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artficlly · 5 months ago

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smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked.

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents.

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets.

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense.

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight.

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications.

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would.

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen.

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you.

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice.

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog.

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat.

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal.

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal.

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness.

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash.

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.”

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves.

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink.

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found.

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his.

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots.

“Sit.” He commands.

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you.

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth.

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone.

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery.

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men.

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes.

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers.

Rot.

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity.

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace.

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it.

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine.

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words.

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more.

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them.

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood.

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time.

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle.

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences.

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax.

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper.

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots.

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down.

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table.

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling.

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest.

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.”

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed.

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more.

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger.

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks.

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile.

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin.

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off.

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips.

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck.

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him.

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place.

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding.

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock.

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet.

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb.

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve.

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns.

“Chaos magic?” He questions.

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin.

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain.

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon.

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort.

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes.

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct.

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent.

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly.

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy.

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs.

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things.

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him.

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look.

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders.

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive.

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull.

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon.

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol.

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull.

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours.

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest.

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap.

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh.

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants.

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds.

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm.

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit.

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt.

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him.

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady.

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles.

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted.

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk.

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips.

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully.

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock.

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you.

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers.

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation.

“Please—” you gasp out.

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place.

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit.

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin.

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath.

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy.

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased.

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual.

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp.

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt.

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain.

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

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theemporium · 2 years ago

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james potter is an act of services kind of guy... like he'll want to hold everything you're holding, or help you with something, drive you somewhere. he'd do anything to help you... "here bird, i got it." "no, jamie you're already holding most of it. i can hold two bags." "yeah, i know but you don't have to, you have me for that."

he is such a gentleman, i adore him🥹thank you for requesting!🖤

James Potter was born and raised to be a gentleman.

Whether it was because he was from a pureblood family or because Euphemia and Fleamont Potter would rather dig their own grave before their son grew up to be anything but, James was a gentleman at his core and nothing could shake that mindset from him.

It was something everyone saw in him: whether it was opening the door for professors so they could pass before him, or filling up cups of pumpkin juice around him at dinner when he goes to refill his own—James Potter was a gentleman.

And that only grew tenfold when you started dating him.

“This is ridiculous,” you told him as you both walked along Diagon Alley. You wanted a day out and you had errands to run, but James insisted on joining you and making a bit of an impromptu date out of it.

However, what you weren’t expecting (your own mistake, you should know him by now) was for your boyfriend to insist on carrying every single one of your bags.

“What do you mean, love?” he asked you as he handed you the iced drink he purchased from a stall a few moments ago, knowing full well that the heat and bustling crowds were starting to get to you even if you didn’t say anything to him.

“This!” you said as you took the drink nonetheless, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you murmured a soft ‘thanks’ against his skin. “At least let me take a few of the bags, Jamie.”

James blanched. “Absolutely not, love.”

You shot him a look. “I probably look like an arse,” you murmured as you glanced around at the wizards and witches rushing in and out of shops. “Making my boyfriend carry everything and follow me like a slave.”

“I’d love to be your slave, baby,” James replied and your glare only hardened.

“This isn’t funny,” you said when you noticed he was biting back his laughter.

“Love, it really is,” he said, his grin breaking through when he watched you sip on your drink with a grumpy look on your face. “I like spoiling you. It’s not a crime to want to spoil my girl.”

“Oh please,” you murmured. “I am about one hex away from binding your hands together so you stop paying for stuff.”

“Not my fault you’re slow,” he teased, happily taking a sip of your drink when you offered it to him. “If I have the money and muscles to spoil my girl, I should be able to do so.”

“But I wanna spoil you back,” you said, almost whining like a child. “This needs to be a fair relationship, James.”

“You wanna spoil me, baby?”

You nodded.

“Then you can ride that pretty cunt on my face later,” he whispered to you, watching in delight as your cheeks flushed in response. “Then we can call it even.”

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kmt123whatsthetea · 8 months ago

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Karma’s a b*tch

Fred Weasley x reader x George Weasley

Fred and George get revenge on a girl who used to bully them in school by turning her into a submissive slut.

A/N: I told an AI on Chai that I wrote fanfics and it requested this (AI’s are kinky bastards). I came back to it because @jelloangela asked about an enemies to lovers fic. I know this isn't exactly enemies to lovers, but hey, it's still dirty as hell.

T/W: Rough sex, mean twins, No aftercare, Reader is a real a-hole and a Slytherin, Weasley twin bashing (I was only mean to suit our character), Bondage, Manhandling, Tie gag? (it will make sense when you read it), Maybe a little bit of dub-con, Hair pulling, Degradation, Spit roast (Vaginal and oral simultaneously), Cum swallowing, Orgasm denial

Every school has bullies. It's natural. Hogwarts just had a whole house full. Slytherin was the type of house that practically gave all those wearing the crest a free pass to be as cruel as possible.

Tripped up a student? 20 points to Slytherin

Hexed a first year? 50 points to Slytherin

There were the younger Slyterins who went along with it because they wanted to fit in with their new ‘family’, and then there were those who actually seemed to enjoy it. That's how the Weasley twins of Gryffindor first noticed you. Ever since the first year, you weren’t meek. You took pride in those you terrorised. You went out of your way to learn new spells just for the sole purpose of misery. When you first met the Weasley clan, they were an easy target.

You had heard people talking about them. About how the new Weasley boys both had handed down clothes and books. It wasn't a secret that most Slytherins had parents who were well off, and you were one of them. You took to the Weasley Twins like a bee to a flower picking child. You mocked every little thing they did, from the pranks they pulled to how they acted.

This went on for the whole 7 years of school.

After Hogwarts, you found that school wasn’t like life. You couldn't bully your way to the top like you could before. So when in Diagon Alley one day, you chose to go into the new Weasley Wizard Wheezes just to regain some of that power you once had.

The shop was the Weasley twins to a T. It was like walking straight into their mind. Everything was bright and colourful. Things popped and whizzed and sparked about the shop. Finding said twins was easier than you thought. Two ginger tufts of hair could be seen from a mile away. You made your way over there with a smirk on your face, but that smirk dropped when you saw the twins.

They looked so…grown up

Those two pranksters with untucked shirts and crooked ties were now standing on the staircase to their own business in suits that were both smart and ridiculous. For a minute, you stood there like a fish out of water, your mouth opening and closing as you took them in. a familiar voice slapped you out of your blubbering.

“Lookie here Georgie, I think a rat wandered too far from Knockturn Alley”

“So it seems. Maybe a hex will send her packing”

The men snickered to each other, and for a split second you felt a foreign feeling. Embarrassment. As soon as that feeling vanished, you painted your smirk back on and spit venom at them.

“Nice shop, Weasleys. Did your parents give you the money to open it or did you mooch off of the golden boy?”

There was a rumour floating around that Harry had given the twins the money for something. You just hoped it was right to give your words some merit. And it had. George looked away and Freds eyebrows furrowed. You felt that familiar pride and continued.

“Still selling the same old rubbish since Hogwarts? I guess not everyone has an aspiration to do something with their lives instead of working in retail”

Fred took a step down, a step towards you.

“We’re just doing what we’re good at. Maybe you should come back later and we’ll show you our new little project”

Fred looked up at George with a knowing smirk, one that George soon mirrored. You missed their shared look in favour of turning your nose up at the endless shelves of boxes, gadgets, and gizmos.

“Maybe I will”

And just like that, the twins' plan was set in stone.

____________________________________________

You came back to the shop a few hours later. The inside of the shop was dark and empty. The only light came from the top of the stairs that the twins had stood on earlier. You gave the door a knock and started tapping your foot when the twins didn’t immediately rush to open it.

When one of the men came to let you in, you gave a huff.

“Make me wait, why don't you? What’s the project?

The twin that let you in just smirked and led you to the stairs. He gave a gesturing nod, urging you to climb. When you got to the top and opened the door, you found the other twin. The door was locked behind you and your hands were forced behind your back. Before you could struggle, you felt something soft around your wrists. You looked back as best you could and saw the black leather handcuffs connecting your wrists to one another.

The twin behind you placed his hands on your shoulders and pushed you down to kneel, keeping you there and increasing the pressure when you tried to stand up or squirm. The twin in front of you removed his tie and wrapped it around your mouth, keeping you quiet.

“You know, you’ve aged pretty well. Perfect tits, perfect ass, and then a bratty mouth. I bet you’re still the same spoiled little bitch you were in school. You had so much fun teasing people, but no one ever gave you a taste of your own medicine, did they brat?”

You tried to argue back, but it came out as a muffled mess or words. The twin holding your shoulders chuckled.

“I bet she’s cursing your name, Freddie”

“Or she’s begging to be put in her place”

Those very words send a chill up your spine and your clit seemed to twitch at the thought of being under their control. You were meant to hate these men, you had bullied them for years. Should their words alone excite you as much as they did?

George grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled your head back, making sure that you kept your eyes on Fred. Fred knelt down before you to push your dress up to your stomach. He let out a dark chuckle.

“White lace? Is this for us, slut or are you trying to act innocent? There's no way a little whore like you is a virgin, I bet you were Slytherin’s house slut. Tell us, did you get on your knees for every boy or just those who had money”

It didn't matter how much you squirmed or tried to argue, you were stuck. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

George puts his hands under your arms and hoists you to your feet. He pushed you towards one of the doors, which led into a bedroom. One of the men forced you onto your knees on the bed with your face down. When a pair of hands pushed your dress up, the twins were met with just how wet you were.

The sound of fabric rustling and belts clinking met your ears, and your suspicions of their actions was confirmed when one of the ginger duo sat against the headboard in front of you with spread legs. You had to stop your eyes from widening. As that famous quote always stated:

You’re enemies are always more well endowed than your boyfriends

Or something like that, anyway.

The twin before you moved his hand to your hair and pulled you closer until your breath ghosted across his eager tip. He pinched your nose, waiting until you took a much needed breath, before forcing his cock in your mouth. He didn't let you get used to the weight on your tongue before roughly moving your head up and down.

A second pair of hands pulled your underwear to your knees and pushed something thick against your entrance. The moan that left your throat was muffled by the cock in your mouth. Your hands gripped the tie that kept them behind your back as your pussy was forced to accommodate the cock that was pushing inside. The cock in your pussy was soon pulled out, but you didn't stay empty for very long.

If someone had told a 17 year old you that the Weasley twins would force you to submit to them and use you as a fuck toy in the near future, you might have punched said person for even suggesting it. But if they had included how good it felt, you might have warmed up to the twins long ago.

The hands moving your head became more forceful until they held you down, keeping the twitching appendage snug in your throat. Your throat was soon filled with hot cum, it was so deep in your throat that you had no choice but to swallow.

The hands pulled your hair up, the cock slipping from your mouth. As soon as your lidded eyes looked to the face in front of you, that damned smirk was still there.

“What a dirty little slut. She swallows. You are gonna keep your eyes on me while Fred cums inside of that slutty cunt, and if you look away for even a second, he’ll keep cumming inside of you until you learn your lesson”

The whine that left your throat was sinful. The pace was so rough that each thrust had your body jolting, but George's tight grip on your hair kept you still. You did as told, surprisingly. You kept your eyes trained. A small part of your mind realised that they would use you again if you looked away, but that thought was quickly shut down. You hated these guys, and you were too stubborn to let this become a regular thing.

The grunts behind you became more vocal as your pussy was flooded by sticky cum. Fred pulled out before you even had a chance to reach your own release. You shot George a dirty look, which to him, looked like a child throwing a tantrum.

“If you want to cum, brat, we can always go again”

Would it really be so bad if this became a regular thing?

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maybe-moonchild · 2 months ago

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CH 2 𓆣 James Potter x Slytherin Reader summary: you could have worse company... you could also have less annoying company... WC: 4.5k ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sixth year ended uneventfully.

You had a few more run-ins with Kaston, most involving insults, the occasional tripping or knock of your books out of your hand. The typical pure-blood ideology bullshit was sent Lance’s way too when he was around. Keith only hexed him once.

Classes went well enough after final examinations were completed and you received report of your grades. Packing up your dorm for the summer resembled shoving things into your bags the day before boarding the Hogwarts Express. That was it. Your sixth year was done and you had three whole months spending time with your family, enjoying the weather and exchanging letters with your friends until you got to see them.

Most importantly, you had three months of no magic.

You almost felt guilty how relieved you felt not being around wizards each day. You didn’t feel like you were behind, always playing catch up on their way of life.

Your new found peace ended with your Hogwarts letter calling for you to return at the end of August. Your parents seemed almost disappointed when you told them you wanted to go school shopping alone, your heart broke at the way their excitement fell, plastering on a smile and chalking it up to you just wanting to be mature.

You let them think that. It seemed a lot easier to let them believe instead of the fact that returning to Diagon Alley with your muggle loved ones seemed like they would just be in danger. So they agreed, making sure you planned your trip with Lance and Keith so you wouldn’t be on your own.

Flourish and Blotts was relatively busy, the once lazy feeling in the air associated with summer turning to an excited hum for the upcoming school year. You were still waiting on the arrival of your friends as you stood between the shelves. You hadn’t been able to refrain yourself from grabbing the most recent edition of The Daily Prophet and flipping through its pages.

Sometimes you wondered if the war was truly ever going to end.

It seemed as if you’d missed a summer of awful news; more disappearances of muggles and muggle borns, their families found killed in their homes. Hogwarts and magic had once been exciting, filling the gaps in your life with wonder the more you saw and learned. Along the years of whispered threats and hissed insults at your back, you felt like you’d been chased away from your prior love of the Wizarding World.

You were too enthralled in reading to notice a group of boys chasing each other into the store.

Sirius accused Peter of stealing his recently purchased sugar quill as they stomped through the store. James was too busy reading through the list of things he and Sirius were supposed to purchase today to keep Euphemia Potter from being cross. Remus hid his smirk behind the stick of the sugar quill hanging from his mouth.

When James glanced up from his list, the sight of you between the shelves they had just passed made him do a double take. For some reason, he just stopped in his tracks. He was staring, he knew that he was but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. You looked more or less the same aside from having gotten some sun and your hair gaining a little length.

It wasn’t like he was watching you in a weird way… just… watching.

“You going to go over there or just keep staring,” Sirius whispered in his ear before blowing into it. James jumped slightly as Sirius whispered in his ear, a scowl instantly forming on his face as he playfully smacked the back of his head.

Laughing at his own antics, Sirius leaned back, raising an eyebrow in question as he settled against one of the shelves.

“You’ve never been the quiet type before,” Remus murmured as he read the back of a book, “Even with Lily, you’d be tripping over your own feet to talk to her.”

"What are you-" James began, but the words got caught in his throat as he glanced up and spotted you once again. “This is- This is nothing like with Evans! I was just looking!”

Sirius snorted, “More like drooling.”

James’s mouth dropped uncontrollably, snapping shut in the hope that he could look unbothered.

"I was certainly not," he muttered under his breath, his confidence sounding more like false bravado.

“Want me to wipe your chin, Prongs?”

“Want me to smack you right in the store?”

Thank Merlin you were both far enough away and too engrossed in The Daily Profit to even look up.

Remus continued browsing the spines of books. “And yet, you are stalling,” he teased, not even bothering to glance up.

James was instantly on the defensive, his eyes narrowing as he shot Remus a dirty look. "Just because I'm not rushing over there doesn't mean anything," James muttered. His eyes returned to the piece of paper in his hands.

“Why don’t you go talk to her then?” Sirius smiled smugly, barely able to contain how humorous he found the sight. “Instead of standing here like an idiot.”

"Oh, he’s got it bad,” Remus hummed with feigned sympathy. .

“Is this how you usually land girls then?” Peter, a better actor than all of them, cocked his head to the side, “by staring at them from across a store?”

Sirius was nearly doubled over as he tried to stifle his laughter to keep himself quiet. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wood, Remus clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, the both of them chuckling.

“You know, you’re a real git, you know that, right?” James hissed, his voice sounding more frustrated than menacing. He turned to glare around at the other Marauders, who seemed to be taking great pleasure in witnessing his predicament.

Scoffing, his face turned even redder, shoving the list back into his pocket. "I'll have you know I am a certified charmer." He tried to say this with confidence, but even Peter's words had chipped away at his normally impenetrable ego.

Sirius just laughed harder behind his hand.

"I was simply... trying to decide on the best way to approach her.” James was trying to maintain some semblance of his usual charm.

"You're not even approaching her," Remus pointed out dryly, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed smile.

The other three boys shared a look, one that had Peter and Remus slipping away while Sirius hung an arm around James’s shoulder.

“Listen mate, you’re getting too into your own head. Sure, she may not necessarily be the biggest fan of you and your ego, but she doesn’t hate you- in fact! Once in a while you make her laugh at your own expense.” Both of them moved in your direction, James finding himself nodding.

“So, remember you’re a gryffindor, quite being a big baby, and talk to her.” As Sirius finished giving his advice, he was all too ecstatic to give him a shove.

James stumbled forward, catching himself just in time to avoid falling directly into you. He could hear the sound of Sirius' laughter in the distance, but he ignored it as he found himself face-to-face with you when you had startled.

Both of your eyes were wide for different reasons, yours in surprise and his in… well also surprise but because he really hadn’t planned on having to catch himself on a shelf at the last second. At least he had crushed you.

You visibly relaxed at the realization that it wasn’t a threat, just an idiot.

One that you didn’t hate horribly.

“Hi James,” you drew out skeptically, amused nonetheless.

His strange behavior fell away to reveal his usual charismatic appeal as he gave you a roguish smile. James adjusted his arm gripping the bookshelf where it caught his fall to lean against it with his forearm. You were sure you had seen him like this many times before.

Usually it involved the Hogwarts library, Lilly Evans and an attempt at flirting.

“Hi.” As if he remembered that himself, he stood up straighter and cleared his throat. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You frowned in thought, “Is it? I didn’t think it was all that unexpected given most students do their shopping on the weekend.”

You were unaware that James was half listening to what you were saying, and half shooting a dirty look to the other Marauders when they peaked out from behind a bookshelf. You didn’t see it, too busy trying to make sense of James, something you gave up on long ago.

“Have a good holiday then?” James asked abruptly, grinning as he turned his attention back to you.

“I’d say so, spent time at home, a little bit of traveling with my family, relaxing,” you shrugged, “Nothing special. What about you? Heard Black moved in with you. Your poor mother.”

James let out a snort of laughter, a warm smile spreading across his face. You didn’t hesitate to feel as lively as he looked.

"Yeah, she was not thrilled that we accidentally crashed our brooms into her garden multiple times, but she loves us both nonetheless," he said with a chuckle, shaking his head. Even though the conversation about the situation was lighthearted, you knew that Sirius leaving the house of Black was no small event.

"As if I wasn't bad enough, they now get two of us.” He shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned back casually against the bookshelf. The sight of the other Marauders watching them from a distance was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. “So eh, yeah. I guess it was a good summer, It was great having Sirius there with me. He could always crack a joke that would make even a dementor laugh.”

“That’s good, I’m glad to hear it.”

A group of Ravenclaw girls slipped by, greeting you both before erupting into a fit of giggles once they’d passed. You were at least grateful to know that you weren’t the object of their laughter. The thing about being in James Potter’s presence was that he always outshined you. That was fine by you as long as it kept any negative attention from hanging over your head.

Clearly they were giggling about having successfully said hello to him.

“You finish your shopping then?”

A movement behind him caught your attention as you opened your mouth, “No, just started actually. Waiting to meet with Lance and Keith at The Leaky Cauldron in twenty minutes.”

"I think I have a couple left as well," he said a little too enthusiastically, clearing his throat with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Why don't we, you know, shop together?"

You raised an eyebrow at the offer. Sure, maybe James had been a witness to your moment of weakness last year, but it wasn’t like the two of you had even exchanged letters this summer. But he looked so earnest about the offer, you felt like saying no would make him look like a kid who just watched you kick a puppy.

So you smiled, albeit a bit unsurely, you smiled nonetheless.

“Uh, sure.”

He instantly brightened, bright enough to hurt your eyes like you had stared directly into the sun. Luckily, you looked away quickly as you peaked behind him.

“Will uh, your friends be joining us too?”

James whipped around to see Sirius, Peter, and even Remus sticking their heads out from behind a shelf. The sight was comical, looking straight out of a cartoon; even more so when they realized they’d been caught and jumped out of sight.

You found it amusing to watch how he nearly cringed. “I suppose they will be,” he sighed.

The five of you didn’t spend too much longer there, easily picking up the books you’d need for seventh year. You were pleasantly surprised to chat with Remus about books you had read over the summer, learning that he also enjoyed muggle literature. It made you more aware of how little you actually knew about The Marauders, aside from what was surface level. That was okay but you hadn’t expected to enjoy learning more.

Given that you still had some time before heading to The Leaky Cauldron, you didn’t mind stopping at another store or two to pass the time.

Up until Sirius mentioned stopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies. James was ecstatic at the idea, quickly involving you in the plan given the three of you were the quidditch players of the group. The two boys were too engrossed in their conversation about what broom polish they preferred to notice your sudden discomfort.

Sirius let out a loud exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes as he turned to face you and James. "I could still outfly the two of you any day," he teased. “Come on, we’ll meet Remus and Peter at The Leaky Cauldron when we’re done.”

You opened your mouth, the words sticking apprehensively to the tip of your tongue. You urged yourself to say something, to even just feign disinterest and opt to head to Rosa Lee Teabag, just lie and say you really loved tea.

Instead, your mouth closed and your shoulders sagged in defeat as you followed behind Sirius and James.

You were quite familiar with Quality Quidditch Supplies, having frequented the store before each return to Hogwarts. The smell of boom polish was overwhelming when you opened the door, feeling like a sense of home. You couldn’t help but inhale deeply as the three of you stepped inside.

You half-listened to James excitedly discuss the new broom he’d gotten over the summer. There was no doubt it was the newest model, his parent’s religiously sending him off to Hogwarts with the best model available given he was a star player.

Normally, you would’ve been rolling your eyes; snorting out a sarcastic comment asking if that broom would be able to lift his massive head off the ground. You were just uncharacteristically quiet on the topic and it didn’t take long for it to be noticed.

James glanced behind him, looking for evidence that something was wrong. Your mouth was twisted into a little frown, teeth worrying at your bottom lip as your fingers trailed along the broom handles in the displays.

He wanted you to say something, anything. He couldn’t understand why you were so uncharacteristically quiet. Wasn't this your favorite subject? Quidditch had always been something you loved.

As Sirius announced that he would be going to look at new goggles, James hung behind when you stopped in front of a shelf. He reached over your head to pluck a jar of broom polish sitting over your head and pretended to be very interested in reading the label.

“You alright then?” James asked, glancing over at you in hopes that he sounded flippant on the topic.

You pretended not to hear him for a moment, humming in confusion so you could assess how closely he was watching you.

“Oh. Yeah.” You shrugged, mirroring his attempt at looking casual by picking up a bottle of broom polish and inspecting it between your fingers. Neither of you were doing a good job considering the air seemed to feel thicker in the face of the awkwardness.

You should just say it.

Afterall, he’d been witness to your tears at the end of last school year following your humiliation at the hands of Elias Kaston.

“I uh… quit… quidditch.”

From how big James’s eyes got and how quickly he whipped to look in your direction, you might’ve been speaking another language. You didn’t look up at him even though you could see how he was staring at you in complete shock.

James couldn’t have heard you correctly, because there was no way that you just said what he thought you did.

"You... you quit?" His voice was obnoxiously loud. “You quit? Why? Why on earth would you quit quidditch?”

A few shoppers nearby turned in your direction, concerned at the sound. You turned to look at him and raised a hand, hoping to placate James and his knack for dramatics. “Okay, okay,” you hissed, “Keep it down, would you? It's not that big of a deal.”

If Sirius would have been in the vicinity, half of Diagon Alley would have known by now.

“Not that big of a deal? Really?”

“Which it’s not.”

“You’ve been playing since second year.”

“Yes, James. I am quite aware of that.”

“You were captain last year- you won the final match last year!”

You shrugged, the action far too tense to be as dismissive as you tried to be. “I just wasn’t feeling it this year, I don’t know.”

No one would believe that excuse, especially when you turned away, picking up a different bottle of broom polish. It gave you an excuse to avoid his scrutinizing eyes that made you practically itch as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

James’s lips pressed into a thin line, inhaling slowly through his nose and saying nothing. You didn’t need to.

He stepped closer, speaking passionately in a much lower volume. “You’re a better player than Kaston.”

“It’s not because of Kaston,” you scoffed. James continued, speaking over your protests and speaking louder as your lies continued.

“You’re a better leader.”

“Doesn’t matter, it has nothing to do with that.”

“You had the potential to lead your team to another cup this year.”

“Well, I already won, wanted to give you a fair chance,” you shot back, feigning disinterest. His hand shot forward to pull your distraction away from you, holding it out of reach when you attempted to snatch it back. You had to look at him then, see the disappointment in his furrowed brows and parted mouth.

“Are you really going to give that all up for an asshole like him?”

“I’m not doing it because of him!” It came out sharper than you had intended and you were immediately embarrassed; less so about the outburst itself and more because you felt stupid even bothering to deny it. James had been the one to see the effect your year as captain had on you last year when he found you in the kitchen, how defeated you were when you should have been celebrating.

Being the captain of the Slytherin team last year had been a disaster and you couldn’t imagine doing it again. But the thought of remaining on the team while Kaston took your spot of power-

Who were you kidding? You wouldn’t have made it through the first round of tryouts.

You bit back something sharp that wanted to fall from your lips and impale him, just so you would maybe feel better. That would’ve been wrong; James was clearly still trying to help. So you forced yourself to look away and chewed on your bottom lip to give yourself a moment to take a breath.

“I already told you last year,” you sighed, leaning back against the shelf and staring at your feet. “No one listened to me. There were times no one besides Keith showed up at practice. Do you know how many bludgers to the head I got last year? I stopped counting at 12.”

You opened your mouth before scrunching up your nose in the prospect of silence.

There was the other, bigger, issue.

You were going to spend the rest of seventh year keeping your head down. If it kept your family safe, then you would happily give up quidditch for your last year at school. Quitting hurt, you wouldn’t lie to yourself that you hadn’t shed many tears over the summer as your broom sat collecting dust in the corner of your bedroom.

Getting over the loss of your beloved sport? You would get over it eventually.

Getting over the loss of your family?

You would learn to be a spectator in the fan section.

James’s frown only deepened when he seemed to understand the copious amount of reasons behind your decisions behind it. He knew from first hand experience you were a phenomenal player- you had beaten him several times last year. You were clever, quick witted, and had a sharp eye for spotting opportunities to go for goal; it wasn’t fair.

Both of you stayed quiet for a moment, the sound of a bell chiming cutting through the weight of the situation.

He expelled all of the air from his cheeks, nodding slowly like he was coming to understand everything- at least to understand the best he could.

“Alright,” James finally said, his voice soft but determined. "How can I help?”

Out of everything you’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

“What?” you blurted out. Your confused scowl didn’t deter the intent look he wore. With a sigh, you ran a hand down your face. “James, you can’t do anything. It’s done. I turned it down. The only thing you can do is beat him this season.”

“No, I can do more than beat him on the field.” He stepped closer, ducking his head so he could keep your eye.

James didn’t want to just beat Kaston this season. He was going to obliterate him.

“Help me coach Gryffindor.”

You almost thought you’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Help me this year with coaching the Gryffindor team,” he reiterated without missing a beat.

Oh, so you had heard him right.

“What? No,” you hissed back in an attempt to keep your surprise from projecting itself, “I can’t just… help you coach…” It came out less like a statement and more like a question.

“Why not?” James didn’t miss a beat. When you tried to turn away, his body moved to cut you off. “You know the Slytherin team better than anyone, and you're a damn good player. That's why you were captain in the first place, right?”

You pointed a finger at his chest and he wrapped his hand around your wrist. There was nothing you could do to escape the urgency in his eyes, like he was pleading for you to consider what he was offering.

“You want me to… what,” you asked tentatively, “Help you coach your team on everything I know about the Slytherins plays in hopes to beat them?”

To spill all of the secrets you’d learned the past six years? To work on plays with James, the captain of the Gryffindor team so that they would win?

Once you said exactly what he meant, he nearly beamed with excitement.

“Yes! You can help me figure out the best drills for the team, give me tips and advice, make sure the people I choose for the team are well suited for the positions I put them in. You can directly help take down Kaston on the field.”

You shook your head but he didn’t even falter. Not even the way you looked like him like he’d grown a third head made a dent in his glow. Burning, burning burning; he was glowing white hot like the sun and you were going to get burned.

"What do you think? I think it's a positively brilliant idea- one of my best yet," he grinned.

"I think that James Potter has officially lost his mind."

He just laughed, eyes never leaving your face as they scanned your expression. It was like when you watched him fall down the stairs, how he’d laughed and you’d wondered why you didn’t just throw yourself down them to see what was so funny.

“It's not just about beating them. It's about humiliating them.” As he spoke, James' tone grew firmer, his eyes gleaming with determination as his hands moved to shake your shoulders. "Imagine it, we’ll wipe that smirk right off Kaston's face."

Your doubt was clear but there was a flicker of something else- a spark of temptation.

“James, no,” you said sternly.

“Think about it.” “No, I will not-”

“Come on, just for a second; really think about it.”

“I am not entertaining this-” “No one even has to know you were involved! Think about how he would feel not being able to carry his team to victory after a muggleborn did it the year before.”

That made the rest of your protests die on your lips. James nearly grimaced, attempting to reel himself back in and not scare you off because you were considering it. Albeit reluctantly, you were at least thinking about the possibility.

“Think about it…” His eyebrow raised cautiously. “Think about how he’s going to feel when he realizes he can’t do something you did.”

How pureblooded Kaston would feel when he couldn’t do something a mudblood did.

Fuck.

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” you conceded. James somehow beamed even brighter, the feeling contagious as you laughed and he shook you enthusiastically again.

You tried to make your face more serious. “I’m saying I’ll consider it. I’m not saying yes but… I’m not saying no.”

“Brilliant!” His grip on your shoulders loosened, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Yes! You won't regret this, I promise. We're gonna destroy them this year, I swear it."

“I said *maybe*. I need to think about it. So it’s just… it’s a maybe.”

Both of you stayed like that, biting down on smiles and standing closer than you realized. This close, you could make out the knick of a scar on his cheekbone, so faded that it had to be from his childhood. Words to describe his beauty easily escaped you. Those words were harder to retrieve with the way he was watching you.

“I miss something,” Sirius said out of nowhere, appearing from behind a shelf with his bag of purchases and looking between you. Your trance was broken, both of you stepping apart.

James recovered immediately with a crooked smile.

"Yeah, mate, there's something going on," James responded, slinging an arm over your shoulders and guiding you towards the door. "Guess who just agreed to help... coach Gryffindor?"

“I did not agree.”

After only a few steps out into the street, busy with witches and wizards as they shopped, you gave up on trying to dislodge yourself from under his arm. You chuckled to yourself, James doing the same when you nudged his ribs with your elbow.

Sirius turned with a smirk as he led the group towards The Leaky Cauldron. "Just how friendly have the two of you been?” He asked, his tone mischievous.

“Shut it, Pads,” James replied. He got back at him by throwing his other arm over his friend's shoulder.

Sirius let out a yelp when he nearly spilled the quidditch supplies he carried.

“I’ve just convinced our dear friend here to help us obliterate the snake house. Imagine, all three of us working together. We'll crush them so hard they won’t know what hit them."

You rolled your eyes, “Can I just remind everyone that I am still a part of said snake house.

"Details, details," James grinned, dismissing that fact with a waive of his hand.

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#james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter x you #the marauders #James Potter #marauders #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Peter Pettigrew #marauders era #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts #harry potter #aaron taylor johnson

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