#there was a time when I happy when I was Harry Potter

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders blurb: you are not dating my sister

in which harry has a girlfriend, remus is a traitor, and nobody knows what canoodling is.

the train station is buzzing with families and students as you, sirius, and james crowd near the platform, eagerly looking for harry and ron's train to pull in. james is practically bouncing with excitement and sirius can't stop cracking jokes.

"our husband," he croons. "the professor."

as soon as the train screeches to a halt, harry, ron, and remus step out, their bags slung over their shoulders. harry looks like exhausted, and ron's looking far too pleased with himself for someone who's been on a twelve-hour train ride.

"there they are!" sirius shouts, waving like a madman.

you rush forward to hug harry first, ignoring his scowl. "oh, sweetheart! how are you? how's quidditch? you've been doing so well, you know."

harry grumbles, looking away. "i'm fine."

"you're doing amazing!" you say, smoothing down his hair. "quidditch, grades, everything! moons says your studies are going great. i'm so proud of you."

he scowls even harder, clearly mortified that you're doing this in the train station, but you're too busy fawning over him to notice. james has his hands clapped over his shoulders now, and sirius is tugging the bags from his hands.

"my god, haz," james beams at his son. "you look bloody amazing! you've been eating good at hogwarts, then? working hard during practice?"

"you only think he looks amazing because he looks like you, prongs." sirius says, ever the sassy one.

you turn to ron next, pulling him into a quick hug, too. "and look at you, mr. brilliant at everything," you tease, grinning at him. "how's your year been, ron?"

"good!" he grins, already making a beeline for the exit. "james has made food, hasn't he?" he's practically drooling.

"don't even think about it," james says with a laugh, shaking his head as he catches ron's eye. "i know exactly what you're about to do when we get back to the house."

"what? i'm just...you know..." ron mumbles with his hands in his pockets. "just have to make sure your cooking's still good."

"and nobody has anything to say to me?!" remus all but whines, his hazel eyes squinting at you all.

"ohhh remmy!"

"my poor dear."

"mr. lupin, you're home!!!"

"yeah, yeah." remus mutters with a smile before disapparating you all back to your cottage.

as you all enter, the smell of the food james prepared filled the room. ron groans and starts going in and on about how brilliant james is in the kitchen.

you pull out a chair for harry and usher him into the seat.

harry rolls his eyes as you sit down beside him and continue to fuss over him. "mum, i'm fine. really."

but you don't let up. "you're looking more grown up every day. i've just missed you, haz."

finally, he smiles at you and gives you a hug first. you can only squeak with happiness.

ron turns to remus, his mouth already full of food. "can you believe it, professor? all term, those stupid gits—especially malfoy—saying all this rubbish about us. 'ohh, they're gettin great marks because lupin is in some weird relationship with potter's mum. ohh, i'm miserable and sad and have nothing better to do,'" you can't help but laugh at the voice he puts on to mock draco. "like, come off it!"

"bloke doesn't realize he's my bloody cousin," harry mutters with a laugh, looking up at sirius. "he's perpetuating family drama."

"that's all everyone in the black family is good for!" sirius smirks and raises his glass at his son.

"don't forget that time ginny hexed one his cronies into sneezing bubbles out his nose," ron continues, totally ignoring harry's attempt to change the subject, his voice muffled by food. "it was brilliant. she's got a bloody good knack for hexing people."

"i'm sure you're very proud," remus says with a fond chuckle. he looks at harry with a knowing glance. "ginny's been impressive this year, hasn't she? in class, on the quidditch field."

harry shifts in his seat, a little uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going. "speaking of..."

he trails off.

you perk up, still looking at him with that proud smile. "speaking of what, darling?"

"i got a girlfriend." harry blurts out, like it's nothing. he immediately looks down at his food, as if hoping the earth will open up and swallow him whole.

there's a long pause.

ron freezes mid-bite. his eyes narrow suspiciously. "wait," he starts, leaning forward. "you've got a girlfriend? what do you mean speaking of—"

now, harry looks panicked.

ron's eyes grow wide as realization dawns. "hold on. wait a second." he looks over at harry, his face suddenly turning red. "are you dating my sister, mate?"

you, james, and sirius all turn to stare at harry, eyes wide with surprise.

harry's face matches his father's signature look of horror and embarrassment. "no, no. what? it's not—"

"wait a moment," james interrupts, scrunching his eyebrows. "harry has a new girlfriend, and remus never told us a damn thing? you traitor! you're meant to be our spy!"

remus' jaw drops. "how is this on me! it would be overstepping if i had told you all!"

you can only smile. "i want to meet her!"

"mum, you've met her already! like when she was literally ten years old!" harry defends, shoving a forkful of greens in his mouth.

ron drops his fork , and the clatter shuts you all up. he stares at harry with a mix of disbelief and confusion. "you're telling me, right now, that you've been out with my sister, ginny, and you didn't tell me?!"

harry swallows hard and clears his throat nervously, squirming in his seat. "it's not like that. it's...it's just—"

ron looks like he's about to explode. "you are not dating my sister!" he says loudly. "this is not happening! you're not spending another holiday break at my house! you'll be all...all...canoodling!"

"CANOODLING?!" harry practically shouts.

your face goes red and you grab sirius' hands. you whisper, "we never even taught him what canoodling is."

"darling," remus whispers back from across the table. "i'm nearly positive he knows what canoodling is."

your eyes widen and your head whips to look at james. "if he's anything like you were at hogwarts—"

"hey!" james throws a wadded up napkin in your face.

"i can't believe this." ron looks like he's seriously struggling to contain himself. "this is my bloody sister we're talking about. i've known her since she was a baby, harry!"

ron glares at harry, who's still avoiding eye contact.

"a younger woman, haz?" sirius says to break the tension, raising an eyebrow. "disgusting."

"i'm younger than all!" you say, swatting sirius on the arm.

ron stares at you, and then back at harry. "you're not going near her. not until i'm finished with her first."

you laugh as harry groans and slumps down in his chair, knowing the next few days are going to be interesting. and merlin knows what will happen when he gets to the burrow.

i wrote this to give myself more time to write the next chapter for my fic. that one’s gonna be a doozy.

[shortnspidey]

WEIGHT OF THE SHIELD

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 6.4K

SUMMARY: At last, your chaotic schedules align, and you and Bucky are on the verge of stealing a rare moment of peace, only for the world to come crashing in with other plans.

WARNINGS: Captain America: Brave New World spoilers! So much fluff, witty banter, domestic!Bucky, Sam/Bucky/Joaquin reunion, platonic Joaquin x reader, Alpine makes an appearance, talks of injuries, slight angst but there's a happy ending!

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! When I tell you guys my friend and I gasped so loud when Bucky showed up on our screen during the movie!! This fic is purely self-indulgent, enjoy!! <3

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Ever since Bucky had made the surprising decision to run for Congress, you'd seen less and less of him, his presence now more of a memory than a constant. The man who used to wake you up with coffee and smother you with forehead kisses and endless cuddles was now waking up to campaign briefings and policy meetings. To say you were experiencing major separation anxiety would’ve been a massive understatement.

You missed the casual intimacy of quiet mornings, his dry sarcasm, the way his vibranium hand would absentmindedly rest on your knee when you were watching movies on the couch. Kate had rolled her eyes more times than you could count, and Peter had started mysteriously “losing signal” every time you so much as mentioned your super soldier boyfriend. But you couldn’t help it. The absence carved into your life was too obvious, too deep.

Once inseparable, your time together had dwindled into quick phone calls between his media appearances, the occasional dinners that felt more like a strategic debrief than dates. And with your own calendar filling up with weekly visits to check in on Morgan and Pepper, while simultaneously keeping Stark Industries afloat, your worlds felt like they were running on parallel tracks that never quite met.

Which is how you found yourself curled up on the couch on a quiet Saturday evening, lazily scrolling through your phone, not even pretending to pay attention to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as it played in the background. The volume was low, the flickering light from the TV casting ghostly shadows across the room. You were still dressed in the oversized Henley that had once been his, the sleeves long enough to hide your hands.

Alpine, your newest companion, was curled at your side. Her sleek white fur shimmered like fresh snow in the dim light, and her piercing cerulean eyes seemed to study you with quiet understanding. You sighed, setting your phone on the coffee table with a dull clack. As if sensing the shift in your mood, Alpine let out a soft, plaintive meow. "I miss him too, girl." You murmured, scooping the cat gently into your arms. Her small body was warm against your chest, and you stroked her under the chin, comforted by the rhythmic purring.

Then, almost as if summoned by your longing, the familiar metallic click of the apartment door echoed through the quiet. Your breath caught. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a figure silhouetted in the hallway’s soft light. Only one person had a key to that door at this hour: Bucky was home. You carefully set Alpine back on the couch, your heart already thudding in anticipation. As Bucky stepped inside, his presence seemed to fill every corner of the apartment.

He was still in his dark jacket, the faint glint of metal from his vibranium arm catching the light. His hair was slightly windblown, face scruffed with a few days' growth, and the ever-present exhaustion clung to him like smoke. But the moment his eyes met yours, those tired, cerulean blue eyes something inside you seem to click back into place. His shoulders, tense from the world he carried, visibly dropped as he exhaled. He set down his briefcase and jacket by the door with a soft thunk.

“Hey, doll,” He called out, voice low and rough with fatigue. “Did you—oomph!” He didn’t get the chance to finish. You launched yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, arms locking around his neck, grounding yourself in him. His hands instinctively found their place, one firm beneath your thighs, the other cradling your back. “You’re home.” You breathed, the words barely more than a whisper against his collarbone.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in that unmistakable scent of worn leather, clean soap, and something purely Bucky. And for the first time in weeks, you felt whole. Bucky let out a quiet, breathless laugh against your shoulder, the sound muffled by the way your body was pressed tightly to his. He shifted his weight, adjusting his grip beneath your thighs to hold you more securely as he carried you further into the apartment, not even bothering to kick off his boots.

“You missed me that much, huh?” He murmured, voice laced with warmth despite the exhaustion. You scoffed softly, pulling back just enough to look at him, your fingers toying with the ends of his hair. "Choose your next words very carefully, Barnes." He leaned in without saying a word, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft, grounding. Then one to your cheek, warm and slow. And finally, one to your lips.

That last one lingered, not rushed, not hurried, like he needed a moment to remember what you tasted like, to anchor himself in you again. It wasn’t passionate, not in the fiery, desperate way it sometimes was. This was something gentler, something deeper. Your breath caught in your throat, fingers still curled in his hair. Kissing Bucky Barnes never got old. It was always familiar, but never boring. Always electric, always a little bit new, like he was still discovering you, even after all this time.

When he finally pulled back, just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes fluttered closed, his nose brushing against yours, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “God, I missed this. I missed you.” You smiled pulling him into another chaste kiss as he walked further into the apartment, still carrying you with ease. It was second nature by now, the way he held you as if you were an extension of him.

As he passed the couch, Alpine sat perched on the armrest, tail flicking lazily, blue eyes watching him with narrowed judgment. “Well look who’s giving me the side-eye,” Bucky chuckled with a smirk, slowing his pace as he approached the feline. “Hey, princess. You keeping my girl company while I’m off representing the world?” Alpine meowed in reply, a soft, unimpressed chirp. “I know, I know,” He chuckled. “I’m a terrible fiancé and an even worse cat dad.”

You snorted. “She’s not mad. That’s just her face, it seems to be a heritable trait.” Bucky ignored your teasing, leaning in, just enough so Alpine could sniff his jacket, then bumped his forehead gently against hers. The tiny gesture was so casual, so full of affection, it made your heart clench. Alpine let out a half-hearted purr before hopping down onto the couch cushion with a flick of her tail. “She sure holds grudges.” Bucky muttered, watching her settle into her new cat perch without another look back.

The longer you stood in the living room, the more Bucky’s posture began to ease his shoulders losing that quiet tension they always seemed to carry, like he’d finally let himself breathe in your shared space. The weight of the world didn’t vanish, but it lightened, just enough to make him look a little less haunted. “Ready to head to bed, Congressman?” You asked softly, your fingers slipping into his hair with an ease born of habit.

It had grown longer since he left, a bit wild and your hand combed through it gently, soothing. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment under your touch, and when they reopened, they were heavy-lidded with something softer than exhaustion. “I thought you’d never ask.” He murmured, the words brushing your skin more than they did the air. It was safe to say that whatever distance had existed between you while he was gone dissolved somewhere between the dim hallway and the bedroom door.

Clothes were shed, nighttime routines were done in parallel silence broken only by the occasional shared smile in the mirror. And then, finally, the world fell away as you both melted into the warmth of the bed. You weren’t sure who reached for whom first. It didn’t really matter. Before long, the sheets were a tangle around limbs you no longer bothered to distinguish.

Bucky’s bare chest was warm beneath your cheek, rising and falling with a steady rhythm, the thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear like a lullaby. Solid, real, home. “I can feel you fighting it. Go to sleep, doll.” He coaxed, voice thick and low, the kind of rasp that always gave you goosebumps. His vibranium fingers were woven gently into your hair, massaging in slow, grounding circles.

While his flesh hand traced lazy, shapes down the bare skin of your back. A truly lethal combination. It was terrifying how well he knew you. “But you just got home,” You protested, your voice barely above a whisper. You shifted closer, chasing his warmth like it might disappear if you let go. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.” He let out a soft breath half laugh, half sigh and pressed his lips to your forehead in a kiss so tender it made your chest ache. “We’ll have the whole morning together. I promise.” That promise wrapped around you like a second blanket, and your eyelids finally started to droop.

Sleep was seconds away from claiming you. That is until the shrill buzz of your cellphone shattered the quiet, cutting through the bedroom like a knife. You groaned, arm flailing out blindly across the nightstand, fingers smacking against your water glass, a rouge lipstick, your reading glasses, and finally your phone. Behind you, Bucky let out a sharp curse, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “If that’s Parker, I swear to-” You squinted at the screen. “It’s Sam.” You muttered making the super soldier beside you groan in annoyance.

“My point still stands,” He grumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. He tugged you tighter against him, trying to physically anchor you in place as you accepted the call. The moment you answered with a groggy, “Hello?” and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, everything changed. Bucky tensed instantly, his senses sharpening. He noticed the way your body stiffened beside him, your breath catching ever so slightly.

With his enhanced hearing, he could make out Sam’s rushed voice on the other end. He could hear your heartbeat accelerate, the subtle shift of your body as you instinctively curled into yourself. “H-he’s alive though, right?” You asked, voice tight and trembling. You were fully sitting upright now, biting at the edge of your thumbnail as your other hand twisted into the sheets. “Okay. Thanks for calling, Sam.” You ended the call with a soft click, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky was already watching you, the concern in his eyes unspoken but loud and clear. “It’s Joaquin.” You whispered, voice small. You fiddled with your hands, something Bucky had seen you do countless times when nerves got the best of you. Without hesitation, he reached out, his warm fingers sliding into yours, grounding you. “What happened?” He coaxed squeezing your hands as a silent reassurance. “He got hurt, badly,” You, swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down.

“Sam said he’s critical.” The word tasted like iron on your tongue. Bucky was up and moving before you could take another breath. “I’ll call Happy. We’ll take the jet.” His voice was firm, already in motion as he reached for his phone, typing rapidly. You slipped out of bed on autopilot, your hands shaking as you pulled open drawers and tried to focus on getting dressed. But the panic was seeping in through the cracks, making it hard to breathe. “Y/N, sweetheart, look at me.” Bucky’s voice softened as he crossed the room, coaxing you to stop.

You turned to face him, your eyes wide and clouded with worry. “Torres is strong. He’s going to be okay,” He insisted, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. You wanted to believe him. God, you needed to believe him. But your chest still felt tight, your lungs constricted with dread. Bucky saw it in your eyes. He pulled you into his arms without another word. “Breathe,” He murmured into your hair. You did. Slowly. Reluctantly. But even as you melted into his chest, the anxiety still clung to you like a second skin.

It was all easier said than done.

It’s safe to say you had never launched yourself out of a car faster in your life. The second the tires screeched to a halt in front of the hospital’s emergency entrance, you were already throwing the door open, bolting toward the front desk. Behind you, Bucky had barely closed the car door before he was jogging to catch up. The hospital lobby was a blur, white walls, sterile lights, the low murmur of hushed conversations, and the occasional echo of overhead announcements.

All of it faded beneath the roar in your ears and the tight grip of fear coiling in your gut. Maybe it was the desperation in your voice. Maybe it was the unmistakable look panic on your face. Or maybe, just maybe, the woman at the front desk recognized the two of you. Whatever it was, she barely blinked before muttering the room number and waving you past security like you were made of glass. “Private surgical suite. Down the hall, last door on the left.” You didn’t wait for Bucky to catch up, you just ran.

Your chest burned by the time you reached the door. It felt too quiet. Too still. You slammed your palm against the sensor and stepped inside the dimly lit observation room, where a thick pane of reinforced glass separated you from what was happening on the other side. Your heart lodged itself in your throat at the sight. Beyond the glass, beneath the sharp surgical lights lay Joaquin, only he looked nothing like himself. He was pale, too pale, and so still.

His chest rose in shallow, uneven intervals, wires snaking from his arms and chest to beeping monitors, a surgical team clustered around him. Blood stained the sheets under his back and pooled in the folds of the gauze discarded nearby. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath, until Bucky gently pulled you into his chest, grounding you in the moment. Then a voice, rough and familiar, cut through the stillness. “It’s a private room. Go away.”

You turned, recognizing it instantly, laced with exhaustion and something heavier beneath. Sam. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His voice said everything. Bucky shifted beside you, his hand brushing yours, comfort, steady, always solid in moments like this. You glanced up at him, catching the flicker of pain in his blue eyes as he looked at Joaquin. “I missed you too.” Sam finally looked up at that, and for a second, his eyes betrayed something deeper.

He sighed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I hate to admit it, but I’m glad you’re here. Both of you.” Sam took a slow step forward, his shoulders still tight with tension. Bucky stepped toward him too, mirroring the movement without hesitation. No words passed between them, they simply just embraced. The hug wasn’t fleeting, it lingered, both men holding on like they were trying to keep each other from sinking.

Bucky’s arms wrapped around Sam firmly, not as a formality, but like someone anchoring another from falling apart. He closed his eyes, just for a second. It wasn’t just comfort. It was shared sorrow. Guilt. Quiet understanding. The kind of hug only two people who had survived too much could understand. When they pulled apart, they stood side by side again, silently watching through the glass as machines continued to breathe for Joaquin. “Have they given you any news?” You asked, swallowing the lump in your throat.

After a beat, Sam’s voice came quietly, rough at the edges. “Doctors had to restart his heart. They don’t know if…” His words trailed, his jaw clenched tight. He closed his eyes, as if speaking it out loud made it real. Like saying it was inviting death into the room. Beside you, Bucky shifted, then gently squeezed your hand. You hadn't even realized you’d gone completely still, frozen in that moment. The warmth of his grip pulled you back to the present as your gaze flicked to Sam. Bucky’s voice came gently, but without hesitation.

“This isn’t your fault.” A breath escaped Sam at Bucky's words, half laugh, half resignation. His hands rested on his hips, then dropped to his sides, as if the weight of every failure had become too much to carry. “It makes me think of Steve,” He murmured. “How many alien invasions did he stop again?” Bucky glanced over, his mouth curling slightly, not into a smile, but something dry and knowing. “Two.” Sam gave a humorless chuckle. “Two, wow.” He shook his head.

“What made me think I could follow that? I should’ve taken the serum. Like Steve. Like you.” You looked up at Bucky. You saw the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders pulled back at the mention of the serum. “Why?” He asked, but there was no accusation in his words, only concern. Sam didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Joaquin through the glass, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the quiet beeping of the machines offering the only sense of life

“Because this is all starting to seem much bigger than me.” His voice cracked with that last word. When he finally turned to face Bucky, there was no mask left. No performance. Just vulnerability, laid bare. “Ross wants me to restart the Avengers, Buck,” His voice was quieter now, broken around the edges. “But Joaquin’s in here. Isaiah’s still locked up. And Sterns…” His hands clenched into fists. “I had him. I had Sterns. Right in my hands. And he got away. He damn near pushed us to the edge of war because I wasn’t—”

Sam choked on the rest, the frustration boiling in his chest too thick to push through. You stepped forward instinctively, your hand brushing his arm in silent comfort, but Bucky’s voice broke in first. “Say what you need to say.” He offered, steady as stone. Sam lowered his head. His fingers twitched, then stilled. When he looked back up, something in his gaze had changed. "Steve made a mistake." There it was. A thick silence settled over the room. You felt your chest clench at the confession, and your head gave the smallest shake without even realizing it.

But Bucky didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t change. “No, he didn’t.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “He gave you that shield, not because you’re the strongest, but because you’re you. You think if you had that serum, you’d be able to protect everyone you care about. But Steve had it, and he couldn’t.” His gaze softened. “You’re a human being, Sam. And you’re doing your best. Steve gave people something to believe in. But you, you give them something to aspire to.” Sam squinted at him, blinking like he hadn’t expected that.

“Did your speechwriters help you with that?” His gaze flicked past Bucky, to you. Like he was silently asking if you knew, if you'd call Bucky out for being that rehearsed. Bucky cracked a small smile, eyes lighting with a rare, dry humor. “They did, yeah. The ending. A little bit.” He leaned slightly. “Well, did you like it? Was it—?” Sam lifted his chin in mock evaluation. “No, no, it was good. Solid B plus.” For a moment, the heaviness lifted. The ghost of Steve, the pressure of responsibility, all of it faded in the flicker of something human and real.

Bucky broke the silence, letting out a small breath, his eyes drifting toward the door before returning to Sam. “Listen, I’ve gotta catch a plane.” He winced slightly. “Campaign fundraiser. It’s so stupid.” Both you and Sam followed his gaze back to the glass, to Joaquin who was fighting for his life. “He’s gonna be alright, man.” Sam’s eyes shone faintly as he reached out a hand. Bucky took it and pulled him in for one last hug. This one was quick, but just as purposeful.

“Thanks, Buck.” Sam’s voice came thick with gratitude, quiet but weighted, like a thousand unspoken things packed into two simple words. Bucky held on a second longer than necessary, hand on Sam’s shoulder firm, almost reluctant to let go. His gaze lingered a moment longer, expression unreadable, but his voice, soft, earnest, more than he’d ever say aloud. “I love you, buddy.” Before the silence could stretch too far, your voice gently cut through it. “Should I leave the two of you alone?” You were trying to smile. You tried.

The corners of your mouth pulled upward, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your arms remained tightly folded across your chest, not out of confidence, but to stop the tremble in your hands. You stood tall, the way you always did when everything around you was slipping, but each second pressed more weight onto your ribs, your throat, your heart. And then your eyes met Sam’s. The fragile composure you'd been clinging to like armor shattered. That carefully maintained wall cracked from the inside out.

It wasn’t just Joaquin, it was everything. The realization that the world was shifting again, too fast and too hard. The people you loved were hurting. Everything felt so uncertain. So fragile. Sam didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze softened the second he looked at you, and then he moved. Without hesitation, he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms. Your fingers curled into the back of his sweater like you were afraid letting go would send you spinning.

“As much as this sucks,” You whispered, voice tight against the fabric of his shoulder. “If anyone can survive this, it’s Joaquin.” You felt Bucky move behind you before you heard him. The warmth of his hand pressed gently against the small of your back, steady and familiar. His touch was soft, but it reverberated through your entire body like a reminder: You’re not alone. You didn’t have to hold this pain by yourself. You pulled away from Sam and looked up at him.

And the moment your eyes found his, every ounce of restraint you had left slipped. Those blue eyes, always clear, always knowing, met yours with unshakable understanding. He saw it all. The fear. The exhaustion. The way your heart was breaking in slow, steady increments. And as always, he didn’t rush to fix it. He didn’t try to pull you away from it. He just stood with you in it. You leaned into him slightly, and he let you. His hand never left your back. Then, reluctantly, he cleared his throat and glanced down at his phone.

“I’ve gotta head out now.” His voice was gruff, quiet, like it physically hurt to say it. You turned toward him, fingers slipping into his, holding tightly as if you could delay time just a little longer. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gentle, grounding. His eyes searched yours, and you could feel the conflict inside him. He didn’t want to go. Every fiber of him was screaming to stay, to be here in case something happened.

“Let me know when you land?” You asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but threaded with something deeper, something unspoken. Bucky’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested in his. “Always.” With that confirmation, you rose onto your toes, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. He leaned in as you pressed your lips to his, and the moment stretched, not rushed, not desperate, but anchored.

One hand came to your side, cool vibranium grounding you, while the other ghosted up to your cheek, his calloused thumb grazing your skin as though trying to remember the warmth of you. You melted into him, letting yourself feel it, all of it. The love. The fear. The ache of separation already clawing at your ribs. When the kiss broke, he didn’t let go. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to your forehead, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss that wasn’t just affection, it was a promise. And then, reluctantly, he stepped back.

Your hand slipped from his, fingertips grazing until the last second. Without another word, he turned and walked out. His footsteps were heavy, but deliberate. A man torn between duty and the people he loved. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. You stood there, rooted in place, staring at the space where he’d just been, like if you stayed still enough, maybe the moment wouldn’t end. Then, without a word, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against Sam’s.

His hand found yours instantly, strong and warm, like he’d been waiting for it. His grip was steady, grounding you the same way Bucky always did in his absence. The quiet strength of it reminded you that you weren’t alone. Side by side, you both turned to face the glass. Joaquin was still entangled in wires and attached to monitors. Machines breathed for him now, each gentle rise and fall of his chest a reminder that he was still there. Your gaze locked on the rhythm of it: up, down, up again. Not much, but it was something.

And for now, that had to be enough.

It was no surprise when Sam got the call. You saw it in his face the moment his phone lit up, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, the way his eyes darted to Joaquin, then to you, like the weight of the world had settled right back on his shoulders. Duty called. Still, he hesitated. His thumb hovered over the screen as if the mere act of answering would tear something sacred apart. You reached for his arm, squeezing gently.

“Go,” You told him, the firmness in your voice masking the emotion tangled behind it. “I’ve got him. I’m not going anywhere.” Sam didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you, eyes heavy with worry and reluctant trust, before finally giving a small nod. “Text me the second anything changes.” He squeezed your shoulder as he passed, the weight of leadership draped over his shoulders like armor too heavy to ever fully take off. And then you were alone again.

You sank into the chair in the corner of the room, elbows on your knees, head bowed as your hands laced together in front of you. Minutes blurred into hours. Every tick of the clock echoed like a drumbeat in your skull. At some point, your head found the edge of the mattress. The tension in your body finally began to unravel, the adrenaline now fading into a gentle calm. Almost on autopilot, despite how much you fought it, your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Then, mere seconds later, you heard the soft creak of the door.

You jolted upright, heartbeat skipping before you could place the sound. A nurse had entered, clipboard in hand, face unreadable. She paused, met your gaze, then gave the smallest of smiles. “He’s awake.” You blinked, unsure if you’d heard her correctly. The words felt surreal, like a dream spoken out loud. “What?” You breathed, already pushing to your feet. The nurse’s expression softened. “He’s awake and stable.” She repeated. That was all you needed. The chair scraped behind you as you moved, too fast and yet not fast enough.

Your heart thudded against your ribs, loud and relentless, nearly drowning out the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft beeping of monitors that had become a lullaby for fear. You sent Sam a quick text before pushing through the door. There he was. Laying in the hospital bed, propped slightly against a raised pillow. His skin was pale, pallid with the fatigue of recovery, but warm with life. A faint bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone, soft but angry against the otherwise smooth plane of his face.

His dark curls were tousled, slightly matted from lying on the hospital pillow, and his eyes, though heavy-lidded and glassy from sedation, found yours the second you stepped into the room. The rawness of what he’d been through showed clearly. Red marks crept up the side of his neck, where gauze had once been, his collarbone barely visible beneath the loose neckline of the hospital gown. There was a faint rasp to his breath, and his lips were dry, slightly cracked. But none of that mattered, because he was alive.

You watched as a kaleidoscope of emotions flickered across his face, confusion, relief, disbelief. And then a crooked smile formed, soft but real. “Hey, hermosa.” He rasped, voice hoarse but unmistakably him. His fingers twitched slightly against the edge of the blanket before lifting, reaching toward you. You crossed the room in two steps, sinking to the chair at his bedside, your hands finding his before he could drop it again. You laced your fingers with his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight tremor of his grip.

You crossed the room in two urgent steps, barely breathing, sinking into the chair beside his bed like the air had been knocked out of you. Your hands found his before he could let his fall. He didn’t resist when you leaned down, carefully avoiding the bandaged stretch along his collar and the tender bruising near his ribs. Your arms wrapped around him with the softest of pressure, and he accepted it, chin tilting just slightly into your shoulder. “You didn’t have to come.” He murmured once you pulled away, eyes refusing to meet yours.

There was something raw in his voice, guilt, maybe. You leaned back just enough to glare at him, still holding his hand like a lifeline. “Shut up, Torres,” You scoffed. “You’re one of my best friends. Of course I was going to come and see you.” His dark eyes lifted to yours, already glassy, already shining. He blinked a few times, fast and stubborn, trying to will the emotion away. But you saw it. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his jaw clenched like he was trying to lock something inside. It reminded you so painfully of Peter.

That same twitchy, tough-guy instinct to not let it show. You could see the ghost of him in the way Joaquin's lips twitched, how he tried to mask his fear behind a crooked smirk. And just like with Peter, it only made your heart ache. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought I only had to worry about Kate and Peter trying to get themselves killed every five minutes. Not you too.” He chuckled, low and sheepish, like he knew you were trying to scold him but couldn’t quite argue with the truth.

“Does this mean you’ll finally fix my gear?” He asked, the corners of his mouth lifting again. “Maybe upgrade the safety protocols?” You rolled your eyes, catching the way his pout exaggerated slightly, classic Joaquin. “I see what you did there, Torres. Real smooth,” You tsked, unable to hide the affection in your voice as you squeezed his hand again. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only if you don’t tell Sam I caved.” He gave a tiny salute with two fingers, too tired for a full one, but his smirk was genuine.

It was good to see it again. The spark, the humor, the bit of golden-retriever energy that hadn’t been fully extinguished by the last few days of hell. But then, his smile faded, just slightly. His gaze drifted downward. Still holding your hand, his eyes caught on something. “That’s new.” You followed his line of sight, and flushed immediately. There it was, plain as day. The delicate diamond-and-gold band wrapped around your left ring finger, gleaming softly in the hospital light. “It is.” You confirmed, trying not to sound too breathless.

Joaquin’s eyes widened, and that lazy, familiar grin spread across his face. Before you could answer, another voice interrupted, familiar and laced with dry amusement. “She beat me to the punch, snooping around and finding the ring before I could even propose properly.” You turned instinctively, a rush of warmth climbing your chest. Bucky stood in the doorway, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his jacket, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, were focused on you. He was back. Part of you wasn’t sure if he’d even made it out of the city, let alone halfway to the fundraiser.

You’d barely registered the hours that had passed. Seeing him again felt like your lungs remembered how to breathe. He walked over, settling behind you with a familiar ease, his flesh hand resting on your shoulder while his vibranium one brushed lightly down your arm. The weight of it, of him, anchored you again, the way he always did without even trying. “She blames it on our innocent kitten.” He added with faux indignation. You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch, letting your head tilt slightly into his side. His body was warm, a contrast to the sterile coldness of everything else you’d been sitting in for hours.

Across the bed, Joaquin’s face lit up like a damn Christmas tree, the kind of grin that tugged at the edges of his healing bruises. “Look at you, all domestic,” He teased with a laugh that rasped in his throat. “Y/N, you’ve turned the world’s most deadly assassin into a simp.” You bit your bottom lip, struggling not to laugh. Bucky’s brow immediately furrowed, mouth twitching between confusion and offense. “What the hell is a simp?” He muttered, blinking down at you, before leveling a mock glare at Joaquin. “I can still hurt you, Torres. Watch it.”

“You can’t kick a man when he’s down.” Joaquin sighed dramatically, lifting his free hand with a wince. “Still tempting.” Bucky grumbled under his breath. You smacked his arm lightly, giving him a look that was more fond than scolding. “Be nice.”Bucky mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “No promises.” But his thumb absently started brushing slow, grounding circles against your arm, betraying just how at peace he was now that you were both here.

“How many people know?” Joaquin asked, glancing between you, his gaze flicking again to the gold band that still glinted faintly on your hand. You exhaled slowly, glancing at Bucky before answering. “A few,” You replied carefully. “We’re still figuring out the semantics of everything before we tell people about the wedding.” Joaquin arched a brow, smirking in Bucky’s direction. “I better be one of the groomsmen, Barnes. Seeing as I’m Y/N’s favorite.”

Bucky scoffed, folding his arms, but the corners of his mouth twitched with barely contained amusement. “What makes you think you’re even invited?” You elbowed him in the ribs, gently, but pointed. “Don’t listen to him. He’s still denying the fact that Sam’s going to be his best man, even though we all know he will be.” You declared matter-of-factly. “Damn straight,” Came a familiar voice from the doorway, laced with smugness. “If not, Tin Man and I here are gonna have a problem.” You all turned as Sam stepped inside, looking… well, alive.

Bruised and bandaged, his face marked with scrapes, and his arm held tightly in a sling, but still standing tall. Joaquin’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Cap.” Sam offered a grin, his gaze scanning over you, Bucky, and Joaquin like he needed to see it to believe it, like maybe, just maybe, the worst was finally behind you. Bucky groaned and dropped his face into the curve of your neck, muttering like a sulking kid. “He’s never going to stop calling me that, is he?” You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair, feeling his shoulders drop at your touch.

“Come on, Congressman,” You whispered near his ear. “Let’s let them talk. Besides, you owe me breakfast.” You turned to Joaquin and Sam, wrapping them both in one final, careful hug. Joaquin winced slightly but held on tight, and Sam, despite the sling, gripped you with his good hand. As you pulled away, Joaquin chuckled lowly, and you just barely heard Sam mutter beneath his breath. “Whipped.” You didn’t even bother to deny it, just rolled your eyes as you laced your fingers with Bucky’s, feeling the reassuring strength of his hold.

The moment the hospital doors closed behind you, both you and Bucky walked in silence for a few minutes, neither of you needing to fill the air. His thumb brushed the back of your hand with every step. You knew, without looking, that he was watching you just as much as the road ahead. That soft, almost boyish smile was playing at his lips, the one he only wore when it was just the two of you, safe, together, home. “You know,” He finally murmured. “You still haven’t said yes.”

You stopped walking, turning toward him, heart caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “To what?” His grin widened. “To marrying me. Sure, you found the ring, and yeah, we keep talking like it’s a done deal, but I don’t remember hearing the actual words.” You stared at him for a beat, then burst into quiet laughter. Bucky Barnes could be such a little shit when he wanted to. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” You whispered, stepping closer until your chests nearly touched.

Bucky didn’t smile this time, not right away. His expression stayed open, unguarded. You could see every crack, every memory, every fear still hiding in the corners of those cerulean-blue eyes. “Especially now,” His voice was barely audible, a breath more than a word. “Because I’ve lived through too many almosts, and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt certain.” Wordlessly, you reached up and cupped his face, fingertips grazing the scruff along his jaw, your thumb brushing beneath his eye.

He leaned into your touch instantly, like it grounded him. Like he’d been waiting for it, for you, since the day he got pulled from ice. Then you kissed him. Not the soft, casual kind you’d shared a hundred times. This was different. Slower. Deeper. A tether, a promise, a homecoming, all in one. His hands found your waist, then your lower back, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, but was still terrified to waste a second of it. One hand slid up into your hair, the other stayed at your hip, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles.

When you finally pulled away, your breath was shaky, your foreheads resting against one another like a pause between heartbeats. Your lips hovered close to his, still brushing faintly as you whispered. “Yes.” You kissed him again. “Now.” Another kiss, softer. “And always.” Bucky didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His arms tightened around you and he buried his face in your neck, exhaling like the weight of every war he’d fought had finally lifted. And just like that, the world felt quiet. Not because it was over, but because this, you, were what he'd fought to come home to.

And finally, he had.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[t3a-gh0st]

Clark Baxtresser when I was………. Clark Baxtresser when I was starkid innit…when I was starkid…..

[aslyran]

Hogwarts letter

[dancerinthesky]

This particular population of Marauders fans can justify and contextualise themselves all they want, if they want. But as an aroace girlie, the sudden usage of asexuality as a trend just. Makes me sad.

[satoblue]

the amount of lies ppl spread on my name is insaneee i wonder what’s next lowkey like damn i’m invested too i didn’t know i did that either

[mazzy-rockstar]

OMG !! Lilson ! You are a Pirates fan ?!?!?! 🥹🥹🥹🥲🥲🥲 my bestie 💕

Sure everyone who grew up in the early 2000s likes them! And not to brag but I met capn Jack Sparrow once in a theme park 😌

[cursedwithwords]

There are bad fics. There are good fics. Then there are fandom famous fics. These are all three separate genres.

[regulationlistener]

in the winter i get what i can only describe as More Autistic, like a weird combination of nostalgia and wanting nothing more than to look at lists and spreadsheets and sort things.

[yasministration]

After curfew - harry potter

concussions and interruptions ausummary: you and harry seem to forget his godfather is doing rounds when you sneak out after curfew (everyone is alive and well) wc: 0.7k+

You giggled as Harry’s hair tickled your cheeks, lips parting to let your boyfriend deepen the kiss. His kisses tasted of lemon drops and butterbeer, a spoiler of the day he had with his friends, but you were happy he was all yours for now. Away from the wandering eyes of talkative students and whispering portraits. The cold night's wind attacked you from every direction and you shuddered, but Harry pulled you closer to him and his warm touch.

Harry didn’t break the kiss as he unravelled his scarf from around his neck to wrap around yours, his gloved hands cupping your cold-to-the-touch cheeks. You snaked your arms around his waist from the front of his open jacket so they rested between the warm layers of clothes he wore. “Should come better prepared next time.” Harry mumbled, walking you a couple of steps backwards so your back rested against the bridge’s wooden railing. “Gives me an excuse to be clingy.” You replied against his lips with a bashful giggle. “You don’t need excuses to be clingy.” Harry insisted softly as he pressed a short kiss to your lips, pulling away to look at you with a look of adoration.

“I love you, Harry.” You said, tugging him back into the kiss before he could reply. Harry tried breaking the kiss to reply, but you wouldn’t let him make space between your lips, so he just mumbled into the kiss a wordless jumble of “I love you more.” You giggled happily, and Harry seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, expelling a satisfied moan from your lips.

Harry couldn’t help but smile at the soft noise you made, one hand leaving your cheek to find home in the back pocket of your jeans and pulling you impossibly closer to him. You gasped in surprise, opening your eyes suddenly only to welcome the darkness of hogwarts’s nocturnal autumns. You closed your eyes again, letting yourself melt against your boyfriend’s chest, his gentle touch serenading you into a calm state that almost had you forgetting your worries of being caught outside after curfew.

Luckily for you, there was something else to remind you of your rule-breaking activities. A sharp cough had Harry breaking away from the kiss, his eyes snapping open as he spun around to face whoever had caught you, though his hands stayed in position on your body. You felt the blood drain from your face as you took in the sight of your Professor, pushing Harry’s hands off your body. “Uncle Moony!” Harry greeted, a nervous tone lacing his voice.

Harry’s godfather stood with his hands sassily placed on his hips, a mix between a disapproving and amused look on his face. “Harry.” Professor Lupin replied, barely glancing in your direction.

“I’m assuming you know what time it is.”

“Actually I’ve got no idea, I’ve been pretty busy.”

You gasped in horror, a hand coming up to sharply hit Harry’s bicep. Lupin didn’t try to hide the exasperated smile from coming onto his face, but it didn’t seem to be because of Harry’s comment. “Your parents are going to love this one.” He muttered, well aware that he had the upper hand in the situation.

At his godfather’s comment, Harry’s face turned into one of panic, shaking his head frantically as he pleaded “Don’t tell my parents!” “Professor Lupin, please don’t tell his parents!” As though just remembering you were there, Remus’s head snapped towards you, a surprised look on his face. “It’s going to make such a bad impression on them if they hear that story a week before I’m supposed to properly meet them! That first time was a complete disaster!”

Remus hummed in surprise “A week, eh? Didn’t think you’d do it so soon after the little hospital wing incident. So have you told your parents you’re dating my godson?” If you weren’t panicked before, you definitely were now, watching the man in front of you switch so easily from being your professor to your boyfriend’s godfather. You shook your head slowly, mumbling “You know how they are.” Remus nodded, “I do. Can’t say I had the pleasure of being their classmate, because it wasn’t a pleasure.” You threw your hands out “Exactly! You get it!”

Harry wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Doesn’t mean she can’t get to know mum and dad. Please don’t tell them, Remus.” The scarred man hummed, gesturing to the end of the bridge and towards the castle. “Get to bed, both of you. I won’t tell them.

Yet.”

[my-castles-crumbling]

I like him

for shower thoughts anon :D - jegulus, marylily, drarry -word count: 661

"It's got to be Ginny," James said, sitting back onto the sofa next to Regulus and sipping at his glass of wine. "I mean...c'mon. He's been looking at her for a while! She's pretty, funny, a damn good Quidditch player..."

"And a redhead," Lily chimed in from the loveseat, winking at her ex-husband.

"And a redhead," James acknowledged, inclining his head with a chuckle. "I'd bet money on her being his girlfriend."

"Sure, she's pretty," Regulus, who was sitting next to James, drawled, "but she used to pine after him! Harry's going to walk in here with Hermione, just you wait. She's pretty as well, and she's smart, and they've been friends for ages."

"Ginny's smart!" James retorted, sounding offended, like Regulus had said something about James's own intelligence.

"Sure, but Hermione's grades are top tier," Regulus shrugged. "Nobody can beat them."

"Hermione's in love with Ron, I guarantee it," Lily said confidently, sipping at her own drink. "Hermione and Harry get on too well. There's no tension there."

"Poor Hermione. Why do the smart ones always fall for the emotionally stunted?" Regulus mumbled, smirking when James shouted 'Oi!'

But after scoffing at his husband, James sighed and addressed the room at large. "Alright. Let's say it's not Ginny or Hermione. Who, then? Cho? Luna?"

Finally, Mary, who was sitting next to Lily, gave a little giggle.

"You have an idea, love?" Lily asked curiously, turning to her wife.

Mary grinned. "No, it's none of my business," she said airily.

"You've known Harry since he was a baby," Regulus replied, rolling his eyes. "Just because you've only officially become his stepmother recently-"

"Ugh, 'stepmother' sounds awful...like I'm going to lock him in a tower..." Mary grimaced.

"Whatever. What're you thinking?" James asked eagerly.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mary said, eyes on Regulus, who gave her an annoyed head shake. "I'd bet my life he walks in with Draco Malfoy."

James and Regulus's sitting room was silent for a long time.

"Nah, that's-"

"There's no fucking way-"

But Regulus was the one who said thoughtfully, "No...she has a point."

James stared at his husband like he had three heads. "Love...Harry hates Draco, you know this! You...you both make fun of Lucius Malfoy together!"

"Yes, it's great bonding," Regulus agreed slowly. "And I'd sooner die than say anything nice about my cousin or her husband. Why do you think I haven't so much as sent them a letter in almost twenty years? But...well, you and Harry are very similar, James."

"Meaning what?" James asked incredulously.

Lily let out a little laugh of understanding. "Meaning he could also fall for the grumpy, pretentious Slytherin with a shit upbringing and a horrible outlook on life and somehow realize that said Slytherin isn't as shit as his family is."

Regulus frowned. "Grumpy?"

James, however, gave Lily an affronted look. "Are you saying that our son inherited my...what? Attraction to Slytherins?"

"Maybe your attraction to people who insult you, too," Mary mumbled from next to Lily, and everyone laughed except James.

"But I-" James began to argue his case, but before he could, there was a crack! outside, and loud voices could be heard.

"...was going to tell them! I just didn't know how!"

"You can't just surprise your family with this, Potter! They may be 'nice people' but they're still capable of going into heart failure!"

"Listen, Malfoy, it's going to be fine. They don't care who I date, as long as I'm-"

"-Happy, yes, well trust me, I'm not going to be making you happy for a long time if this goes poorly because you didn't give them the decency of a warning!"

"Listen, you need to talk quieter, alright? They can probably hear, and..."

And the voices trailed off into whispers, all four adults looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Well....I like him," Mary said, breaking into a grin. "But I'm just the stepmother, so..."

Everyone else groaned and moved towards the dining room.

[fushitoru]

thinking about writing a reincarnated/isekai!gojo and reader series...

you and gojo were married in canon/jjk verse.

you’ve seen his mental health deteriorate because of the higher ups and how he’s perceived as a weapon and is a weapon. satoru’s mental health has been descending for a very long time, and by the end, when you’re soullessly watching his dead body projected by mei mei’s crows, you blankly volunteer to be next (ignoring all of kashmo's protests).

can anyone blame you? your life has no purpose anymore. you and satoru were never able to get the life you deserve. late nights spent waiting in bed for your lover, seeing the love of your life get burdened more and more from the weight of his responsibilities, and, in the end, even witnessing him volunteer his own body as if he were a doll, a weapon. you know damn well you're not going to spend the rest of your life replacing the flowers on his grave and try to reform the society that never even cared about satoru anyways.

you don’t last very long fighting sukuna, and you die, praying to whatever merciless god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved, that he wouldn't be the one that got away—

you wake up from your dream, gasping. you don’t know why it was so vivid; all you remember is that you were some kind of magician? like winx club? harry potter? hunter x hunter? and you had a husband and he WAS SMOKING HOT. also both of you died and you were kind of sad, because he was hot :(

so—as a college student—you head to your first lecture of the year. you’ve decided to switch majors and have to take this dumb math class that’s a gen ed and is filled with people. so you take one of two empty spots remaining.

the lecture goes on, until professor yaga rolls his eyes and suddenly everyone’s heads is turned towards the door, so you just follow the crowd.

and there he is.

a boy with the most stunning white hair and sheepish blue eyes upholding a charming grin, yelling out something undoubtedly snarky while taking his seat, some people dapping him up as he makes his way to the only seat—-the one next to you.

as he’s setting his stuff down, and he turns to look at you. blinks.

A breathless, “Hi.”

And then, your story begins again.

AHH COMMENT IF you want to be on the taglist <3

this is basically me giving you and gojo the rom com you deserve. does he remember you? did he get the same dream as you? and will he call the police if you chase after him, insisting he's your husband and the love of your life? stay tuned! prepare for angst (hurt/comfort), pining, and ridiculously horny reunion sex (at the end after i make you suffer and yearn, of course)

and to my bridgerton!gojo readers, i promise i will publish the first chapter only after chapter ten/eleven of bridgerton!gojo is out <3

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[msmk11]

Darling Boys

James Potter x fem!reader; Harry Potter (son) x reader (mom); James Potter (dad) x Harry Potter (son)

CW: FLUFF; one mention of food

Summary: You’re shocked when your son wants to spend time with you.

****

It’s a cold Friday evening and by a rare chance, you have the house entirely to yourself. James is out having drinks with his friends and Harry is over at the Burrow. The silence is a little eerie, but you are also enjoying the peace. You’ve got a glass of wine in hand and a movie on while you’re snuggled up on the couch under the thick wool blanket Molly knitted you for Christmas. You don’t expect either of your boys to be home anytime soon, so you’re surprised when the flames of the fireplace burn green and Harry comes stumbling out. You sit up in your seat, wine sloshing a little in your glass.

“Haz? What’re you doing home so early?”

Your son wipes his feet on the rug- set out for any ash- and shrugs, “felt like calling it an early night.”

Your brows furrow, “hmm, really? Is… everything okay?”

Harry’s eyes widen and he nods, “yeah, Mum, I’m fine, really. Just wanted to be home. Is that okay….?”

You observe your boy’s face for any hint of deception but can’t spot it, “okay, sweetheart. Well you know I’m always glad to have you home.”

He smiles at you and slides his shoes off, leaving them in his already small pile. You don’t think to nag him about it.

His eyes trail to the screen and to you, comfy on the couch, “whatcha doing?”

“Just watching a movie and having some wine. Thinking about ordering a pizza soon. Have you eaten?”

Harry laughs, “I was at the Burrow. Of course I ate. But… can I join you?”

Surprise complicates your features- Harry’s far from a rom-com enthusiast and you were certain he’d gotten too cool to hang out with his old mom. Of course, you don’t say that, happy to take any quality time he gives you.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

You sit up and scooch over on the couch, offering him a place underneath the blanket. He joins you and your heart melts in your chest. You side-eye him one more time and then press play on the movie, a small smile playing across your lips. The two of you watch the movie for a few minutes in silence.

“Mum?”

You look over at Harry, “yes, Haz?”

He fidgets nervously for a second, “uh- can- uhm…” he pauses and sighs before shaking his head, “can I lay with you?”

You think you’re going to die on the spot. Not only does Harry want to spend time with you, he is asking for physical affection, and who are you to deny your baby.

“Sweetheart, yes.”

You hope you play it cool.

You lay back and Harry crawls in between your legs, laying his head on your chest. You wrap your arms around him and kiss his head gently.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Harry stares up at you with your own eyes, “yes Mum, really. I just… well I just missed you.”

You audibly coo and your son blushes in embarrassment.

“Well, I’m glad to have you here, sweetheart. I love spending time with you.”

He hums and hugs you, “I love you, Mum.”

You run your hands through his hair and his eyes flutter shut. Just like his father.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The movie plays on, Harry staying cuddled up to you. He watches the movie for a bit, but your fingers running through his hair sends him to sleep quickly.

An hour later, the front door opens and your husband comes in quietly. He pads into the living room, smiling at you as he sees you cuddled up on the couch watching a movie. James moves to kiss you but freezes when he realizes you’re not alone.

You put your finger to your lips to shush him, eyes trailing down to your son fondly.

James’ eyes soften at the sight, “baby… what’s he doing here? I thought he’d be out still.”

“Said he missed me,” you murmur, voice thick with emotion and joy.

James smiles at you, heart melting at the sight of his two most treasured people so happy and together. He kisses your head and then ruffles Harry’s hair gently.

Harry stirs slightly and you wince, fearful that the moment is over.

“Dad?” Harry croaks softly.

“Hey Haz,” James murmurs, love oozing from every word.

Harry sits up and your heart breaks, sad that your quality time with your son is already over.

“Will you join Mum and I?”

Your heart bursts into a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

“Of course. That’s the best question ever.”

You soon find yourselves in a familiar arrangement- one you hadn’t realized would be gone until suddenly your boy had grown up. James sits against the couch and you’re between his legs, laying against his chest. Harry is between your legs, laying curled up against you. It’s just like it was when he was little, and your eyes swell with happy tears.

“I love you both, my darling boys.”

[nomorezerocomments]

No More Zero Comments Project

Hi! Here's a big masterpost for everything you need to know about this project!

The No More Zero Comments (NM0C) Project is dedicated to reducing the number of fics on AO3 with no comments. This is a multifandom community effort with very few rules which you can very easily undertake alone, but hey, why not join us?

The goal is simple: find fics with no comments, read them and leave the author a comment. If you want, you can go out and find fics on your own, but we also have a handy spreadsheet full of fics for you to browse!

You can find the spreadsheet here. There are tonnes of different fandoms to choose from. It will be updated regularly with new fics, so check back as often as you like.

Do you have a fic with zero comments? You can submit it here to be added to the spreadsheet. There is no limit to how many you can submit, and no limits on what you can submit. Any fandom, any category, any rating, no matter how old it is. Yes, even explicit fics. We aren't picky around here. You can also submit other people's fics if you wish.

All I ask is, if you submit your own fics, try and comment on some too! Balance, equality, etc.

The only real rule for submissions is no AI. This blog is vehemently anti-AI and will not accept any fics that use it. EDIT 16/06/25: There are now two more rules - no Harry Potter fics (fuck jkr) and no fics less than a week old.

If you read a fic from the spreadsheet, please let me know here so I can remove the fic from the spreadsheet. If you see a fic on the spreadsheet that has a comment, don't fret. I'll get around to removing it soon. Admin's timezone is GMT and I'm most active in the evenings.

Have a question? Feel free to ask!

A few more bits and pieces of information under the cut!

Who runs this blog?

That'd be me, Izak, better known as @lightningzombie! I run this blog alone for now. And yes, I did put my own fics into the spreadsheet. I put it up to a vote and people said I could!

Why did you decide to do this?

Frustration with the lack of comments on my fics and the death of comment culture in general. Bewilderment when I saw a fic that had 1200 kudos and no comments. The joy that leaving 100 comments and receiving 20+ during the Febuwhump commentfest brought me. Boredom. Many reasons!

Is there a prize/competition?

Nope! No incentives whatsoever. Just the joy of fan fiction, of commenting, and community spirit.

Will you do events?

Yes, I plan to! I'm not sure what yet, though.

"I don't know how to comment!"

Yes, you do. "I like this" is a comment. "How dare you do that to [insert blorbo here]" is a comment. "<3" is a comment. "KAJSDAKSDHJ WHYYYYY????" is a comment. "I am rapidly approaching your location" is a comment. Just be kind!

How long will it take me to get a comment?

Dunno. Some people get them within minutes, some hours, some days. Depends on many things. Be patient!

I submitted something but it hasn't been added or removed

I run this blog and the spreadsheet completely alone and manually. Any submissions will be handled as and when i have time. Be patient with me, I'll get to it!

Happy commenting! <3

[wendichester]

⋆˚⊱ the talk,

summary. dean, your boyfriend, gives you the talk.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. weird fluff

wordcount. 748

notes / warnings. mild language, mentions of supernatural violence, protective/jealous dean winchester, pop culture references, a tense confession scene, slight crack energy

You’re not really mad, per se. More like… Yeah, confused as hell.

Because your boyfriend just told you monsters are real—like, capital-M Monsters. Vampires, werewolves, demons, the whole horror movie roster. Except this isn’t a movie. You’re not on your couch, halfway through a sleepover marathon with a bowl of popcorn in your lap. You’re at your kitchen table, and Dean is sitting across from you looking like someone just kicked his puppy. Which is kind of hilarious considering he just confessed to stabbing a werewolf with a silver blade last week.

You haven’t said a word in maybe… five minutes.

Dean’s knee is bouncing. He keeps glancing toward the door like he’s expecting you to run for it.

“I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to freak out,” he mutters, voice low. “It’s not exactly first date kinda stuff, y’know?”

You blink slowly. “…You said you were a mechanic.”

He flinches. “I can fix cars.”

“Dean.”

“Alright, part-time mechanic, full-time monster-hunter. Happy?”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. You should be more panicked. Any reasonable person would be. But the weird thing is—you’re not. Not really. Maybe it’s because Dean doesn’t feel dangerous to you. He feels safe. Has since the night you met him in that parking lot, laughing and talking you through your flat tire like he didn’t have somewhere better to be.

You’ve seen the way he handles a wrench. The way he walks you to your door. The way he keeps a loaded gun at yours and how he sometimes feels the need to sleep with a knife under his pillow.

You should’ve figured this out.

Dean's still talking, trying to explain himself.

“I just—look, I never wanted to lie to you, but this life? It’s dark. I didn’t want to drag you into it unless I had to. But the longer we were together, the more I felt like... you should know. You deserve to know. I promise you, Y/N, I'm not cheating on you. I just have a shitty day-job.”

You stare at him a moment. Really look at him. His hands are clasped together on the table, knuckles scraped. There's a little blood on the edge of his sleeve. His jaw’s tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a slap.

You tilt your head.

“So… when you said you’d kill Damon Salvatore if he ever tried anything with me,” you say slowly, “you meant that?”

Dean’s whole face twists. “What—of course I meant it! That dude’s a vampire. He eats people, baby. I don’t care how nice his car is.”

You blink. Then blink again.

And then, god help you, you start laughing. Not a little giggle—like, full-body, stomach-aching, shoulders-shaking laughter. Dean just stares at you, caught somewhere between horrified and offended.

“I’m serious!” he says, eyebrows yanking together. “That guy’s a psycho! He compels people and drinks his weight in blood! I don’t care how many redemption arcs he’s got or what moody indie soundtrack they put under his scenes—he so much as sniffs in your direction, he’s toast.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You were jealous of a fictional vampire.”

Dean scowls. “He’s not fictional to me.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, eyes sparkling. “Okay, hunter-boy. So what is fictional to you?”

He pauses. “Uh… Harry Potter, probably.”

“That explains so much.”

Dean’s still tense, like he’s not totally convinced you aren’t about to kick him out.

You reach across the table and cover his hand with yours.

“I’m not running,” you say softly. “I’m weirded out, yeah. I mean, you basically just told me Buffy was a documentary. But I’m not scared of you, Dean.”

His shoulders drop about two inches. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re still the guy who brings me diner pie and gets pissy when I leave the window cracked at night.”

“That’s because it’s not safe,” he mutters.

“Uh-huh. You know I’m just gonna make more vampire jokes now, right?”

Dean groans. “Great. I’ve created a monster.”

You grin, leaning across the table to kiss him—quick and sweet, your fingers curling around his wrist.

He kisses you back like he’s exhaling for the first time in days.

When you pull away, you squint at him.

“…You still haven’t explained why you carry holy water in your jacket pocket.”

“Emergency exorcisms,” he says, deadpan.

You nod slowly. “Cool. Cool. Totally normal boyfriend things.”

Dean smiles, wide and shameless. “Welcome to the family business, sweetheart.”

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