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thefearedashantis · 1 month

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Toothbrushes and Winged Eyeliner

Pairing: Sirius Black x fem! reader.

Summary: You get into some trouble at a new years party.

Word count: 2.1K

Warning: non con touching/harassment

I feel like I never write happy/fluffy scenarios

You should have listened to Sirius.

It’s the only thought running through your drink addled mind as you stumble through the house, New Years party still in full swing. You struggle to sweep the room with blurred vision for any sign of your boyfriend. Your friends. Just anyone familiar in any way, shape or form. But even if they were right in front of your eyes you fear you wouldn’t notice. Not with your head swinging the way it was. Throat burning with bile. Hands shaking as they fight to keep the rip in your dress shut. It had been your favorite before tonight.

Sirius had told you to stay close to Lily after you’d repeatedly shewed him away, thoroughly annoyed with his coddling. Warned you not to drink too much. Commanded you to find him if even the slightest thing went awry.

You hadn’t stayed with Lily. You drank entirely too much and now you can’t make out his head of pitch waves amongst the sea of boisterous young adults. With every step you are jostled by another sweaty body. Seconds away from just flopping down to the sticky ground and just letting yourself be trampled.

You would try to call him but you dropped your phone upstairs when you fled and don’t have the gall in you to turn back for it. So, you press on. Hoping to find a quiet corner to plaster yourself into. For unfamiliar hands to stop grazing you.

The quiet finds you first however. In the form of a tall, scarred boy with kind eyes sparkling behind a pair of skewed number shades. Remus' strong grip steadies you on your feet where you bump smack into him, teetering on legs like jelly.

“There you are! We’ve been searching for ages! It’s time to head out!”

He’s grinning ear to ear. A smear of pink lipstick glossy against his appled cheeks. You’re so relieved to see him, to see anyone you love really, that you sink into his chest without warning. Pressing your warm and makeup-stained face into the fat of him, hoping it muffles your panicked cries.

Remus is taken aback, a yelp of surprise leaving his lips. Not knowing you to be one for much affection and especially not one for tears. Which he can hear perfectly well despite the blaring music. On instinct he wraps his arms around you, rubbing his palm over the back of your head to ease whatever aches you so. His own on the swivel in search.

Where was Lily? She was your best friend. She'd know what was wrong. Or better yet where was Sirius. He’d want to be the first alerted if you were in distress. But the only person he manages to spot is James, sidestepping his way to you two with his eyebrows raised.

“What’s going on?”

Remus is at a loss for words “I don’t know I found her like this.”

“Sweets?” James bends his knees in an attempt to look at your face but you only nestle further into Remus. He shrugs “Maybe it’s just the drunk blues?”

Remus shakes his head. They’ve both seen you drunk plenty of times. You were the sleepy sort. “Her dress is torn.”

James’ attention darts to your outfit, stunned he hadn’t noticed such a large tear in the first place. The material of the flowy skirt is split from the hem all the way up your thigh, barely covering your underwear. He immediately removes his jacket and holds it against your behind. You’re so glued to Remus he can’t manage even a hand between you two to secure it. “let’s go to the car”

The boys wrangle you outside and to the car with little hassle. It’s only when they try to get you inside that an issue arises. You still refuse to let go of Remus. He has to scooch himself backwards and allow you to sprawl across his lap to get you settled. You aren’t sure how much time passes between the time James runs back off to get the others and someone yanking the backseat door open. Having been enraptured in the reassuring words Remus throws at you while he absentmindedly plays with your hair.

“What’s happened?” the beams from the streetlight flooding into the dark space burns your eyes. A gruff voice making you cringe.

Remus sets the person with a frown, rubbing your back harder “She won’t stop crying.”

A new pair of hands find you now, cold and clammy. You don’t think before scuttling away from them “Lovie it’s me,” and when you don’t turn, he tacks on “It’s Siri.” You know who it is all too well and that’s exactly why you all but fuse yourself with Remus, too ashamed to face your boyfriend. It was your own stubbornness that had gotten you into this situation. You don’t deserve the comfort of his rings scratching along your skin.

You don’t see it but Sirius flinches as if he’s been struck, your reaction sending a stinging pain radiating across his chest. He reaches out again in an attempt to pry you away from his friend, transfer you into his own hold to figure out why you were suddenly acting so strange. You’d been fine the last time he’d secretly checked in on you and Lily. Giggling away in the kitchen as the two of you mixed experimental drinks and snacked on pretzels. Even if you wouldn’t come to him, no qualms with you being content in Remus’ arms, he would be put at ease if he could just see your face for a second. So, he could know what he should be doing right now. If you’d damaged your favorite dress in a silly drunken accident or if he needed to be hunting someone down to apologize.

“Should I?” Remus has stopped rubbing your spine, instead holding his palms adrift, pointing between your shivering form and Sirius.

Sirius casts one more look at you before standing “No no, sit with her until we get home.”

The car ride to your apartment is completely silent. Lily stays in the back with you and Remus. She tries and fails to get you to talk.

You allow your thoughts to wander and when you finally snap back you find yourself slouched on the toilet lid in the bathroom, Sirius knelt between your legs grasping your hands in his own. He’d gotten Remus to drag you inside and after two hours of coaxing you'd released the boy and allowed him to go home. Sirius had gotten a glass of water into you, changed your clothes, brushed your teeth and wiped your puffy face all to the tune of your occasional sniffle.

He calls your name gently until your eyes find and focus on him. “I need you to talk to me please,” And suddenly you feel sick to your stomach. These dramatics are unlike you. Nothing serious happened, your mind keeps chanting, yet a fresh wave of tears surfaces anyway.

Sirius does not allow you to drift back into your head. His grip on your hands tightens almost painfully so. He brings them to his lips and peppers them with chaste kisses, gaze darting around in search of something. “How many toothbrushes are in the holder?”

You don’t answer and he asks again, slower.

The tooth brush holder was a gift you’d gotten Sirius when you’d asked him to move in together. A wonky lopsided ceramic thing you’d made in a pottery class. Sometimes you still felt embarrassed about it and even attempted to swap it out for a store bought one but Sirius had protested fiercely. Two toothbrushes rest in its clutches.

“Two.”

He beams, rewarding you with a firm rub on the thigh “What about this huh? Who gave you this?” He spins the ring on your finger.

A thin band made of jade and no other adornment. You’d always preferred simpler jewelry. Sirius had given it to you before you’d even started dating. Back when you were just friends yet anywhere you went someone commented on how cute of a couple you were.

You smile at the memory “You.”

“Who did my makeup?”

You had, right in this bathroom in this very spot. Standing between his legs with your hand pressed into the side of his pale face, angling it upwards for you. Scolding him playfully to keep his eyes open while you applied liner to his water line and to keep them shut for a perfect wing “Me.”

He asks you one final question “And who all is sitting in this bathroom?”

You answer immediately “You and me.”

“That's right,” Sirius nods. You’ve calmed enough to truly look at him now. The worried tension drowning his beautiful features as he stares at you “just you and me, ok? You can talk to me.”

Of course you could. You know that. Sirius would never judge you. He would never blame you for what happened. You swallow and tell him “I should have listened to you.”

It was somewhat of known fact that Peter Pettigrew had a crush on you all throughout your school years. Even after graduation and you and Sirius officially getting together, his flirtatious jokes and glances never ceased. It didn’t really bother you though, so you never felt the need to do much about it. What was so wrong about having a tiny crush? The boys play flirted with each other all the time. Peter was a casual friend, and if you asked him to cut it out he immediately would without complaint. At some point during the party he’d invited himself to hang out with you and Lily. Telling jokes, drinking, dancing and sticking especially close to you. After a while it was time to finally break the seal. The downstairs toilet had a long line so you’d wandered away to look for one upstairs. Peter, drunk off his ass really, had followed you upstairs and got a bit handsy after cornering you in a bedroom.

You try to look away from Sirius, shame once again worming its way into your head. He purposefully grabs hold of your face. Softly turning it so you met his eyes again. “Can I ask how far? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to but I would be thankful if you told me.”

“Not far, he just grabbed my arms and tried to kiss me but I managed to shove him off, lost my balance, he snagged my dress to try stop me from tripping over and It ended up ripping.”

Sirius grows very quiet. You slam your eyes shut so you don't have to see the disappointment cloud his gaze. “I feel sick” you groan, bending forward to press your forehead to his shoulder. He bristles.

“I'm sorry.”

“for what?”

His fingers knot into your sleepshirt “I knew you were drinking, I should have kept a closer eye on you.”

“I'm an adult Sirius, nobody should have to babysit me. I don’t know why I’m acting this way anyway. It's no big deal. We were both drunk.” Come morning Peter will probably be blowing up your phone with apologies.

“That’s not an excuse my love, he put his hands on you without your consent. Drunk or not that’s not ok and you have a right to be upset about it.” You nod your head, burrowing further into Sirius' warmth, but he’s not satisfied.

He pulls you back up gently by the hair. “Do you understand that?”

If you’d just shut down Peter with more gumption behind your words the first few times he got flirty, then maybe he wouldn’t have felt he had a genuine opening. That's nonsense though. After a nice cup of tea and a long nap your brain will fully acknowledge that.

“Yeah, I'm sorry for pushing you away earlier. I was just…ashamed.”

“You have nothing to ashamed of. What happened was beyond your control ok? You don’t have to be scared to tell me things like this.” He allows you to put your head back down, rubbing your back in a steady rhythm that starts to lull you to sleep.

“What do you want to do?” He knows he should wait till morning to ask. When you've settled and made your peace. But a slow, worming anger muddles his judgment. Whatever you wanted to do about the situation he’d oblige. Although any idea of retribution he can personally envision would end with you having to pay bail. What a way to bring in the new year.

“Um, Can I think about it for a little longer?” Later, when your head wasn’t throbbing.

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”

The two of you depart from the bathroom hand in hand, shuffling off to get that cup of tea and to bed. It’s only after you're snuggled away with your head on Sirius' stomach listening to it gurgle, that you suddenly remember something.

“I left my phone at the party.”

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thefearedashantis · 2 months

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Dirty Laundry and Brown Sugar Oats

Pairing: Sirius Black x SAHM! Reader (stay at home mom)

Summary: You’ve had a very busy weekend

Word count: 1.5K

Warning: skipping meals

This weekend had been one from hell. Filled with celebratory moments, but from hell none the less. It started on Friday morning with the primary schools’ spring production. Claire’s class was participating with a little dance routine. Lots of classroom mothers were signing up to assist with corralling the children throughout the day and your youngest daughter had begged you too as well. In her own words “all you do is stay home anyway”.

You weren’t sure what to do with Emmerson at first but Lily had offered to watch him for a few hours, claiming it a perfect opportunity for he and Harry to have a play date. You were extremely grateful. He wouldn’t cause her any trouble. The only person he fussed with was you.

From eight in the morning to five in the evening you were swimming in kindergarteners. Bathroom trains, fixing hair, changing into costumes, breaking up arguments, forcing a quick nap time, practice, and then comforting the snifflers once the performance actually started. The ones that attempted to leap from the stage in a wash of tears, grabby hands extended.

Then Amelia had her spelling bee on Saturday morning. As soon as you'd gotten back with Claire, cleaned her up and made dinner you were off to test Lia on her words. She wouldn’t allow you to stop until she was free of mistakes and hesitance. She didn’t win, but she was abundantly proud of herself for giving it a shot. As were you and Sirius.

Emmy had his doctor’s appointment that same afternoon for some blood testing. He'd been falling ill a lot recently and you thought it couldn't hurt to do a full check up to see if everything was alright. A fresh scratch now pulsed under your eye as evidence of his struggle. And then from there you had to rush to get Lia to her soccer practice, take Claire to ballet and run a few errands around town. You'd spent that night tailoring some of Sirius formal shirts for a few meetings he had coming up in the week.

Sunday morning Remus as well as Lily, James and Harry came over for breakfast. You’d gone all out in preparation. The downside being once you were done you had no interest in the spread of food you’d prepared.

Now it was Sunday evening, the sun only just beginning to dip below the horizon. You’d just managed to get Emmy fed and settled to watch a few minutes of Tv. Lia is at the counter finishing up some homework and Claire is crowding you. Swerving around your legs, just as high as she’d been all weekend on excitement. Every second of every day from the moment she opened her eyes to the moment she closed them it was just demands that you stop whatever you were doing to watch her. For her to perform the same sequence of moves you’d watched her do on stage as if you hadn’t been paying attention then. And again, the other thousands of times she'd done it since.

She bumps herself into your legs from behind sending you stumbling.

“Mom you aren’t watching!”

The laundry basket in your hand tips, bulging with the dirty clothes you’d been putting off washing. A jumble of socks falls from it to the tiled floor. It takes everything in you not to snap, instead closing your eyes for a beat, breathing in and out before bending to reach for them. When you’re suddenly hit with the feeling of the ground shifting. Your vision blurs and your heart gives a painful stutter. An overwhelming ringing pingpongs between your ears and your mind grates to a halt. Where were you? What had you been doing a second ago?

Small hands press into your back. You’ve sat on the ground. The plastic of the basket still slippery in your hold where it rests atop your extended legs. You feel hot. Your stomach is cramping.

A shadow falls across you from above. You force your wavering gaze up to meet Lia’s face leaned over the countertop, frowning and squinting at you. “Mom?”

Claire screams, much too close your ears, her fist pounding into your spine. “You have to watch me! Look! Look!”

“Claire, stop it!” Lia scolds. She hops down from the stool and comes around to stand in front of you. You stare straight ahead at her blue sleep shorts before she squats down to grab at your face.

“Mommy?”

The haze over your mind begins to clear when she squishes at your cheeks gently “I’m fine sweets.” Resting the basket to the side you cover her hands with your own, struggling to swallow around your dry mouth “Just lost my balance there”

Claire mashes her chin into your shoulder, pressing her own cheek against both of your hands “You’re so clumsy sometimes.”

Lia’s still frowning; her eyes a little glassy. She watches you for another beat before bolting upright “I’m going to get dad.”

You pull her back to you in a panic “No! Lia I’m fine.”

Sirius was outside doing some yardwork. Things you’d been asking him to get to for months now. That’s where he’d spent most of his weekend and it made you feel like a bit of a nag. You don’t want to bother him anymore. Especially not for something so minor.

Lia jerks her hand from yours, sprinting for the front door shouting for Sirius.

In the meantime, you shift yourself slowly to rest your back against the cabinets. The effort of it has you breaking a small sweat. Your hands shake as you set the laundry aside.

“Are you sick?” Claire asks, collecting the dropped socks and plopping them into the basket. She presses her hand to your forehead checking for warmth.

“No Clair bear.” But she won’t take that as an answer of course so before she can scuttle off in search of the thermometer you redirect her attention. “Do you think Emmy would like to watch your performance?”

Her eyes light up “You’re right! I haven’t shown him yet.” She leaves you behind, completely forgotten, in search of your youngest. Seated on his playmat in the living room and occupied by the puppets moving across the television screen.

Time seems to jump between a long blink to rest your eyes and reopening them to find Sirius kneeled in front of you. Hair tied up atop his head, collar of his shirt dark and dampened. A smudge of dirt slashes across his cheek. A calm smile spreading his lips. “Are you cozy down here love?”

You roll your eyes at him. “You smell sweaty.”

“Lia, can you get mom a glass of water please?” You hadn’t even noticed her hanging back in the archway, standing so still and quiet with her hands clasped together. She goes without a word.

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“I can’t get up.” You’d plummet right back down to the ground if you tried.

Lia returns with your water. Sirius takes it from her with a small thank you before cupping your chin. With nimble fingers he tilts your head back slightly, pressing the chilled glass to your cracked lips. “Drink, slowly” He waits for you to down half the glass before setting it aside, watching you intently.

“What did you guys have for lunch? Maybe it didn’t agree with you.”

“We had peanut butter and jelly. Mom didn’t eat any though.” Lia answers

“And you didn’t have any breakfast this morning my love. Did you eat at all today?”

In fact, you couldn’t remember the last time something of substance passed your lips, food or drink. When your days edged more on the hectic side, you’d sometimes forget they were necessities. A horrible habit you never managed to break.

Sirius reads this in your expression. He frowns disapprovingly at you. “When was the last time you ate something? Not random scraps, a whole meal”

“Breakfast Friday morning” and even that had only been a slice of buttered toast. You were running solely on the clementine you’d swiped from one of Claires classmates, a handful of nuts, and a half cup of tea somewhere else in there.

“Is she going to be alright?” Lia has sat herself beside you, picking at her fingers anxiously as her eyes rack your body from head to toe. You feel a tinge of shame run through you then. To cause her such worry with your bad habits.

Sirius removes one of the rings from his finger and slides it onto one of hers. It’s far too big but it provides a nice distraction as she spins it absentmindedly around the digit. “Mom hasn’t been nourishing her body properly but she’ll be right as rain once we get some food into her.”

“Are you ready to get up?” he asks you.

“No” you answer honestly. The room is still spinning.

Smiling reassuringly, he instead makes whispered conversation with Lia, asking what they should feed you. “Something light to not upset her stomach”

“That special ginger tea she gave me when i was sick last week.”

“What else?”

“Brown sugar oats?” She glances at you for approval “You love oats. With some honey on top?”

“Delicious. Why don’t you go fill the kettle while I help mom to the table.”

Once she’s gone Sirius turns back to you. He runs his hands up and down your bare legs, refusing to meet your gaze now. “Trying to give me a heart attack, are you?” he grumbles “Lia came outside frantic and I was sure the worst had happened” he pinches you on the thigh. Not particularly hard but enough to convey his upset.

“Ow”

He soothes it with a kiss “You have to stop skipping meals like that. You have to stay strong and healthy so we can be together until we’re old and gray and Claire ships us off to a retirement home.”

A laugh startles out of you “Lia would definitely let me live with her. Emmy might be kind enough to house you.”

The laughter dies, a cloud of seriousness rolling in to dampen it.

“Promise me” He must really be fed up with you.

“I’ve been working on it. Time just slipped through my hands this weekend.”

“Promise me” he pushes again.

You sigh, feigning annoyance at the dramatics you so enjoy when he forcibly links your pinky fingers together “I promise.”

“Great!” It’s slow going, but he gets you up off the floor and to the counter “Lia how about we cut up some fruit to go with that?”

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thefearedashantis · 3 months

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If anyone’s interested i draw sometimes!

#kpop #nct mark #nct 127 #nct dream #kpop fanart #nct fanart #watercolor #gouache #pen and ink #sketchbook #thefearedashantis

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thefearedashantis · 3 months

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Garlic Toast and Bloody Noses

Pairing: Sirius Black x SAHM! Reader (stay at home mom)

Summary: Your eldest daughter got in trouble at school and Sirius is livid.

Word count: 3.1K

Warning: None (if you think it needs one lmk)

Emmerson is cranky, per usual. You weren’t sure how long a two-year-old could cry before tiring themselves out, but he was surely going for the record.

Nothing you did soothed him. Rocking, singing, a stroll around the block. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to play. He didn’t want to sleep. The reasoning for his upset was simple enough. One you’d figured out shortly after he was born.

He hated you. Detested. Loathed. Abhorred. As much as the very idea broke your heart.

From the moment he took his first breathe he despised your very presence. Would absolutely scream his little head off until Sirius, or anyone really, rescued him from your grasp. Only then from the comfort of his fathers’ arms would he calm, then turn back to stare at you accusingly with watery eyes.

Well, his father wasn’t home at the moment, and you stare at the clock praying for the minutes to go by quicker. School and extracurricular activities having ended, Sirius and your other two children should be walking through the front door any second.

Your husband would enter your home silently, tuckered out from a long day. He’d take off his shoes and hang up his coat. Round the couch and lean down to peck you gently at the corner of your lips before prying your son from your arms. Wrestling his fat hands loose of your hair which he never failed to get an ironclad grip on. Then you’d stow away in the bathroom for a few quiet minutes after saying hello to your girls. Just to give yourself a little pep talk and allow the headache pulsing behind your eyes to recede. Give yourself some much-needed reassurance that this behaviour couldn’t last forever. At some point he’d warm up to you.

He had to, right?

You’re wretched from your thoughts at the slam of the front door. Followed by a gust of air whisking by you where you were slumped in the living room, thunderous footsteps banging up the stairs. Another door slams in the distance.

From the brief glimpse at the back of a muddy soccer uniform you know it must be Amelia, and that fact has you up on your feet in a panic. Because just as your youngest scorned your existence your eldest adored you. If she wasn’t at school she was virtually glued to your hip. She would never come home without stopping to throw herself at you like you’d been apart for an eternity.

Something was wrong.

You’ve barely placed Emmy into his playpen, a rigorous tussle, and taken a step into the hall when a small body crashes into your middle. Your kindergartner. Backpack, coat and shoes still on.

“Mom!”

“Claire!” you try to match her enthusiasm.

“I’m hungry” she mumbles against your stomach, arms squeezing you tight.

“I made your favourite snack. It’s on the counter for you.”

Sirius appears in the archway just as Claire scurries away. He’s in a flurry, making long strides in the direction of the stairs without so much as acknowledging you. “You get back down here right now young lady!” His voice all but shakes the house, sending your heart scuttling into your throat. Sirius never raises his voice, especially not when angry. Sirius was hardly ever angry to begin with.

Your hand shoots out to grab at him before he can get too far, pulling him to a harsh stop. “Whoa, whoa whoa! What’s going on?”

“Lia got in a fight at school!” Claire calls from the kitchen.

And he’s teetering on you, trying to get you to let him go.

“What? Why didn’t you call me? What’s happened, is she alright?”

“I’d say she’s doing better than Isaac!” Now he’s moving, circling to the other end of the room, dragging you along with him. “I mean parents trust me to look after and teach their children! How does it seem when I can’t even discipline my own? She’s old enough to know not to hit others!”

Sirius was the music teacher at the local elementary school. The one both of your daughters attended. That being the case he usually handled anything pertaining to the girls while on the premises. Didn’t mean you were out of the loop however. If one got so much as a scratch on the playground you were sent a text about it. For the entire day to have elapsed without him informing you on what had happened was odd.

“Sirius” you release his arm in favour of his face, rubbing at the space between his nape and ear in a manner you knew he found soothing “Honey, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

But your attempts to pacify him prove worthless when his roaming eyes finally snap to yours with a steely coldness that has a chill running up your spine. You see none of the sticky affection you’re accustomed to within them. Nothing but distaste. There was no questioning Emmy’ parentage with that gaze.

“I told you the haircut wasn’t a good idea.”

Haircut? Was he still upset about that all these weeks later?

“What’s her hair have to do with anything?”

His eyes roll so hard you fear they’ll be lost in the back of his head. He shakes out of your hold. “Because you undermine me with every little thing when it comes to her! I try to put my foot down and you immediately slag it off!”

“It’s her hair Sirius. She wanted it short and you couldn’t give a good enough reason why she shouldn’t be allowed to have it that way.”

Emmy has finally gone quiet in his play pen. Standing and peeking over the edges at the two of you, gaze flitting back and forth like a ping pong ball whenever someone speaks. Probably wondering why his beloved father hasn’t come to pick him up yet.

“Because she looks like a boy!” Sirius throws his hands up, looking to the sky for some sort of backup he would not be receiving. “She already dresses like a boy, you’ve let her chop all her hair off and now she’s running around getting into trouble like some little delinquent!” With every word his face gets more and more red, voice trembling with raging effort.

You can’t seem to find anything to say for a long moment, just watching him breathe in and out in desperate rags. A minute passes, then two. When he manages to catch his breath and stumble over to the couch you follow closely behind. Leaning down near his ear so you won’t have to speak above a whisper.

“First of all Black, I don’t know who you’re speaking to in that tone but I suggest you check it, right now. Her hair and the way she dresses are nobody’s business but her own and they don’t make her a boy.” The fact those words could even leave his mouth after the childhood he had baffled you “And second I think you should stop and reevaluate the way you talk about your daughter, especially while she’s right upstairs to hear you.”

He turns his head. You’re so far into his space that your noses almost brush but you don’t back away. You would always stand firm when it came to your children. The one’s you two created and set out to raise together in the loving and supporting environment neither of you had gotten growing up.

“Are you guys arguing?”

You straighten up at the squeak of Claire’s question. She stands behind the couch with a slight frown on her round face. Her snack of garlic toast held between two hands.

“No darling of course not,” a smile splits your expression for good measure “why don’t you come with me to check on Lia while Daddy says hello to Emmy hm?”

Claire is not convinced “sounded like arguing.”

You’re at the base of the stairs, swatting the girl up them, when Sirius calls back in a very small manner “I’m sorry.”

He appears more like himself now, the love of your life. Thin, long limbed, warm eyes with a hint of melancholy. Deflated of his anger and replenished with his token skittish composure.

“When I come back there will be no more yelling.”

He nods, and you’re off to discover the root of this grand affair.

Claire stands outside of Lia’ closed door when you arrive. Shifting from foot to foot as if nervous to go in. You reach over her and rap on the sticker covered wood with a firm knuckle. There’s no answer but you turn the knob and enter anyway.

The room is dark, lights off and curtains drawn. The only illumination comes from the device set up on the bedside table that projects stars and planets onto the ceiling. A balled-up form rests in the very corner of the bed, back to you, arms slung over the head.

“Is she crying?” Claire whispers. Well, her version of whispering. Which was just her regular speaking volume but slower.

“No.” Lia grinds out. She twists herself around so you can see her face. She wasn’t crying but she surely had been if the red of her eyes were evidence enough.

You make your way over to the bed, posting yourself up against the headboard. Claire opts to sit at the bottom, gazing up at the light show.

“Want to tell me what happened at school today?”

“Can I sit in your lap?”

Despite the circumstances a warm fuzzy feeling seeps throughout your chest, always happy to indulge in some physical affection. Lia is still quite small for her age. She crawls over your legs and slots her body against yours, burrowing as close as she can manage, sticking her nose into the material of your shirt and inhaling deeply. Her dark hair tickles your face. Not long enough for a scrunchy and too short for much other styling. It sticks up in amusing ends from sweat.

Claire must feel left out because she wraps a crummy hand around your socked foot.

“Daddy’s disappointed in me,” her voice is hoarse and wobbly. She keeps her eyes shut tight while speaking, nose scrunched.

“He’s not, he’s just…unsettled, stressed maybe.”

“Is there a difference?”

To an eight-year-old there might not be.

“Daddy was yelling” comes a whisper snaking up from the end of the bed.

“Be quiet Claire!” Lia tries to shoo the younger girl out of her room but she refuses to go.

“Loudly.” She continues “His face was all red.”

You fight a giggle “Eat your bread Claire bear.”

“Furious” she finishes around the last mouthful of her treat. She’s always been your chatty baby, forever excited for new vocabulary words.

You return your full attention to Amelia “Tell mom what happened bug.”

She doesn’t start immediately, instead relishing in the feeling of your fingers combing through her damp hair for a while. When she does start speaking the story is much worse than you thought it would be.

The boys in class have been bothering her for the last few months.

One in particular who sits directly behind her by the name of Isaac. He is the reason, she confesses, for originally wanting to cut her hair short despite loving the lack of inches now. It was in hopes of deterring him from yanking it by handfuls.

They apparently dislike her always trying to hang around with them and not the girls. Girls belonged with girls and boys belonged with boys as it went. Not allowed to mix. Cooties too easily spread.

They took to stuffing things down the back of her shirt. Swiping her glasses off her face. Shoving her in the lunch line. Ripping the pages out of her notebooks. Pouring glue in her chair. Scratching mean names into her desk. Cornering her during recess while the teachers were distracted and pulling her pants down in front of everyone. Because if she wouldn’t play with the girls then she must be a boy but if she was a boy then they'd need proof.

She tried to tell her homeroom teacher when it first started but the woman didn’t believe her because Isaac is a top student and his family name stood proud on the sign outside of the new gym complex. She must have done something to him to earn such treatment.

“Did you go to your father?”

Lia shakes her head “I started to once but he just told me to try sticking with the girls more.”

“What about me? I thought we didn’t keep secrets between us.”

“You always tell me to be brave and stick up for myself if someone bothers me. I was trying to build up the courage but—” she dissolves into a low whine, struggling to finish around her tears. “I don’t think Daddy likes me.”

Claires eyebrows furrow. Up until then you didn’t think the girl had even been listening “Why would you say that!” she shouts, looking seconds away from bursting into tears herself.

You’re quick to intervene “She doesn’t mean it. Your big sister is just really sad right now.”

“No, I mean it!” Lia insists, sitting up to rub at her eyes “He doesn’t like me! He complains about everything I do!” her head bobbles from side to side as she lists “Sit more lady like. Why don’t you wear any of the dresses grandma bought you. Why don’t you do ballet instead of soccer. Why don’t you grow your hair out like the other girls. Why don’t you have any girl friends”

You take her hands into yours, they’re cold. You feel unprepared to deal with her emotions, she’s so young to even be ruminating over such things. All you want to do is ease her heartache, as her mother. An adult in her life who should have all the answers, but has no clue where to start. What would be saying too much and what would be too little. “Oh, my love, your father had a really hard time growing up with his own dad. He was really strict with him. That’s no excuse for him to take it out on you, but I know he loves you very much”

She deflates back onto your chest “Yeah, but he doesn’t like me.”

She finishes the story.

It was recess. She was climbing up onto the monkey bars and about to go across when Isaac caught her pant leg and tried to yank them down. On instinct she went to kick him off and accidentally struck him in the face.

“I didn’t mean to break his nose. Swear.”

Never in a million years would you think her capable of intentionally hurting some. You placate her with a kiss on the forehead anyway “how about you and mom go out for a treat? Huh? Just the two of us?”

She sniffles in contemplation “Ice cream?”

“Anything you want.”

“Can I come?” Claire crawls her way up to the headboard.

“I’ll bring you back some, but Lia’s had a very bad day and that means what?”

“She needs mommy time?”

“Exactly.”

You ease said girl out of your lap gently, laying her out on the pillows, and promising to be back in five minutes. Then you’d go for her treat.

On your way out of the room you notice Claire scooting closer. She sticks her pointer finger right in her sisters’ face. “Your eyes are puffy.”

The aggravated “Claire!” follows you down the stairs.

In the living room Sirius and Emmy sit in comfortable silence, your husband bouncing the now cheerful baby on his knee. His neck nearly snaps at your approach. Eyes already glassy with regret.

“Is she terribly upset?”

“Heartbroken more like” you say, not bothering to sugarcoat it for him “she thinks you don’t like her.”

He lowers his head in shameful anguish when you sit beside him. “I just, she’s so much like me when I was young.” No friends his own gender. Only interested in things typically deemed non-conforming “the things I went through in school, at home, it pains me to imagine that happening to her.”

How much had she told him of the bullying you wonder and why had he kept it from you. You'd been there for so much of his own struggle that it honestly hurts your feelings that he’d allowed himself to spiral so much without seeking you out. The number of times he showed up on your doorstep in the wee hours of the morning. The cuts and bruises you’d tended, caused over simplicities like nail polish, the length of his hair, the music he listened to. The way he dressed, acted, spoke.

“Ok, but you can’t just force her to change who she is in the name of protecting her. Just because she isn’t the girliest girl out there doesn’t give anyone the right to bully her, not even you. All you’re doing is teaching her that being herself is not ok. Then to go and blow up on her like that. It’s confusing Sirius. You know better.”

You don't say it, wouldn’t ever go that low, but you know he’s thinking it. He’s acting like his father.

Sirius sits with your words.

“Why did she hit him then?”

“She didn’t really. He tried to pull her pants down on the playset so she kicked out. It was an accident.”

“Pull her pants down?”

A fresh wave of anger rolls over his shoulders. You snatch Emmy from his grasp before planting a kiss onto his temple.

“No more of that. Go upstairs and talk to her before we leave.”

You’d get on him later for keeping secrets from you.

Sirius returns the kiss, lingering for a few seconds too long, pressing his nose into the fat of your cheek. He smells like peppermint.

“I love you.” Her murmurs. And you’re suddenly transported back to your childhood bedroom. The sun just creeping over the horizon and spilling through your window right onto his sleeping face. The lips so like Claires’, ears and brows so like Emersons’, freckles like Amelias’. Hovering your finger over the bridge of his nose, skimming along his throat. Blowing gently at his thick lashes. Poking at the sliver of skin peeking out at his tummy where his shirt had risen up. When you’d fall asleep with him on the floor and always wake up to his breath on the back of your neck, legs tangled in bed with you. The fit of giggles sneaking him out the house before your parents woke up.

“Love you too. Now go!”

You’re once again left with Emmy in the exact same place you’d started. He watches Sirius take the stairs two at a time before turning back to you, frown already forming.

“And you my little man, i love you so much.”

#fem reader #female reader #fem!reader #mauraders #mauraders x reader #thefearedashantis #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black x reader #sirius black #dad!sirius black #maurauders fanfic #mom!reader #sirius orion black #the marauders era #the marauders #hurt/comfort

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thefearedashantis · 3 months

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Part Time Cupid (pt.1)

Part Time Cupid (Pt .1)

Pairing: Roommate! Sirius Black x Fem! Reader

Summary: When Reader's attempts at finding love fall short, she turns to her roommate, Sirius Black, for assistance. As Sirius offers his unique perspective and charm to help her navigate the complexities of romance, unexpected feelings begin to emerge between them, blurring the lines between friendship and something more.

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: possibly body shaming

It’s freezing outside. Meandering somewhere below twenty, but not enough bite to be single digits. Despite the frosty breeze that slithers through your coat, you’re sweating. Feet cemented to the worn welcome mat in front of your apartment door. Forehead smushed against said doors wooden surface, hand still raised and poised to slot your key into the lock.

That was before your remaining dregs of energy sputtered out, forcing you to stop and take a quick moment to collect yourself. Allow the sweaty sheen glistening over every inch of your skin to dry before going inside where you could make out the muddled noises of your roommate and his friends in the kitchen. Well, they were your friends as well you suppose. But they’ll always be more so his.

If you went in the way you were now they’d be quick to realize you’d walked home. A good twenty minutes scurrying along streets in the part of town you were least familiar with. Looking over your shoulder at every little noise.

When you went inside, you’d have to relinquish your sadness. Split it up and dole it out in sizeable portions for each to carry for you. Which seemed sweet in theory, that the boys would be so willing to shoulder your burdens with you, but not this time. You wanted to hoard this particular melancholy to yourself. Just stew in it for a few minutes longer as if your walk hadn’t allowed for enough self-pity.

You’d never regarded yourself as a particularly interesting person. Not exceptionally pretty nor smart nor charming. You enjoyed staying home on weekends with a good book. Brewing pots of tea around the clock. Binge watching shows with entirely too many seasons and napping when the weather was poorly. You collected special additions of Oscar Wilde' works. Liked baking cookies at three in the morning when the city was asleep. Disliked doctors’ appointments. Unremarkable people get used to fading into the background. It’s how you went nearly your entire school career without much complaint on your lack of new relationships. Platonic and romantic alike.

The only reason you knew the people you did were through childhood connections. Being neighbours’ way back when. Having your parents arrange playdates for you despite knowing you’d scare the other children off. Brandishing bugs from your garden, showing off your double joints or ignoring them entirely. Only one had stood the test of your disposition and had rung you into his circle ever since. You never felt inclined to leave it. Why sit alone every day when you could plop quietly between people who shone brighter than you could ever hope for. Though you didn’t earn them yourself you cherished them as if you had. Prayed even a smidge of their polish would rub off on you in some way. To prove yourself deserving. And here you were six years after graduation living with that steadfast friend. Two next door and another only a block away. Still utterly dull.

This had been your first date in ages. Not for lack of trying. You just simply had no natural gravitation when it came to people. It took five times the average effort on your part to catch someone’s attention let alone keep it. You’d even taken a word of advice and downloaded a few dating apps. Conversations were so much easier to start and carry online, people in the comments vowed. You made your first match. A guy named Frank. Talked with him for a few weeks. Allowed your stomach to flip when he finally asked you on a date. A date you took great care in preparing for. Buying a new dress, religiously watching makeup tutorials, shaving, plucking, buffing. Practicing questions in case conversation slowed. Even eating less the days leading up to save your appetite.

All for it to turn out like this.

You should’ve known better when he was an hour late. The shame you’d felt sitting there waiting while the server cast you pitiful looks still had you clinching your jaw 'til you tasted copper. When he came bustling in wearing attire far too casual for the lavish restaurant he had been adamant on going to. No apology or excuse given.

Still, you smiled it off. At least he’d shown up at all. You’ve been stood up on numerous occasions. Everything was fine for a while after that. Nice even. When he made you laugh with a clever quip or had your heart skipping a beat when his leg brushed yours under the table.

Until it was time to order and he was placing one in your stead before you could even pick up the menu. A salad, dressing on the side, with lemon water. A well-done steak for him, rum and coke. If he wasn’t texting, he was talking about himself. A completely one-sided rant you had no space to interject. When he did rope you in it was to comment on your appearance. You didn’t look how he was expecting, profile photo a tad misleading.

Sure, the picture was a year old. Your hair was dyed but that was the only change as far as you could tell. It was your favourite picture of yourself. One of very few.

You’d picked at your salad. Ordered no dessert despite desperately wanting to. Fished out your card when asked to split the bill. He’d tried to kiss you on the way out, lead you to his car, but you’d breezed by him and started your trek home.

Could that have possibly been the same person you’ve been texting? The one who would send you photos of his cat and reply attentively while you talked about your day even if you’d done absolutely nothing.

Now here you were, frozen to the door. Enjoying your sorrow to the staticky crackle of the overhead lighting. Fighting back the burn in your throat when your heeled feet begin to ache. The style of your hair yanking on your nerves. Dress constricting, makeup like cake smeared on your face.

You’re so hungry.

“Oh, you’re back earlier than expected!”

Without missing a beat you’re straightening up, shoving down your blues and twirling around with a smile.

It’s James, ambling up the stairs with pizza boxes under his arm. Apparently, he’d run out to grab them not too long ago because it’s faster than delivery.

He’s crowding you immediately. Squeezing you in a quick side hug as was his customary greeting, no matter how little time you’d been apart. All height and curls and warmth. He doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss and makes use of your key abandoned in the lock. Shoving the door open and ushering you inside. “Look who I found!”

You were half right at least. Remus and Sirius are in the kitchen, seated at the table with bits of a puzzle strewn out before them.

Remus looks up with a grin “Little early for you, no?”

The clock above the fridge reads half past nine. How long were they expecting you to be out?

“What did you guys get up to?” you ask, evading the question. You step out of your heels and almost whine at the feeling of cool tile.

Your roommate, Sirius, drags his attention from the pastime then. His wavy pitch hair is pulled up into a tuff on top of his head. His chin nestled into the palm of his hand while long pale fingers tap away aimlessly at a lightly freckled cheek. Nails neatly trimmed and painted a shimmery black polish.

He crinkles his nose at you “Well, I wanted to do a puzzle, but Moonie and Prongs were against it.”

James steps around you to put the pizzas on the kitchen counter and fish out some plates. “We’re doing your stupid puzzle are we not?”

“Yet you’ve spent more time complaining than actually finding pieces.”

Remus shakes his head with a heavy sigh “You always get annoyed if we don’t start with the edges.”

Sirius ignores this, “How was your date? What was his name again?”

“Francis?” Remus supplies.

“No, no, I think it was Farley.”

You’ve hung up your coat, moving to the table. There are no more seats and you don’t want to steal James’ so you hop up onto the cabinet behind Sirius instead. Still close enough for you to press your squashed toes into the base of his spine. Also strategically chosen so he couldn’t see your face throughout their interrogation. “Frank, his name was Frank. And it was good. He was really nice.”

“When’s the next?”

There would be no next.

You force a breezy laugh, “I don’t wanna get too ahead of myself.”

“Ahead of yourself. Did you look in the mirror before walking out that door?” Sirius chides, rummaging through some flipped pieces.

“You did look beautiful.” Remus has gotten up to inspect the pizzas. One Hawaiian, one Meat lovers from the looks of it. He opts for meat lovers, taking a plate from James’ extended hand and unabashedly piling on slices. “I wouldn’t have been able to wait till the end of the date before asking when I could see you again.”

“You okay?”

You hadn’t noticed when Sirius turned around. But here he is. Face mere inches from your bare thighs as he gazes up at you with a notch between his brows. Did you not look okay?

You smooth the wrinkle out with your thumb “Yeah just a little tired.”

He relaxes a tad, but the concern is still evident at the edges of the dazzling smile he bestows you with “You can tell us about it tomorrow if you want. We’ll be quiet so you can sleep”

James glances over with a look that screams ‘no promises’, red sauce rimming his lips.

“No, its fine. I want to sit with you all for a while.”

“You sure?” And it’s only when he takes your hand and lowers his voice to barely a whisper that you realize you are shaking a little. A minute tremble that racks your entire form “Your hands are cold.”

“Sorry” You don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

Sirius is frowning now. Alarm bells probably ringing off in his head despite your best effort to act normal. You were never a very good liar. “Do you want a slice love?” he asks. The question echoes where he speaks it into your cupped hands. Blowing warm breath onto them and rubbing furiously 'til they tingle.

You do, but the mere idea of having to bite, chew and swallow is exhausting. You just want to curl up in your bed and sleep. The faster you shut your eyes the sooner Franks voice would stop swirling around in your head.

Misleading.

“No thank you.”

Sirius opens his mouth to speak again when your bubble of quiet is suddenly broken by James’ excited cheer “Corner piece!” He all but slams the bit into its slot.

Remus reminds the other boy to use his inside voice with a fond chuckle. Then his attention is back on you “Where’d he take you?”

You pull your hands away from Sirius, pointedly avoiding his gaze until he turned back to the table “That fancy place in the square where all the waiters have the same haircut.”

“No way, they’re so expensive! Lily and I have been wanting to go for ages.” James again, speaking as if you weren’t mere inches away from him.

“You guys would enjoy it. They have a four-page dessert menu”

It takes two hours to finish the puzzle. James and Remus more so joking around while you and Sirius pour over it. They grill you for more details on your outing to which you reply with the vaguest yet most upbeat answers you could manage. The boys stick around for a little while longer discussing some horror movie they wanted to see in theatres before returning to their own apartment unit slightly after midnight. A feeling of relief floods your chest when you shut and lock the door behind them. Finally free to retire from this day after you help Sirius clean up. The two of you make quick work. Wiping the counters. Packing away the puzzle. Washing the dishes and dumping the empty pizza boxes.

You turn to go to your room with a mumbled goodnight but your roommate has other ideas. Tears prickle your eyes when a firm grasp wraps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Sirius guides you back gently into his body, trapping your head under his chin when you shudder. His skin is scolding against yours, rubbing clumsily up and down your spine.

“I’ve known you before you could pronounce your r’s properly,” he mutters into your hair “I’m sorry it didn’t go how you wanted.”

You try to pull away but he won’t allow it. Exasperated by his persistence you grab hold of his sides, gripping them tighter than necessary “It was fine Siri.”

“Alright.”

He holds you hostage there in the dark kitchen until your heartrate begins to slow and your eyes begin to droop, slouching more of your weight onto him with every passing second. He guides you to your bedroom and leaves you to your own devices with another quick squeeze.

You slump into bed without changing or removing your makeup. Something you’ll probably regret later. Sleep evades you however. Instead, you lay there staring at your profile photo. Analysing it. Looking for the differences. When the sun begins to peek through your blinds come morning you finally reach the conclusion that maybe you’ve put on a little weight.

#thefearedashantis #fem!reader #fem reader #james potter #mauraders #remus lupin #sirius black #sirius black x reader #friends to lovers #roomates #roomate! sirius black #mauraders x reader #sirius black fanfiction #maurauders fanfic #cupid #hurt/comfort #remus lupin x reader

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thefearedashantis · 3 months

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Please reblog this if fanfiction has been beneficial to your mental health.

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thefearedashantis · 3 months

Text

I need a boyfriend to come and take my make up off

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thefearedashantis · 4 months

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Why is this so true?

meme by: @Inknopewetrust

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thefearedashantis · 4 months

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Tender Headed

Pairing: James Potter x blackfem! reader

Summary: James helps reader retwist her locs

Word count: 1,065 ish

Warning: mention of reader being hit across the hands by a parent.

“It’s open!”

James enters your apartment with a prominent frown etched into his face. Arms loaded with takeout bags and glasses fogged from the cold outside. “I really hate when you leave your door unlocked like that mouse” he says, kicking said door shut with his foot and slipping the lock into place.

He moves to the kitchen counter to drop the bags before doubling back to slide off his shoes.

You glance at him with a guilty smile from your place on the floor in front of the TV. This isn't the first time he’s voiced his disdain for your lack of caution and it most likely will not be the last.

“You said you were five minutes away.”

“Yeah” he throws his arms up in exasperation while wrestling out of his pluffy coat, “but still, just wait until I get here.”

The conversation is dropped as quickly as it started as James’ attention diverts to the food now that he’s freed himself. He’d stopped by your favorite wing spot before coming over to spend some time with you. You hadn't been dating for very long, but due to both of your hectic schedules the majority of your dates took place within the confines of either of your apartments. Not that you minded.

“Ok they didn’t have that lemonade you like so I got the ginger flavor instead. And they had these new hot wings I thought we could try!” His voice drips with excitement as he shifts through the bags “Half price if you ordered a dessert with them so we have cinnamon rolls for later”

He shuffles over to the living area with the food. Arranging it neatly on the side table before whirling on you with a grand smile “and lunch is served!” His eyes twinkle with pride.

You open your mouth to thank him but the conversation has once again moved on before you get the chance.

“Oh, what’re you doing with your hair?” He’s suddenly seated beside you. Thigh pressed warmly against your own.

Curious hands reach for some of the materials you have sprawled around. Combs and a small basket overflowing with duckbill clips. A portable standing mirror. Hair gels and a spray bottle filled with fresh rosemary water. He shakes it gingerly, bringing it to his nose for a quick sniff. He hums in satisfaction having finally found the source of your usual herbal scent.

“Retwisting” you say, feeling a swell of bashfulness settle in your chest. James has never seen you do your hair before. In fact, you'd never even allowed yourself to be so loose in front of any of your exes. They were quick to complain if you weren’t dolled up every second of every day, no care given for the processes that went into it.

He takes this answer without further question. Finished with his perusal of your products. “Well take a break and eat before it gets cold.”

He tears into his own meal then with much enthusiasm. The two of you fall into comfortable silence. Lulled by the sound of James chewing and the movie you'd only been half watching. Your arms and neck have started to ache a little since you started, but you don’t want to eat before you’ve finished. Only half a head remains.

“How do you do this anyway?” James asks, startling you out of your thoughts.

You contemplate waving him off, but instead tell him to scooch over a tad when he peers at you with genuine interest. “It’s easy, look here.”

You finish up the one you’d been working on and grab for another. Using the tail of the comb and an intense gaze in the mirror you refine the part “Clean up the part, comb the new growth, apply some product” you spin the comb in your hand as far as it can go before plucking it out and using your palm to continue rolling down.

“And just twist in the direction you got them installed. Then pop on a clip” you conclude, clipping it close to the root into a row with two others.

“Wanna try it?” You hold out the comb to James who takes it before you’ve even finished asking.

“Um, yeah ok.” He wipes his fingers off on a napkin and with more care than a boy of his size would be thought capable, takes your hair in his hands. He’s gentle and precise in following your example. So focused on his task you can only smile at the wrinkle between his brow visible through the mirror “Like this?”

You wince as he removes the comb and palm rolls his work “A little too tight Jamie.”

He lets up immediately “Sorry mouse “He completes the twist with a slightly lighter hand. “Does it usually hurt?”

“Well, I was pretty tender headed before I got them, even more so now. Sometimes I have to take some painkillers but it's usually not too bad.”

You could still vividly remember the day you started doing your own hair. You’d only just turned nine, but the teasing you’d endured at school while learning what worked was much preferred to the strikes you’d receive across the knuckles from your mother. When you'd cry for hours on wash and style day. She despised your endless whining and groaning for her to be gentler. Said you were giving her a headache. All the while it felt as if she was ripping your hair out strand by strand.

James clips his piece away. He runs his hand affectionately down your arm “Can I try another one?”

“You’re a natural” you praise him, checking over what he’s done.

James beams at this “Let me do a few while you eat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah mouse, just relax.” He scoots in behind you to rest his back against the couch. Your supplies are dragged closer to him and your food is handed over. “If I fuck it up you can shave my head in retribution” he jokes, but you cannot find the humor in it.

“I could never do such a thing to your curls! I just got you into a good routine!”

He kisses the scowl off your lips while going for the remote. “What do you want to watch?”

“I saw they have a new season of Love is Blind out.”

James helps you retwist your hair from now on.

#fem reader #female reader #fem!reader #james potter #james x reader #black fem reader #black!reader #james potter x reader #mauraders #mauraders x reader #james potter fanfiction #thefearedashantis #james potter oneshot #maurauders fanfic #james potter fluff #fluff #black girl magic #women with locs

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thefearedashantis · 4 months

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Turn The Lights Down Low

Pairing: photographer!Remus x blackfem!reader

summary: Reader promised to fill in as Remus’ model for the day however she neglects to inform him she’s feeling sick before its too late.

word count: 1,754 ish

warnings: fainting

“Straighten up your posture for me.” No please, no reassuring grin. Remus is entirely in his element right now, face completely hidden behind the camera aimed at you. Usually, you wouldn’t be bothered by the formality. This was his livelihood after all. You were just an old friend from highschool occasionally called on last minute when a real model bailed on him. And even then, you’re sure Lily was rung before resorting to you. ‘Friend’ may not even an appropriate word. Sure, you ran in the same circles back then but you'd never actually spoken to each other one on one. These favours were the closest you’ve ever gotten to being alone with him.

“You’re still slouching” Remus chides, wrinkling his nose at you.

You can feel the pressure starting to build behind your eyes as you fight back tears with everything left in you. His assistant/stylist Marlene, another old face from school, will have your head if you ruin your makeup. Again. She’s always kind enough to take extra care in color matching for you as your makeup skills are very limited. However, you still had to manage your own hair. The curls and texture too ‘unruly’ in her terms.

You feel like you’re being baked alive under all the lights. Blindingly bright and white. Sweat dribbles its way down your aching spine. Pinprick’s crawling up from your extremities, leaving your limbs heavy and numb.

Your throat is scratchy, your mouth is dry. You fear if you move even the tiniest inch, suck in your stomach for a second longer or force your lips into another toothy smile, that you’ll lose your breakfast all over Remus’ beautiful set.

To tell the truth you'd woken up this morning feeling slightly ill, but you couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing him so you vowed to push through.

“Stick your right leg further out.”

You do as told, focusing your ever fading gaze on the floor as another series of clicks and flashes go off. You can’t take this much longer.

“Rem?” You haven’t spoken in so long your voice comes out strained. He doesn’t respond at first, squinting down at his shots with a scrutinizing notch between his brow. Sometimes you wonder why he chose to be the one behind the camera instead of before it. Beauty like his was rare enough. With his tall, lean stature. Wavy dark hair, coppery eyes and clean rich skin. Maybe his scars were the deterring factor. The pallid thin lines webbing from the corner of his eye, across the high bridge of his nose, along his cheek and ending at the corner of his lips. They didn’t dampen his charm in your eyes.

You lick your glossed lips and try again “Remus do you think we could take a break please?”

“Just five more minutes if you can manage, i want to finish this set then you can rest and get changed for the next.” The camera takes its place before his face and he motions for you to straighten up once again.

You cannot manage. Especially having lost almost all feeling in your legs. Chest heavy and eyes nearly impossible to keep open.

“Are you alright y/n?” The question comes from Marlene, who stands off to the side with a useless fan and her touch up bag. She’s noticed your excessive sweating. Entirely too much even for the warmest of days.

Her concern breaks the camel's back. Your knees buckle and you hit the floor, hard, with a feeble sigh.

The next few minutes are a blur. Frantic words are muffled. Two fingers at your wrist check your pulse. Another set of hands tug at your clothing. Something cold is pressed to your neck.

When you fully come to, you’re greeted by darkness. The lights are dimmed. You’ve been moved to the back room and nestled onto an old threadbare couch. A damp cloth on your forehead drips water down the side of your face. The tight clothes you’d been dressed in now replaced by your own t-shirt and shorts. Your heart drops in embarrassment as your foggy mind begins to clear. You go to sit up but are immediately stopped by a gentle hand on the stomach.

Remus, who was apparently sitting on the floor by the couch leans over you to get a good look at your face “Hey, can you hear me?” Whatever he sees must not be to his satisfaction. “How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to say so you opt for silence. Avoiding his gaze that is hellbent on holding yours. Not only did you drop like a fly in front of them the taste in your mouth lets you know you threw up somewhere in there as well. One of them had to peel pukey material off your skin.

Remus must read your thoughts because he backs off a little then. Swiping his fingers at his nose to distract from the rouge coloring his cheeks. “Marlene changed you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The tears begin to flow before you can reign them in. Yes, that is a crucial part of your mortification but the shame of ruining the shoot overshadows it. “I’m sorry, oh I'm so sorry” you choke out.

He squints disapprovingly at your sniffling. Not offering any sort of comfort. You didn't feel deserving of it anyway. Poor Marlene was probably in the studio right now mopping up spittle. You only cry harder at the thought.

“Why didn't you say you were feeling ill? We could have rescheduled”

He’d made it sound so urgent over the phone. “I didn’t want to put you out.”

Remus clicks his teeth, shaking his head at your silliness. He sits there watching you sob for a few more seconds. It all gets too overwhelming and you attempt to wiggle away from him when he finally makes a move. The hand that you now realize never left your stomach slides to your side. The other worming under you to pull you up slightly. His chin presses into the top of your head as he pulls you to his chest, squishing your face at his throat. He rubs soothing circles into your back, shushing you with gruff grumbles. When you don’t quiet down, he only holds you tighter. Its suffocating in the best way. Leaving you light headed on a scent akin to incense.

“Does your head hurt?” he asks, smoothing some of your hair down “You hit the ground pretty hard. Maybe we should go to the emergency room.”

You shake your head with a sniffle “No, I just need to sleep it off.” You’ve always been prone to sickness. You just need to get home to your medicine cabinet and you’d be fine enough.

“Ok come on then.” He pulls away to straighten up.

“What?”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s only a few minutes’ walk i-“

“I’m not letting you walk home like this, come on.” His tone leaves no room for argument. He helps you off the couch and when you stumble on the first step tells you to wait a second. You’re swooped up in his arms before any protest can be given. The two of you make your way to the front after grabbing your belongings. Marlene waves off your apologies with the end of the mop. Bidding you goodbye with a ‘get well soon’.

The sun is only just beginning to set outside. Remus’ car is parked across the street.

“You know this is the closest we’ve ever been” you find yourself mumbling when his hair tickles your ear.

“What do you mean?” he asks, hiking you up higher in his grip.

“Like in school, yeah we shared friends but you and I never actually spoke.” An awkward laugh bubbles out of you “One time you didn’t even recognize me when I ran into you while on holiday”

You realize what you’ve said and backtrack quickly “Not that I’m complaining or anything! It’s just, I always wanted to get to know you better. You and James and Sirius always seemed so cool and like, radiant from afar you know.” You get the feeling that he doesn’t know and you’re just rambling. “You drew people in and it always looked like fun to be that close to you. So, when you called me for the first time about a shoot, I was ecstatic.”

Especially since you’d just figured everyone from that friend group had just lost your number by then. Nobody ever tried to get into touch or answered your messages after graduation except Lily occasionally. You assumed they just didn’t deem you anything worth keeping in contact with. Remus reaching out meant more than you could express with words, even if it was only for work. You saw this as your second chance, but things had never extended outside of the studio despite your best effort. An invitation for coffee after long hours. Rejected. An offer to stay back and clean up. Rejected. To meet up and discuss shoot ideas. Rejected. Always too busy.

When you get to the car, he plants you on your feet for a few seconds. Unlocking the passenger side and ushering you inside with a protective hand on your head. “It was Sirius who suggested you” he admits, buckling your seatbelt and laying your chair back slightly. “He always fancied you back then actually, too scared to ever say anything.”

Your shock is interrupted by a blanket being spread over your legs and a pillow placed behind your head.

“Comfy?”

You nod “Why do you have these in your car?”

A shrug. “Sometimes I sleep at the studio.”

He shuts the door and you watch him jog around the car from the rearview mirror. Neither of you speak again until you’ve pulled off. The words come so quietly you almost miss them over the hum of the air conditioning.

“I am sorry though” Remus keep his head straight and you take your time admiring his profile. “I didn’t forget you that time. I was just shy running into a pretty girl without the boys with me.”

The smile that invades your face is so sudden and forceful your head begins to throb again. “Really? You’re not just trying to get in my good graces?”

“It would be worth the effort, but no.” He looks at you then, the first true smile you’d ever gotten from him softening his features. One specifically tailored for you “I could never forget you y/n.”

#remus x reader #remus lupin x reader #fem!reader #fem reader #female reader #black fem reader #black!reader #mauraders #mauraders x reader #photographer!remus #sick reader #sirius black #james potter #lily evans #marlene mckinnon #thefearedashantis

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thefearedashantis · 7 months

Text

things people do after having a nightmare that isn’t crying

struggle to catch their breath

grab onto whatever’s close enough to ground themselves in reality

become nauseous / vomit

shake uncontrollably

sweat buckets

get a headache

things people do to combat having nightmares if they occur commonly

sleep near other people so they can hear the idle sounds of them completing tasks

move to a different sleeping spot than where they had the nightmare

leave tvs / radios / phones on with noise

just not sleep (if you want to go the insomnia route)

sleep during the day in bright rooms

things people with insomnia do

first, obviously, their ability to remember things and their coordination will go out the window

its likely they’ll become irritable or overly emotional

their body will start to ache, shake, and weaken

hallucinate if it’s been long enough

it becomes incredibly easy for them to get sick (and they probably will)

add your own in reblogs/comments!

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thefearedashantis · 7 months

Text

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?

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thefearedashantis · 7 months

Text

I am a(n):

⚪ Male

⚪ Female

🔘 Writer

Looking for

⚪ Boyfriend

⚪ Girlfriend

🔘 An incredibly specific word that I can't remember

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thefearedashantis · 11 months

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idk who needs to hear this rn but suffering is not noble. take the tylenol

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thefearedashantis · 1 year

Text

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up like a pill bug.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

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