#marauders fanfic

[my-castles-crumbling]

meet - Jegulus - November 20th - @stag-microfic - word count: 332

"Dad?"

James looked up from his book to see his sixteen-year old son standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "What's up, Haz?" he asked gently, placing the hardcover down on the table and patting the empty space on the couch.

Harry sat down gingerly and frowned, green eyes troubled. "Don't laugh, alright?"

"Of course," James nodded, frowning. "What is it?"

"Remember when you used to read me stories, when I was little? About people who would go out and meet 'the one' and fall in love at first sight, and everything ended happily ever after?" Harry asked, still looking uncomfortable.

James nodded, not understanding. "Yes...why?"

"What if it's...not like that?" Harry mumbled, looking down at his hands and shifting awkwardly. "Does that mean it's not right?"

Dawning comprehension flooded through James and he tried to answer without seeming too eager. He didn't want to embarrass Harry, after all. "Prongslet, those were stories. You know that your Pa and I didn't fall in love at first sight, right? I mean...he bloody hated me!"

Harry chuckled at that and met his eyes for a moment before again frowning. "But you were an obnoxious arse," he pointed out.

"I was," James nodded, suppressing a laugh.

"And I was a stuck-up twat."

Both Harry and James turned to see Regulus in the doorway, a smile on his face. The shorter man joined the two on the couch and spoke again.

"Harry, love isn't like the stories. It doesn't always fall into place. But if you both want it and work at it, then it's usually worth it," Regulus said, looking over Harry's shoulder to give James a small smile.

Harry nodded and sighed. "Alright. Thanks."

James couldn't resist. "Is he a Slytherin, then?" He asked knowingly.

Green eyes shot up to meet his, a shocked look on his son's face. "How'd you know?" Harry demanded.

It was Regulus who burst out laughing. "Like father, like son," he chortled.

[daenysx]

Happy sleepover!!! I brought blankets and snacks so we can cuddle up and watch movies :,)

May I request poly!marauders at 4.40am?

happy sleepover! we're definitely cuddling up with blankets, my angel

4.40 AM | POLY!MARAUDERS

it's the sound of storm that wakes remus up.

he checks up on you briefly, your eyes are still closed. your neck must feel numb when you wake up though, you put your head in a strange angle on his shoulder. maybe he should try to adjust you to sleep better-

"holy shit-"

maybe he shouldn't.

when he turns his head he sees sirius's huge eyes, a few curse words whispered on his lovely mouth after the growling sound from the sky.

"it's okay." remus reaches for his boyfriend's arm to soothe him. "just a storm."

"i thought it was a dream." sirius says. "freaked me out- wait, how can they keep sleeping with all these sounds?"

it's amazing really, you and james don't even hear the sounds of the wind and trees, or the storm. remus tries not to move to let you keep sleeping. you're cute with your small sounds of breathing and your tired body all melted on him in the safety of sleep.

"they've been so tired." remus answers, fondly. "cover prongs' shoulder, it's getting cold here."

sirius does as he's told after kissing james's shoulder. he doesn't stir awake, the raining sounds behind work as a lullaby. his hand move in bed, though, sirius is quick to hold it with a gentle squeeze of his fingers.

"will you be able to fall asleep again?" remus asks him silently.

"i'll try. you?"

"yeah." remus answers. "she makes it impossible to stay awake anyway, look at how she sleeps."

"adorable."

the room is a bit chilly but the bed is warm. they both lie awake for a minute in the silence until another struck of the sky interrupts.

"go back to sleep, moons."

"you first."

"i will, promise." sirius whispers. "don't worry."

remus would very much like to rub his back until he falls asleep but it's not possible with you and james between them. he can only trust sirius to keep the promise.

"love you." remus whispers. sirius smiles lazily in the darkness. "wake me up if you can't fall asleep."

"love you."

dreamer girl sleepover ♡

[daisy-the-wild-flower]

One of my favorite things about the Marauders fandom is that we upgraded our characters so hard.

R.A.B? No. His names is Reggie and he's a troubled, probably depressed 17 year old who's brother left him and parents are abusive. He has two best friends, Evan and Barty, who are madly in love. His other best friend, Pandora, is the only person who knows everything about him and would probably do anything for him if he asked. He's gay and likes James and has so much depth as a character that at this point i don't think a movie version would every do us justice. He hates the quiet but if anyone so much as speaks, he'll hex you into next week. He wasn't running from Voldemort, he was chasing death. He died with no one knowing what he had done to help the world.

Marlene McKinnon, the girl version of Sirius Black with the hair that captivates all her lovers? Fuck no. She's a badass in her own way. Her hair is died blonde, not natural. It's choppy and layered and most people fucking hate it. She's ruthless in quidditch and could probably give James a run for his money with how hard she trains. Speaking of Jamie, he's one of her best friends. Along with Peter, who ends up killing her after betraying the order in 81. She's in love with Dorcas now, but Mary was her gay awakening. She never liked Sirius, she was jealous of all the girls he got. She hates conflict but has a quick temper. She died by the hands of one of best friends and the love of her life fought for her till she died because that's how good of a person Marlene was.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Chapter Twenty-Four | Chapter Twenty-Five | Chapter Twenty-Six | Chapter Twenty-Seven

Content Warnings: Adult content (video of a MMM threesome, d/s dynamics, praise kink), mostly accurate depictions of being an onlyfans creator ( hi, I am one), reader is fem, uses a wheelchair, and has cerebral palsy. Taglist: @alohastitch0626, @jspidey5

Your thoughts have been straying to them more often than you'd like to admit.

From the moment Prongs subscribed to you, they've been a persistent presence at the back of your mind. Their comments, their likes, their messages—all carrying an undercurrent of something that piques your curiosity. You've never been one to pay too much attention to specific followers, but these three...they're different.

Is it the way Prongs flirts without crossing boundaries, his words always respectful yet suggestive? Or perhaps it's Padfoot's bravado, his messages imbued with a confidence that makes you want to learn more about the man behind the screen. And then there's Moony, ever present and yet so elusive, his own brand of mystery stirring questions within you.

The knowledge that they are creators as well is inescapable. It was made evident when Prongs subscribed to your OnlyFans, and the content on his free feed has not gone unnoticed by you. You hesitate to watch any of it, afraid of what you might feel if you do, yet curiosity gnaws at you with persistent teeth.

The temptation to find their profiles on the free porn sites has been there since the beginning, a low hum in the back of your mind. You know they have them—Prongs mentions his in his bio, and it would be strange if Moony and Padfoot didn't as well. But you've held yourself back, created an unspoken rule: just because they consume your content doesn't mean you need to consume theirs.

Today, that rule is harder to follow. Your curiosity is piqued, not just by what they've said but by the mystery of them. The way they speak, the things they like... it paints a picture you're desperate to see filled in. You want to know what their voices sound like, how they move, the dynamic between them that's hinted at in every message, and if you’re being honest, the thought of seeing them together on screen sends a thrill through you that's hard to ignore.

You power up your laptop, the screen's glow casting long shadows across your desk. It doesn't take long to find what you're looking for—their online identities are well known in certain circles, their usernames public, their content tantalisingly explicit.

The thumbnail image of the first video you find is eye-catching; as always, their faces are hidden, their identities preserved by careful angles and strategic cropping, but there's an intimacy to the way their bodies entwine that speaks volumes, even in this tiny preview.

Your pulse quickens as you hover over the play button. You've watched countless videos before—you create adult content yourself, after all—but there's something different about this one. Perhaps it's the fact that you've interacted with them, shared a few messages, imagined them watching you perform with the same intensity you're about to direct at their on-screen display.

You click play.

The video starts mid-scene, the three of them already engaged, their bodies tangled. It's not the polished product of a professional studio; there are no theatrical lights or artificial poses. Instead, it captures a scene that feels stolen from someone's private moments—intimate, raw, and achingly real.

You can't see their faces, as expected, but somehow that doesn't detract from the allure. If anything, it enhances it, allowing your imagination to fill in the gaps, painting a picture that's more personal than any explicit detail could provide.

Prongs is on his knees on the bed, holding Padfoot's hips as he drives into him from behind. Their movements are fluid yet intense, a testament to familiarity and desire woven together. Even without seeing Prongs's face, you can hear his heavy breaths punctuated by soft grunts, each one matching the rhythm of his slow, deliberate thrusts. Padfoot is on all fours, his head buried in the sheets, but his participation is far from passive. Every now and then, his back arches, a low moan escaping him and getting absorbed into the fabric beneath.

Then your gaze shifts, and you find Moony.

He's positioned at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs spread wide. One hand rests in Padfoot's hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands while guiding him where he wants. Padfoot's mouth works eagerly on him, the sound of slick movement barely audible over the ragged breaths filling the room. Moony's other hand lies idle on his thigh, fingers tracing absent patterns on his own skin, a stark contrast to the control he exerts elsewhere. Despite the fervor with which Padfoot services him, it's clear who sets the pace, who holds the reins of this encounter.

His voice is the first to reach your ears—steady, low, a soothing balm that belies the tension beneath. And yet, there's something else in his tone, an edge that prickles at your senses and sends shivers down your spine.

"Good boy," Moony murmurs, the words slipping out like a caress. "Just like that, Pads."

You lean closer to the screen, breath hitching as you hear him—really hear him—for the first time. His voice is just as you imagined it: firm but not harsh, commanding without needing to raise its volume. It's clear who holds the reins here, even if Prongs is the one driving the action.

Prongs grunts softly, the sound reverberating through the room as he buries himself deeper into Padfoot. He moves with calculated precision, each thrust gaining momentum as he finds his rhythm. There's a restraint in his movements, a sense of control teetering on the edge of release. You can almost feel the anticipation coiling within him, waiting for the signal to let go. Despite being the one physically leading, it's obvious he's not the one calling the shots.

"Such a greedy boy," Moony's voice coos, a softness there that contradicts the rough pull of his fingers through Padfoot's hair. He tugs lightly, guiding Padfoot's movements with a firm but gentle hand. "You need it so much, don't you?"

The sound that rumbles from Padfoot's throat is all the answer he needs, and Moony chuckles.

Prongs makes a sound, half-growl and half-gasp, as he thrusts into Padfoot. His grip appears to tighten on Padfoot's hips, fingers digging into firm flesh. The rhythm is relentless, driving them both towards a precipice they can't yet see but can feel looming ever closer.

"Fuck," Prongs breathes, the word barely audible over the slick sounds of their bodies moving together. "So fucking tight."

Padfoot whimpers, the noise muffled by the length filling his mouth. His body rocks forward with each of Prongs's thrusts, pushing him further onto Moony.

It's too much—the sight of them, the sounds they make, the raw intimacy of this moment. It's like watching a dance only they know the steps to, a silent understanding passed between them with every move. You feel like an outsider here, looking in on something sacred and private.

Yet you can't tear your eyes away.

The camera angle shifts, bringing into sharper focus the way Moony's hand rests in Padfoot's hair, fingers rhythmically tightening and loosening as if conducting an orchestra of pleasure. It's a subtle show of power, one that belies the calm detachment in his voice. Yet there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, a soft hum of approval when Padfoot's moans grow louder and Prongs's breath hitches with each slow, deliberate thrust.

"Fuck, Moony... can I—" Prongs's voice is strained, the words barely more than a breathless rasp against the backdrop of flesh meeting flesh.

"No." The denial is swift, Moony's voice steady even as it curls around the edges with a hint of amusement. "Not yet. You wait until I say."

A low groan rumbles from Prongs's throat, but he doesn't protest further. His hands tighten around Padfoot's hips, guiding him with an urgency that borders on desperation. Yet even as he seeks release, there's a restraint to his movements, a conscious effort to hold back the tide that threatens to sweep him under. It's as though he's fighting against the current, struggling to stay afloat while Moony's words pull him deeper into uncharted waters.

The sounds of Padfoot's pleasure grow in volume and urgency, mingling with the wet noises of his mouth working over Moony's length. His breath hitches as he tries to keep pace with the onslaught of sensation, giving himself over entirely to the moment.

You watch, entranced by the scene playing out before you. There's a rawness to it, yes, but also an unexpected intimacy in the way their bodies respond to one another. This is more than just sex; it's a display of trust, of need, a manifestation of a bond that runs deeper than skin.

A low groan ripples through Moony, his fingers flexing against Padfoot's scalp. He tugs the dark curls, pulling Padfoot’s head back, forcing him to look up. The camera angle still shields Padfoot's face from view, but there's no mistaking the tension coiling in Moony's frame, the tremor in his voice as he speaks.

"You're doing so well for us, Pads," Moony murmurs, his voice barely audible above the rasp of cloth and skin. His hand moves from Padfoot's hair, disappearing from view but its destination is clear — a gentle caress against a cheek that goes unseen but not unfelt. "You want to come, don't you? You've been such a good boy."

Padfoot makes a sound, half-choked and desperate, as he nods. The motion is sharp, almost frantic, and the camera holds steady, capturing the raw edge of need that vibrates through him.

A soft chuckle rumbles from Moony, and the camera pans out slightly, bringing Prongs back into view. He’s straining, holding back with visible effort even as he drives into Padfoot with a steady rhythm. “What do you think, Prongs? Has he earned it?”

Prongs groans, the sound thick with need. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

You can't see Moony's face, but you can hear the satisfaction in his voice as his hand returns to Padfoot's hair, guiding him back to his waiting erection. "Come for me, Pads."

The command sends a ripple of anticipation through you, and you watch as Padfoot's body stiffens, his hips jerking in sync with the low moan that escapes his lips. The sound is muffled by Moony's cock, but it's loud enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Prongs lets out a deep grunt then, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his own climax. His body trembles against Padfoot's, the two of them caught in the throes of ecstasy under Moony's watchful gaze.

"Good boys," Moony murmurs, his hand still buried in Padfoot’s hair.

The video cuts out then, leaving behind only the image of them lying there together, bodies still moving in small, unconscious ways from the aftershocks of their shared pleasure. It feels intimate, like something you shouldn’t be seeing but can't tear yourself away from.

As the screen goes dark, you lean back in your chair, your heart racing and your skin tingling from what you've just witnessed. You’ve seen plenty of porn before, and made hours of it yourself, but this… this was something else entirely. More real, more visceral. There’s a connection between them that’s hard to put into words, a bond that transcends the physical act they’ve just performed.

You close your laptop, letting the images settle in your mind. You've heard their voices now, seen them in action, and it's only fuelled your curiosity, your interest. You wonder how they would react if they knew you were watching too, with the same intensity they've been watching you.

For now, you let the moment linger. You've stepped over a boundary today, one that feels both exhilarating and dangerous, but there is no regret. Only anticipation for what comes next.

[uhhlifeig]

Prefect's Bathroom - Nov. 22 - word count: 532 - @wolfstarmicrofic

The prefects' bathroom was bathed in the soft, golden glow of enchanted lanterns. 

Lavender-scented steam coiled lazily towards the ceiling, and the water in the massive tub shimmered. 

Sirius Black lounged in the water on one side, his dark hair damp and sticking to his neck, his grin as unshakable as ever.

“You know,” he began, “for someone who’s usually so composed, you’re doing a terrible job of pretending you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Remus Lupin, sitting on the opposite side, arms folded on the marble edge, shot him a flat look. “Enjoying myself? Because I have to endure you and your never-ending commentary?”

“Endure me?” Sirius’s grin widened. “Come on, Moony, admit it. I’m at least half the reason you’re here.”

The werewolf raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. “Oh, really? And what’s the other half?”

“The bubbles, obviously,” his friend said, gesturing to the colorful foam between them. “Irresistible.”

Despite himself, Remus snorted, his lips twitching upward. Sirius seized on the reaction like it was a victory.

“There it is. A genuine Remus Lupin smile. Rare and precious.”

“You’re unbearable,” the taller boy replied, shaking his head.

“Maybe. But you’re still here.” Sirius tapped his chin, as if deep in thought. “Why is that, Moony?”

“You’re awfully full of yourself, you know.”

“Only because I’m right,” the older boy countered. “Admit it- you like me.”

Remus looked up sharply, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.” Sirius tilted his head, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Come on, Moony. Be brave.”

The dirty blonde rolled his eyes, pulse quickening. “Fine,” he said, his voice steady. “Maybe I do.”

Sirius blinked, his smirk faltering for just a second. “You do?”

Remus was the one who moved closer this time. “You know,” he said, his voice low, “you’re even more attractive when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” the noiret muttered, though his flushed cheeks told a different story.

“Liar.” The younger boy leaned in further, his face only inches away now. “Do I make you nervous, Padfoot?”

Sirius didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking briefly to Remus’s mouth before snapping back to his eyes. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Before  the werewolf could respond, his friend closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Remus’s in a kiss that was as bold as it was careful. 

For a moment, the boy froze, caught off guard- but then he kissed back, his hands gripping the edge of the marble as if to steady himself. The kiss deepened, Sirius tilting his head and drawing a soft sound from Remus.

When they finally broke apart, the dog animagus didn’t pull back entirely, his forehead resting lightly against the other boy’s. 

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and breathless. “Not so unbearable after all.”

Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “I hate how smug you are.”

“Liar,” Sirius said, sliding his hands under the water, brushing deliberately against the dirty blonde’s knee. “I think you like it.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Black.”

The older boy’s grin turned wolfish, his fingers trailing lightly against Remus’s thigh. “Oh, Moony,” he whispered. “I’m counting on it.”

[stareggie]

—

wolfstar (background jegulus)

chapters: 1/?

—

SUMMARY:

Sirius Black is an Auror and a casanova who, to win a big case, bets that he can make a man fall in love with him in 10 days.

Remus Lupin is a Daily Prophet journalist who, to win more creative freedom, takes on a challenge of writing a piece on how to lose a guy in 10 days

—

omg omg omg it’s hereeeeee, chapter 1 of my how to lose a guy in 10 days fic yayayayayayayyaa

enjoy <3

—

tagging those who liked my post about this, i hope y’all don’t mind: @hugs4prongs @f4llenst44r @spicybearnaise @reptilian-rapscallion @gullyatlas @justotpthingss @artucus-library @macualey @varityamour @nights-making-your-day @xkittyxkattzx @drusruwtk @crypticchild @here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can @canismajorastronomy @willyoubemydarling @starsandheartsstuff @deadchaoticcosmos

[siriuslylu]

I’m on holidays by the river, finally reading “only the brave” by the amazing @solmussa for the first time, I just finished the “heartbreak” chapter and when I’m telling you I needed to get up and go hug someone because of the amount of sadness and despair I’m feeling right now……..

I just want to hold james, sirius and reg and tell them everything’s going to be fine eventually, I want to tell them to read reg’s pov desperately, but I can’t

Also, I want to marry Dorcas

[professor-scribbls]

I did Regulus so of course I had to do James next, here he is for my Zombie AU! Yes they have matching flannels no that was not intentional I’m keeping it anyway 😋

also! here a link to the fic I wrote for this AU!!

The World We Left Behind

[mischievousmoony]

hi, ok i have another idea for a fic which again totally up to you to write!! but i had an idea with dad!james and r where their kid is like equally obsessed with their mum as james is with r and one day james decides to prank their kid by saying something bad about the r while their kid is present and the baby just goes off. i feel like you would do an amazing job with this! feel free to ignore too. have a perfectly splendid day!!

-🪷

"the baby just goes off" painted a hilarious picture of an infant yelling at his dad in my mind lmao. ty for the request this warmed my heart to write + special thanks to @moonpascal for chatting a little about kids, gave me the reassurance & inspiration i needed

𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

⟢ dad!james potter x fem!reader ⊹ 1.1k ⟢ warnings/tags: fluff, dad/husband!james, mom/wife!reader, no use of y/n, no name for the son, idk how to write a child's dialogue tbh son's supposed to sound 4 years old

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

James gladly goes out of his way to mention to anyone who will listen that his little one is unmistakably a Mummy's boy. From family to friends to the poor souls who bag his groceries, James will talk the ear off of anyone he can.

He finds it to be the most endearing thing in the world— the way that your son is as obsessed with you as James is. Always staying close and clinging to you, touching affection radiating from every hug and smile.

Today, as he watches his son run back and forth across the carpet, handing his mother block after block just to see her face light up after each gift, his awe and admiration are insurmountable.

Last night, James surprised you with a pair of earrings that you have been wishing for. When your face lit up upon receiving the little leatherette box, so did your son's. He didn't quite understand why you were so excited about some cube, but since then he's been trying to replicate your excitement with presents of his own.

"Oh my! Another one! Thank you, buddy," you beam, you're gratefulness and delight unwavering as he hands you the sixth block.

Your son giggles, bouncing in his spot as you inspect each side of the little wooden toy, telling him how much you adore the blue penguin painted on one of its faces.

That's another thing that touches James' heart: the tender nurture and care that you bestow upon your son with such unwavering devotion and warmth. It has James convinced that you must be the best mum in the entire world.

He might just melt at the sight of you now, kneeling happily in front of a growing pile of blocks as your son scurries back and forth, adding to your collection. James sits cross-legged to your right, resting his elbow on his knee and laying his head in his hand, watching the two he loves most in the world with hearts in his eyes.

You gasp, as if surprised when handed block number seven. "Oh, this is my favorite one yet. How did you know I love zebras?" you ask, your thumb tracing over the red acrylic paint on the side of the block.

By the time you have twelve, nearly half of his collection, you say, "I have a lot of blocks here, buddy, do you want to give some to Daddy?"

"No!" your son protests immediately, running off to his toy box for the thirteenth time.

You and James both chuckle, exchanging amused glances. Finding your son's reaction hilarious, James’s mischievous side has him dreaming up new ways to push his buttons. Your son thinks the world of you, and James is curious to see what the little guy will do if he claims otherwise.

"Well, what am I gonna do with all of this? Should I..."

You leave your son in suspense for a moment, and his hands hover over his toy box as looks at you, hanging onto your every word in anticipation.

"...build a castle!?"

“Yeah!” your son cheers, scooping three more blocks into his arms, thrilled to supply the bricks for your castle.

James nudges you, a sign of his upcoming playfulness. “You sure about that, bud? Mummy is absolutely rotten at building castles.”

Halfway across the carpet, your son stops in his tracks, glaring at his father as he tries to keep his blocks from falling out of his arms.

Stifling a laugh, you press your fingertips to your lips. By now, you’re used to James’ bursts of mischief, and you’re more than happy to sit back and let them play out. Unless you’re an active participant, of course.

You muster up a scandalized gasp as he reaches for your mountain of presents, claiming three blocks in one hand.

“No!” your little one complains, rushing to drop his three in your lap to replace the ones that James stole, “those are Mummy’s!”

“You sure Mummy deserves all these blocks?” James asks, starting to stack them into a tower, “You watch, I’ll build a castle that’ll make her’s look like rubbish.”

Your son hastily makes his way over to his dad, both arms extended as he collides with the tower and sends the blocks flying. "Stop it," he says as he scoops up the nearest block and runs it back over to you, shouting, "Mummy's castles are the best!"

He climbs into your lap, clutching onto the toy tightly as one of your arms wraps around him, and you feel your heart start to melt as you rub soothing circles into his back. You look over your son's head, your eyes sparkling with affection as you meet your husband's tender gaze.

Not having the heart to mess with him for very long, James concedes, "You're right, I'm not being very nice, am I?"

"Nuh-uh!" your son replies, shaking his head with exaggeratedly vigor, the curls he gets from his dad bouncing about.

"What can I do to make it up to her?" James asks, turning the ordeal into a subtle lesson as he dramatically feigns sorrow and despair over his actions.

"'Pologize," your son commands, his head swiveling to look at James expectantly over his shoulder.

James puts on his most sheepish, apologetic smile, looking from his son to you. "I'm very sorry. He's right, your castles are the best. Can you forgive me, love?"

"Aw, of course I forgive you," you say warmly, your amusement manifesting as a wide smile. You lean back so you can get a good view of your son's face when you tell him, "You know, I bet what Daddy really wants is to build a castle with us. I love your presents, bud, but we don't want to leave Daddy out do we?"

He looks down at the block in his little hand. "No," he replies shyly.

"So why don't you ask him to build a castle with us?" You give him a pat on the back before releasing him from your arms. "Go on," you coax.

He steps closer to James, holding the block close to his chest. "We can all build a castle," he offers.

"Yeah?" James' face lights up, and it's not for show. Genuine joy takes over his features as he ruffles your son's hair, responding, "I'd love nothing more, little man."

"But you have to be nice to Mummy!" he demands, his little voice firm and earnest as he looks up at James with wide, serious eyes.

"I promise, I will be on my best behavior," James assures him, his voice sincere as he gives a playful salute. That's enough for your son, because he finally awards James with his very first block, which he accepts with pride.

"Good!" your son cheers, already moving on to the pile of blocks to start stacking them as he proclaims, "Mummy is the best, and we have to show it!"

Your lips part as you suck in a breath, a quiet gasp. Receiving your son's affection never fails to make your heart swell.

You don't feel James' eyes on you, but he's watching— admiring, more like, as he takes in the way that you soften at your son's sweet words. A smitten smile plays at his lips as he agrees, "She is the best, isn't she?"

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[fandomlit]

gif cred belongs to @larryluvz

requested by anon "SOMETHING WITH YOUNG!REMUS LUPIN CRUSHING ON FEM!READER PLEASEEE"

imagine catching remus lupin staring at you

"don't look now," your friend whispered in your ear. you jumped slightly, turning to her with a warning look. she paid no mind to your glare, "but remus lupin is staring at you like you're his last meal."

your face erupted into flames. "you're a wicked woman," you muttered, turning back to the notes you were jotting down.

"i'm not kidding!" she whispered harshly. "he seriously can't takes his eyes off of you!"

you looked up at her again with a huff. "he's probably just zoning out-" but when you turned your gaze toward the brunette it was clear he wasn't just staring into space--no, his gaze was laser focused on you. your eyes connected for the briefest of shocking moments before remus cleared his throat lightly and hunched back over his parchment, quill scratching away like he had never paused. your mouth hung open slightly, but you were snapped back to reality when your friend started snickering in your ear.

"don't look now," james whispered in remus's ear, but the boy was determinedly keeping his gaze and burning face down, "but i think y/n caught you staring."

[g1rld1ary]

our names in the paper - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader

wc: 11,151

cw: swearing, fade to black but suggestive moments?, smoking, slut-shaming, kissing

info: r and james are about 24, set in 2007ish solely for the romcom vibes. james is the equivalent of like David Beckham in his prime, all pics are for vibes only, not reflective of r's appearance etc

me: i've been working on this for soooo long i am so happy it's finally done!! if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms and i am honestly so proud of it so praying it doesn't flop LOL

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"James, James! Over here! What's the defence strategy this season?"

If you had to hear James' name one more time you might scream. Unfortunately, you were locked in a room with nothing but that. Worse, you were part of the problem.

"Mister Potter, what do you think about your striker's goal-to-game ratio falling rapidly this season?" You called, begrudgingly hoping for a moment of the soccer star's attention. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his glittering eyes settled on you, singling you out from the room of hungry journalists.

"I think that you miss one hundred per cent of the shots you don't take," He said, smirk turning to something challenging, "And as long as my team is training and working together, I'm not gonna cry over a bit of spilt milk or missed goals. And, as far as I'm concerned we're still winning games, aren't we?" You rolled your eyes, scribbling down his answer nonetheless.

You continued the catfight of trying to get answers for your newest article, keeping the balance of vying for James' attention and showing him you didn't care for him personally, unlike the other journalists you were pushing against. The conference room was full of men and women who wanted to be James or be with him. Aside from the professional questions, there were certainly several invitations to the pub thrown around, and you were sure you saw one woman try and give him her cellphone number. You rolled your eyes again at that, James was nothing to fawn over.

He might be a big shot now, but you'd known him almost all your life. The two of you had gone to school together and had bickered through every interaction since then. James had always wanted to be a football star, and you a journalist. You'd never believed in him and vice versa, both of you taking every opportunity to tease the other or cut each other down. Maybe it was just clashing personalities, two people too ambitious to be friends. The rivalry had lasted past school, and unfortunately, the two of you often crossed paths in your respective careers.

The press conference wrapped up soon after your question, and you ended up lingering in the room trying to finish your notes. James was still over at his podium next to his coach, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and arduously texting on his flip phone. Seeing you hovering by the door he called your last name, sauntering up behind you. You rolled your eyes and braced yourself for the encounter.

"Potter." You smiled curtly, moving to leave.

"You don't have to call me 'Mr Potter' during the conferences, you know. James is perfectly fine, everyone else calls me that."

"Just trying to stay professional," You said through gritted teeth, aware his coach and a few others were still around you. It could cost you your job to snap at him.

"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.

"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold," You whispered, glancing around anxiously. James laughed at your distress which only annoyed you further. Maybe he could get away with anything, but you had to fight for your place in your field as a female sports journalist, you couldn't afford to take it lightly.

You couldn't help the physical reaction to being trapped between James and the wall though, your breathing shallow and quick, face tilted up slightly to look at him. You felt a bit like prey, caught in the predator's territory and resigned to imminent death.

"Let her go, will you? She's just doing her job," Remus Lupin said, entering the conference room with his nose crinkled from the smell. You couldn't blame him, sweaty players and hungry journalists didn't make any kind of utopia together.

"I wasn't doing anything!" James cried, hands up in surrender, "Come on love, I was just giving you the scoop, right?"

"First of all, if you were giving me 'the scoop' right now I'd certainly be accused of sleeping to the top by all the blokes waiting out there," You gestured to the group of other reporters still lingering in the hall waiting for any scraps of information, "And secondly, I work for the bloody Sunday People, not the BBC. I honestly think they'd rather I just write about your 'dashing good looks' or a drug scandal than your games," You complained, falling back into the ease of conversation now that Remus was there. He'd been at school with the both of you, growing up to be a physiotherapist, but was always much more palatable than James.

Both men laughed at your plight.

"If you ever need a more detailed look at my dashing good looks just ask, sweetheart. I'd be glad to show you, you know, for your articles." You rolled your eyes at James' attempt to be charming, snapping your notebook shut.

"Alright, I think that's my cue to go," You said curtly, smoothing out your work trousers. "Remus, I'll return Dracula next time I see you; I'm almost finished." You remembered you'd had his novel for quite a while, sparing him a smile on the way out.

"You lend her books?" James asked incredulously, hazel eyes curiously following your figure down the hall. Remus just shrugged, patting James on the shoulder and attending to his actual job, checking up on the players after the match.

James was still hung up on the fact when he returned to the apartment he shared with Remus and Sirius, flabbergasted as he hung his coat on the rack.

"Since when are you two close enough to be sharing books?" He cried as he paced through the kitchen, "Have we not all been in agreement that she is stubborn and hard-headed and annoying and has been since school?"

"No," Remus shook his head, "You decided that, and I daresay she feels the same about you. I've always rather liked her."

James was unexpectedly dumbfounded at the realisation that you weren’t the common enemy he thought you were. Even Sirius didn’t seem to dislike you, always stopping for a chat when you were around the stadium and giving you extra comments with a flirty wink.

James didn’t need to think about you for another few weeks; his team hadn’t played one week and you’d been assigned other matches for the others — he read your very amusing pieces on lawn bowls and chess-boxing, partly because he knew you’d hate the assignment.

You were blissfully apart until one Saturday night. You were out with your friends and a few coworkers and James was out with his. He’d started in the local pub while you were at a fancy cocktail restaurant for Lily’s bachelorette party, however, your groups crossed paths in the depths of a nightclub.

Maybe you were getting too old for them, waking up with sore backs and knees after nights of dancing, but it didn’t mean you wouldn’t give it a red hot go. And with a few cocktails in your system, nobody could convince you it wasn’t a good idea.

You'd been shaking what your mother gave you for the better part of an hour before it was your turn to get another round, telling the girls you'd be back before stumbling through a sea of sweaty bodies.

Some gross man who was definitely too old for you obstructed your path, grabbing your arms to make you dance with him. Your face crinkled in disgust of its own accord, trying to wiggle yourself free. He continued to encroach on your space, forcing you around despite your persistence. Finally, a man's hands landed on his shoulders, yanking him away and subsequently freeing you from his grasp. The momentum sent you tumbling in your strappy heels, right into something warm and solid. You cringed, having been there before. You turned slowly to meet your unwitting saviour, huffing when you realised it was James.

"Oh, fuck off," You grumbled, mostly to yourself, producing a quick apology to not seem totally impolite.

"Alright?" Sirius asked, revealing himself as the one who'd gotten you away from the creep. You shrugged, fixing your hair.

"Been better," You told him, preparing to leave before seemingly their whole team had surrounded you, all greeting you loudly. You weakly waved at them, feeling dreadfully underdressed and professional. You were used to seeing them in the stadium and press conferences where you were much more modestly dressed. The strapless mini dress wasn't giving you the same layer of protection.

"Right," You said when there didn't seem to be any more productive conversation happening, "I'm off to the bar then."

"Let me buy you a drink, to make up for the freak," One of the players, Frank, said. You smiled but shook your head.

"I'm buying for several, it wouldn't be fair. It's Lily's bachelorette." You directed the last sentence to those who knew her, the football and journalism professions having considerable overlap due to events and the never-ending scandals and interviews. James covered his face in mock-devastation.

"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?" He moaned, earning some shoves from the rest of the group. You and Lily had been friends since uni, and you'd introduced her to the boys at one of the terrible house parties you'd endured over your three years studying. James had developed a thing for her right away (no one knew how much of it was serious and how much was for comedic value) and had been loudly pining for her ever since, despite her long-term relationship with Dirk Cresswell, an economist who worked in the building down the block from your office.

"I think you missed your chance the first time," You retorted with a snort, a little drunk to have any ferocity in your tone. You both made a face at each other, ignoring the laughter of those around you. You dismissed the group and danced away, shaking your arse over to the bar.

A few rounds later and you were not in your best shape. The girls had been absolute menaces, feeding you shots and deceiving colourful cocktails that actually held like seven standards in them, and you were certainly feeling the effects. You excused yourself from the group to find a loo, bile rising in your throat as you pushed past dancers, not even sparing a comment for James as you saw him.

That confused both James and his friends, becoming used to your insistent teasing over the years. He exchanged a look with Sirius, following you through the crowd and to the bathrooms.

He figured something was wrong when you burst into the gender-neutral bathrooms, not bothering to lock the door behind you. James and Sirius silently fought about who was going to follow you in and check on you; James found you insufferable, Sirius had severe emetophobia and would probably throw up himself if he had to be close to you vomiting. James rolled his eyes, it was his responsibility. Sirius clapped him on the back gratefully, leaving him to return to the others. James sighed, reciting some affirmations before he cracked the door open, calling out to you.

When you responded with a disgusting wretch, James slipped inside, gagging a little as he saw you leant over the toilet bowl, bare knees on the grimy tile floor.

"Alright?" He asked for lack of anything better, unsurprised when you replied with another gag.

"I feel ill," You said pathetically, head hung low in the bowl which James knew you would resent tomorrow. He laughed quietly, getting closer to you.

"No shit, idiot," His tone was light as he began to rub your back softly, making sure your hair was away from your mouth. You vomited a few more times, your body reacting in violent hurls as James tried to be both soothing and as far away as possible.

When your stomach was finally empty you slumped against the toilet, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.

"Woah," James pulled you up to a sitting position, "That cannot be good for your skin. Let's get you home, okay?" You nodded petulantly, letting yourself be led out through the club, James telling Lily he'd make sure you got home (and congratulated her on the upcoming wedding).

"Can we get some gum or something? My throat tastes like vom." James looked down at you from where you were lodged into his side, legs shaky as you wobbled down the street. He sighed and steered you in the direction of a convenience store, picking out strawberry gum for you since it tasted better than mint, your words. Good you thought when he paid for it, the football star can shell out 2 pounds, makes more than you anyhow.

You chewed happily, stumbling down the pavement as James held onto you, keeping you upright.

"You're so muscly," You said, somewhat in a drunken haze.

"Thank you?" James laughed, patting you softly on the forearm he was holding. To be fair, you weren't quite sure if it was a compliment either. Your words were admittedly oddly nice but your tone made it confusing, drunk thoughts not completely translating to sober dynamics.

You meandered for a few oddly peaceful minutes, neither of you starting an argument or picking a fight. It was a nice break from normal, the two of you even sharing some peaceful small talk -- discussing a movie you'd both seen recently.

Of course, nothing good lasts.

"James!" A voice yelled from the other side of the street, a short man with mousy mannerisms. James groaned beside you.

"Peter Pettigrew," He whispered to you, trying to pull you along faster, "We used to be mates but turns out he was just using me to get team secrets out into the papers." You whipped your head around to look at him. Oh! You knew Pettigrew, unsurprising given you both reported on essentially the same topics, but he had a bad name even in your circles. He was closer to a paparazzi than a journalist, going for the cheap stories and ad hominem approaches rather than searching for any meaningful insights. Simply put, in an already sleazy career, Peter Pettigrew was the bottom of the barrel.

"Later, mate. I'm in the middle of something right now." James put his arm around your shoulder, better shielding you as he tried to make a getaway. The telltale flash of a camera reflected off the grey pavement, making both you and James whip your heads around to face Peter, looking hardly ashamed of himself. After a moment of shock, you both covered your faces, stumbling down the street as fast as you could manage. The damage was already done.

Suddenly you didn't feel as drunk, navigating the cobblestone streets with unanticipated nimbleness. James might've had the athlete's advantage but you were on home turf, leading him through local shortcuts and to the front door of your apartment building.

On the journey over you'd attracted a few more photographers all fiending for a scandalous picture of James, a small mob forming as you tried to punch in the door code despite your shaking hands. James was right behind you, front pressed to your back, holding his Adidas windbreaker out in a position to shield your face from the prying eyes.

You slammed the door shut, the nosy questions and camera clicks immediately muffled. James let out a long sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, processing what had happened.

"Make yourself at home then." You cringed as you surveyed the state of your flat; clothes flung over chairs and dishes still in the sink. Your only option for living alone was cramming all your stuff into what was essentially a shoebox, so any amount of mess made the place look chaotic.

"Nice place," James said and you immediately rolled your eyes, snatching up a stray bra strewn across an armchair. "No, I mean it! It's cozy. Very you." He gestured up at the colourful, mismatched glassware in a kitchen cabinet and the beaded curtain separating your bedroom. You blushed slightly; you didn't often take men home, your flat staying a girly paradise just for you.

You put on the kettle, comforted by the familiar sounds of water beginning to boil. James sat awkwardly on an armchair near the window, anxiously peeking out from behind the curtain every few minutes. His reactions told you the paparazzi were still loitering outside.

James took his tea gratefully, surprisingly still agreeable despite all the terrible things that had happened in the course of a few hours.

"Do you have a back exit or something? Somewhere I can slip out and get home?" You shook your head with a grimace.

"Only the fire exit, but that still goes out near the front. Otherwise we're surrounded by other buildings."

"You must be exhausted after everything. Head off to bed, I'll wait until the gits outside fuck off then lock the door behind me. We don't have to ever mention this again if you don't want." The orange lamp light made James' eyes look unfairly soft, highlighting the golden flecks amongst the brown. You steeled your nerve and shook your head.

"I'm not that bad of a host," You tried to joke, "Besides, don't you have training tomorrow? You're already up later than I'm sure you intended to be. I couldn't live with myself if I ruined England's star player by making him stay up all night, you take my bed and go to sleep." You were both very carefully trying to keep things light, not wanting to spend any more of the night miserable and fighting.

"Well, I'm not taking your bed, that's just impolite. I'll take the couch, if you're being so generous as to let me stay." He had a cheeky smile on his lips as he said it, both of you dancing around the fact that in any other circumstance James wouldn't have been allowed within fifteen feet of your flat.

"That couch? No way." You pointed at the teensy vintage sofa sitting in front of the boxy television. It had space for maybe two and a half arses to sit on it, maybe horizontally extended legs if you were short-ish, but there was no way the goliath James Potter was getting any decent sleep on it. "You take the bed. I'll survive the couch tonight."

"Don't be stupid, I can't sleep in your bed. If not the couch I'll take the floor."

"Speaking from a purely medical standpoint, I haven't cleaned these floors recently enough for it to be safe to have your face in such close proximity. Take the bed, Potter."

You bickered for a few long minutes, both of you trying to outdo each other's respect as host and guest, respectively. You didn't miss the irony that even when you and James were getting along you were fighting.

"I'm not letting you go without, that's final." You turned away to go fetch a pillow for your night on the couch when James said something you never ever thought you'd hear from him.

"Then sleep with me."

"Excuse me?" You all but shrieked, immediately cringing as you thought about your poor neighbours.

"Look, it's basically morning, we're both shattered and I'm sure your bed is much comfier than whatever alternative you're planning. We can even go full pillow-wall if it'll make you feel better." You stared at him for several moments, lips actually agape. Never in your life did you think James Potter would be asking you to share a bed with him, and never in your life did you think you'd be considering it.

"Fine."

Twenty minutes later and you were both ready for bed. You'd found James an old pair of an ex-boyfriend's long abandoned pyjamas, stuffed in a bottom drawer. They were slightly too small to accommodate all his muscles, the t-shirt sitting a few inches above the pants' waistband, giving him a very '90s crop top and exposing his happy trail.

You were almost definitely more embarrassed than James. You were in a similarly aged pair of pyjamas, a cartoon of Spongebob over your chest. You couldn't tell if you'd prefer to be in the lame pair that you were wearing or a cute pair -- no, it would probably look like you were trying too hard. Which you weren't. You didn't care about looking cute in front of James Potter, why would you?

He was already in bed when you'd returned from your skincare routine, face fresh and moisturised, and though you knew he was going to be there, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of James Potter in your bed. Tucked up to the chin under your frilly floral grandma sheets, he looked the picture of cozy.

"Don't bloody touch me, I mean it. I want to feel alone in my own bed," You snapped, sliding under the covers, pulling the doona similarly high up to your chin. You turned over to the centre of the bed to find James already on his side looking at you. You let it be for a moment, surprisingly enjoying the sleepover vibes you'd created.

"Okay this is weird now, the pillow's going up." You slammed a long decorative cushion in between the both of you, secretly smiling at the sleepy giggle James let out.

The first time you awoke it was hazy, still early in the morning with golden sunbeams streaming through your curtains. Warmth enveloped you, keeping you cozy despite the winter morning outside. You shifted to burrow deeper into your blankets when a groan came from behind you, startling you more awake as you recognised the feeling of muscular arms wrapped around your middle. It suddenly all came back to you, James walking you home, the paparazzi, you making an absolute fool of yourself. However, James was a portable heat source and extremely comfortable so you let yourself ignore everything that had led up to it, allowing yourself another few hours of blissful sleep.

The second time you woke up James was gone. That wasn't surprising given he definitely had early morning training, but you would reluctantly admit that it was a little lonelier in your bed than it usually was.

You didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, finally cleaning your apartment after much too long. Turns out all you needed was to be embarrassed in front of a guest to get you motivated.

Monday morning you weren't hungover anymore, but you were mourning the weekend that had passed much too quickly. Still, things were running smoothly enough; you didn't miss the tube and had snagged a seat, and your makeup was looking absolutely grand. You were absolutely thriving.

That was, until you crossed the threshold of the Sunday People offices and the jerks from the politics columns started bothering you, as if a Monday morning wasn't punishment enough.

"Meet anyone nice over the weekend, sweetheart?" One crowed from his desk chair, looking positively dickhead-ish in his too-small button-up.

"Or still on the clock maybe? We know you're always hunting for a good story." The combination of both remarks confused you, but you strutted past them with a quick glare in their general direction, your clicking heels producing enough attitude that you didn't need to say anything.

As you approached your own desk area, you had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at you. You couldn't think of why, but subtly wiped the edge of your lips in case it was foolishly smudged lipstick.

You even swore you heard one of the royal writers -- an awful woman maybe twenty years older than you -- say something about your 'promiscuity' and 'unprofessionalism'. You didn't know where it was coming from. You weren't friends by any means but you usually just stayed out of each other's way, you didn't throw around insults at your workplace. You glanced down at your outfit but nothing seemed especially revealing, the same button-up and pencil skirt you always wore if you weren't doing field work.

You were really starting to wonder why everyone was looking at you when even Lily was sending you pitiful glances. You had just made up your mind to say something about it when your boss came striding towards you, anger emanating in a way which only middle-aged men can do.

"What is this?" He slammed a Daily Mail tabloid down on your desk. The office was dead silent. You looked down at it, wholly confused as to what it could be -- your last article was approved without any troubles.

THE 'INSIDE' SCOOP? POTTER GETS COZY WITH REPORTER ON NIGHT OUT

And there, right under the brazen headline, was the stupid picture that Peter Pettigrew took. The two of you out on the street, you tucked into James' side with his arm around you. Your face wasn't totally visible, but anyone who already knew you would recognise the figure and fashion.

You could feel your face drop as you read the article, a barrage of slut-shamey insults and reports of how intimate you and James were out on the streets of London -- all entirely false, of course. When you'd finished reading the piece the whole office was staring at you, waiting to see how you'd react.

"It's a lie," You said quietly, trying to stop your hands from shaking as they rested on your lap. There was a pregnant pause as your boss processed what you were saying, clearly confused. None of your coworkers dared to speak.

"Bullshit," He replied, face blooming red as he decided you weren't being truthful. "That's you and that's James, there's no denying that. The whole bloody country will be able to see you two getting cozy on the street. How do you reckon this reflects on me, having your name and workplace published alongside your completely unprofessional affair?"

"I understand that it looks bad, but it's not what you think at all. J- uh, Potter was just helping me get home after a chance encounter because I wasn't feeling well, then he hid at my place because of all the paparazzi. Nothing happened." It was a weak explanation, even you could tell, even though it was completely true.

The arseholes over in Politics were already sniggering to themselves and you wished you could have ripped them a new one. Instead, you were cowering underneath your brutish boss.

"It's your word against Pettigrew's, and only one of you's been printed. You've been publicly humiliated and we're getting bad press for it."

Your boss had left you with the threatening promise that the issue would be brought up with your superiors and the whispered opinions of every single person you worked with. You choked out an excuse to get out of the office, taking the lift up to the rooftop to cry.

You had peace for a few minutes, getting the most embarrassing of the sobs out alone.

"Did you actually sleep with him?" If it was anyone else you probably would have snapped, yelling at them for being so insensitive. Marlene said it with such earnest curiosity and sympathy that you turned to face her instead. You were met with her and Lily, your very best friends who you were feeling especially lucky to work with at that moment.

"No!" You told them the full story, about getting sick at the club, James just being polite and walking you home, and Peter Pettigrew's terrible betrayal. Both women listened attentively, taking it all in.

"I thought you hated Potter," Lily said finally, "How'd it get that far in the first place? Usually you'd have ditched him in the first five minutes of being in his presence."

"I don't hate him." You studied your hands intently, observing the peeling red nail polish you should have reapplied yesterday. "I think he's annoying and obnoxious and I've always hated that he's never believed I could be a serious writer, but I don't hate him. He has his moments. Besides, why would I waste energy on hating Potter when I could hate Pettigrew with all my heart?"

"What a snake," Marlene spat, lighting a cigarette as she got comfy next to you. You and Lily both nodded. Peter was not only now a backstabber, but he'd been becoming increasingly insufferable over the years you'd all been writing.

He started out quite nice and was in your periphery of friends in the same way Remus and even James were, but as he'd gotten the job at his shitty tabloid magazine he'd become downright intolerable, always twisting what you'd said both in official articles and when gossiping with other friends. You had all had enough a few years ago and stopped inviting him places. Clearly, he'd held onto the grudge.

At his own work, James was facing the same rumours, though not nearly to the same peril. As he rocked up to his home pitch for the morning training session he was received with catcalls and high fives which made him nervous. No one was ever that happy to be working out on a Monday morning.

"Thought you hated her, mate."

"Maybe all she needed was a good shag to get the stick out of her arse."

"Woah! Can we take it back a few steps and not talk about women that way?" James sent a look over to one of his teammates.

"Sorry bud," He held his hands up in surrender, "Thought you wouldn't mind since you're always moaning about her." James' eyebrows knit together as he tried to piece together what the men were talking about, finally giving up and asking for a plain explanation.

He was met with a copy of Peter's article, outlining the flirty touches and 'electric chemistry' the two of you shared. Scanning it quickly James felt his face screwing up in disgust. Never mind that it obviously wasn't true, what a disgusting violation of privacy. He'd only recently launched into the spotlight, working his way up into the Premier League and then team captain in the last few years. He still didn't know how to handle the fame, especially invasive press like this.

His first priority was setting the ruth straight for his team, explaining exactly what happened and outlining strict instructions not to bring it up the next time they saw you.

"This is going to be a lot worse for her than me," He said, ending the conversation there.

He was correct. Rumours only spiralled from Peter's article. You'd stupidly created Google Alerts for your name; as a journalist, it made sense to keep track of where your writing was being shared. One day of this nonsense and you had all alerts silenced, not wanting to ever visit the internet ever again.

Apparently, this alleged affair was the most interesting thing young British people had ever experienced. The football star and the sports journalist. As you packed up to leave at the end of the day you were feeling sick to your stomach, already overwhelmed by the attention you never wanted on you.

Your face blanched as you approached the dizzying glass windows, a mass of reporters swarming the door. You didn't have to think hard to know they were waiting for you. You retreated to the restroom where they couldn't see you to rearrange your exit appearance. Pulling your coat tight against you and scarf up to cover the bottom half of your face, you plugged your iPod nano in to appear busy (and touched up your eye makeup for the inevitable photos that would make it back into the news cycle).

Physically and emotionally prepared you braved the crowd again, moving through with a polite but firm shove, making yourself a path down to the tube. You only snapped at one particularly rude paparazzi, giving him an instruction of where to 'stick it' as you hopped down the stairs to your station.

You ate a haphazard dinner by your computer, obsessively clicking through the various articles (and now personal blog posts) that had mentioned you. Every link made you feel worse about yourself.

The articles themselves were bad, most of them degrading you and congratulating James. Some had even produced old school photos of the both of you, even a few from your uni days when James was just starting out professionally and you were attending similar parties.

The articles were one thing, at least they usually had to be somewhat impartial. The blog posts by James' fangirls were downright cruel, calling you a slag based on a singular photograph and dragging your name through the mud.

You were drawn from your doom-scrolling by your cellphone ringing, Britney ringtone at least drawing a smile from you.

"Hello?"

"Get off the internet," Sirius Black said from the other end of the line.

"How'd you know?" You exited the webpage dutifully, already feeling the weight of the world's ugly words lifting from your shoulders.

"I figured. First time being written about isn't easy."

"It's certainly making me grateful I've never been so bitchy in my articles," You produced a hollow laugh, "I don't know how people can say these things about someone they've never met."

"That's why we like you," He said, "Mostly, at least. You stick to the sport and not our personal lives."

"Don't inflate my ego, Black, it's just because I don't like you guys," You joked, your mood already blooming back to somewhat more chipper.

"That's what I've been telling him!" You heard Remus call from further away, probably the other side of their living room. Sirius made an offended noise.

"Is Potter there?" You changed the topic, swirling your mouse around the window aimlessly, too afraid to check your work or personal notifications.

"He's out right now, calling someone official -- a publicist or lawyer friend. He's tearing his hair out about this, he feels awful for you." Both men explained, bickering about who exactly he was talking to.

"Yeah, I'm noticing only one of us is getting called a slut." You rolled your eyes even though they couldn't see you, balancing your cell between your shoulder and ear as you made a cup of tea. Sirius' barking laughter crackled through the speaker.

"Don't worry about it, love, everyone knows The Daily Mail is full of shite. Besides, I got that all the time."

"Yeah, in school! Not when you have a grown-up job to save face at!" Sirius conceded, apologising lightly. You shrugged him off; he was not the target of your anger at all.

"James'll be back soon, do you want to stay on the phone?" Remus asked and you answered without hesitation.

"No. I don't want to talk to him right now. We'll just find something to fight about, it's not worth it."

"He wants to make things better," Sirius offered, "He feels terrible."

"Maybe when I'm not so angry at the world." You left them with the offered compromise, hanging up to pity yourself for a few more hours before bed.

You didn't end up being fired over the incident, your bosses couldn't find a good reason to cite, but everyone in the office knew you were on thin ice. Most weren't afraid to highlight that fact. You were really starting to hate the Politics guys.

You just tried to keep your head down, diving into your articles and trying to keep in the higher-ups good graces. Amidst the drama though you'd been taken off all football coverage for the time being, banished to the irrelevant 'sports' you never even knew existed.

The week had taken you out of London to cover bizarre rural events like cheese rolling and bog snorkelling; not uninteresting but a big change of pace to the Premier League drama you were used to.

It did take your mind off of James and the media shitstorm for a day or two though. Being in a small town was much preferable to London, at least for the moment. The paparazzi weren't going to make the drive to find you for a single day when there were plenty more interesting figures to find in the city.

Plus, you were meeting the most interesting people. Though it was no Premier League final, everyone around was so wholly invested and excited by the competition that you couldn't help feeling the same, despite your initial hesitation.

Throughout the day it was just you, your notepad, your camera and the few thousand people who came to participate and observe. You'd already met and interviewed the woman who made the cheese, the previous year's winner and you were waiting impatiently to see who'd prevail now.

The paper was paying for you to stay overnight so you could chronicle the post-event celebrations, and you'd never been so glad to be working late. The key players in the day, organisers and competitors had all convened in the town's old pub, basically heaving under the weight of you all.

You held up your beer with the others despite hating the taste, grateful to be included in their toast to the day. You laughed as you tried to down it quickly, wanting the taste out of your mouth as soon as possible without refusing such a kind gift. Holding the pint up in the air victoriously you accepted the cheers of those around you, including the lovely middle-aged lady who made the ceremonial cheese and the man only a year or two older than you who'd won earlier.

"Finally letting your hair down!" He laughed and you smiled back, trying to remember his name. A glance down at your notepad said Drew. "Can I get you another?" You hoped he didn't notice your eyes widen, not expecting attention like that, not when you were allegedly working no less. You opened your mouth to agree when someone else answered for you.

"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You asked, jovial politeness abandoned.

"You didn't remember that my family comes to watch every year?"

"Respectfully, why the fuck would I remember something like that?" You snapped, moving to leave and follow the much nicer Drew to the bar. James grabbed your hand lightly, stopping you from leaving.

"Wait, can we talk please?" You just looked at him for a long time, considering how much patience you had after a full day of work, then shrugged half-heartedly.

He led you outside and away from the crowd, both of you letting out a huff as you noticed the change in temperature.

"I liked your story on the bog snorkelling -- interesting stuff," James broke the awkward silence and you rolled your eyes aggressively.

"As if you read my pieces."

"I do!" He insisted, silently refusing the cigarette you offered. "I've read all your pieces, honest."

"But... huh? You're the one who always said I'd be a shit writer, I've spent years trying to get the negative internal James out of my head! You absolute dickhead!" You shoved his chest, turning back towards the door to return inside.

"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"

James' words rang heavy in the air, the street otherwise silent. You stared straight ahead of you for a moment, his words settling on top of you as you focused on the orange street lamp.

This whole time, this whole time, you'd been fighting the image you believed James had of you, striving to be better, never being satisfied, for nothing. This whole time you and James had been bickering and trading insults for nothing? And all his flirting... James' annoying charm and ironic compliments and innuendo-filled teasing were all genuine, after all this time? Suddenly your whole world had turned on its axis.

"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.

"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

"Jesus Christ," You muttered, "So what, you thought all my arguing back was just flirting?" James' silence told you all you needed to know.

"Come on, don't act like you didn't like it a little bit! As I recall you were always up for the fight, weren't you? You never avoided me or ignored me. Let's face it, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He stepped closer to you, breath visible in the cool air.

"I didn't enjoy it, what the hell are you talking about? Why would I enjoy trading schoolyard insults with some arrogant, idiotic football player who discredited the one thing I wanted most in my life?" Suddenly you were inches apart, heat emanating from both of you as you fought.

"Like you never said I was stupid for wanting to be a footballer? Face it, love, you're just as bad as me."

And suddenly, despite all your better judgement and every bit of sense in your head, you were kissing him. You didn't know exactly how it had happened, and if anyone were to ever ask you you would absolutely pin the blame on James but there you were, out in the middle of the street without a care in the world.

Every one of your senses was on fire, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his soft curls under your fingers. Everything about James felt like he was made for you, like all the years of you revolving around each other, playing off the other's insult was just a lead-up, preparation for the very moment you kissed for the first time.

James' arms around you were warm, strong from years of working out and protective like a weighted blanket. One hand wrapped around your midsection and the other firmly on your neck you felt wholly surrounded by him, isolated in your own bubble of James.

It was probably a bad idea, but you weren't overly concerned with addressing that fact in any rush. It didn't come as you tilted your head to bring him even closer, it didn't come as you said hurried goodbyes in the pub and collected your coat, it didn't even come as you closed the door to your hotel room, undoing the buttons to James' shirt like they had a personal vendetta against you.

The admittance only came as you lay entangled with him, faces millimetres apart.

"Was that a bad idea?" You asked, genuine self-consciousness mixing with pragmatic anxiety.

"I mean, I quite enjoyed myself, love. Did you not?" James' cheeky smile made you snort out a giggle but you sobered up quickly, hitting him lightly on his toned chest.

"Don't turn this into a joke!" You ordered, "Have we just fucked everything up?" James just looked at you for a minute, taking in the sincerity in your voice and the depth of your eyes.

"Of course we haven't," He assured you. "Do you like me?"

"But--"

"Ah! Do you like me?" He reiterated and you paused, nodding shyly. "See? You like me and I like you. We'll figure everything else out. Start slow; baby steps."

"Baby steps," You agreed, sharing his smile. It really only hit you how much you actually liked James once you'd said it, finally noticing how he might've been looking at you the whole time.

You sent James off early in the morning, both of you needing to make it back to London quickly. You had to get your article written up and James had training. Thankfully there was no awkwardness in your goodbye; James had to rush to meet his parents to drive back by car and you had a train to catch. The only moment of hesitance came as you said goodbye, waving at each other with a giggle as James hopped down the steps. He hesitated halfway, turning to look at you with the glint of mischief in his eye that you'd become very well acquainted with.

In a moment he was at the top of the steps again, swooping in to steal another kiss. You rolled your eyes to hide an embarrassing smile, pushing him back in the direction he came.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" You asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. James mimed twisting a knife in his chest but continued down the stairs nonetheless, giving you one last smile before he turned a corner and disappeared from your sight. You sighed like a schoolgirl then laughed at yourself, packing the last of your things to get home.

As you sat on the train, green landscapes passed you through the window and you felt your cell phone buzz from the minuscule pocket of your work trousers.

thinking of u :P <3

You grinned, looking out at the scenery so the people around you wouldn't be able to figure out your embarrassing secret. You felt like a teenage girl again, blushing over a text from the guy you had a crush on.

Everything turned to shit in a matter of hours after returning to London.

First, James' publicist made his statement. It wasn't necessarily terrible, but it really had no regard for you. No statement declaring you both on good terms, no coming to your defence or asking for the press to respect you. James looked like the hero saving a stupid drunk girl, and you still looked desperate for the most popular footballer in the country. You were decently sure it wasn't James' fault, but it did significantly dampen your lovesick giddiness.

The office was half-empty when you arrived, kitten heels clicking against the ground. You said a quick hello to Lily, still dutifully typing away at her computer. You followed her lead, exporting your notes to your desktop computer, formatting the piece and going through edits to have it ready for the next paper.

The sun was setting, sending orange and pink streaks through the sky when the door to your boss' office slammed open, echoing above the cubicles.

"You kissed him?" He yelled and you paled, knowing exactly what he was talking about but not how he knew. That problem was solved when he slammed the magazine down in front of you, no doubt just delivered by the skittery young receptionist running back to the elevator.

FACT OR FICTION? POTTER AND REPORTER CAUGHT SNOGGING AMIDST PUBLIC DENIAL

Fuck. That could not be worse.

The whole piece was essentially dragging your name through the absolute mud now that they had the confirmation there was something going on between you and James. The whole world thought you were sleeping to the top, or for the best scoop, and everyone hated you for it.

You looked up at your boss, words dying on your tongue.

"Please tell me that's not you," He said, grasping at the thinning hair on his head. You couldn't deny it.

"I..." You trailed off, searching for anything you could say to make it better. "I didn't mean to. And I'm being completely honest when I say that the first article was all bullshit. Things have... happened since then." You were already on the verge of tears. Even on an optimistic day, you couldn't have denied that this was utterly shit.

"Jesus." Your boss muttered, beginning to pace. "Look, I like you, you know? You do good work and you're never outta line, but I reckon the higher-ups are gonna be done with you. They wanted you out over the first article but I convinced them it was all speculation. This is proof and makes us all look bad that you're sleeping with someone you interview every other bloody week. Look, I'll do what I can in damage control, but I'd be bringing your stuff home tonight. I'm sorry."

How could he have just left you with that absolute bombshell? Effectively firing you, just like that? The tears had made their way up to your waterline, sitting there mocking you as you refused to let them fall. You submitted your piece and shut off your laptop, angrily stuffing your sparse personal decorations into your shoulder bag to get the fuck out of the building as fast as possible.

The paparazzi were waiting again, of course, like that was what you really needed. You pushed past them, making sure to land an extra hard stomp on Peter's foot, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile as you heard him curse.

You sat on the tube, staring intently at your feet and trying desperately to think of anything but your current situation. You'd already been approached by someone who'd coughed out "Skank," which really hadn't done anything for your sour mood. All you wanted was to crawl into your bed and never emerge.

You wandered down the street between the metro station and your flat, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

"Hey!" Someone called and you glanced over on instinct, senses drawn by the interruption of an otherwise quiet evening. "You're the girl who kissed James Potter, yeah?" It was a girl still in her school uniform, probably sixteen or seventeen. You thought through your options quickly and shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wicked. How was it?" She asked, chewing on pink gum. There was an aura about her that you liked, not judgemental like everyone else you'd met. If you were still in school you thought you might've been friends with her.

"Pretty good, I'd do it again." A cheeky almost-joke between the two of you, ironic given the shit that it had caused for you.

"We were talking about it at school. Pretty shit how they've treated you. Like they all wouldn't jump at a chance to get close to 'im." You liked the way that she didn't get any closer. Just the two of you standing face to face, divided by the empty road.

"Exactly what I've been saying," You agreed, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"If it was the other way around, if you were the famous one, James would be getting congratulated for getting with you, not ridiculed by the mindless gossip columns. All my friends think it's utter bullshit, stopped buyin' 'em and everything." You could have kissed her if that wasn't tremendously creepy. In five minutes, this schoolgirl had vindicated everything you'd been saying for the past week in a way no one else had.

"Thank you," You said, with more sincerity than you probably should have had for a complete stranger. The girl just shrugged with a smile, nodding before continuing down the street, the sound of her leather school shoes growing quieter with every step.

You felt it in your whole body every time you thought of the interaction for the next few hours, warmth spreading through your chest as you were reminded there were still good people around.

Your other reminder of that fact came with the sound of your buzzer, the laughing of Lily and Marlene echoing off the stone of your building. As you let them in curiously they presented armfuls of takeout, the smell of Chinese food immediately floating through your flat.

Lily took the responsibility of setting out the food while Marlene took control of your little television, flipping between channels until she found a suitable romcom starting.

You didn't speak about what had happened, no one mentioned James Potter or the bloody Sunday People. Yet, there was an air of tenderness that let you know the girls knew exactly what was happening and how you were feeling about it.

Still, there was something bothering you. You couldn't give it a name immediately, only a tugging in your stomach while the girls were entertaining you, but persistent nonetheless.

It wasn't until you were all crammed into your bed, the other two peacefully asleep, that you could identify the sensation. It was an overwhelming desire, a need to write that you hadn't felt in ages. It was the same feeling that had pushed you to be a journalist in the first place, an inspiration you typically only felt watching a magical soccer final.

You crept out of your bedroom, switching on your computer at the kitchen table, squinting at the aggressive blue light. And when a blank Word document appeared before you, you started writing. Obsessively, feverishly, words poured out of you at a rate that hadn't happened since you'd started at Sunday People.

The words of the school girl fresh in your mind, you started an article vastly different from your usual kind. Instead of strategies and highlights you dissected your own experience of the past week, saying everything you hadn't let yourself unload to the paparazzi outside your office (though with fewer curse words than they would have received). It could have been minutes or hours that you were writing and you wouldn't have noticed, eyes glued on the screen in front of you.

You didn't realise you'd fallen asleep until Lily woke you gently with a hand on your shoulder, offering a steaming mug of tea. It was light outside, the world already up and awake. You were glad it was a weekend as the girls didn't need to rush off to work, cooking a simple breakfast for you all to share.

"What've you written?" Marlene asked, the second part of her sentence unnecessary: since you don't have a job to write for. You shrugged, taking a bite of some eggs.

"Just something I had to get off my chest. Might see if I can sell it to someone to tide me over 'til I figure out what I'm doing with my life."

"Can we read?" You made a 'go ahead' gesture, the computer already open to the screen.

A WOMAN'S UNWILLING WEEK IN THE PUBLIC EYE:

How a woman always loses.

You sat in mild discomfort as Lily and Marlene read your piece in silence, anxiously awaiting their reactions. They weren't what you were expecting.

When they turned back to face you, Lily had tears in her eyes, red tones brought out in her skin. Even Marlene looked uncharacteristically moved, not at all the reaction you were expecting. Firstly, it was completely unedited so you suspected it was somewhat of a mess from your midnight haze. Secondly, it was more of a vent than anything, getting your hatred for invasive paparazzi off your chest. You thought you'd all laugh about it then move on with your days.

"Lils, what's wrong?" You didn't mean to laugh, it was more out of surprise than anything else.

"It's just, it's so raw and real. It's so unfair," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.

"Jesus, you don't have to cry," You said lightly, "I'm fine! I hated that bloody place anyway."

"That's not the point," Marlene pointed out, "And Lily's right, this is really confronting stuff. It's great."

"Thanks," You mumbled, studying a lamp for something to do.

"Can we talk about James?" Your head snapped back to look at her.

"What about him?"

"Clearly there's been some... developments in your relationship, which we don't have to talk about--"

"Yet," Marlene interrupted.

"The point is that it looks like there's feelings involved now. What are you doing about them? Because if you publish that, it's putting everything out there, and even I can't tell how you feel about James right now," Lily finished.

"I don't want to talk to him," You said quickly, "I know it's not his fault but I can't think about him without getting mad. It's like I wrote; he ends up fine while I lose my job over one kiss."

"Understandable," Marlene nodded, "But if I know James at all, he'll be going crazy every minute that you ignore him."

You had much to consider when the girls left. The state of your career, your feelings for James, everything felt too big and overwhelming to make any decisions about. So, you took a nap.

The rest of your weekend was spent sending your then-edited article to as many newspapers and blogs as you could and hiding out in your flat, dodging James' calls.

Unfortunately, you liked him. You'd figured out that much. More unfortunately, he hadn't done anything to help you out in all this mess, benefiting from the press in a way that only England's favourite footballer could.

On Monday morning your piece was published. Not the biggest or most reputable newspaper, if your name hadn't still been trending it probably would have gone largely noticed. Instead, it blew up.

It had mixed reviews, of course, a tell-all so blatantly feminist would always attract its haters, but you were floored by the support it was receiving. Women were validating your experiences in a way you hadn't expected even a few days ago. It made you not so scared to leave the house anymore.

On Tuesday morning, Remus called you. You had the thought that it might have been James calling to grovel on Remus' phone, but you thought it was a smart enough idea you'd indulge anyway. If it was Sirius you wouldn't have picked up.

Instead, it was actually Remus.

"Come to the media room this afternoon," He said, evidently not wasting time with pleasantries.

"What?" You asked, caught off-guard.

"Just do it. Two o'clock."

"Remus, you know I don't have a job anymore, right?"

"Come off it, you know anyone on the team would let you in. You've got quite a name for yourself," He chanced a joke and you rolled your eyes.

"What, whore?" You retorted, only a little worried it would be true.

"I'm hanging up," Was all he said before the line went dead. You huffed, snapping your phone closed with all the attitude of a spoiled private schoolgirl.

Yet, at two o'clock you were standing in front of the media room at James' team's stadium, questioning all of your life choices.

The room seemingly went silent when you entered, dozens of pairs of eyes staring you down as you nervously stuck to the wall. You felt the derogatory, leering stares from all the sleazy men who'd been accusing you of sleeping with players since you first started in the field. It made you want to drop dead.

James made his way to the lectern up the front of the room with a cough, quieting down the chaos.

"Afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here, I've got some things I'd like to address.

"As you all well know, I've been a frequent face in the papers lately, and not for my brilliant playing as it usually is. I recently got followed down a street after a night out looking after an old friend who happened to be a colleague of yours. Now I know that my godly good looks lead you to believe that I don't feel the same as all of you, but I do. And I'd like you all to consider how you'd feel if a man with a camera followed you all the way home after you'd been out for a night with your friends and a few cheeky drinks. It's pretty invasive if you can't imagine.

"Now, all this press hasn't really affected me. However, my dear friend has been subject to misogynistic articles, slut-shaming and harassment all because we were seen out together and a few hateful words from someone I used to consider a mate." You had no idea where this was going, but you were absolutely fascinated. James was more well-spoken, more mature and solemn than you'd ever seen him, though he still had his audience in the palm of his hand with his casual jokes. It was a masterclass in public speaking.

"If you haven't read any of my friend's pieces I would highly recommend them; she's got a brilliant voice and I personally read everything she publishes. However, I'm not here to talk about her work; I'd actually like to talk about her if you all don't mind."

What the hell was happening?

"In the midst of all these articles over the last week, I know you've all seen various pictures of us, including from secondary school. A few come to my mind, our graduation picture is a highlight, but I'd really like to talk about this one." James brandished a printed-out photo you recognised instantly.

"This photo was taken when we were twelve or thirteen years old at someone's party. That night, as you tend to do when you're young and bored, we played spin the bottle and ended up being each other's first kiss. I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm telling this story now, and it's because ever since that night as I have recently realised, almost a decade later, I have been embarrassingly, stupidly in love with her."

Your life wasn't real, it absolutely could not be.

"And though I've done some incredibly dumb things over the years, somehow she's managed to like me back -- at least a little. So I'm setting the record straight right now, she is not 'sleeping to the top' or trying to get a secret scoop out of me because I'm the one who's been chasing after her for twelve years.

"I know I've been rambling on for far too long so I'll wrap it up here, but I just wanted to end this little conference with a warning that if I see any more disgusting, hateful articles about her, you won't be getting another comment from me again. So nice to see you all!"

The room started to trickle out but you were stuck to your spot against the wall, frozen in absolute shock. You hardly even noticed the dirty looks you got from some of the people you'd been working alongside for years.

You spotted James in another corner, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and messing with his hair. A nervous tell.

The room was almost completely empty when you approached him, heels muffled by the carpeted floor.

"Hey stranger," You said softly, feeling way out of your depth. He turned in an instant, smile lighting up his face then melting away as it was replaced with an insecure frown.

"Was that okay? I didn't want to embarrass you but I wanted to step up and do something and protect you and--"

"Have you really loved me since we were twelve?" You cut him off bluntly.

"Every day since, as I've figured out," He agreed with a slight nod, glasses slipping down his nose slightly.

"What about all the flirting with Lily? The other girls over the years?"

"So obviously fake. Distractions. It's never been anyone but you, love."

You could only stare at him for a moment, your whole world shifting beneath your feet. James' face became increasingly worried, brow furrowing more the longer you remained unresponsive.

"If you don't feel the same that's totally alright, I still stand by what I did and I don't want you being harassed for--"

You'd always thought that cutting someone off with a kiss was ridiculously cheesy, reserved for shitty Hallmark movies with grown-up child actors who never got their big break. Turns out though, when you realise that your girlish crush on the star footballer has actually been a complicated love of twelve years, you don't really want to waste any more time.

When you woke up on Wednesday morning with James next to you, body heat keeping you cozy, you were convinced you had to be dreaming. When you eventually got up to check your emails and start your day the hypothesis was only solidified by the impossible email waiting in your inbox.

The fucking BBC wanted to hire you as a football commentator and sports writer. Your dream job at your dream company. If you let out an embarrassing squeal then that was none of your business.

You were still convinced you were hallucinating the whole thing until James came in with his biggest smile and that look in his eyes that told you he probably had a hand in getting your name on the BBC desks.

Even a few weeks ago you would have been mad at him, assuming it was mocking or he had ulterior motives. But it wasn't a few weeks ago anymore, and James Potter's whole, endless heart belonged to you. You weren't letting that go anytime soon.

[my-castles-crumbling]

warn - Jegulus Microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 349

"Lupin!"

Startled, Remus looked up from his work to see Amelia Moore, a seventh-year in his advanced study group, making her way toward him. "Yes?" he asked politely. They weren't close, but they got on well enough.

"Listen," she said softly with the sombre air of delivering terrible news. "You like Black, right? Like...like, like?"

Blushing deeply, Remus blinked and stuttered, trying to decide whether or not to deny it. Was he that obvious?

"Well, I know you do," Amelia cut him off, waving her hand as if to wave off the question. "The point is, I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me?" he asked, deeply confused now.

"Yes, I just...I heard a rumor. It might not be true, but...you're such a nice, sweet, clever guy, and I just think you deserve better," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

Stomach sinking, Remus tilted his head to the side, waiting. Who was Sirius dating now?

"I heard from my friend in Slytherin that Potter and Black have been running around snogging in broom cupboards," Amelia continued quickly, eyeing him for a reaction.

Remus thought about that for a moment, completely stunned. "Thanks, Amelia," he muttered. He had to get somewhere to think.

"Sorry I had to be the one to tell you. I know all of you are close," she chirped. "But if you're ever free-"

"Right, yeah," He cut her off and stood to leave. Before he knew it, he found himself walking toward the Common Room.

Sirius and James? That was impossible. They were close, yes. Closer than close. Obnoxious in the way they were literal soul mates. But they were also deeply platonic. Remus had never questioned that. Even when he questioned everything else.

So why was James rumored to be kissing Sirius in broom cupboards? Unless...

"Holy fuck!" he gasped in the middle of the corridor, ignoring the looks of indignation from nearby portraits.

Sirius wasn't the only person with the surname 'Black' at Hogwarts.

Turning on the spot, Remus started heading to the dungeons. He had to have a talk with Regulus Black.

[daenysx]

hello <333 how about 8:37 pm x sirius black?

8.37 PM | SIRIUS BLACK

sirius cooks pasta with the creamiest lemon sauce for you this evening.

the first taste: heavenly.

"i never knew you were such a good cook." you say after taking another forkful of spagetti.

"me neither, gorgeous." he says. "you know what, i might be unstoppable right now. all these looks and brains, now what- being the greatest cook ever?"

he's being smug about it on purpose and you're too interested in eating your dinner so you let him entertain himself. sirius can't help but stare at you eating the food he made, you liked it and your praises warmed him a lot. he also thinks it's an amazing feeling to make sure you're full and happy, your lips are covered in sauce and your eyes close every time you bring your fork to your mouth.

"thank you for discovering your new talent." you say. "i'm so glad we had something other than take out."

normally you like cooking for both of you and sirius always helps in kitchen, but this week has been hectic and most days were spent with pizza and chicken menus. you're happy to eat something homemade.

"i hope you know that this means i'm gonna be cooking for us for the rest of our lives now." sirius says. "i can't stop if i'm this good."

"oh, i agree." you smile. "so, you're ambitious?"

"i'm so ambitious." he says with that low, flirty voice. he comes next to you. "i also find myself completely bewitched with the feeling of keeping my girl full, if you know what i mean."

you don't care how cheeky he can be, to be honest. his hand is wrapped around your waist as he takes the fork from you, he brings it to your mouth after getting some spagetti on it. you part your lips and let him press a kiss on your head after eating the pasta he was holding.

who knew sirius black could be this charming in the kitchen?

dreamer girl sleepover ♡

[ecstarry]

just james holding regulus tightly. both of them finally breathing once their hearts are close and their hands are on each other, reg presses soft kisses on james' shoulder while james warm hand settles on reg's thigh and they stay like that until everything feels okay again

[here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can]

Professor McGonnagall: I am at a loss for words!

freeze frame, record scratch

Remus’ voiceover: Despite being at a loss for words, Professor McGonnagall proceeded to yell at us for the next 45 minutes.

[moonstruckme]

Dizzy

summary: when your roommate James comes home after a night out with his friends, he's acting even more affectionate than usual

cw: alcohol

modern au

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 2.7k words

You can always hear when James’ friends come over. The door opens and the sound of them comes pouring through into your flat, the boys always in the middle of bickering or joking or telling some incredibly animated story. 

When you hear their noise late on a Friday night, you pause the movie on your laptop and head for the door, drawn towards their loudness. James’ friends are rowdier than anyone you hang out with, but it’s a happy sort of ruckus. They’re fun and hilarious and surprisingly kind, and you enjoy chatting when they come over. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” Sirius sing-songs, spotting you as soon as you emerge from your room. You laugh at his scratchy, worn-out voice. He sounds like he’s probably been singing at the top of his lungs all night. Dark eyeliner has transferred to the skin under his eyes, but Sirius is the only person you know with his particular ability to make dishevelment look rock-and-roll instead of slobbish. 

“Hi,” you say back, grinning at him. Your eyes search behind him to find Remus, just coming through the doorway. As always, he looks completely different from his other half; whereas Sirius has unmistakably just gotten home from a night out, Remus could just as easily have been at the library in his jeans and t-shirt, except for the faint black smudge where Sirius’ eyeliner has seemingly rubbed off on his cheek. Then you catch sight of James, drooping like an overwatered flower with his arm slung around Remus’ shoulder. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be alright,” Remus grunts, heaving your roommate through the entryway. He tries to send you a smile of greeting, but it’s more of a well-meaning grimace. “He just needs to drink some water.” 

“I won,” Sirius says giddily, stumbling over and grabbing your arm. “I outdrank James Potter.” 

There’s a nervous edge to the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. “That’s great, Sirius, congratulations.” You cast an alarmed look towards Remus. “You all had a competition?”

Remus shakes his head. “They had a competition.”

“I won,” James says suddenly, picking his head up as if revived from a deep sleep. “Don’t listen to him, Y/N, I’m the winner.”

Sirius makes a derisive sound. “You can’t even walk, Potter.” 

“I can,” James defends himself, and slips his arm from around Remus’ shoulder. Both you and Remus put your hands out cautiously like when a toddler takes its first steps, but James totters safely to the couch, leaning against it like he’s just finished a marathon and directing a smug smile towards Sirius. “Suck it, Pads.” 

Sirius’ lips curl impishly. His unsteady gaze settles on Remus, still hovering by the door. “Gotta get home to do that.” 

“Alright,” Remus says quickly, stepping forward to take his boyfriend by the shoulders and steering him towards the door. “We’re gonna go home and get to bed—to sleep.” He’s blushing something fierce, and you do your absolute best not to smile. “Prongs.” James looks up from where he’s been toying with the fabric of your couch throw. “Drink some water, and then go to sleep, yeah?” Remus raises his brows, waiting for confirmation, and James presses a solemn hand to his heart. 

“Your wish is my command, Moony-boy.” 

Remus rolls his eyes but turns to go, sending you a quick goodnight with an apology embedded in his voice before he shuts the door behind him. You lock it, and turn back around to find James performing a lazy somersault over the back of the couch and onto the cushions. 

“James,” you laugh, and he smiles up at you like he doesn’t know what’s so funny but is happy to be a part of it anyway, “do you want to come into the kitchen to have some water?”

James turns pensive. “Is that where you’re going?”

“Mhm.” 

“Then sure.” He hops up a bit too fast, and has to put his arms out in front of him to regain his balance. 

You take his forearm in your hand, knowing you won’t be able to support his weight if he really falls but hoping you can at least slow his descent, and begin walking him toward the kitchen. “Are you feeling dizzy?” you ask him.

James hums. “A bit. But in a good way, you know?”

You don’t, but you nod anyway. “Well,” you say with certainty you can’t feel, “that’s good. Chill here for a second, okay?” You prop him up against the counter, and James melts against it instantly in that easy way he has, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his ankles in front of him. The edge of the counter has to be digging into his back, but James makes it look like the most comfortable spot in the flat. 

You start to grab a glass from the cabinet but then think the better of it, opting for a less destructible plastic cup. You fill it with icy water from the tap. 

“Alright.” You pass it to him. “Don’t drink it too fast.” 

James takes the cup with a smile that’s really much sweeter than your tiny gesture warrants. Then he proceeds to slide the rest of the way down the counter, until he’s sitting with his legs spread out in front of him on the floor. After a moment, you decide to join him, crossing your legs under you and letting your back rest beside his. The floor just seems like the place to be right now. 

For the first time since you’ve known him, James seems content to sit in silence, sipping at his water. Neither of you are looking at each other, or really anywhere in particular. It’s definitely a Friday night, more of the noise of voices and traffic making their way up to your flat than you hear on most days of the week, but your home itself is quiet. The light in the kitchen is dim, coming in from the lamp you’ve left on in the living room, and your body relaxes instinctively in the peaceful dark. 

James has nearly emptied the cup when he says, “Hey,” as if he’s just remembered something important.

You look at him. “What?”

“There’s no ice in here.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did you want ice? I can put some in, I just thought you preferred drinks without ice.” 

Even in the dim light, you can make out enough of James’ eyes to see the brown in them go absolutely molten. He turns toward you more fully, his shoulder and cheek squished up against the cabinets. “Aww, you knew.”

You laugh at him, his smushed cheek pushing his glasses up on his face and his bottom lip jutting out slightly. The effect is that he looks both worryingly drunk and decidedly endearing. “Of course I know,” you say. “We’re roommates. I’m bound to pick up on things.” 

Your words do nothing to curb James’ adoration. “Still, you noticed,” he says, maudlin. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. The word resounds in your head like the happy chime of a bell. James is always calling you that, but usually it seems thrown away, a light little endearment he tacks onto his addresses without thinking. This feels different. It lingers on his tongue like caramel, soft and sticky sweet. Sweetheart. 

“Of course,” you say again, and you’re grateful for the poor lighting that’s hiding your blush. “Ready to go to bed?”

James looks at you like you’ve asked him to solve a calculus equation, thick brows knitting together. Maybe it’s the endearment still ringing in your head, but you really want to smooth the crease from between them with your thumb. You don’t. 

“I dunno,” he says after a moment. “Are you tired?”

“A little,” you admit. “Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “I could be.” And then he’s hauling himself up, an overly complicated process that involves getting his feet underneath him while he’s already using the counter to pull himself off the floor. You have to bite back a smile as you watch, and when he’s done James extends a hand to you. As if you’re the one who needs help. 

You take it but don’t actually put any of your weight on him as you stand, grabbing his empty cup from the counter. James’ hand is big, engulfing yours easily, and the condensation from the cool water still lingers on his palm. He doesn’t let go as you start towards his bedroom. You tell yourself it’d be mean to pull away on your own. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, once again like he’s discovered something fascinating. “I haven’t even asked—how’s your night been?”

You laugh again. You can never seem to stop laughing around James. “It’s been good, thanks. Not as eventful as yours, I take it.” 

James hums in unhappy affirmation. “Lucky you.”

“Well, seems like you got the true night-out experience.” You bring him to sit on his bed, bending to untie his shoes for him and setting them by the door. “Do you wanna sleep in that or change into pajamas?” you ask, fighting the urge to tack on the honey that pushes at your lips. 

There’s no deliberation there. “Pajama pants, at least. I can’t wear jeans in bed, m’not a monster.”

You smile to yourself, locating a pair of pajama pants on the floor and holding them up for him to see. “These okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” 

You toss them to him. James starts to strip, and you turn around quickly, going into the bathroom. “So, aside from the drinking contest, did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah,” he says lightly. You fill the cup with water from James’ sink and find a bottle of ibuprofen in the drawer underneath. “It wasn’t bad. Remus is so busy lately, it’s good to get to see him at all, and beating Sirius is always fun.” He gives a little laugh. “He’s such a sore loser.” 

“He seemed to think he’d won,” you say, your tone teasingly dubious. 

A harrumph. “If Remus doesn’t set him straight on that, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

You chuckle.

“You’ll tell ‘em, won’t you?”

“For sure. Do you have your pants on yet?”

“Oh. Yeah.” You go back into the bedroom to find James comfy under the covers, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me to tell you, sorry.” 

“No worries.” You smile. He looks so sweet like this, curls splayed out around his head on the pillow the way a kid draws rays around the sun. You set the cup and pill bottle on his nightstand, using your proximity to study his face. His pupils are huge and unfocussed, and the smile he’s aiming at you is a bit too dopey for your liking. “You said you were dizzy…do you think you’re going to be sick?”

“No.” James starts to push himself up as if to make his point, then decides against it, resting his head against the edge of the mattress with a tiny grimace. “Maybe.” 

“That’s okay,” you reassure him, grabbing a wastebasket from under his desk. “Here, I’m going to put this by the bed just in case, okay? And you’ve got water and ibuprofen on the nightstand.” 

James doesn’t respond. He’s looking at you dazedly. 

“James.” You tap his cheek lightly. “Do you understand? You need to use the wastebasket if you feel sick.”

His hand emerges from beneath the covers, fingers braceleting your wrist. “Stay with me,” he mumbles. You’re glad he’s definitely too out of it to feel the quick bumping of your pulse beneath his fingers. When you hesitate a second too long, James tightens his grip beseechingly. “Please, sweetheart?” 

There it is again. Your brain buzzes in response. 

“Alright,” you whisper, brushing a soothing touch against the inside of his forearm, and James releases you. “I was watching a movie before you got home. Want to finish it?”

He agrees, and you go across the hall, retrieving your laptop. You climb over him on the bed, pretending not to feel the brush of a big hand across your hip as though meant to steady you. You settle your laptop between the two of you and press play on the movie.

James leans over, resting his head on your shoulder. “You’re always watching this,” he murmurs. “You don’t get tired of it?”

“Not really,” you reply. “It’s my favorite. But if you are, I can change it.”

He makes a humming sound, and you feel the vibrations in your shoulder. “No, s’alright. Bet you can quote half the film, though, can’t you?” 

You grin. “I’m scared,” you say, in time with the actress on your screen. “I don’t wanna get hurt.” You can feel James smiling, his cheek smushing against your shoulder. You lower your voice into a gruff mockery of the male actor’s intonation. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

James makes a soft sound of amusement. “Cute,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. 

You fall into an easy silence, blue light cast over your features as the familiar scenes play out quietly on your laptop. You keep sneaking glances at James, thinking he’s either about to fall asleep or be sick, but he’s watching the movie contentedly, head a solid but welcome weight on your shoulder. He’s evidently decided to discard the shirt he’d worn to the bar, and the skin of his bare shoulder is warm where it presses against your arm. He adjusts his head a little, and his curls tickle the underside of your jaw. You don’t know how he gets them so soft. Not through any strict regimen or product, apparently. One good thing about having a guy for a roommate is that he’s never the one who runs out the hot water; he’s in and out of the shower in ten minutes every time. And yet, if you look closely enough, you can usually find at least two or three perfect coils in his hair. Genetics, you suppose. James was blessed with a good lot of them. 

The movie’s not half done before you’re yawning, your eyelids feeling like someone’s sewn fishing weights into them. You try not to shift, but your shoulders rise with the involuntary inhale, and James looks up at you. You yawn again, covering your mouth with one hand as a tear forms in the corner of your eye, squished out when you blink. You wipe it away. 

“Wait,” James says. You go still, looking over at him curiously as he adjusts against the headboard of his bed, pushing himself further upright. He tilts his head. The back of his index finger brushes gently under your lashes. “You always get teary at night,” he says softly. 

You know you should get out from under his touch, but you can’t make yourself. “I tear up a lot when I yawn.” 

Just thinking about it has you yawning again, and James takes your face in his hand, catching the tear that falls from one eye. 

“Don’t cry,” he begs you. “If you cry, I’ll cry.” 

You take his wrist in your hand, giving him a small smile. “I’m not crying, James. I’m just tired.” 

“Okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss, feather-light, just next to your eye. You freeze, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Okay, m’sorry. You’re tired? Wanna go to sleep?”

You have to clear your throat to make sure your voice comes out right. “Sure.” It’s still a bit hoarse. “Wake me if you need anything, okay?”

James takes your hand, a willing captive between two of his as he draws it into his lap. He settles his head back onto your shoulder. “Okay. You’re too nice to me.” 

“I’m not,” you say, before you can think the better of it. “You’re the nice one.” 

James only hums.

You swallow. “Goodnight.” 

You’re waiting for a response, the movie on your laptop just now getting to the scene where the love interests give in and confess their feelings for each other, when you feel a wet spot forming near the collar of your shirt. Slowly, careful not to jostle him, you tilt your head to look down at the source of the drool puddle. 

James already asleep.