spat, and he reached over the counter for the knife that swam in the back of his head every night before sleep. “So I’m taking this. No chances.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly and your stomach flipped. “He—he—” You shook your head, and looked at the time on the clock. “It doesn’t matter. He’s coming over in twenty minutes.”

“Wait,” Remus grabbed Sirius’ arm before they could spring into action. “Remember when we cornered him at the Shrieking Shack? He turned into his animagus form.”

Your eyes lit up and you beamed at Sirius. “How do you fancy a trip up into the loft for that old gerbil cage I had?”

Sirius grinned.

── .✦

Your heart was pounding out of your chest when you heard the doorbell ring. You adjusted your hair in the mirror by the dining table, and nearly jumped when Sirius swooped out of the pantry cupboard to grasp your waist and drag you into a kiss. Your mouth melted against his, his hands shaking as he released you, and then you kissed the fond face of Remus Lupin, too.

“You know what to say if you want us to jump in.”

“I ask him if he wants to try the brownies I made.”

“Good girl,” Remus mumbled, and kissed your hairline. “Get him.”

You squeezed his hand and shut the pantry cupboard door, leaving them both in the darkness with their wands drawn. You exhaled and headed for the door just as the bell rang again. 

You yanked it open and forced a smile at Peter.

“Pete,” you greeted.

Peter smiled at you, a smile that you thought was nervous as you studied it, and entered your house when you stood aside to make room for him. 

“Shoes off,” you reminded him. 

You felt an odd sense of imposter syndrome knowing that you had done all of this before. You wondered if subconsciously you were changing your dialogue or if you had said this all of those years ago in the world Sirius and Remus knew you from.

Peter yanked off his shoes and put them beside a pair of Remus’ Doc Martens. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve just had a really long day.”

He followed you through to the kitchen. You were hesitant to have your back turned to him, but Sirius had told you that you had both eaten by the time he had tried anything on you. You clung onto that information for dear life.

“What were you up to?” You asked. “Please, sit down. I made your favourite.”

Peter smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Y/N. Just some paperwork I didn’t finish at work yesterday. Wasn’t really planning to spend my Saturday filling out forms.”

“Something you would have rather been doing?” You asked, your teeth nearly gritted, but thankfully Peter looked too tired and wrapped up in himself to notice.

He shook his head. “No. It’s been really quiet for me lately. I was happy when you phoned earlier. I was going to ask to see you tonight anyway.”

“It’s a shame Sirius and Remus couldn’t be here,” you said. “They would have loved to have seen you. It’s been so long since we all hung out as a group.”

“Too long,” Peter agreed, and you noticed the way his gaze flickered to the table.

You reached for two small plates from the cupboard. 

“Phoned James and Lily this morning,” you told him. “Harry’s really trying to talk now, bless him.”

He looked visibly uncomfortable as you placed his plate in front of him. 

“Do you want a big bit or a little bit?” You asked, and put the cake between you both. 

“Little bit’s fine.”

“Oh, come on, Pete. I made this for you. Rem and Sirius won’t help me eat all of this.”

“Where are they both?” Peter asked, and accepted the large portion you put on his plate. 

“Both went out for a bit,” you said as he ate a forkful. 

“Ah. This is really good, Y/N. Brilliant as always.”

“Thank you, Pete. Glad you think so.”

You ate some of yours as you watched him, and you wondered what you had thought about in the past, when you had been utterly clueless. Had you been filling the space with all of your chatter? That was what you often liked to do with Peter, and then he’d always agree with you and add his own piece. 

He ate quicker than you wanted to. You’d hoped the more he had on his plate, the longer it’d take for him to get to this part. 

“What were Remus and Sirius arguing about?”

Your brows furrowed, confused.

“On the phone earlier. You said it’d be just us because they were upset with one another. Was it just typical Remus and Sirius drama, or was there something wrong?”

You put your pudding fork on your empty plate and pursed your lips. “Between you and I, the rat in the Order is really starting to get to them.” 

Peter frowned. “Who do they think it is?”

“Each other,” you said, and watched him blanch. “Yes, really stupid, isn’t it?” You agreed with a small laugh as you climbed from your seat. “As if good men like Remus or Sirius would ever do something so low and insane.” 

You turned to grab a cloth from the counter, and heard the chair scrape back behind you. You instinctively looked over your shoulder, seeing as this time, you knew what the commotion was. 

“Avada Kedavra!” Peter cried, and for a second you tensed, flinching, but nothing happened. You looked down at your hands, and flexed your fingers across the cloth, dropping it back down.

You began to glare. “Really?” You laughed horribly at him. “You come into my house, I treat you like a friend, and you don’t even have the decency to curse me to my face?”

Peter trembled, swallowing thickly. “Avada Kedavra!” He tried again, and then shook his wand. “Fuck! Why’s it—why—” he panicked breathlessly. “Y/N, I’m sorry—I have to—Why’s it not—?”

“You need to mean it, to kill me,” you snapped, and watched his eyes dart around the kitchen for the next nearest weapon. “You want to stab me, do you, Peter? Why? So you can frame Sirius for everything? So there won’t be an alibi? So Remus won’t defend him? So I won’t defend him?”

Peter scowled at her. “You don’t understand!”

“I don’t want to understand you. You’re pathetic!” You seethed at him. 

He tried his wand again. “Expelliarmus!”

Your wand flew from your grip, and as he moved to tackle you, the pantry door opened behind him and Sirius was on him within a moment, his arm wrapped around his neck, strangling. 

“Yeah, you know who this is,” Sirius spat viciously against his ear. 

“Sirius!” Peter struggled, his hands desperately trying to scratch the other man’s pale skin. “Remus, help—help me!”

Remus was already diving down as soon as Peter began to shrink. He had seen it a hundred times before, the way his clothes suddenly started to become too big. You did the same, rushing for him as Sirius blindly stomped on the pair of trousers. 

“Sirius, we can’t kill him!” Remus warned.

You found his fat little body and squashed him against the floor so he couldn’t bite you with his long teeth. Sirius was quick to grab the tongs he’d left out to pick Wormtail up, and he threw him in the cage, snapping the door shut. 

“You’ll be staring at bars for a long while now,” Sirius laughed. “You best get used to it.”

Wormtail scrambled around, desperately trying at the bars with his teeth and then his little hands, but nothing gave way and he squeaked and squeaked and squeaked. 

“We know what you did to James and Lily,” you croaked at him. “And the aurors are on their way. You’ll get what you deserve, Peter.”

Remus held onto you as the adrenaline wore off and you began to cry again. You cried for Lily, James, and Harry. You cried because Peter, one of your best friends, had just tried to kill you and frame your boyfriend. You cried because the look of relief on Remus and Sirius’ faces was enough for you to realise you had most likely just escaped a truly gruesome, horrible fate: for all three of you. 

── .✦

“What happens now?” You asked as you uncurled yourself from Sirius’ grasp a couple of hours later. “Surely your younger versions will be coming home soon. They’ll have no clue any of this has happened.”

Peter had been taken away in his cage, the most satisfying sight for Sirius who knew that Peter was about to endure the worst years of his life. Now that they knew Peter was an unregistered animagus too, there was no chance of him slipping through those bars the same way Sirius had a couple of years ago. 

Remus thought for a few moments. “We can Obliviate you. It’s most likely the safest option. The less people who know we meddled with time, the better. Once we’re back to our present time, the time loop will complete itself and become full circle.”

“So, when you get back, there will be a thirty-something-year-old version of me with you?”

“That’s the plan,” Sirius squeezed your fingers. “And hopefully we’ll have twenty years of memories to look back on. Ones you need to make for us now.”

You smiled sadly. “I like the way you put that. What if I remember again? It didn’t work last time.”

“I think the time turner may have triggered your memory,” Remus said. “But I’ll be returning this as soon as we are back.”

You hummed. “Alright. It’s strange that I won’t remember today. I won’t know I was ever supposed to die. But I suppose that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“It’s probably best you don’t,” Sirius said. “We can leave enough memory that you remember stopping Peter, so when the aurors interrogate you, they don’t realise you’ve been Obliviated, and see us here.”

You kissed him on the mouth, your hand tangling with his dark hair. Then, you kissed Remus.

“Do it now. I don’t enjoy goodbyes.”

“You’ll see us both really soon.”

── .✦

You yawned as you finished clingfilming the sandwich you’d prepared for tomorrow, your head unexpectedly bumping backwards against a hard chest. Arms wrapped around you, and your heart skipped a beat when Sirius ducked to kiss your jaw. Your eyes flickered across the room where Remus sat at the dining table, Harry on his lap. Remus read his own book whilst Harry attempted one himself. 

“He’s converting him lame,” Sirius whispered against your ear, and you giggled. “James would be horrified.”

“James wasn’t quite as illiterate as you are,” you told him teasingly, and shrieked as Sirius wriggled his fingers into his ribs the way he did with Harry to rile him up. “Stop! Hey!”

“Siri!” Harry scolded, at the same time as Remus shot him a look. 

“Hey, hey,” Sirius held his hands up innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“You hurted her!”

“I tickled her,” Sirius corrected him. “Shall I tickle you next?”

“No!” Harry laughed. 

“Then mind your own beeswax, mister,” Sirius played, and moved around to ruffle Harry’s uncontrollable hair—already as bad as James’ was. 

“He was just sticking up for Y/N, weren’t you, Harry?” Remus noted warmly, and squeezed Harry’s shoulder in an attempt to get him to stay seated.

They could see the look in Harry’s eyes—Sirius had set him off. 

“Yeah,” Harry said proudly and leaned back with his book. 

“Well, I’ve packed your lunch for tomorrow,” you beamed, and placed it in the fridge beside his yogurt and his fruit—you’d taken him to the shops that day so he could pick out what he wanted. “Are you excited for your first day of school?”

“No,” Harry huffed. “I like being here. With you.”

“I’ll be here when you get home,” you reminded him. “Every day. I’m not going anywhere, Harry.”

Remus stroked Harry’s hair endearingly. “None of us are. How about you run upstairs and get into bed and one of us will come and read to you.”

Harry nodded eagerly. 

“Who would you like tonight?”

“You, Rem. You do the best voices.”

Remus stuck his tongue out at Sirius, who played back.

“Alright, alright. Hurry upstairs then, Harry. If you take too long, I’ll miss my bedtime, and then we’ll both be grouchy in the morning!” 

Harry stood up and tucked his book beneath his arm. He walked over to you and let you routinely kiss the top of his head, and then he moved to Sirius and gave him a hug as always. Sirius jabbed his fingers in his ribs and Harry’s squeal echoed through the house. Remus hissed.

“Run, Harry! Or I’ll get you again!” Sirius called as Harry took off running and laughing. “Remember the only safe place is under your duvet!”

You chuckled and shook your head.

“Good luck getting him to wind down,” Sirius smiled smugly at Remus. “Should be a piece of cake for you, considering you’re so good at the voices.”

Remus rolled his eyes but smiled amusedly and kissed Sirius’ cheek. “How bitter are you, Black?”

“Bitter is my middle name, don’t you know?”

“Thought it was Jealous,” you teased, and snaked your arms around Sirius’ thin waist.

Remus laughed and kissed you next. 

“I best put him to bed, then. I guess I have been selected.”

“Thank you, Rem,” you said warmly. 

“I can’t believe it’s his first day of school tomorrow,” Sirius said, and held onto your hands, relishing in the way it felt to have your front against his back. “Time has flown by so quickly.”

“It’s terrifying,” you agreed. 

Remus hummed. “God knows where we’d be without Harry. Wouldn’t change this for the world.” You smiled, and you supposed that, after all of the shit the wizarding war had brought, and with the loss of your friends, this was the best outcome imaginable.

starry-eyed-moony ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

[5unoiia]

This is too good omg

[danysdaughter]

Put That Down!

pairing | older!loser!bf!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 12.3k words summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there. tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

MASTERLIST

Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.

Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.

James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.

He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.

Because you had.

You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.

Even with his corny ass mustache.

It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.

It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”

Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.

And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.

Even more so, his big dick.

If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.

And, yes, there were red flags.

The texts, for one.

In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.

He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.

It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.

It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.

And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.

You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.

Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.

You really, truly believed that.

And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.

And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.

You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.

james barnes (bucky) Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm

You lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm

james barnes (bucky) Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm Doll? | 10:39pm

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.

You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.

But it didn’t stop.

By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.

You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.

More messages had piled in.

james barnes (bucky) Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm

“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.

You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”

“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”

You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.

“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”

Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.

MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.

Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.

You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.

You just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm

james barnes (bucky) Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm

You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.

“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.

You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.

“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.

She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.

“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”

“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.

Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”

MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.

You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.

james barnes (bucky) When are you heading home? | 11:02pm Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm

It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.

You im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm

You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.

Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.

james barnes (bucky) I will, sorry. | 11:06pm Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm

You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.

The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.

Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”

They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”

You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.

Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”

You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”

Darcy laughed beside you.

“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”

“—Michelle, please.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”

You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.

“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”

You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.

Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”

“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.

“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”

You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.

MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.

Then your shoulders dropped a little.

You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”

“Dump him.”

“Dump his old creepy ass.”

MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”

Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.

MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”

You turned your head slowly. “A break?”

“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”

You frowned faintly, listening.

“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”

You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”

“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.

Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.

A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.

“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.

The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.

It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.

The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.

There he was.

Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.

He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.

He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.

When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.

The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.

“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.

“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”

He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”

A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.

He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.

Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.

“Another one?” he murmured.

He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”

“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.

He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”

Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.

He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.

You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”

“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.

He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.

“Bucky, please—”

“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”

As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”

An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.

As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.

Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.

“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”

“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.

Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.

Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.

“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.

You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.

Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.

Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”

With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.

Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.

You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.

He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”

“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.

You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.

“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.

As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.

He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”

He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.

“I got you, doll,” he whispered.

And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.

“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”

He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.

His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.

“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.

“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”

“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.

The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.

The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.

Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.

For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.

But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.

He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.

He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.

“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.

You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.

“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”

You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.

Then his next sentence caught your attention.

“Think you should move in with me.”

He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.

You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.

“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.

“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”

You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”

The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.

His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.

“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.

Something important.

It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.

Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.

“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.

He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.

“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”

It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.

“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”

Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”

You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.

You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.

He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.

He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”

His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”

The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.

His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.

“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.

It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.

He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.

“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”

You said nothing.

Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.

You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.

And so began the silent treatment.

Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.

He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.

He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.

“You know I love you, yeah?”

You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.

His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?

You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”

He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.

He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.

At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.

You had no idea where that came from.

His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.

You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.

Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.

But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.

Let him think that.

“A break?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.

Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock. 

Perfect timing, doll, I just—

Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.

He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”

You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”

“—so you’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”

“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.

He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”

“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”

You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.

You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.

“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.

“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.

He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.

“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”

You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.

“Bucky, what are—hmph—”

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.

What the fuck.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.

“Mmph—Bucky—”

“I love you,” he emphasised.

Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.

“And you love me.”

Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.

“I need you, doll.”

And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.

Slap. Slap. SLAP.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.

You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.

“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.

It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”

You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”

Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.

“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.

You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”

You scoffed.

Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.

And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.

You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.

His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”

You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.

“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.

“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”

“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids. 

Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.

“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”

He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.

“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”

He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”

You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”

He turned around.

And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.

You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.

“What the fuck!”

But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”

He ignored you.

“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.

You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.

“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”

“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.

And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.

He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”

“Oh my God.”

“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.

But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”

“You counted?”

“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”

You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.

His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”

You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”

“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”

Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”

The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.

“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”

You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.

Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”

“Wait—what?”

You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”

His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.

“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”

“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.

Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.

Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.

“For fuck’s sake—”

He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.

You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.

Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.

He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—

But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.

In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.

Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.

“He pulled out a gun?”

Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.

The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.

Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”

“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”

Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”

You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”

She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension. 

“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”

You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Girl.”

“What?” you said defensively.

“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”

You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”

Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”

“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.

“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”

You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating? 

“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”

She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”

“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”

Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.

“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”

“I probably sounds insane.”

“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”

She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”

You stared at her.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.

Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.

“He must have a big dick, huh?”

The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.

You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”

“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”

“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”

“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.

You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.

She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.

You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.

“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”

Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”

“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.

Then your phone rang.

You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.

“He what?!”

The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.

“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”

Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”

You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”

You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.

“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”

Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.

You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.

The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.

But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.

The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.

Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.

He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.

His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.

Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.

And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.

There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.

The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.

The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.

“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.

He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.

The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”

His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.

And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.

Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.

You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.

You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”

“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”

You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”

“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.

You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.

“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”

if you made it this far… thanks

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Yes, Baby... Part 6

You little brother just doesn't know any better. Or does he? cw: pseudo!incest, didi caleb/jiejie mc, fingering, orgasm denial, caleb babbling about how good he'd fuck his jie, xavier appears oh no, caleb fucks up, FUTURE NON!CON (you've been warned)

It takes some time, and a lot of resisting Caleb's constant whining and begging to touch you, until he finally finds a girl he deems good enough to fuck. You had even started to suspect he’s tricking you again until to your surprise, and pain, he did find someone. He shows you her pictures when he visits, sitting you on his lap as he goes through them. 

“She's pretty isn’t she?” He asks, lips brushing against your neck as he presses open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin.

“Yes.” You admit, and try to ignore the uneasy feeling brewing inside you at him finally finding a girl he thinks is attractive… and how familiar she looks. 

You’re still staring at her pictures when you feel his hands slide up under your shirt. 

“Let's practice then.” He groans, his hands grabbing at your bare breasts under the shirt you borrowed from him. The sight of you in it had left him worked up, you know. You can feel it against your ass. But in your defense you hadn’t expected him to visit you today. It’s a weekday. He’s not supposed to be here. He sprang this visit on you so he can show you his precious find. “I'm a bit rusty. Don’t wanna disappoint her.”

He kneads your breasts, pushing them together and brushing his thumbs back and forth over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. “Can we play boyfriend and girlfriend again? It'll help me focus.” 

“Caleb…” You whine, knowing you shouldn’t give into him but he’s doing what you want, isn’t he? And though you’re ashamed to admit it, even to yourself, you’re horny too. It’s not like you’ve been out hooking up with other guys either. Your only sexual experience so far has been with your little brother, and despite how wrong it was, having someone else touch you—especially someone with such big, thick fingers, a hard body and even harder dick—felt good, much better than your own fingers did. 

“Come on, jie. Please.” One of his hands continues playing with your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger while his other hand moves down your body, a hiss leaving his lips as his fingers slip under your panties. “You’re already so wet for me.”

You feel his hard cock twitch, straining in his pants and pressing against your ass. His fingers on your breast grow bolder, tugging and twisting your nipple while his hand between your legs rubs circles that make heat pool in your belly. 

“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” He whispers hotly as his fingers spread your growing wetness around. “Do you like my fingers between your legs, jie?”

At your silence, he twists your nipple a bit roughly, making you yelp and involuntarily arch your back. “Come on, jie, it’s not nice to ignore your boyfriend. Haven’t I been a good boy?”

“Yes.” You hiss, giving in. “I like it, baby.”

“Yeah? Fuck, jiejie… you turn me on so bad.” He groans, grinding his hips up against your ass so you can feel every thick inch of him. His fingers slide down to your entrance, dipping the tips in as his other hand squeezes your breasts roughly, letting you feel just how needy he’s feeling.  “Wanna be inside you, jiejie. I belong in here. I’ve waited my whole life for it. Can I have it please? Need my first time to be with you…”

His thumb rubs your clit in circles as he shallowly fucks your hole. You lean into his touch, so embarrassingly wet you can clearly hear the slick noises of his fingers on your pussy. “No, didi, be good.” 

“But jiejie, I’m—fuck, jie, it hurts so bad.” He groans, grinding harder against your ass, his cock twitching desperately. “Please. Don’t wanna cum in my pants. Wanna cum inside you.”

“Stop it, Caleb.” You deny him harshly, the venom in your voice directed at your own self for wanting it just a little bit too. You just need to get fucked, that’s it. You’ll find a guy to dick you down once you get Caleb laid and off your back. You don’t want to even think about how he’ll react if you do it now. You’ve got him on such a short but flimsy leash, and you don’t want to set him off when you’re so close to succeeding. “You can’t fuck me.” 

He whines like a kicked puppy, and it may have been slightly endearing if he didn’t open his mouth. “What about your ass? Can I fuck that?” He asks and you gasp. “Caleb!”

“It won’t count.” He pleads, “Your ass doesn’t count, right? Please.”

You hate how the pleasure is dulling your outrage at his daring requests. The little shit shouldn’t even think about something so dirty, let alone ask it of you. But every pinch of his fingers on your nipple sends a fresh spark of pleasure straight down to where his fingers are working you open, and you can only squirm against him, feeling his throbbing cock against your ass. 

“Don’t even fucking think about it.” You hiss at him and he whimpers against your ear. His fingers never stop stroking your pussy, his two thick digits pumping shallowly in and out while his thumb circles your clit. “Can’t help it. Need to be inside you any way I can. Don’t feel whole without you. Been empty my whole life, knowing only you can fill me up.”

The unexpected confession strikes a cord in your heart, and you feel a void inside you reverberate in answer, an emptiness you’ve felt ever since the day you were born and never knew how to fill. Does he have that terrible emptiness too? Is that why he’s so hellbent on chasing after you, because he thinks you can fill it? 

“I keep thinking about it…” He babbles, “Your tight little hole… how warm and soft it would feel around my cock. I bet it would squeeze me so good, jiejie. Keep me inside and make me whole again.”

“Shut up.” You hiss but he doesn’t. You can never really get him to shut up when he’s on one of his horny rambles. 

“Would feel so perfect… made just for me, I know it.” His hand on your breast squeezes harder as he grinds up against you in desperate rolls. “I’d go so slow for you, I swear. Just let me stretch you open… let me fill you up where no one else has ever been, and no one else will ever be. You’d let me, right? Because I’m your didi and you’re my sweet jiejie.”

And no one else will ever be. 

His words send chills down your spine. You try not to put much stock into his horny rambles but you worry that with every passing day, he’s slipping further and further into his dangerous delusions and you won't be able to cure him. 

“I said no.” 

But despite your insistence, your body writhes in his embrace, lost to the pleasure even as your mind screams at you. How is he meant to take you seriously when you indulge him like this? Of course he thinks he can demand more of you. “You’re my good didi, aren’t you? So be good.” 

And how can you reject him when every time you do, he acts like you’ve ripped his heart out and slammed it against the wall? A spoiled Caleb is demanding but a scorned Caleb is…  unsettling. 

“No, no. I’m so close, jie. Please, please, don’t wanna cum in my pants when your pretty hole is right there” He grunts, grinding his cock against your ass even as he says that, and you can feel a wet spot start to form as he leaks through his pants.  

“Then don’t cum.” You gasp out, feeling yourself getting close too. “Be a good boy. Hold it for me.”

“I’m trying… fuck, I’m trying so hard.” He whimpers, “Will you let me fuck you if I hold it? I just wanna push my cock between your cheeks and—” His hips stutter, his words breaking off into a moan as he fights the urge to let go.

“Keep going. Keep going. Don’t stop.” You brush off his question. You’re right on the edge now and you don’t want to ruin it. 

“Jiejie, please—I need it. I need to slide my cock into your tight little hole… stretch you out… fill you up until you finally accept me.” His fingers pump faster, thumb pressing frantic circles on your clit while he keeps babbling desperately against your neck. “I’d be so deep, jiejie. You’d feel every inch of me. I’d cum so much inside you…you won't ever get rid of me…”

The filthy, forbidden words, combined with the relentless motion of his fingers and the heavy grind of his cock against your ass, finally push you over. You cum with a loud moan, thighs clamping around his hand as your pussy gushes around his fingers. 

Caleb lets out a choked sound, hips jerking erratically against you as he fights not to follow you over the edge. His cock twitches against your ass, leaking steadily, but he somehow manages to hold back… barely.

“Good boy.” You whisper shakily, still coming down from your orgasm, and reach back to pat his sweaty hair. “Such a good boy for me…”

“Please, please—can I have it now?” He pants, his hips jerking ever so slightly against you.

“No, baby.” You sigh, patting his hot cheek now. “In fact, I think it would be good if you don’t cum at all tonight.”

You feel him stiffen against you. “W-what?” 

“You said you’re not attracted to any of the girls from before. What if you struggle with this one too?” You explain your cruel reasoning to him, “You need to stay all hot and horny so you won’t have any issues tomorrow.”

You know he won’t be happy about your decision so you try to stand up quickly, wanting to put distance between you before his foggy brain catches you. But you barely separate before he yanks you down, laying you on your back on the bed and crawling between your legs. 

“You’re not going to leave me like this!” He fumes, bucking his hips against you in a harsh thrust as if to make his point.

“I know it’s not pleasant, baby.” You coax, brushing your fingers through his hair in a way that would normally soothe him. But he’s so pent up it hardly makes a dent. “But this is necessary. And I think learning to edge yourself will be good for your endurance too. You worry so much about finishing too fast, right? This will help.”

“No, No.” He mutters, and grinds against you faster, now desperate for any form of release. “I don’t need to be edged. I just need you to make me cum.”  

“You can cum tomorrow, baby. You're a big boy now, right? You can wait.” You say a little condescendingly, hoping he'd feel embarrassed enough to try to prove himself to you. But Caleb has never been shy about showing his need and even sometimes downright pitifulness to you.

“I can't!” He cries out as if he'll die if you don't let him cum. “Jiejie… please. I did everything you wanted. I was so good for you. Just let me cum. I’ll take even this. You won’t have to do anything. Please. It hurts so bad…”

You squirm in his hold, trying to get out from under him as he ruts against you like a dog. “Let me go, Caleb.” 

He whines louder, “I’ll be quick, I swear. Just give me a couple of minutes and I'll make a mess in my pants for you. You like that, right? Like making me beg for it. I like it too, jie. I like anything you do to me.”

You don't. You don't like the way he talks about it. You like it. You do this to me. You. You. It's not you who caused this mess, right? Right?!

But no matter how much he whines, begs, or tries to bargain, you refuse.

“Caleb, don’t ruin everything we’ve worked for.” You tell him and he scoffs. “I don't care. I need you. You should take care of me. You're my big sister. You need to take care of me.”

You sigh. You won't get through to him in this state. You have to shift gears. 

“If you’re good for me and get off of me… I'll give you a reward after.” You promise even though you know you shouldn’t. 

That gets his attention and he pauses his incessant grinding but doesn't get off you yet. “Will I get your ass?” 

You glare at him. “No.”

“Your pussy?”

“Hell no.”

“Then what’s the reward?” He huffs.

“The reward is I still let you touch me.” You mutter, the ungrateful brat taking all you’re giving him for granted. If you were any other sister, he wouldn’t have even dared to hold you down like this let alone make such brazen demands. If you were any other sister, none of this would have happened.

You wonder what he would have done if you stayed firm in your denial that very first time? Would it have really made all the difference or would he have found another way in? Would it have been worse?

You shudder. 

“Jiejie, come on…” He protests but his tone is hesitant and you know he worries you'd take it all away again if he pushes you too far. 

You also worry about pushing him too far so you try to compromise. “You can have my mouth.” 

“But I've had your mouth.” He huffs insolently and you bark out a laugh. The nerve of him! Acting as if getting a few blowjobs entitles him to free use of your mouth. 

“And you may never have it again if you keep up this attitude.” You grit and he shrivels under the threat. 

“Okay, okay.” He winces as he literally peels himself away from you, your flesh sticking together with need and sweat. 

“You're a bad jiejie.” He huffs out and your heart sinks. 

You know he's just saying it because he didn't get what he wanted, but you hate hearing it anyway. He used to say it sometimes back when he was younger and you didn't let him have his way but after you told him how much it hurt you, he never said it again. Yet here he is saying it straight to your face with no remorse. 

He really can be so cruel sometimes. 

He’s with her right now. He’s going to do it. You feel sick. 

________________________

Your stomach has been in knots since the morning. You can’t concentrate on anything. Work has been a blur. You heard nothing during important briefings. Xavier had to be the one to clue you in later, and that's saying a lot coming from the man who zones out of almost every conversation. Your fights with wanderers were on autopilot, and you’re lucky that your partner is the best hunter in Linkon or you would have been dead ten times over. Or perhaps you’re not lucky at all. 

You messed up again and again, and it was all up to Xavier to clean it up. You should send him a gift card to his favorite hotpot restaurant as a thanks. Later though. You have too much on your mind now. 

You even try going out with your friends after work, hoping the noise and chatter would distract you, but nothing can save or even blunt your sour mood, and it is apparent to everyone there. They keep asking you what is wrong, worried that you got injured by a wanderer or maybe fell ill or something. Try as you might, you can’t put on a convincing enough act to ease their concern.

“I’m fine, really.” You say for the third time, forcing a tired smile. “Just a long day. The wanderers were extra aggressive today.”

Tara isn't buying it, that much is clear. She leans in closer, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “I’m not going to keep pressing you on this if you’re really uncomfortable talking about it… but I have to tell you that Xavier has been staring at you since we got here. He’s worried sick.” She giggles, and you look up instinctively, meeting his gaze across the room.

He doesn’t look away. His light blue eyes stay fixed on you, and you feel heat crawl up your neck.

Tara words were teasing, you know that… but they weren't just that. She has been “shipping” the two of you from the very first time you introduced him to her. She comments all the time about how he is so attentive to you, how he only seems to listen when you are talking, how he perks up whenever you walk into the room. 

Her wild imagination had sent you into a fit of laughter—Xavier attentive to you? You can barely get his damn attention even when you try. He only listens to you because you've proven yourself to him in battle over and over again. If he didn’t, you'd kick his fucking ass because that would jeopardize your missions and put your lives on the line. And he certainly doesn't perk up when you walk into a room. The only thing you’ve witnessed that is capable of perking up the perpetually sleepy hunter is a high ranking wanderer or a bowl of hotpot. 

Sure, he is an attractive guy and the idea of him fancying you is flattering. But you hadn’t been lying to her when you said your relationship with him is purely work-related. You moved together seamlessly in battle, predicted each other’s moves, and always had each other’s backs. But outside of that he is still a mysterious guy who rarely opens up, even after all the life-and-death situations you’ve faced side by side. And you… didn’t have the time or energy to look at any man. 

Maybe if Caleb didn't occupy every free moment of your life and demanded every ounce of your love and attention, that small spark of attraction could have even bloomed into a crush.

But Caleb would flip his shit if he lost his jiejie time just so you can date. You remember how insufferable he was during the brief period you and Zayne got close before he suddenly moved away. Caleb had acted like you had committed some ultimate act of betrayal against him for inviting Zayne to walk home with the two of you since he lived on the same street. He had scowled when you called Zayne handsome and ran around collecting all the notes and letters he had gotten from schoolmates and teachers calling him handsome. 

“See, jiejie? I'm much more handsome than he is. You don't need him. You've got me!” 

You had laughed and patted his head and pinched his cheeks and called him your one and only handsome prince. At the time you thought nothing more of his behavior than that of a little brother not used to sharing his sister's attention.

Fuck. You really should have known that wasn’t how a normal little brother reacted to his sister’s crush.

And it certainly wasn’t normal to have spent your entire life loveless simply because you didn’t want to upset your little brother. It wasn’t normal to be sitting here drinking yourself into a stupor just because Caleb was out there fucking another girl tonight.

You really need to get your shit together, and soon. So you chug down the last of your drink in one go before you stand up and head towards Xavier, ignoring Tara's excited whoops in the background.

“Care to join me for a dance?” You ask, cringing inwardly at how timid you sound even with all the alcohol pumping through you.

He looks surprised at your request, but to your relief he accepts.You lead him onto the dance floor as a slow song begins to play. You wrap one arm around his neck, and he hesitates for a moment before placing his hands lightly on your waist, still keeping a respectful distance between your bodies.

You roll your eyes at him. “It's not a middle school dance, Xav. Come closer.” 

“Xav?” He cocks his head to the side and you blush. “Xavier. Slip of the tongue.”

“It's fine. You can call me Xav.” He tells you and it may have sounded flirty if it came from any other guy but Xavier doesn’t even smile as he says it. His voice remains monotone as if he doesn't care either way. 

Is this the guy who is supposed to have a crush on you according to Tara? 

Whatever. You've been loveless all your life and Tara has been in multiple relationships. What do you really know? You can't interpret romantic or lustful intentions for shit or else you wouldn't have gotten your brother off many times before he had to come out and tell you he's obsessed with you. 

You shake your head, trying to dislodge the intrusive thoughts from it. Here you were dancing with the best hunter in Linkon city and the most handsome one to boot. Stop thinking about your fucking brother. Or fucking your brother.

“Are you okay?” Xavier asks, looking at you with suspicion. 

“Of course.” You blurt out, then let out a nervous giggle, trying to cover up. “Now that you’re here.”

He frowns and you cringe at your own cliche line. But come on, he should cut you some slack. You never flirted with any guy before this. Caleb would bite the head off anyone who tried to approach you even if it were to ask about homework.  

Gah, stop thinking about Caleb! 

“I think you're still too far away.” You say, and press yourself closer, letting the alcohol fuel your boldness. You lean your head against his shoulder and let him hold you in his embrace like the other couples around you. 

For a long moment, Xavier stays stiff, his body tense against yours. Regret starts to creep in… maybe this was too much. It’s all a terrible, horrible idea, and you’ve way overstepped the line. But you don't dare pull back and face him. After this song is done you'll say you need another drink and hide from him for the rest of the night and hope he forgets it all in the morning—or at least have the mercy to act like he did. 

But then, slowly, he begins to loosen up. His arms wrap around you more firmly, pulling you in until you’re properly held against his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but the warmth of his body surrounds you.

He's warmer than you, but not overtly so. Not like Caleb and his furnace of a body. 

He's shorter than your brother too, but still tall. His frame is slimmer, not as oppressive against yours. His features are delicate and ethereal, but his voice is a deeper tone. He is calm and reserved, not touched by the urgency and high energy always infecting your brother. And it really feels like you're betraying Caleb by choosing someone who is the complete antithesis of him. But maybe that's exactly what you need. 

Xavier remains quiet, perhaps sensing the turmoil inside you. He lets you latch onto him and sways you from side to side. You can’t even really call what you're doing dancing, more like cradling a nervous child. 

Where did the big responsible older sister go? 

“What's so funny?” Xavier asks when you let out a giggle. You shake your head but end up nuzzling deeper into his chest. He smells nice but wrong. He feels good but wrong. 

But maybe you've got it all mixed up in your head. Maybe this is what right feels like and you've been doing it wrong this whole time. 

“I just thought you'd be a better dancer.” You lie, trying to deflect, and he makes a noise of protest. “I'll have you know I am a very good dancer. In fact, I've mastered many different kinds of dances.”

As the song changes to something much more upbeat and unmistakably sexual, you pull back to look at him with a teasing smile. “Oh really? Prove it then.”

You start moving, though not particularly well. You have zero experience, but the alcohol buzzing through your veins burns off most of your embarrassment. Xavier’s ears are red as he tries to keep up, his movements a little clumsy as he attempts to match your rhythm.

“Yes. Yes. Truly a master.” You laugh, finding the banter coming out easier than you would have thought. 

“I said many. Not all.” Xavier replies with a bashful but challenging smile.

“Let’s do what they’re doing then.” You point toward a couple a little ways off who were moving with impressive skill.

You and Xavier try to follow their steps, laughing together as you both fumble through the dance. But the more you do it, mirroring the other couple’s increasingly intimate movements, the more your laughter fades and you feel the energy between you shift.

Xavier looks at you strangely and you can’t quite put your finger on his expression. It looks familiar in a way, like a foreign song from your childhood that you know the tune of but never really learnt what the lyrics meant. And then he’s shutting you out again, his expression fading into a blank slate. 

It gives you whiplash. You try to latch onto the fading moment, clutching at the cooling corpse as you throw yourself into the dance, copying the girl's movement more closely in the hopes of bringing it back to life. When the beat changes, the girl turns around smoothly, pressing her back flush against her partner’s front, their bodies moving as one. You follow her lead without thinking, pressing yourself back against Xavier, but your eyes stay locked on the couple in front of you, watching the way they can’t seem to get enough of each other. 

The sight that may have looked debauched and shameless to others makes you yearn more than any romantic story you’ve ever read. You want that. You want to desire and be desired. You want to love and be loved. And most of all you want to do it in front of the whole world and not feel ashamed. 

Will you ever have that?

Xavier’s hands dig into your waist tightly and your breath catches. For a moment you think he might pull you closer against him. Maybe you have a chance at getting what you want after all.  

But then he uses his grip on you to push you away, creating space between your bodies.

“We should stop here.” He says, voice measured. And it’s like you’d been doused in ice cold water. You jerk away from him, muttering out, “Of course. I'm sorry.” 

You’re such an idiot. He is just worried about you as his mission partner and is trying to be nice and that's why he accepted this dance. But you, the pathetic idiot you are, threw yourself at him. You think just because you somehow raised your brother to lust after you that someone like Xavier would actually want you? Caleb probably wouldn't look your way either if you hadn't messed him up so badly. 

“You don’t need—” Xavier starts again.

“Maybe I am sick after all” You cut him off, suddenly feeling so exhausted. “I must’ve caught that bug going around the office. I’m just gonna go home.”

“But you were fine a minute ago,” he points out, not letting you off that easily, but you don't back down. “And now I feel like I could throw up on your shoes. You wanna risk it?”

He winces. “Let me walk you home then.” 

Xavier patiently meets your undeservedly indignant gaze. “I thought you were sick enough to vomit on my shoes.”

You huff like a little kid. “Maybe it's your shoes that are making me sick.” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “You don’t like them? That’s okay. I stole them from Isaiah. I always knew his taste was garbage. I’ll make sure to pass on your critique.”

You crack a small, reluctant smile, imagining the offended look on Xavier’s strange, pompous friend’s face. Xavier seems to take the slight change in your demeanor as permission to push further.

“Come on.” He says gently. “Let’s go home. I’m tired too.”

___________________ 

During the car ride back home, Xavier keeps trying to talk to you. It's unusual for him. He doesn’t usually make this much effort to fill the silence and you know he must feel sorry for you for deluding yourself into thinking he actually likes you. 

Damn Tara. You'll get her for this. 

Still, the taxi driver’s presence keeps him from saying anything about what happened on the dance floor, and you cling to the hope that he’ll just pretend none of it ever happened. That the two of you can go back to being mostly formal, sometimes friendly coworkers.

When the taxi finally pulls up to your building, you don’t wait. You thank the driver quickly and head straight for the stairs, trying to put the entire night behind you with all that has happened in the bar and whatever the fuck is happening in skyhaven. 

But the night refuses to let you go.

Xavier’s footsteps follow quickly behind you the whole way up. You ignore him, keeping your eyes fixed forward until you reach your door. You fumble with your keys, slip inside, and mutter a quick, “Goodnight, Xavier,” before trying to shut the door in his face.

His hand shoots out at the last second, stopping the door. “Hey, about what happened—”

“Forget about it.” You cut him off tensely, hoping your voice conveys just how much you regret it. “I was just drunk. I’m sorry. Goodnight.”

You push the door again, harder this time, but he doesn’t relent. His palm stays firmly planted against the wood. “But—”

“Please, Xav. Just forget it.” You plead and his strength falters at your pitiful tone. You seize the small window of opportunity to slam the door shut in his face, muttering one last “Goodnight” as the lock clicks into place.

You lean back against the door, eyes closed, feeling even sicker than you did when you left the bar, and wait for him to walk away. It takes a while, maybe minutes, maybe forever, before you hear his footsteps pick up then fade down the corridor. You let out a sigh, though you do not feel any relief. You’ve possibly just ruined your perfectly professional, working relationship with your hunting partner, and for what? You're so pathetic, practically throwing yourself at the guy because you're… what? Jealous that your little brother is getting laid? You're a joke. 

Yet even the terrifying prospect of your career ruin isn't enough to get your mind off Caleb. Now that you're at home and all alone, all you can think of is him and who he's with and what he's doing. 

Is he kissing her right now?

Is he touching her the way he touches you?

Does he beg for her?

Is he as desperate with her as he is with you, or is he more in control? More sure of himself? Is he finally becoming the man he’s supposed to be?

The thoughts loop endlessly in your rotten mind, crashing into each other, fighting to be heard, morphing into even uglier, more loathsome versions of themselves.

Will he have sex with her tonight? Will he finally realise that you hold nothing special between your legs? That other women can give him what he craves, and that you’re sick for not steering him away from you sooner? 

You decide more drinks are the answer to all these unpleasant questions. People drink to numb their pain, right? They throw their lives away chasing that merciful oblivion.

So you have one. Then another. Then another. 

The alcohol burns going down, making the nausea in your stomach even worse for a moment. But then it begins to do its job. It spreads a creeping numbness through your body that starts in your legs, turning them leaden, dragging with every shift of your body on the couch. Then it crawls upward into your chest, slowing the erratic pounding of your heart until the beats feel dull and far away. Finally, it reaches your head, turning your mouth dry and cottony, making your vision blurred and spotty, before it delivers its final mercy—letting your busy mind collapse into a black hole. 

You slump down on the couch, your body heavy, your mind even heavier, and close your eyes. 

_______________________

You hadn’t even realized you’d blacked out until the shrill ringing of your phone jolts you awake.

The moment you squint at the screen and see the name flashing across it, your heart stutters so violently it feels like it struggles to push blood to your body. Your hands shake as you fumble for the phone and answer it, panicked.

“Caleb?”

“Jiejie.” He cries, his voice anguished, and you instantly sit up, the world tilting around you as your brain protests from the lack of oxygen. 

“Are you okay?!” 

“No… I’m not okay.” He whines, sounding pained. “It hurts so bad.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your questions come out quick and frantic. “What does? What happened? Where are you right now?”

“I'm still at her place.” He tells you, “I couldn’t cum for her.”

Your brain struggles to make sense of what he’s saying. Still at whose place? Couldn’t cum? What is he talking about? He’s not lying broken in a ditch somewhere? He didn’t cross paths with the wrong people and now he’s left bleeding in a dark alleyway? You're not losing him horribly and suddenly?

Then why does it feel like your heart is about to stop? And why does he sound like his is about to as well?

But then you hear it—the whimpers that come not just from pain, the slick, wet sounds in the background—and you remember where he is supposed to be and what he’s supposed to be doing. 

“Caleb… where exactly are you right now?” You ask cautiously, dread choking you. He’s not with her, is he? He wouldn’t be so insane, or so cruel, would he? 

“I’m in her bathroom.” He explains, whimpering. “You lied, jiejie. She couldn’t make me cum. And it hurts so much.”

“Oh, baby—” You breathe out a sigh of relief. He’s not hurt. He doesn’t hate you. He–he…

“Please… I need you.”

You gulp, trying to push past the knot in your throat. “What… what do you need?”

“Talk to me.” He begs, the slick sounds growing a little faster. “Need to hear your voice. Please.”

“Are you touching yourself, baby?” You ask even though you already know the answer. 

“Yes.” He breathes out shakily, “Thinking about you.”

You close your eyes and try not to imagine it in your head—your little brother locked in another girl’s bathroom, desperately fisting his own cock to the sound of your voice after failing to finish with her. But you can’t banish the desperate image of him from your mind, his hand working feverishly over his big, swollen cock, his eyes brimming with tears, his face flushed with that deep red it does when he’s horny. 

He wants you. He wants you so bad. And it feels so good to be wanted…. Maybe you really did do this to him.

You swallow hard. “Why… why don’t you go back to her, baby? Give it another shot.”

“No, no.” He protests immediately, his voice rising. “I already tried. I did what you wanted. She can’t get me off. Only you can. No one else.”

“Keep your voice down, didi.” You hiss, worried she’ll hear. “Don’t be bad. Remember, if you do well tonight, I’ll reward you tomorrow.”

“I did well.” He insists, voice a little quieter now. “I got her off so many times with my fingers and my mouth, just like you taught me.” 

Something sharp prickles at your chest, piercing your heart. You don’t want to hear this, but he keeps going anyway. “She loved it so much. She was screaming my name. She told me no man has ever made her cum that hard before. I wanted so bad to tell her that I learned it all from you, jiejie.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, the slick sounds of his hand working over himself like background music to his debauched performance.

“She was pawing at my pants, begging for my cock… but I didn’t let her. I’m saving myself for you.” He promises, and your heart stutters despite yourself. But then he adds, a little darkly, “Well… I let her put it in her mouth. I fucked her face like that fleshlight you gave me. She was crying and gagging on me but she kept going.”

You have half a mind to end the call right then, your finger hovering over the red button. 

“Why don’t you beg for my cock like that, jiejie?” He dares to ask. 

“If you like it so much, you can keep going out with her.” You mutter, the words tasting more bitter than the alcohol on your tongue.

“But she couldn’t even make me cum.” He groans, “She tried so hard, brought herself to tears, almost threw up taking my cock so deep down her throat… but none of it worked. That’s why I’m in her bathroom right now, jerking off to your voice.”

Your stomach twists violently. Every part of this makes you sick. 

“God, I need to see you.” He moans desperately, “Can I come over now, jie? I’ll be so good. I’ve been so good tonight. I touched her and let her touch me, just like you wanted. Please…”

You don’t want this. You don’t want any part of this. You want to be normal. 

“Not today, didi.” You tell him. You can’t stand to face him right now. You can’t smell another woman on his skin or taste her on his tongue. You'd tear his tongue out and flay his skin to get to the parts of him she couldn’t touch and that belonged only to you. “Stay the night at her place. Don’t be an asshole.”

“But jiejie, it hurts! I can’t get off without you.” He protests, “I’ve been such a good boy…”

You suppose he has. He did what you asked him to do—even if not what you wanted. It’s not his fault he couldn’t finish. You’ll just have to find him another girl. You’ll sew the corners of your mouth into a smile and bleach the darkness out of your eyes so he won’t see how bad this hurts. 

You’ll fix it. You'll fix both of you. 

“Then cum to my voice, baby.” You let your tone grow soft, “You can do that, can’t you? You love jiejie’s voice. You’ll take anything I give you, my sweet boy.”

“Yes, jiejie… I’ll cum for you.” Caleb moans, and your heart clenches at the relief in his voice, happy to get anything out of you. He’s done well. He gave himself away even when he didn’t want to, and he deserves to be welcomed back into his sister’s safe embrace to gather himself before you force him out to seek love in strangers again. “I’ll be your good boy… your obedient didi. Only yours.” 

You can hear the wet, frantic rhythm of his hand speeding up on the other end of the line, and his voice gets louder the closer he gets to his release.  “Can’t wait to fuck you, jiejie. Been thinking about it the whole time I was with her… it’s the only thing that kept me going…”

A shiver runs through you. You don’t like how this is going. This is supposed to help him move on, not make him yearn more. And yet you can’t deny him outright, his desperation getting to you more than you’re willing to admit. It’s unfair to him. You know this. You’ve somehow messed him up so badly that he now desires you like this, and here you are, using that same twisted desire to soothe your wounded pride.

“Quiet down.” You remind him,  “She’ll hear you.”

A shaky, delirious laugh escapes him, and you cringe at how loud it sounds in your ears. “Yeah, she'll hear me call out to my jiejie. The one who owns my cock.” 

Your stomach clenches hard, heat flooding your body at his filthy words. It's sick. 

Sick. Sick. Sick.

“Caleb, do you want to be punished?” You warn, “Because I won’t touch you at all tomorrow if you keep this up.”

You will. You won’t be able to tell him no, not after everything that has happened tonight. You deserve a break too. 

“No, jiejie…” He pleads urgently, voice much quieter now, suddenly sounding small and pitiful again. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you. Always your good boy… just how you raised me.”

Just how you raised me.

Just how you raised me.

His hand wraps around your neck and squeezes.

You did this to me.

He bruises your skin, crushes your windpipe.

You did this to yourself.

“I’m close.” He whimpers on the other end of the line. “Do you want me to cum for you, jie?”

Your eyes burn and you swallow down the sob that tries to escape.

“Yes, didi.” You whisper brokenly.

“Will I get a reward tomorrow?” He asks excitedly, and you shudder. “Yes.”

“Hmm… I want your mouth.” He moans, pleasure thickening his voice, oblivious to your sudden change in mood. “But I want you to beg for my cock first. Want you on your knees with your tongue out and— ahh… ngh, jie, jie!”

He cries out your name as he finally cums, chanting it over and over again as if it alone can carry him through his high. You open your mouth to chastise him again, but the words die in your throat when you hear a sudden knock on the door. 

Your head whips up and you stare at your own front door in panic, heart slamming against your ribs. But then a voice comes from down the line… and it’s not your brother’s. 

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” The girl’s voice is muffled but you can hear the disgust plain in her voice as if she was standing right in front of you. “But please leave my house now.”

______________________

A/N: oh no he's really done it now mc is gonna spontaneously combust. Mayhaps next chapter caleb finds out and xavi...

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[applefishcake]

colonel caleb and assistant!nonMC!reader, who he's desperately in love with part 2

warnings. angst, boss x employee dynamic, suicidal ideation, caleb going through it, caleb hates his job, fluff, comfort, boy is whipped, teeny bit suggestive at the end preview. It comes uninvited, like a part of himself is trying to remind himself that he's still human, even with the damn chip in his brain. Your face, bright and out of place in the sterile emptiness of his mind. The way you frown at him like he's something worth worrying about. When did you come to mean so much to him? wc. 2.6k a/n. part 1 part 3 this is a prelude to the original one-shot i wrote for this (and slightly an afterlude towards the end)! thank you for the love on the previous one--you're all so sweet <3

The colonel cannot afford to show weakness.

He often wonders when he started seeing himself as the colonel instead of Caleb Xia. Was it since the moment of the explosion? Since he “died”? Since he had to cut contact with the only family left in this wretched world who might care for him? When pressing the nozzle of his gun against another assassin became the norm? When had the stench of blood stopped bothering him?

His days don’t feel like his own anymore. He supposes they aren’t—considering the toring chip in his brain that monitors all semblance of his past self. He works, works some more, eats, and then sleeps to do it all over again. Just enough to keep his body alive. Just enough to keep himself upright.

Every, fucking, day.

He watches his subordinates gush about returning to their loved ones as his ship approaches home base after a three-week-long excursion—one he didn’t think he’d make it out of. The bags beneath his eyes settle darkly, the area around his jaw itchy from the stubble growing for the entirety of the trip. Though his subordinates are in similar shape, their eyes remain bright, glimmering with a hope that even those in his field somehow manage to have. The hope of home.

He had that once, too.

All he has now, is a cold, lifeless apartment to go back to. With plastic still wrapped around his furniture and the fridge empty except for a few bottles of alcohol and an apple. He’d never found much purpose in making the apartment look more like his—because it wasn’t his home anyway. Not when he had nobody to welcome his return.

Just a loud, ticking clock he wants to throw away.

When Caleb returns to the base, he’s the only one that stays past dark while everyone else rejoices to return home for a fresh shower. He opts to wash his hair in the sink beside his office instead, the icy water doing little to add to the numbness of his skin, if it does anything at all. He stares at himself in the mirror, blinking slowly, and then decides he should really shave.

What a mess. His eyes bore holes into the dog tag he carries everywhere. It feels like an omen of luck, while it remains a burden in his chest—as if the only thing that still manages to make him feel worse than he already does. 

Is this it, he wonders? Is this what the rest of his life will be like? Spending out his days in his office or in the deepspace tunnel, wondering if those few hours will be his last? There are thoughts that slip in quietly---ones he should repress. Would it be so bad? To get lost in the tunnel, and never having to return to the base again? To finally melt away into nothingness to ease the pain? He grits his teeth, realizing that his nails are digging crescents into the palms of his hands.

No, his men have families. His men have people who still need them–a purpose.

After he’s finished somewhat tidying himself up (though even heavy concealer can’t cover his eyebags), he skulks out of the bathroom to head to his office. It’s usually pitch dark on the floor at this time of night. So when he notices one cubicle that remains illuminated by a lamp, he thinks he’ll have to scold whoever it belongs to for wasting the energy bill. He sighs irritably and stalks over, his brows furrowing into a halt when he sees the cubicle isn’t empty at all.

You blink up at him. “Oh.”

You’re an unfamiliar face. A new employee, perhaps. How long have you even been here? Especially this late at night? His eyes scan your desk to see the doodles you’ve been drawing onto multiple sheets of paper and his scowl deepens. And you’re here for this?

Suddenly, you shoot up to your feet, shoulders tense as you bow your head. “Colonel Xia. I’m you’re new assistant—I’ve been assigned here since last week.”

He quirks a brow at your drawings. Your face heats, and you scramble to shove them to the side, clearing your throat. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting to greet you, sir.”

“It’s 2:37 in the morning.”

“Off the clock,” you respond. 

“How long have you been here doing—that.”

“Since 7.”

“PM?”

“AM. They told me they weren’t sure when you’d be getting back,” you scratch the side of your face sheepishly. “Better safe than sorry.”

He wants to ask if there’s something wrong with you, but he stops, taken aback. No, he’s sure there’s something wrong with you. There is, but his eyes widen just the slightest anyway. 

For the first time in years, someone had been waiting for the colonel.

He quickly finds that you’re good at your job. A bit confused in the first few weeks, sure, but he knows that what he asks of you is a bit much. You somehow manage to get it to a T anyway in the first month, and he wonders if HQ finally made a good hiring decision for the first time in a while. He watches you through the glass of his office, scrambling in your cubicle as your coworkers ask you questions that instill that you’re probably holding the place together. Your first point of action every day is to make his coffee. Afterwards, you make your own. Then, you drop it off and chat with your coworkers for a bit before a crisis arises and you’re sprinting to whatever disaster you have to solve. And when you knock on his door, you keep your eyes down, as if to avoid him as you drop off his paperwork.

He knows he makes your life hard. But you deal with it anyway.

It’s amusing, really. You’re amusing to him. But anything remotely lively is amusing in this dreary building.

“Are you leaving, sir?” you ask him one night, when only the two of you are left. He fixes his coat onto himself, finally released from that suffocating hat that he’s has to wear to remain in uniform. You follow him to the door, pacing right behind him as you always do.

Caleb usually doesn’t like anyone behind him. Not when there’s so many people who would seize the opportunity to stab a knife into his back. But for some reason, when you do it, he doesn’t mind. Maybe because he knows you couldn’t damage him at all. Maybe because he knows you wouldn’t.

“I am.”

Your ears perk. “You must have plans.”

“...Do I have something else on my calendar?”

“Well no, sir, it’s just…” you pause for a moment, glancing at him apprehensively. “...Well, it’s your birthday, so I just assumed.”

Had time already gone by that quickly?

Not that he cared about his birthday. It just meant another year without anyone to return home to.

“I left you something in your office,” you nod. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

His eyes stare right into yours. A million thoughts run through his head. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a bomb. Maybe it’s more paperwork. Maybe it’s a resignation letter. From all the regular things to the worst things imaginable, it runs through him all at once, and then it stops, as he just steps out the door. “Alright.”

Though he should’ve gone home to wait until the next morning to check what it is, he returns a few hours later, when you’ve left. It’s a bit pathetic, really, but he couldn’t sleep. Not necessarily because of what you said, but because his body is more accustomed to falling asleep in his office than his own “house”. 

Definitely not because of the small cactus succulent you left on his desk, with a post-it in your handwriting. It contrasts heavily with the monochrome of the rest of the room, bright with life. The thorns feel sharp against his fingertip as he presses against it, as if to see how much he can push before it breaks skin.

‘Happy birthday’

As you’re dropping off papers a few weeks later, you point out that it looks like it can use water. He doesn’t look up from his work, clicking his tongue. “It’s a cactus. It can survive deserts–I’m sure it’s fine.”

But you stand there, staring at him with a frown, which for some reason gives him an unsettling feeling in his stomach. He swallows, and then sighs with annoyance. “Knock yourself out.”

You beam. So you can smile at him.

After that, he’s learned to read your knocks. Three knocks means paperwork, or something regarding his work. Two knocks means there’s someone who’d like to see him. Four knocks means you’re here to water the damn cactus. It happens once every few weeks, but his ears pick up on it easily. He pretends that he’s not watching your every move as you water, observing how you smile at how well it’s doing.

“Don’t you have better things to do? It doesn’t need that much care, does it?”

You simply shrug. "Just because it doesn’t need so much, doesn’t mean it doesn’t need it at all.”

He doesn’t say much to that.

But when you leave, he strangely finds his eyes drifting to the cactus. It’s a resilient thing, he thinks. He presses his fingertip against a spike, and it draws blood this time, trickling down his finger gently in a brilliant red. An ugly, resilient thing. From the corner of his vision, he sees a bud. It’s small–barely there–but he sees it. He wonders if it’ll bloom. If his office even receives enough light for it to bloom.

Could a flower bloom from such an ugly, hurting lifeform?

He begins watering the cactus himself, and he’s sure you notice, because you begin to bring in less water each time.

“I’ll keep your cactus well fed, sir,” you say the day he leaves for a few months excursion. The longest he’s been on. The most dangerous, too. It’s almost as if the higher-ups want to kill him. While his men weep and say goodbye to their families, you gaze up at him with a stack of folders clutched in your arms. Despite how defenseless you look to him in comparison to the military-trained men he works with every day, you seem unmovable. Like a tree standing in the middle of a meadow. Full of life. You’ve always seemed strong. Perhaps that’s why he’s always found you amusing.

You’re more deserving of this uniform than he is, but he hopes you never have to wear it. Someone like you should never have their life snuffed out like that.

Caleb places his hat onto your head, and for a moment, you blink. He presses it down to fit your head, though it remains slightly large anyway, and then drops his hand. “Have it cleaned by the time I come back.”

He doesn’t think you need to know that he had it cleaned just a few days ago.

Days of the excursion blur into one another, stitched together by gunfire and the low hum of the ship’s engines against the nothingness of the deepspace tunnel. Sleep comes in fractured pieces. Food tastes like nothing. The men still talk about home, though quieter now. 

There’s a moment where he stands alone at the observation deck. The glass is scratched, the stars beyond it warped and smeared like paint dragged across a canvas. It’s ugly out here. Empty yet consuming, like the universe itself is trying to swallow him whole.

He presses his hand against the glass.

Would it really be so bad? If he just… didn’t go back.

If he drifted a little too far. Took one wrong turn in the deepspace tunnel to let the ship go silent. Let himself go with it. No empty apartments. No ticking clocks. No unfurnished rooms. No reminders of a life that he no longer has access to. It almost feels merciful—like the tunnel is offering him a way out.

There’s no one there to mourn him anyway.

No family. No home. Just nothingness, like the rest of the tunnel. As if he belongs.

But then, his thoughts are interrupted. Not by anything else, but by a face.

It’s not even intentional. It comes uninvited, like a part of himself is trying to remind himself that he’s still human, even with the damn chip in his brain. Your face, bright and out of place in the sterile emptiness of his mind. The way you look up at him, eyes too eager for a place like that base. The way you huff proudly to yourself when you make his coffee. The way you nod vigorously as if to hype yourself up before you knock on his door. The way you tell off your coworkers while also remaining welcoming. The way you care for that stupid cactus. The way you frown at him like he’s something worth worrying about.

The way you wait for him at the docks, first to greet him every time he returns without fail.

When did you come to mean so much to him?

His jaw tightens. 

He needs to see the cactus bloom.

And so, with the determination he hasn’t felt in years, he arrives back at the base in one piece, where you’re waiting for him as you always have.

Caleb never tells you what you did for him that day, even when you were lightyears away. Even once he manages to get it through your thick skull that he harbors real, raw feelings for you, he doesn’t tell you how much that cactus has done for him. 

His life is brighter now, with you in it. His apartment, which once lay bare, as if nobody occupied the space now seems warmer. Your coat is tossed onto the couch, the sheets are crumpled, and there’s more than enough food in the fridge. There’s two toothbrushes in the bathroom, and potted plants are littered throughout the entire apartment. There’s magnets on the fridge—pictures of him returning from each excursion—and the two of you growing closer and closer with each photo. The most recent one has you flush to his side, your hands intertwined in his. So much has changed that it doesn’t even look like the same apartment anymore.

It feels like home.

In the morning, before you wake up, he gazes at you through lidded eyes, the soft sunlight peeking through the curtains and hitting his back to avoid reaching your face. He grins proudly at the dark marks littering your neck down to your chest, which surely adorn his own torso. There’s a sense of relief he gets from moments like these—being able to awake early out of his own will rather than being forced by the nightmares plaguing his mind. He cups the side of your face and rubs your cheek with his thumb as you stir, yawning softly. So pretty.

“Morning, colonel,” you squint.

"Caleb," he corrects.

"Boss."

"I can take a lot of your teasing, but that's crossing a line."

You smile, the way he loves. "Then what should I call you?"

Caleb looks to the side, pretending to be in thought. "'Sir?"

"I'm going to kill you."

“You seemed to like it last night,” he grins, guiding your face to kiss him before you can complain about his joke. Despite your pleas of morning breath, you melt into him. Your lips feel soft against his, your body warm. He wants to hold you forever. Treasure you forever. Stay here forever.

His cactus sits beside his bedside table—and the flower has bloomed.

[goldiwrites]

it's not the same river

pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader

summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg

word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)

authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)

song inspo: river - zinadelphia

I’m somewhere in between The things that I’ve lost And the things I’ll gain from losing Either way I will leave something behind But I’m dying to do something different this time

June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania

Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks. 

The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.

Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours. 

It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums. 

Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning. 

The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door. 

He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.

You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then. 

Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States. 

You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.

Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart. 

In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.

You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show. 

Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?

“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it. 

Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.

“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that. 

You were expecting the American accent even less. 

He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win. 

You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho. 

You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome. 

“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him. 

He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.

He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”

He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile. 

He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.

He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.

You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.” 

“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile. 

“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.

You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.

He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know. 

In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.

His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”

He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats. 

He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.

You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man. 

He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.

Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”

Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time. 

“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him. 

You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.

Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.

You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him. 

You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.

That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?

It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night. 

You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.

“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.

You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands. 

You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.

He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.

“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.

You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.

“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious. 

Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands. 

“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?” 

His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion. 

“…Why?” 

“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”

He sighed at you thanking him again.

“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.” 

Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.

You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”

His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”

You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.

“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.

He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”

You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress. 

“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”

He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.” 

You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”

He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster. 

Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man. 

“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”

His response was a small nod.

You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.

“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.

“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly. 

You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.

Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days. 

He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.

“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.

You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him. 

“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”

Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face. 

“I’m glad.” 

He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.

Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.

Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.

“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.

You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”

He grunted in response, displeased. 

“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”

“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”

You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again. 

“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.

He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”

That didn’t surprise you at all.

You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”

“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.” 

You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward. 

“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”

He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”

“Friday morning.”

“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”

Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment. 

Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe. 

“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’. 

“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him. 

That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory. 

He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements. 

He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment. 

You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you. 

You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.

“What?” Bucky asked curiously.

“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork. 

“Do you not get those often?”

You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth. 

“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response. 

“You remind me of a cat.”

“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.

“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”

He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out. 

“What kind of cat would I be?”

“A black cat, for sure.”

You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.

“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly. 

“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!” 

You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.

Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye. 

You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face. 

He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.

“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.

You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.

“They’re perfect.” 

You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him. 

You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”

You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”

“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.” 

“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”

“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly. 

You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky. 

“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”

“Whatever you want.”

An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.

“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”

He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.

“I’m…gonna miss you.” 

You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.

You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.

“I’m going to miss you, too.”

You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.

“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen. 

“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.

You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously. 

Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie. 

“You really like plums.”

“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.

That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand. 

“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes. 

“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin. 

His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”

You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.

“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”

His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion. 

You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.

You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.

“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.

“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces. 

You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart. 

He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.

“…I can’t believe you’re real.” 

You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning. 

You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.

“Can I kiss you?”

He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths. 

“You okay?” You asked softly.

His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”

He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach. 

You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw. 

“Let me help you feel good.”

He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind. 

“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.

He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own. 

“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.

He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own. 

“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already. 

You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face. 

“Eager, are we?” 

You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses. 

“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.

“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.

You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.

He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity. 

He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.

“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.

With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.

He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.

“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.

“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.

Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.

He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For making me feel human.”

You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them. 

You were right 

- Bucky

A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.

 Oh, shit. 

Present day - Brooklyn, New York

The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back. 

“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!” 

“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”

She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep. 

“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.

You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.

“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.

She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own. 

“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”

She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.

“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”

“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.” 

The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.

You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.

He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even. 

You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh. 

Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.

“Mama?” 

You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.

You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.

“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.

You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”

She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.

“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”

You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”

Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie? 

You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank. 

It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.

Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.

“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.

You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.

“You said a swear word!”

You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.

“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.

“Not a chance, peanut.” 

After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other. 

Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.

But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth. 

Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.

Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.

When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.

Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button. 

And there he was.

Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.

A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.

You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.

“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…” 

You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.” 

“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”

“Mom, I’m busy—“

“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple. 

There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming. 

“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?” 

“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.

Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father. 

You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone. 

“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do. 

Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.

You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.

In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.

Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts. 

You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years. 

You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you. 

“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.

You blinked.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter. 

“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.

“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure. 

Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.

“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year. 

Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.  

“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”

Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms. 

She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell. 

Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.

Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!” 

You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.

Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.

“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him. 

“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second. 

You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?

Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.

“…Is she—“

His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.

“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.

Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside. 

Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”

You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“

“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”

“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.

The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.

“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.

Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.

Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.

You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.

You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.

“We need to talk.”

“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”

“I have my ways.”

He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.

“Look, I agree we need to talk—“

“Why did you run off?”

And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.

You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest. 

“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.

“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face. 

“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“

And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.

“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs. 

Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore. 

He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor. 

He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man. 

“Hi, I’m Bucky.”

You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off. 

“Hi, I’m Jamie!” 

The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him. 

“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”

She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.

“Are you coming to my soccer game?” 

That shocked both of you.

“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.

“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”

The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core. 

There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.

Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.

The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring. 

Bucky cleared his throat softly.

“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.

“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.” 

He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.

He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.

“She looks like my sister.”

That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.

“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”

You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.” 

He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.” 

You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.

“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”

He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.

“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.

“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”

Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.

“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”

He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”

You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle. 

“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile. 

He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.

“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”

“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.” 

You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you. 

“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.” 

“Good.”

You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.

“Where were you—“

“What does she know—“

You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”

“What does she know…about me?”

Yeah, you were expecting that.

“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”

His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice. 

“How do we tell her?”

There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue. 

“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?” 

The look he shot you was deadly. 

You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”

“I want to be there.” 

Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.

His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.

“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”

And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“What happened to you? After Bucharest?” 

He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.

“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”

You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive. 

“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.

He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk. 

“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”

Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you? 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly. 

“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”

He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.

“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”

“Noted.”

“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.

“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless. 

“Whatever you say, doll.” 

You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping. 

“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.

“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.” 

“Tomorrow, then?” 

You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.

“Fine.”

“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”

Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back. 

“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it. 

“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.

She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”

“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter. 

“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.

“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”

Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys. 

You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”

Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”

You grinned at him. “Exactly.”

Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint. 

You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.

“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“

“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.

“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.

“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.

You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.

“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.

The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.

“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.

Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”

Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.

“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.

“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.

“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?

Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully. 

He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”

Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.

He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest. 

Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.

“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.

He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”

By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”

“If I don’t have to be away for work.” 

She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited. 

You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own. 

“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins. 

You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart. 

“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.

Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.

And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.

You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.

Then you watched the realisation hit her.

“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”

And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly. 

“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”

Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”

You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours. 

The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines. 

“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.

Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.

“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”

“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.

You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.

This was not going to be easy on your heart. 

A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away. 

First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.

You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.

She called your name, looking at you expectantly.

“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.

“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.

Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”

You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“

But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”

“I’ll text you his details!”

There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.

Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.

“Hey,” you started. “You okay?” 

“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.

You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.

“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”

“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot. 

“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.

“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.

“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.

“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”

Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.

You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest.  “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”

You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him. 

“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low. 

You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.

You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?

“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.

“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.

He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.

“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”

Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.

“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it. 

“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.” 

You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you. 

You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.

You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.

There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.

“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.

“Photos of what?” 

“When you were pregnant.” 

You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.

“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”

He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone. 

“I want to see.”

“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”

“I’m not asking for those.”

You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.” 

The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. 

“Good girl.” 

Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction. 

And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used. 

The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.” 

The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it. 

“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover. 

You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping. 

“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.

“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.” 

Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.

He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”

You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.

“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper. 

“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.” 

Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.

Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.

“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.

“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.

Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.

“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.

He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”

He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.

Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.

“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”

Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.

A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey. 

“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”

He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.

“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?” 

Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force. 

“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.” 

His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.

“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time. 

He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.

“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.

Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took. 

“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.

“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.

“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.

“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.

The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He hummed, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting. 

“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.” 

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.

Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper. 

“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.” 

You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.

He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”

That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about? 

You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”

His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.

“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.” 

You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar. 

“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core. 

His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.

“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear. 

Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.

“Please,” you whispered desperately.

Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth. 

His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.

“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.

You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs. 

“Patience, doll.”

And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.

He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

“So responsive.”

He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.

“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.

He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour. 

“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.

He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck. 

“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.

He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately. 

His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.

“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.” 

Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease. 

His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.

He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”

He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.

You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.

“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in. 

His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver. 

He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.

He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher. 

“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.

He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.

He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.

He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.

“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.

“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.

He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.

“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.

You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.

His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood. 

“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.

He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body. 

“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?” 

“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.

He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.

“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob. 

He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.

“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.

He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.

He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response. 

“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?” 

You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.

He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume. 

“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.

Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.

“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”

More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.

“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.

“I know I love you, sweetheart.” 

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