underurmoonlight

[underurmoonlight]

new taylor album. i am not ok.

[underurmoonlight]

rosekiller shenanigans <3

[underurmoonlight]

IN THE NAME OF LOVE AND PRANKS! ♡ j. grace

𓇼ㅤ word count — 5k i love blond boys with glasses that’s my explanation. give it a chance bae 😞

𓇼ㅤ synopsis — you really hate that goody-two shoes, pretty faced, praetor guy that transferred from camp jupiter to camp half-blood. roman and greeks are enemies, anyway, and so is he. but you kinda wanna kiss him in a not-so-enemy-like way. child of hermes!reader !!

𓇼ㅤ lovequeue ୧ notes: do u guys like the new layout (had to copy from noah it’s pretty af 😛) burrtt yah i’ll get to luke stuff l8tr!! blond boy come ere!!! i personally don’t like enemies2lovers cuz all the plots are cliche but i js suck it up 😞 but erm this one is also cliche (i’m self aware see ahahah) u guys better enjoy this cuz

you're pretty sure jason grace is the most annoying person to ever walk into camp half-blood, and that's saying something considering you live with the stoll twin.

it's not just that he's roman—though that's definitely part of it. romans and greeks have been at each other's throats for centuries, and here he comes waltzing in with his perfect blonde hair and his stupid perfect face like he owns the place. no, it's everything about him. the way he carries himself like he's still got that praetor stick shoved up his so far up his own ass. the way everyone immediately falls over themselves to be his friend. the way he's so goddamn good at everything without even trying. (and it’s pissing you off, to be honest.)

it’s the way he’s a blond superman shows up from camp jupiter with his perfect posture and his stupid honorable attitude and suddenly everyone's acting like he's the second coming of zeus himself.

which, okay, he kind of is, considering his dad is jupiter. same difference.

but it's more than that. it's the way he carries himself like he's never done anything wrong in his entire life, like he's never stolen anything or lied to anyone or had a single impure thought. it's the way his hair always looks perfect even after capture the flag, like he's got some kind of divine hair gel situation going on. it's the way he says "please" and "thank you" to the camp store nymphs and actually means it, not just because he wants extra snacks.

it's the way everyone loves him.

you've been at camp half-blood for three years now, and you've worked your ass off to earn your place here. you've pulled pranks that are still talked about in hushed, fearsome whispers. you've mastered lock-picking, pickpocketing, and about fifteen different ways to sneak out of camp without getting caught. you're a child of hermes, for fuck's sake—mischief and cunning are literally in your dna.

but then golden boy shows up and suddenly everyone's acting like he hung the stars. even your own siblings are practically drooling over him.

"did you see jason at sword practice today?"

"jason helped me with my latin homework!"

"jason's so nice, he walked me to the infirmary when i twisted my ankle!"

it makes you want to puke. because when do your siblings ever do their homework? when are they ever actually doing something other than planning pranks and finding ways to sneak out of camp?

the worst part is how he doesn't even seem to notice how perfect everyone thinks he is. he just goes about his business with that calm, collected demeanor, like having half the camp worship the ground he walks on is just another tuesday for him. which, knowing his track record, it probably is.

you decide pretty early on that if everyone else is going to kiss his ass, you're going to be the exception. someone has to keep his ego in check, right? it's practically a public service.

so you start small. classic hermes cabin pranks—nothing too serious, just enough to piss him off. you short-sheet his bed, replace his shampoo with honey, put plastic wrap over the toilet seat in his cabin. standard stuff that would have anyone else either laughing or plotting revenge.

jason grace does neither.

the first time you prank him, you're lurking around the corner of the jupiter cabin the next morning, waiting to see his reaction. you've rigged his door so that when he opens it, he'll get doused with a bucket of ice water. it's simple, effective, and guaranteed to ruin his perfectly styled hair.

you hear the door creak open, followed by a splash and a sharp intake of breath. success. you're already grinning as you peek around the corner, expecting to see him dripping wet and pissed off.

instead, jason is just standing there, calmly wringing out his shirt. his hair is plastered to his head and there's water dripping off his nose, but his expression is completely neutral. he looks up, makes direct eye contact with you, and nods once like he's acknowledging a job well done.

then he goes back inside to change.

what. the. fuck.

you try again the next week. this time you've spent hours perfecting a trap that will cover him in glitter the moment he sits down at the dining pavilion. you've tested it twice to make sure it works perfectly. there's no way he can just shrug this one off.

except he does. he sits down, gets absolutely covered in pink and gold glitter, and just continues eating his breakfast like nothing happened. a few people at the apollo table start giggling, but jason doesn't even look up from his eggs. when he's done eating, he stands up, brushes off what glitter he can, and heads to his morning activities.

he sparkles for the rest of the day and doesn't say a word about it.

it's infuriating. (infuriating because he still looks damn good even with glitter clinging to his body. gods oh gods.”

so… you go even further. you replace all his important study books with romance novels. he reads them without complaint and even returns them to the library when he's done. you fill his cabin with balloons. he pops them methodically, one by one, and uses the deflated rubber for arts and crafts with some of the younger campers. (husband material or what…)

nothing gets to him. nothing even makes him blink. it's like pranking a brick wall, if brick walls were annoyingly attractive and had perfect teeth and beautiful sandy blond hair.

the breaking point comes three weeks into your pranks. you've just finished setting up your masterpiece—a complex system of ropes and pulleys that will dump a mixture of maple syrup, feathers, and biodegradable glitter on him the moment he opens his cabin door. it's taken you two days to set up and it's absolutely foolproof.

you're hiding behind the big house, practically vibrating with anticipation, when you hear the door open. there's a pause, then a wet splat, followed by what sounds like a small avalanche of feathers.

you can't help yourself—you have to see this. you creep around the building and peek toward the jupiter cabin, expecting to see jason looking like a very fabulous, very sticky bird.

instead, you find him sitting on his front steps, methodically picking feathers out of his hair. he's covered head to toe in your concoction, looking like he lost a fight with a craft store, but his expression is still that same infuriating calm.

"you know," he says without looking up, and you realize with horror that he's talking to you, "most people would have given up by now."

you freeze. he's not supposed to acknowledge the pranks. that's not how this works.

"i don't know what you're talking about," you say, stepping out from behind your hiding spot because there's no point pretending anymore.

jason finally looks up, and there's something in his blue eyes that you can't quite read. "the water bucket was clever. simple, but effective. the glitter was a nice touch too—took me three showers to get it all out."

"if you knew it was me, why didn't you say anything?"

he shrugs, which sends a small shower of feathers floating to the ground. "why would i? you're not actually trying to hurt me. you're just... testing me, i guess. plus, some aphrodite boy said i’m glowing and sparkling and called me handsome.”

well… the boy wasn’t wrong, was he? you watched jason from afar and you tried your hardest not to think about how hot he looked. in glitter. (who looks like a man sculpted by the gods in fucking glitter??)

"testing you?" you repeat, incredulous. "i'm trying to make your life miserable."

"are you?" he asks, and there's something almost amused in his tone. "because if that's the case, you're really bad at it."

the comment hits you like a slap. "excuse me?"

jason stands up, brushing syrup-sticky feathers off his jeans. "look, i get it. you don't like me. you think i'm some uptight roman asshole who doesn't belong here. and maybe you're right about some of that. but if you really wanted to make me miserable, you'd have to try a lot harder than some harmless pranks."

"harmless?" you sputter. "i've been making your life hell for weeks!"

"you've been mildly inconveniencing me," he corrects. "there's a difference."

you stare at him, speechless. this is not how this conversation was supposed to go. he's supposed to be angry, or at least annoyed. he's supposed to threaten to tell chiron or challenge you to a duel or something. he's not supposed to be standing there covered in craft supplies, talking to you like you're having a casual chat about the weather.

"why aren't you mad?" you finally ask.

jason considers this for a moment, picking a particularly large feather out of his eyebrow. "honestly? because you're the first person here who's treated me like a normal person instead of some kind of celebrity."

that stops you cold. "what?"

"everyone else either wants to be my friend because they think it'll make them look good, or they're too intimidated to talk to me at all. you're the only one who's treated me like just another camper. even if that treatment involves a lot of syrup and feathers."

you don't know what to say to that. it's not the response you were expecting, and it makes something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

"plus," jason continues, and now there's definitely amusement in his voice, "some of your pranks have been genuinely impressive. the balloon thing must have taken hours to set up."

"it took three hours," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"see? that's dedication. i can respect that."

you're still staring at him, trying to process this entire conversation, when he starts walking toward the showers. he pauses when he's a few feet away and looks back at you.

"for what it's worth," he says, "if you ever want to have a conversation that doesn't involve me getting covered in various substances, i wouldn't be opposed to that."

then he's gone, leaving you standing there with your mouth hanging open and your entire worldview slightly tilted.

the problem is, after that conversation, you can't stop thinking about him.

not in the "gods, i hate that guy!" way you've been thinking about him for weeks, but in a way that's infinitely more dangerous. you keep remembering the way he looked sitting on those steps, calm and unbothered even covered in your prank materials. the way he talked to you like you were worth listening to, even though you'd been making his life difficult since the day he arrived.

you try to go back to hating him, you really do. but it's hard to maintain that level of animosity toward someone who complimented your dedication while picking feathers out of his hair.

so you stop pranking him. not because you've given up, but because you're not sure what you're trying to accomplish anymore. the pranks were supposed to make you feel better about his presence at camp, but now they just make you feel confused and slightly guilty.

unfortunately, avoiding jason grace turns out to be harder than pranking him.

he's everywhere. in the dining pavilion, laughing at something one of the apollo kids said. at the climbing wall, casually scaling it like gravity is just a suggestion. in the strawberry fields, helping the demeter kids with the harvest because of course he is.

and every time you see him, he nods at you. just a simple acknowledgment, like you're friends or something. it makes your stomach do weird fluttery things that you absolutely do not want to examine too closely.

the worst part is that now that you're not actively plotting against him, you're starting to notice things. like how he always makes sure the younger campers get served first at meals. how he stays after sword practice to help anyone who's struggling. how he never talks about his accomplishments, even though everyone knows he was basically running camp jupiter before he came here.

you're starting to realize that maybe—maybe—you misjudged him.

which is a terrifying thought, because if jason grace isn't actually the uptight, arrogant asshole you've been painting him as, then what does that make you?

you're mulling over this uncomfortable revelation while sitting by the lake, throwing rocks at the water and trying not to think about electric blue eyes, sun-kissed blond hair and perfect teeth, when someone sits down next to you.

you don't have to look to know who it is. jason has this presence about him, like the air gets a little more charged when he's around. which makes sense, considering his dad is literally the king of the sky.

"nice evening," he says, like this is a perfectly normal occurrence.

"what do you want, grace?" you ask, not looking at him.

"to apologize."

that gets your attention. you turn to stare at him, and he's looking out over the water with that same calm expression he always wears. "apologize for what?"

"for what i said the other day. about you being bad at making me miserable." he glances at you, and there's something almost sheepish in his expression. "that was unnecessarily harsh."

you blink. "you're apologizing for insulting my pranking abilities?"

"among other things." he picks up a rock and skips it across the water. it bounces seven times before sinking. show-off. "i've been thinking about what you said. about making your life hell. and i realized that maybe i haven't been taking your feelings seriously enough."

"my feelings?" you repeat, confused.

"you clearly have strong opinions about me being here. about romans in general, probably. and instead of acknowledging that, i've been treating the whole thing like a game."

you stare at him. "it... it was a game. sort of. i mean, the pranks were just—"

"were they?" he interrupts gently. "because from where i'm sitting, it seems like you have legitimate reasons for not wanting me here. and maybe instead of just shrugging off your pranks, i should have asked what those reasons were."

this conversation is not going at all how you expected. you came out here to brood and throw rocks, not to have jason grace psychoanalyze your motivations.

"you really want to know why i don't like you?" you ask.

"yeah. i do."

you're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "it's not... it's not really about you being roman. i mean, it is, but not in the way you probably think."

jason waits patiently for you to continue.

"when you showed up here, everyone immediately loved you. and i get it, i do. you're this war hero, you saved the world, you're powerful and brave and all that shit. but..." you trail off, frustrated.

"but?"

"but some of us have been here for years, working our asses off to prove ourselves, and we're still just... background noise. then you walk in and suddenly you're the most important person at camp. it's not fair."

the words hang in the air between you, and you immediately regret saying them. they make you sound petty and jealous, which you are, but you didn't mean to admit it out loud.

jason is quiet for a long time. when he finally speaks, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it.

"you're right. it's not fair."

you look at him in surprise. "what?"

"it's not fair that people treat me differently because of things i did before i even knew this place existed. it's not fair that i get credit for being powerful when that's just genetics, not something i earned. and it's definitely not fair that my being here makes you feel like your accomplishments matter less, because they don't."

you don't know what to say to that.

"for what it's worth," jason continues, "i think what you've done here is pretty impressive. connor told me about some of your pranks—not just the ones on me, but the legendary ones. the time you convinced the entire ares cabin that they were under a curse that made them speak only in rhymes? that's genius."

despite yourself, you feel a small smile tugging at your lips. "that was a good one."

"and prancing the athena and aphrodite cabin of last summer?"

"okay, that wasn't just me. travis helped."

"still. the point is, you've made your mark here. people know who you are, and it's not because of your godly parent or some prophecy. it's because you're clever and creative and you work hard at what you do."

you're quiet, absorbing this. it's strange, hearing jason grace—perfect, golden jason grace—talk about your pranks with what sounds like genuine admiration.

"why are you being so nice to me?" you ask finally. "i've been nothing but a pain in your ass since you got here."

jason laughs, and the sound does something funny to your insides. "honestly? because you're interesting. most people here either worship me or avoid me. you're the first person who's treated me like a regular person worth messing with."

"so you liked being pranked?"

"i liked that you saw me as someone worth pranking," he corrects. "there's a difference."

you think about that for a moment. "that's... actually kind of sweet. in a weird way."

"i'm a weird guy."

you snort. "no, you're not. you're like, aggressively normal. it's unsettling."

"aggressively normal?"

"you know what i mean. you're polite and helpful and you probably floss twice a day and eat all your vegetables. it's creepy."

jason is grinning now, and it transforms his entire face. suddenly he doesn't look like a marble statue come to life—he looks like a regular seventeen-year-old guy, and that's somehow infinitely more dangerous to your peace of mind.

"i do floss twice a day," he admits. "but only because reyna drilled good dental hygiene into all the praetors. she said we couldn't lead new rome if we had cavities."

"see? aggressively normal."

"what about you?" he asks. "what's your dental hygiene routine like?"

you stare at him. "did you just ask me about my teeth?"

"i'm making conversation!"

"by asking about my flossing habits?"

"i'm not good at this," jason admits, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck. "talking to people, i mean. when it's not about work or battle strategy or official praetor stuff."

and just like that, the last of your animosity toward jason grace crumbles completely. because he's sitting here, looking embarrassed about asking you about dental hygiene, and you realize that maybe he's not as perfect as everyone thinks. maybe he's just as awkward and uncertain as the rest of you, he's just better at hiding it.

"your conversation skills could use some work," you agree. "but points for effort."

"thanks. i think."

you sit in comfortable silence for a while, both of you throwing rocks into the lake. the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and you're acutely aware of jason's presence beside you. he smells like ozone and something clean and sharp, like the air before a thunderstorm.

"can i ask you something?" you say eventually.

"pray tell."

"why haven't you gotten mad at me? like, really mad? because if someone had been pranking me for weeks, i would have lost my shit by now."

jason considers this. "honestly? because i could tell you weren't really trying to hurt me. annoyed, maybe. frustrated, definitely. but not actually malicious. and..." he hesitates.

"and?"

"and because i kind of liked having someone pay attention to me for who i am, not what i am. even if that attention came in the form of syrup and feathers or glitter."

there's something vulnerable in his voice that makes your chest tight. you look at him, really look at him, and for the first time you see past the perfect exterior to the person underneath. he looks tired, you realize. and maybe a little lonely.

"that's pretty sad, grace."

"yeah, well. occupational hazard of being a child of the big three, i guess."

"is that why you transferred here? to get away from all that?"

jason shakes his head. "not exactly. it's complicated."

you wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. instead, he stands up and brushes off his jeans.

"i should probably head back. early morning tomorrow."

"yeah, me too."

you both start walking back toward the cabins, and you're surprised by how comfortable the silence between you is. it's not the charged, antagonistic energy you're used to—it's something softer, more peaceful.

when you reach the fork in the path where you'd normally split off toward your respective cabins, jason stops.

"hey," he says, and when you turn to look at him, there's something intense in his expression. "for what it's worth, i'm glad you're here. camp half-blood wouldn't be the same without you."

before you can respond, he's walking away, leaving you standing there with your heart doing acrobatics in your chest.

fuck.

you're in trouble.

the next few days are torture. not because jason is doing anything different—he's still his usual helpful, polite self—but because you can't stop thinking about your conversation by the lake. about the way he looked when he said he was glad you were here. about how his smile had transformed his entire face.

you try to go back to your normal routine, but everything feels off. pranking the other campers doesn't hold the same appeal when you keep thinking about jason's laugh. capture the flag is less fun when you find yourself looking for blonde hair in the crowd. even your siblings notice something's wrong.

"you've been weird lately," travis informs you one morning over breakfast. "weirder than usual, i mean."

"i haven't been weird."

"you put salt in your orange juice yesterday," connor points out. "and you've been staring at jason’s table for like ten minutes."

you immediately snap your gaze away from where jason is sitting, laughing at something piper is saying. "i was not staring."

"uh-huh." travis exchanges a look with connor. "so who is it?"

"who's what?"

"who's the guy?" connor asks. "because you've got that look."

"what look?"

"the 'i have a crush and i'm freaking out about it' look," travis says helpfully. "we've seen it before. remember when you had that thing for that apollo kid last summer?"

"i do not have a thing for anyone," you say firmly. "and especially not for—"

you cut yourself off before you can finish the sentence, but it's too late. your brothers are already grinning like sharks.

"oh my gods," connor breathes. "it's jason fucking grace."

"it is not!"

"it totally is," travis says, delighted. "you have a crush on the golden boy!"

"i do not have a crush on jason grace," you hiss, looking around to make sure no one else can hear this conversation. "i hate jason grace."

"sure you do," connor says. "that's why you've been staring at him all week."

"and why you stopped pranking him," travis adds.

"and why you get all flustered whenever someone mentions his name."

"i do not get flustered!"

"you're flustered right now," they say in unison.

you want to argue, but they're not wrong. you are flustered, and you do have a crush on jason grace, and the whole situation is absolutely fucked because he's roman and you're greek and he's perfect and you're... not.

"this is a disaster," you mutter, putting your head in your hands.

"why?" travis asks, suddenly serious. "i mean, yeah, he's roman, but he seems like a decent guy. and he's definitely cute."

"it's not about him being roman," you say, though that's part of it. "it's about him being him. he's this war hero who saved the world and everyone loves him. what could he possibly see in me?"

"uh, you're awesome?" connor suggests. "you're funny and smart and you can pick any lock in camp. plus, you've got that whole 'i don't give a fuck' attitude that people love."

"connor's right," travis agrees. "and besides, didn't you say he seemed interested when you guys talked by the lake?"

you think back to that conversation, to the way jason had looked at you when he said he was glad you were here. "maybe. i don't know. probably not."

"only one way to find out," connor says.

"absolutely not."

"come on," travis wheedles. "what's the worst that could happen?"

"he could reject me and then i'd have to live with the humiliation for the rest of my time at camp?"

"or," connor counters, "he could say yes and you could live happily ever after."

"this isn't a fairy tale, fuckface."

"no, but it could be a pretty good love story, you dipshit."

you're about to tell him exactly what you think of his romantic optimism when someone clears their throat behind you. you turn around, and your heart immediately starts doing that stupid fluttery thing again.

jason is standing there with his breakfast tray, looking slightly uncertain. "sorry to interrupt. i was just wondering if i could sit with you guys? the jupiter table is kind of lonely."

travis and connor immediately start grinning like idiots, and you know you're about to be subjected to the most embarrassing few minutes of your life.

"of course!" travis says, scooting over to make room. "we were just talking about—"

"nothing," you interrupt quickly. "we were talking about nothing."

jason raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. he sits down across from you, and you try very hard not to notice how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

"so, jason," connor says, and you can already tell this is going to be bad. "what do you think of our dearest sibling here?"

you kick him under the table. hard.

"ow! what? it's a valid question!"

"i think their pretty cool," jason says, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents of this conversation. "kept me on my toes since i got here."

"oh, their good at that," travis agrees. "keeping people on their toes. among other things. if you know what i—“

you kick him too.

"you know," connor continues, ignoring your death glare, "they were just saying how much they enjoyed getting to know you better."

"oh?" jason asks, and when you look at him, there's something almost hopeful in his expression.

"yep," travis chimes in. "in fact, she was just saying how they’d love to spend more time with you. weren't you?"

you're going to murder them both. slowly and painfully. and sacrifice their pieces to your father hand delivered.

"i... that's not exactly what i said," you manage.

"close enough," connor says cheerfully.

jason is looking at you now, and you can feel your face heating up. "is that true? would you like to spend more time together?"

there's something in his voice that makes you think maybe, just maybe, your brothers aren't completely wrong about him being interested. and before you can lose your nerve, you hear yourself saying, "yeah. i would."

the smile that spreads across jason's face is like watching the sun come up.

"great," he says. "are you free this afternoon? i was thinking we could go for a walk or something. maybe you could show me some of the places around camp that aren't on the official tour."

"like where?" you ask.

"wherever you want. i'm sure you know all the best hiding spots."

he's not wrong. you do know all the best hiding spots, the secret places where you go when you want to be alone or plan your next prank. the idea of sharing them with jason should feel wrong, but instead it feels... right.

"okay," you say. "meet me by the big house after lunch?"

"it's a date," jason says, then immediately turns red. "i mean—not a date date, just—"

"it's a date," you agree, and watch his expression shift from embarrassed to pleased.

travis and connor are practically vibrating with excitement, but for once you don't care. you're too busy looking at jason, at the way his eyes light up when he smiles, at the way he's looking at you like you're something special.

maybe this won't be a disaster after all.

lunch passes in a blur of nervous energy and your brothers giving you increasingly ridiculous advice. by the time you're walking toward the big house, your palms are sweating and you're second-guessing everything about your appearance.

jason is already waiting for you, leaning against the porch railing and looking unfairly attractive in jeans and a camp half-blood t-shirt. when he sees you approaching, he straightens up and smiles.

"ready for the grand tour?" you ask.

"lead the way."

you start with the easy stuff—the strawberry fields, the beach, the woods. jason is a good companion, asking questions and actually listening to your answers. he doesn't try to fill every silence with chatter, which you appreciate.

it's when you're walking along the edge of the forest that he says, "can i ask you something?"

"sure."

"why did you really stop pranking me?"

you'd been dreading this question, but now that he's asked it, you find you don't want to lie to him.

"because i realized i didn't actually hate you," you admit. "and it felt wrong to keep messing with someone i was starting to like."

"starting to like?"

you stop walking and turn to face him. "okay, fine. more than like. happy?"

jason's expression is unreadable. "are you?"

"am i what?"

"happy. about liking me more than you thought you would."

it's a loaded question, and you both know it. because liking jason grace is complicated. he's roman, you're greek. he's a former praetor, you're a camp troublemaker. he's destined for great things, and you're just... you.

but when you look at him, standing there in the dappled sunlight with his hair slightly messed up from the wind, none of that seems to matter.

"yeah," you say quietly. "i am."

jason steps closer, and suddenly the air between you feels charged with more than just his natural electricity.

"good," he says. "because i've been thinking about you a lot lately. about our conversation by the lake. about how you're the first person who's seen me as just jason, not jason grace the son of jupiter or jason grace the former praetor."

"jason," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended.

"yeah?"

"i really want to kiss you right now."

"thank the gods," he breathes, and then his mouth is on yours.

and it sends electrical waves through your body. literally and figuratively. jason's free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, and you melt into him like you were made to fit together.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. jason rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, lashes fluttering as if he scared you’ll disappear out his arms.

"jason," you start, but you're not sure what you want to say.

"yeah?"

"i'm really bad at this. the whole... feelings thing."

he laughs softly. "me too. we can figure it out together."

and then he's kissing you, soft and tentative at first, like he's not sure you want this. but you do want it, more than you've wanted anything in a long time, so you kiss him back and let yourself get lost in the feeling of his lips against yours.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"so," you say, trying to sound casual despite the fact that your entire world has just shifted. "this is happening."

"seems like it," jason agrees. "is that okay?"

you think about it for a moment. about how complicated this is going to be, about what people will say, about all the reasons this is probably a bad idea.

then you think about the way jason looks at you like you're something precious, about how he makes you laugh, about how he sees past all your defenses to the person underneath.

"yeah," you say. "it's okay."

jason grins, and you realize that maybe you were wrong about him from the beginning. maybe he's not perfect after all. maybe he's just perfectly imperfect in all the ways that matter.

and maybe, just maybe, that's exactly what you've been looking for all along.

"so what now?" you ask.

"now," jason says, taking your hand, "you show me the rest of those secret hiding spots. and maybe we can make some new memories in them."

you laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. "i can work with that."

[underurmoonlight]

Sirius Black lowkey gay

[underurmoonlight]

summary: remus should be in his bed, trying to sleep. but instead you snuck him into yours. luckily, though, he's happy to be here.

-> remus lupin x gn!reader, supposed to be a part two to this fic, but can be read as a stand alone, set in like a few weeks later, established relationship, clingy!remus, he is very much smitten, reader is as down bad as he is though ( yes, you're not safe /j ), loads of kisses, this is actually sickeningly sweet so be warned, word count: 1,192

[ 🎧‧₊˚ ] — ceilings by lizzy mcalpine

You have Remus wrapped around your finger.

Curfew was supposed to be an hour ago. Remus was supposed to be in bed right now, trying to sleep, but instead he’s in yours. And he’s happy to be so. Because despite how much he denies it, Remus knows that he’d rather be with you than toss and turn on his own bed, mind whirling with thoughts. Why dream about being with you, when he can make it a reality?

You close the curtains of your canopy bed, laying down beside your boyfriend. The room is quiet, your roommates are fast asleep, which you should probably be as well. But Remus is here, and you can’t fathom closing your eyes when his pretty face is by your side.

“I have to say, I didn’t think you’d agree on doing this.” You prop yourself onto your elbow, turning to your side to look at Remus. He shifts his gaze to you, eyebrows going up, you find this strangely adorable about him. It reminds you of a dog turning its eyes to the side. “I didn’t as well.” He mimics your pose, a dopey smile on his face. And now that you’re facing each other, you run your other hand through his messy curls, and he lets out a sigh. “Keep doing that and I might fall asleep.” His voice is low, raspy and evidently sleepy, yet he’s still obviously fighting it.

“Go ahead, we have the whole morning to plan our date tomorrow.” Remus shakes his head, pulling you closer to him by the waist. You’re once again laying down on your back, laughing quietly when he dips his face on your neck. “I don’t like it when you agree with me sometimes.” He mumbles against your skin, tickling you. “Remus, you’re the one always telling me to sleep early.” You say in between laughs, he lets out a noise from the back of his throat akin to a whine. And you have to bite your lip to prevent yourself from laughing too loud. Remus tends to get clingy when he’s sleepy, and this was a perfect example of it.

“.. wanna go to honeydukes?”

Minutes pass by, you’re surprised to hear that Remus is still awake. But barely so, when his words are almost incoherent. Pulling away from him takes all the strength from you, thanks to his unmovable grip. And the way he wants to make this a struggle for you. “Tomorrow? We can, but I don’t think they have anything new. Did you run out of sweets?” Remus looks up at you, eyes narrowed as if you’d just done him the biggest betrayal by moving a couple of inches away. But then he nods his head, and you give his forehead a kiss as an apology.

“You know, you should really sleep-”

“Maybe we can give Madam Puddifoot’s a try.” You raise a brow, skeptical. Remus didn't hate the shop, but he certainly didn't like it either. Especially when it would get all cramped up inside. And your boyfriend, with his long legs, just can't handle that. “Remus, you must really be sleepy if you’re seriously suggesting that.” He shrugs, looking down. “Wont hurt, right?” You sigh. It wouldn't but you’re still unconvinced.

“I guess so. We can go there if we’re not tired from walking around.”

“Lily said it wasn't so bad.” You hum, fingers brushing through his hair once again. “Never said it was, lover boy.” Remus seems to melt from your touch, and words, as his grip on your waist loosens. He can't hide being all mushy when you’re this gentle with him. “I never said it was too.” You watch his eyes close, as he speaks mid-yawn.

“You never did. But I could tell.” You lean down to press another kiss on his forehead, this time letting it stay there until you fall asleep. Both your heart beats slowing down in sync.

Remus wakes up earlier than you. He’s groggy, vision still getting used to the light from your lamp, as he lifts himself up. Your roommates have left for breakfast it seems, as he takes a peek from behind one of the curtains and sees no one else. When he looks back at you, you’re beginning to stir. “Hey, it's alright, you can go back to sleep.” Remus removes his side of the blanket from him, only to pull it much closer to you. “Where are you going?” You ask, eyes fighting to open, he smiles finding it adorable. “Bathroom. You can sleep, it's still early. I can grab us breakfast–” You shake your head, sitting up.

“I’ll come with you.”

“.. To the bathroom?” He asks, genuinely bewildered. A short exhale of breath comes out of you, cracking up at his misunderstanding. His smile widens too when he realizes. “No, downstairs, for breakfast. You perv.” A breathy laugh slips out of Remus, as he leans down to kiss your cheek. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m not a pervert.” You’re all smiley when you meet his eyes, and suddenly you want him gone before he sees you get all embarrassed.

“You're insufferable. Just go.”

“You love me, though.” His tone takes a lower turn, kissing you down your neck. “That I do, but Remus..” You drawl, having to reluctantly push him away before he gets distracted. And now he’s looking at you all beady eyed, lovesick, and messy hair. Which he knows is your biggest weakness. Because Godric knows you can't argue with a man with big beautiful brown eyes. It's an actual madness!

“Go to the bathroom, Lupin.”

“Fine, fine. I won't take too long, promise.” You let Remus go as he pulls away, heading to the bathroom, but right after he pulls you in for another kiss.

“Well, at least some people looked like they slept well.” You hear Sirius grumble once you reach the Gryffindor table. Both him and James look worse for wear, compared to Peter who seems like his usual self. You share a glance with Remus, sitting down. “What happened?” You ask, leaning closer to inspect both your friends. They look like they haven't slept at all.

“James has been planning this surprise for Lily’s birthday. And now he even has me involved.” Sirius groans, exhausted, putting his head down on the table. You turn to look at James but he seems engrossed with a book you’ve seen Lily read before. And suddenly you don't feel like intervening anymore.

“Do you wanna know something?” Remus leans closer to you, and you respond by tilting your head towards him. “I’m glad I slept in your dorm last night.” You nudge him by his side, playfully, with a huge grin on your face.

“Are you going to thank me for that?”

“Don't worry, I won't leave you hanging for this heroic thing you’ve done.” You didn't think that sneaking Remus out from his dorm would ever be a good idea, but here you are. And looking at the circumstances, he might just have to start moving some of his stuff into your trunk soon.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[underurmoonlight]

running back to you

spencer reid x fem!reader | masterlist

summary ༄ spencer reid x situationship!reader — in which you and spencer are friends with benefits… but you want something more.

most suggestive thing i've written so far, angsty (!!!), reader drinks, ooc spencer?? spring into summer/back to friends vibe

word count ༄ 3k

nora’s notes ༄ idk how i feel about the pacing for this... didn't proofread, pt 2 if you guys want it!!

The first time you slept with Spencer, it was an accident. Okay, a half-accident–a haze of a post-night out at a bar you lived close to, the soft sincerity in his voice when he offered to walk you home. The stars were drunk and stumbling beneath your feet and he warmed under your tongue like something you were always meant to taste. The second you kissed, you knew it was over. Not the night, not the friendship, but the version of yourself who hadn’t wanted more. You’d never be able to go back now. 

You’d met Spencer on the turn of the seasons, spring into summer into fall. You became good friends after that—friends who didn’t touch in the dark, friends who didn’t kiss and trace silly pictures into each other's backs as you sunk into sleep, friends who didn’t ask for more. Until you did. 

The second time you slid your palms over his shoulders, pinched the soft hair at the back of his neck, both of you were drunk. It was less of an accident, this time. You invited him over and cracked open some wine. He told you about the book he’d just finished. The last time he saw his mother. You didn’t speak about what you’d done only the week before. Just cleared your schedule and went back to normal. 

Just after tipsy, you’d told a joke that made him laugh so hard he fell over. It was an open giggle, one that made your heart swell just enough that when he straightened, smile still kissing his lips, your noses touched and you let him kiss you. Or maybe he let you kiss him. You couldn’t tell. 

That one was different, though. It left a chill teasing your skin, scared and rattled you. Because, as you lay next to him, eyes tracing the distance between the space between his brows and the dip of his cupid’s bow, your mouth opened. You weren’t sure what it would say, but anxiety rose on your tail anyway. If this kept going, it wouldn't be much longer before you fell for him. When you woke up, your hand stretched towards the other side of your cramped bed, but the sheets were cold. He’d left. Why did that make your heart twist? 

Third, there was no excuse. You missed him all week, so you had him over for dinner again. He said yes, again. You weren’t drunk, weren’t sorry. Just sick with some kind of adoration that nibbled at your self-respect. Later, you watch the muscles of his back shift in his sleep, place your hand on his shoulder to feel them. You’re not ready to sleep yet, because you know once you do, he’ll leave. This time, you’ll ask for an explanation. 

You’ll say let��s talk about it and he’ll say sure and he’ll ask you to let him be yours and you’ll kiss on the counter and the bed and the sink. Then, of course, you wake up to the remnants of his presence. His smell on your pillows is the only indication anyone was ever here. 

You told yourself it was just sex. But you were only lying to yourself. You wanted it to be more; you wanted him to want it, want you. Sometimes, it felt like he did. When he brought you coffee on his way to work, exactly how you liked it, or wrote you letters—handwritten—while he was away on cases. It was that hope that twisted the most, the not knowing. 

You call him later that week, fingers hovering over the keypad. “Spence?” 

“Hey,” he says. You don’t call much. His voice is different over the phone. “How are you doing?” 

“Okay,” you say back. Your fingers tap against the table. He sounds normal. You think back to your script but can’t remember the lines anymore. “How are you?” 

“Good.” There’s a pause between you. It hangs, kicking. “Do you… want me to come over?” 

Oh god, is this a booty call? You didn’t mean it to be. You meant it as a confrontation, but you can’t seem to get angry. Not when you can picture him out the other side, lips pressed in a half-smile, hair running wild. 

“Oh,” you nod. He can’t see you. “Yeah. Yes.” 

“Perfect,” he says, and it’s softer this time. 

Another silence. 

“How’s work?” You blurt, chipping at the nail polish you’d put on earlier that day. You almost pinch yourself for being this awkward.

Luckily, he just lets out a low laugh. “It’s good. Not on any active calls right now. Though the chances aren’t in my favor. Hey, did you know that we’re usually on a case–” 

Your spine releases. Everything’s normal. He’ll come over, you’ll talk, actually, really, about what happened, and it will all be okay. 

Shit. What should you wear? 

-

By the time a knock sounds on your door, just a few hours later, you’ve just showered and put on a fresh set of clothes that you feel especially nice in. You half-jog to the door, steeling yourself as you open it. 

“Hi.” He beams at you, holding up a bag of greasy takeout. “I brought food.” 

Your grin is bigger than you’d like it to be. He looks so pretty like this, on your doorstep just to see you, just to be in your presence. 

“Spencer,” is all you say, opening the door to let him in. You stand there like fools for a few seconds, doing nothing but staring at each other. 

He steps forward, then, and the two of you sit down to eat—set the table with two forks, two napkins, two plates. You ramble about his day and he watches the way your mouth moves as you speak, listens to you as you tell him about your annoying coworker for lunch, what you had for lunch, anything and everything that happened. You listen, too, as he interjects and lets you into that genius mind of his. You move from the table to the living room, still talking. The plates can be cleaned up tomorrow. 

You’re sitting on the couch, feet stopping just before his lap, when he rests his hand on your ankle, drawing slow circles on your fibula. He’s backlit by one of your new lamps, the light collecting his hair in a halo, and he has that baby smile on him, teeth peeking out. 

You stop talking. His hand surges up, up, up. 

“Spence,” you say softly. Stay strong in your resolve. 

“Mmm?” Your name slips out of him like the sweetest admission, curling around his tongue, and all of a sudden everything you meant to say fizzles into your gut. 

“I-I think we should—” 

He shifts closer. He smells like new books and something dangerously close to love.

It was a good effort, really. 

“Yeah?” He asks, all breathy and angelic. 

“Nothing.” 

-

You wish it didn’t hurt so much when you woke to an empty pillow. You wish that gnawing inside of you didn’t mean that you started to love him. You wish you could stop calling. 

But as the days melt to weeks, the more dread builds up inside you. You’re going to stop seeing him. You’re going to craft an ultimatum—date me or we’re done. You pray with everything inside of you that he chooses the first one. 

Every time he comes over, you tell yourself you’ll say. Then he’s all over, saying those sweet things he always says, angel, baby, love, and suddenly sleeping with a friend, your just-friend, doesn’t seem so bad. 

Then again, there’s those moments before, when you’re sitting in your living room and you remember those times before, when the clock crossed two and a puzzle was spread across your coffee table. You held cups of tea to your chest and smiled in the steam, laughing at something Spencer had said. It was easier then. You didn’t have to think about what he thought, what you looked like, how to make him want more. 

That memory surges something in you, and later, when your hair’s splayed against your pillow and moonlight is shifting against Spencer’s shoulders, you ask. 

“Spence,” you whisper, looking in those eyes. “What are we?” 

He stills, searches you before lowering his head. 

“We’re just friends, right?” He kisses that spot under your earlobe. “You don’t want it and I… I don’t have the time.”

A pit whirls in your stomach. He kisses you again, like his hand didn’t just reach into your chest and squeeze your heart, insides spilling out of its skin. 

You try to close your eyes, pretend his words didn’t make your ribs cave in. But they echo anyway.

Just friends, he said. The same way people say just water, when it floods your lungs.

He doesn’t want you like that. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want you. 

And when he pulls you under him, you wish with everything in you that you had the courage—that you wanted, really, to push him off. 

-

It’s a day when night coats the sky in inked clouds and the neon of the sign Pablo’s lights up over Spencer’s tall head. The bar near your house is crowded and loud, laughter spilling into conversations around the room. 

You slip into a booth with some of your mutual friends, shrugging off your jacket into conversation. 

“Hey,” he says, hand on your forearm. “Do you want anything from the bar?” 

“I’m okay,” you respond, mustering a smile. Why’s he going to the bar anyway? He hates drinking, you basically had to drag him out here in the first place. 

Your mouth keeps moving in conversation with someone, a work friend, while your eyes trail him. He perches his forearms onto the bar right next to a girl. A beautiful girl who looks like she’s swallowed the sun. 

Oh.

You’re proven right only a second later, when he doesn’t order a drink, instead just glancing at the girl, who, of course, turns to him. Her eyes roving all over. 

Your heart twists, clenches. Maybe you will need a drink after all. 

“I’m going to get something,” you yell to the friend next to you, already pushing yourself out of the booth and towards the furthest spot away from Spencer that you can get. 

The bar is sticky with warmth. You attempt to flag down the bartender, who nods at you from the other side of the bar, yeah, I’ll be there. 

In the mean time, you drum your fingers on the wood, knocking. It feels like hours as the bartender, a pretty woman with chestnut hair slicked back into a trimmed braid, meanders towards you, chatting on the way. 

You feel the presence before you see it, honeyed and bright against the dark of the bar. 

“Hi,” it says. 

You look up, trying to stop your jaw from dropping to the floor right onto that dingy floor. He’s beautiful. Hair swept to the side. Eyes kissed by angels. A sweet, sweet smile you want to taste. 

“Hi.” You really hope you’re concealing your blush right now. 

“I was gonna impress you with a cool drink order, but now I’m panicking. What’s good here?” He slides his forearms onto the bar, close enough to smell the tang of his cologne. 

His image flickers and he’s become Spencer, grinning up at you in the dark of the bar. 

“I–” you push that image away. You can’t be thinking of him. He doesn’t want you. Your eyes slide to where he was with that woman earlier, the one with beauty that lingers long after she’s left the room. 

They’re gone. 

You swallow. You think of him doing the things he does to you, saying what he says to you, and your insides roil. 

You glance back to the guy next to you. Eager, sweet. How could you say no to that? “I like to switch it up every time I come.” 

He nods along. “What did you get this time?” 

You point to the chalkboard next to the TV, at the daily special for happy hour. 

“A beautiful drink for a beautiful woman,” he says. 

You beam at him, flushed from the compliment. You haven’t been out in so long, not without Spencer at your hip, ready to head back to your apartment, that the attention is flattering you in a new way. 

Your mouth opens to compliment him back when his gaze flies upwards and he stands, addressing someone behind you. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone,” he says to you. 

“What? I’m not.” Your eyebrows furrow, but he’s already gone. 

What the hell?

You turn around to a face that makes you whirl, spinning in hearts. Now, though, your grin crumples. 

It’s Spencer—who else would it be? He’s looking at you, serious. His hair is twisted up and mussed, and his expression is melting back from a glare, one he was clearly using on the guy who just left. 

You never even got his name. 

“What the hell, Spencer?” You hiss, standing. 

He’s taken aback, you can see it in the crease of his eyebrows, the smallest downturn of his pink pink lips. He’s searching for the words to puzzle you out, smooth it over.

Someone turns and you can feel their eyes on you, asking, silently, are you okay? You can’t do this. Not in here. Maybe not ever. 

You push past his shoulder and all the bodies packing the entrance, ignoring his shouts of your name. 

The sky is crying now, rain slipping dark from the twirling skies. You join it, tears and raindrops salty on your skin. You can’t tell where the outside ends and where you begin. 

“Angel!” A voice yells from behind. 

You turn. Spencer’s standing under the bar’s awning, droplets sloshing onto the dark fabric. He’s dry. Safe. 

But fuck, the sight of him looking so innocent boils an anger within you. Not just because he scared off that man, but for everything he hasn’t done. Somewhere deep inside of you, you know it’s not his fault that he doesn’t want to stay longer than the night, that he can’t bring you love, that it’s not yours either. But that knowledge is buried deep and right now, all you can see is the man you weren’t enough for. The man who left you and left you and left you. 

“Angel, are you okay?” He asks, and the lilting tenderness of his voice stabs you in the gut. 

“What were you doing there, Spencer?” You demand, taking a step closer. You’re just a few feet apart now, but a chasm has opened beneath you. If either of you get closer now, you’ll fall.

“I–” he stops. 

“Say it.” 

“I dont know,” he bites his lip. “I thought you needed help. You deserve better, you know.” 

You heave, disbelief pouring through your voice. “That’s not–that’s not fair. I don’t need saving. I’m a grown woman, not some damsel in distress.” 

“I don’t think you’re–” 

“No,” you shake your head. “No. Let me finish. Even if I don’t want him, that’s not your right. It’s not your choice to make for me.” 

He stops and you take a second to try and compose yourself, but the tears just keep flying. The rain’s dripping down your bones now. The words slicked onto your tongue won’t come back once you let them free. 

“I know you don’t want a relationship. I know.” Your gaze falls to his shoes now. The tips of them are dampened by splashes of rainwater. “I know I can’t be the one to change that for you. But I’ve still been wrecking myself. I’m more yours than you are mine and that’s not even the worst part of this, even though it hurts me so much that it feels like it should be.

“The worst, worst part about us–” you’re hiccuping now, but if you don’t say this now, you never will. “it’s that I would rather stay in this thing with you forever than risk it and leave and live a love that is half of this and you. I’m tearing apart, Spencer. I feel like I’m dying everytime I see you and it hurts so, so much. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t. I can’t.” 

When you look up, you see the red rimming his eyes, his cheeks glossy. You’re breaking into sobs now, shriveling into yourself, and he’s hovering around you, lingering, unsure where he should be, who he should go to. 

“I didn’t know,” he says. Desperation coats his voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know.” 

“Spence, tell me,” you plead. “Tell me what I deserve. If not the man in the bar. Who do I deserve?” 

Something blooms inside of you. If he steps up, you promise yourself, you’ll forgive him. You’ll take him home and he’ll kiss you and when you wake up, he’ll be there. You’ll giggle when he insists on cooking you breakfast and giggle again when his lips fall onto your neck before you leave for work. 

Now, your hands slip into his. The wet is coating them now, frozen. His are warm, so warm, cradling yours with a tenderness you never thought you’d deserved. Come on, Spencer. Just step out into the rain. 

His lips drop open and your heart starts flipping. 

“I don’t know.” His voice molts into a whisper. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

Your fingers drop away, hang limply by your sides, twitching as if they don’t know what to do. 

“I have to go.” You hate how choked your voice is. Grief is blocking your throat, scratching at those walls. 

You turn. You can’t pretend you don’t linger for a second, praying he’ll say your name, lay his palm on your back. 

Nothing. 

The whole walk home, you let yourself sob. The thunder covers up the sound, an apology for the rain that’s stripped you bare and shivering in the open. 

Your whole body aches. But when you reach home, the first thing you do is strip your sheets, his scent still tracing the cotton. 

You throw it into the washer, watch it tumble into suds. 

Watch him wash away. 

masterlist

tags @lydiasfalling @cowboylikemac @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings

[underurmoonlight]

hii omg your theme is so so beautiful the blue is so pretty

omg thank youuuuu 🫶🏼 you’re so sweet

[underurmoonlight]

[underurmoonlight]

cowboy!remus lupin is gonna be the death of me ‼️‼️

[underurmoonlight]

summerbutlikesummerhowsummerwaswheniwasalittlekid.com/howto

[underurmoonlight]

Show me how unwell you are by telling me what your top song of 2025 is so far

[underurmoonlight]

other people journal before bed, i search up remus lupin fanfiction on tumblr

[underurmoonlight]

He’s mine.

barty crouch jr x evan rosier

summary: Jealous Barty finally breaks and officially gets together with Evan

wc: 1029

warnings: slightly suggestive near the end, like one mention of mental health, a bit toxic but you know it’s rosekiller, possessive Barty(some may say regular Barty)

a/n: My favourite ship is hereeee 🤍

Barty was a jealous person and he had no problem admitting that. So when he saw Evan, the guy he’s been making moves on for the past few years, flirting with some other person? He was pissed. Sure barty never explicitly asked Evan out and they weren’t dating either, Evan was his.

Complaining to anyone who would listen, and even those who wouldn’t. It wasn’t hard to see that Barty was hurt by it.

“Did you even talk to him about it?” Dorcas spoke up from her spot in the guys dorm. Pandora and Dorcas often came to the dorm Reg, Barty, and Evan occupied when the common room was too full and they were all hanging out.

“No, that’s stupid. I don’t wanna look desperate Cas.”

“You are desperate. You’ve been complaining about this for days now.” Reg pitched in, clearly annoyed that this was still going on.

Barty sighed and dramatically threw himself onto his bed. What if Evan rejected him? He was sure he’d have to disappear and create a new identity or something. Being rejected is just as stupid as desperation in his mind. And in Regulus’s words, he stated that Barty was already desperate so he’s close enough to rock bottom.

“I think he’s just trying to get your attention Bat, he usually returns your affection just as much.” Suggested Pandora.

He thought about that for a moment. Could that be true? In technicality it did make sense. Whenever Barty did get over affectionate and flirtatious Evan was right back and doing the same thing to him. And Evan didn’t really like being touched by anyone else so maybe she was onto something.

“So what do I do?”

“Talk to him!” Came from all three of them and he was up.

Remembering that Evan had said he was going to the ravenclaw party tonight, he rushed over. Evan was invited by that same git that he was flirting with the other night and that only made his blood boil more.

After snatching some tiny ravenclaws robes and asking what the password to the common room was and getting a frightened squeak of an answer he walked in confidently.

Blue lighting and loud music surrounded him. The smell of sweaty bodies, and alcohol was strong but his determination to find Evan and reclaim him was stronger. Pushing past people, ignoring the annoyed calls that he got, he finally saw Evan and he almost broke. Which way he planned on breaking wasn’t confirmed.

Either storming off and spiraling into a depressive episode that would hold him back for a while or deciding to wreak havoc and destroy anyone in his path.

Seeing Evan making out with that stupid ravenclaw, who he refused to know by name, in the corner of the room. Their hands were under each other's shirts and they had clearly gotten comfortable with one another.

The people around the situation had almost made a clearing for Barty, some out of terror because Barty was known to go a little off rail at times, and some who were just invested in what was going to happen.

Everyone knew that Barty had claimed Evan. Many thought it was toxic and unhealthy. Perhaps it was but Barty didn’t care and he knew if he had just made Evan realize that he was his and his alone then Evan would accept it and most likely claim Barty back.

So in a pure adrenaline rush, and zero doubts, Barty charged forward and grabbed the ravenclaw by the scruff.

Barty relished in the fact the boy looked suddenly terrified and almost cackled in his face. Instead he shoved him off to the side, not even giving him a second glance, now only focusing on his rose.

“What are you doing Barty?” Evan spoke tiredly, as if he had known something like this was going to happen. What Barty didn’t know was that Evan only spoke that way because he had expected Barty to just drag him away and say that he was his without actually doing anything about it. Evan wanted him to make the move.

So when Barty finally did at that very moment. Evan was already head over heels.

Grabbing the collar of Evan’s shirt, he pulled his right into him and kissed him. It wasn’t soft, nor cute. Nothing like you would see in some rom com.

It was full of possession and fire. One that would bound the two of them forever, and one that Evan had no problem with reciprocating. They both seemed to be possessed by something greater than themselves.

The ones watching around them grew shocked, some looking away awkwardly, and others who wouldn’t hear about it until the next morning because they were too drunk to pay attention now.

A moment had passed and they finally pulled back.

“So you finally got the message?” Evan smirked.

“Little prick, you really were doing this for my attention weren’t you?”

“Not just your attention Barty. You are mine just as much as I’m yours and I wanted you to finally make things official. I was tired of not being officially together so I took things into my own hands.”

“Why not just ask me out first.”

“Turns me on seeing you this worked up.”

A wicked smirk made its way onto both of their faces now and they wasted no time going straight to their dorm. Walking past the common room they saw Regulus, Dorcas, and Pandora. Clearly having come down here in prediction that Barty and Evan would need a night of alone time.

The girls cheered when they saw them walking by hand in hand, Regulus cracked a smile, stating that it was finally over and they didn’t have to listen to Barty’s complaining and Evan’s loud sighs.

Though he didn’t realize that now he was going to have to listen to them gush and get way to specific about their love life.

The next morning, Barty and Evan were the talk of the great hall at breakfast, even more so when they both walked in happily with all kinds of marks, hickies, and bite marks. They were officially each other’s.

[underurmoonlight]

worst headcannons ever :-

The prank

Sirius suspecting Remus to be the spy

Remus suspecting Sirius to be the spy

Peter betraying the marauders

the marauders dying

lily dying

marlene and Dorcas not a thing

Evan and Barty are evil.

Regulus going horcrux hunting alone.

[underurmoonlight]

A Witch Is A Bitch

poly!moonwater x fem!reader

synopsis: you’re a wild force no one can tame, always stirring trouble and pushing boundaries. remus and regulus can’t help but chase after you, torn between worry and fascination. but when a fight leaves you injured, and still reckless, you’ll have to face what it means to finally slow down.

cw: injury, fights, reckless behavior, strong language, angst, emotional tension, minor violence, older brother figure sirius, jealousy, unfiltered emotions, self-destructive moments, teasing, occasional humor, mentions of blood, stubbornness.

wc: 3.8k. masterlist

“She was supposed to be in Ancient Runes,” Remus said, tension coiling through every word as his boots echoed down the corridor.

Regulus’s jaw tightened. “No, she said she was going. Whether she actually went is an entirely different matter.”

They moved swiftly through the castle, not running, but close to it. Their eyes scanned every corridor, every classroom door left ajar. Occasionally they passed other students, but neither of them paused to explain. 

This was a familiar routine by now.

You had a habit of disappearing from your boyfriends—not out of cruelty, and never to hurt them. It was simply how you were built. Restless. Elusive. Always moving just a step ahead of the moment meant to hold you still. 

You never intended to vanish, but you did—consistently, without warning, like instinct. And while Remus and Regulus both had a sharp eye for detail and an even sharper sense of you, your reflex for slipping away always outpaced them.

It infuriated Regulus. Not in theory—he could recite your patterns better than anyone—but in practice, it drove him to the edge. He had worn holes into rugs pacing waiting rooms, broken quills pressing too hard against half-written parchment, and spoken too harshly to professors just trying to help. 

He hated not knowing where you were, not because he doubted you, but because it reminded him that even the people you love can disappear before you can stop them.

Remus was quieter about it. He didn’t raise his voice or throw words like knives. He worried in stillness, letting the concern build until it became something physical. 

He would linger at thresholds, watching for a glimpse of you. He replayed possibilities in his head, cataloguing every worst-case outcome with painful precision.

But what had pushed both of them to their limit—especially Regulus—was that this was not an isolated event. Only two days ago, they’d found you bloodied after a brawl outside the Great Hall. 

You’d taken down both students, that much was obvious, but not without consequence. A deep gash had opened above your brow, and Regulus had gone still the moment he saw the blood tracking down your cheek. 

His girlfriend was bleeding, his boyfriend still limping from the full moon. The sight of you both injured—one bruised by violence, the other by nature—had left him on the edge of a full collapse.

He had pulled you aside that night and delivered a tirade under the guise of care. It was less a conversation and more a contained eruption—measured fury laced with panic, sharpened by helpless affection. He’d spoken about recklessness and responsibility, about consequences and care, and you’d nodded as if you agreed.

Which was exactly why, now, Remus and Regulus were stalking the castle in frustration, moving through the corridors with rising urgency, each more anxious than the other. You were nowhere in sight, again. 

And this time, Regulus was dangerously close to losing his patience entirely.

By the time they reached the clearing behind the greenhouse—the place Sirius had once shown you when you needed to scream without anyone hearing—your name was already burning on both their tongues.

They found him first.

Leaning against the ivy-streaked wall, Sirius looked up before they could speak, his expression urgent. His hands, usually animated and bold, were still, and protective. Blood stained his shirt near the shoulder, but it wasn’t his.

“She’s here,” he said quietly, his voice more breath than sound. “But don’t rush her.”

Neither Remus nor Regulus replied. They simply pushed past the veil of hanging vines that framed the archway, and there you were.

You weren’t standing tall with your arms crossed, daring the world to challenge you.

You weren’t perched on your broom, eyes alight with wildfire and defiance.

You weren’t even arguing.

You were sitting on the ground, curled partially into Sirius’s side, one leg bent awkwardly as you tried to apply pressure to the wound just below your knee. Your lips were pale. There was dried blood streaked across your temple. And your eyes—those sharp, glinting things that usually held galaxies of challenge—were glassy, wide, and uncertain.

You didn’t look like the girl who started fights with prefects and laughed mid-detention.

You looked small.

And they didn’t know what terrified them more: the sight of you bleeding or the fact that you weren’t pretending not to be hurt.

You sensed them before you heard them and stiffened instinctively, not in pain, but in guilt.

“I’m sorry,” you said before either of them could speak, your voice cracking. “I didn’t want you to find me like this.”

Regulus dropped to his knees beside you with such force the ground seemed to tremble. “Why didn’t you come to us?”

You looked down. The blood on your fingers, the torn fabric of your skirt, the heat behind your eyes. “Because I thought you’d be angry. I—I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Remus knelt slowly on your other side, his expression unreadable but his hands impossibly gentle. “You thought we’d be angry that you were hurt?”

“I thought you'd think I was reckless. That I ruined everything, again.”

Sirius said nothing, just rubbed a steady hand down your back, his eyes soft with something brotherly and ancient. He didn’t need to speak. He had already given you enough just by letting you be found.

Regulus lifted your chin carefully, his fingers featherlight but sure. “You did not ruin anything. You got hurt, and you were scared. That’s not the same as failing.”

Remus took your injured leg and examined it with practiced calm, though you saw the way his lips pressed tight, how his brow furrowed deeper with every bruise he uncovered. “And next time, you come to us. Even if you think we’ll be furious, especially then.”

You tried to joke, to lift the weight hanging heavy between you. “Sirius is the only one I thought wouldn’t yell.”

“I’m still going to yell,” Sirius muttered above you, his thumb brushing away a smear of dried blood near your cheek. “Just… later. When you’re not crying into my shirt.”

Sirius’s muttered warning still lingered in the air, but before you could respond, Remus stepped forward, his voice low and aching.

“C’mere, dovey,” he murmured, his arms already reaching, his gaze locked on the blood seeping through the torn fabric at your knee. “Let me see.”

You didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really. You were too tired to be stubborn, too sore to be proud. Your hands trembled faintly as you let him guide you, his touch gentle but decisive as he shifted you so you could lean into him fully. 

He knelt in front of you with that steady grace only Remus could manage, even when his eyes were clouded with worry and exhaustion.

It physically hurt to see the way he looked at your injury. You caught it in the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed down his reaction, in the way his fingertips hovered just above your skin like touching you too soon might make it worse. 

His jaw tightened as he peeled back the edge of your sock with meticulous care, and when he finally saw the full extent of the gash, he let out a slow, controlled exhale.

“We were mad at you,” he said quietly, not looking up. “Two days ago, you snuck out past curfew, hexed a Slytherin, and somehow crashed the entire Transfiguration display, after fighting two students.”

You opened your mouth, guilt creeping over your ribs, but he raised a hand before you could speak.

“We were mad. But that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t run after you the second you vanished. That doesn’t mean we don’t worry. You’ve got this idea in your head that your recklessness is something we’re just meant to punish. But love, we worry like this because we care. Not because we want to leash you. Because we know what this world can do.”

You lowered your eyes. “I didn’t think it would be this bad. I thought I could handle it.”

“You always think you can handle it,” Regulus said suddenly, from just behind you. His voice was tight, quieter than usual, but laced with something rawer than scolding. “You always think you can fix it or fight it or outrun it, and maybe you can, but it doesn’t mean you have to.”

He was standing close to Sirius now, his shoulder brushing against his brother’s. You felt the pressure of his presence before you saw him kneel on the other side, his eyes not on you but on Sirius.

“What happened?” Regulus demanded, barely managing to keep his voice from cracking, each word sharp with panic as he crouched beside you. His eyes were locked on your leg, now visibly soaked through with blood.

“She came to find me,” Sirius answered quietly, his voice low and level, though there was a tightness around the edges that betrayed him. “Didn’t say much. Just asked if she could sit for a while. I didn’t press, but when I saw her knee—she was trembling, Regulus. I didn’t ask why, so I just pulled her in and wrapped her up.”

Regulus’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. He pressed one to his mouth and dragged it slowly down his face, like the motion might anchor him. He didn’t speak or move. Just stared at the way you leaned into Sirius’s side, your fingers white-knuckled in the fabric of his shirt.

When he finally looked at you, it wasn’t gentle. His eyes blazed, not with anger exactly, but with something so close it made your chest tighten. He reached forward wordlessly, trying to slide his arm beneath your knees.

You flinched. “I can walk.”

“You’re bleeding through your sock,” he snapped. “You can barely stand.”

Remus stepped in beside you, tone soft but firm. “Darling, please. Just let us—”

“No.” You turned to him, expression fierce, eyes sharp despite the pain tightening your jaw. “I said I don’t need to go to the bloody infirmary,” you snapped, jerking your arm out of Regulus’s grip for what felt like the fifth time.

“And I said I don’t care,” Regulus bit out, his voice low and razor-edged. “You’re limping, you’re bleeding down the damn corridor, and yet somehow you think that qualifies as ‘perfectly fine’? Enlighten me, Miss I Can Handle It All—what part of this looks even remotely fine?”

“I’ve walked it off before.”

“You shouldn’t have had to!” His voice cracked, and he immediately clenched his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to keep walking things off alone like some feral stray, and we shouldn’t have to find you bruised and shaking in a fucking greenhouse with a gash down your leg!”

“I’m not a stray,” you muttered, stubbornness flaring even as your knee trembled beneath your weight. “I just don’t like being fussed over!”

“Fussed over?” Remus finally spoke, and his voice was quieter than Regulus’s but somehow twice as cutting. “You think this is us fussing over you? You think we dragged ourselves across half the castle, sick with dread, just to fuss?”

Your jaw clenched. “I’ve had worse.”

“And I’m not interested in watching it get worse!” Regulus interrupted,  voice rose, sharper than intended. “God, do you ever think—just for a second—before running straight into hell?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

You crossed your arms, spine stiff. “I didn’t want you to look at me like I was helpless.”

“Too fucking late,” he snapped.

Remus sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “You know we don’t think that.”

“You don’t say it,” you bit back. “But every time I do something reckless or stupid or too loud or too angry, you both look at me like you regret dealing with me.”

“Regret?” Remus echoed, and his head dropped back with a quiet, hollow laugh. “You think I regret you?”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t want you to worry,” you whispered. It was the closest thing to an apology they’d ever get.

“We’ll worry anyway,” Remus said, gently. “That’s what people do when they’re in this.”

“Then stop being in it.”

That stunned them both into silence.

But then Regulus took a step forward, and his voice, though shaking, was full of steel. “Not a chance.”

Remus exhaled like something inside him had snapped clean. “Alright. That’s enough. You’ve made your point, you’re proud, you’re bleeding, and I’m done arguing.”

“Don’t—”

Your eyes went glassy. You looked down, biting the inside of your cheek. Sirius’s arm tightened around your shoulders, grounding you and steadying you.

Regulus thought kept going. “You don’t come to us. You disappear, and then we find you like this—injured, reckless, refusing help like it's some kind of badge of honor. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look for you over and over, never knowing what we’ll find?”

Your lip wobbled before you could stop it. “I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

And that was what undid Remus. He stepped forward quickly, his voice low but firm. “Reg, that’s enough!”

Regulus froze. His chest was heaving, hands clenched so tight they shook. He turned to Remus like he wanted to argue, but then he looked down again—really looked at you. 

The way your hands gripped Sirius’s shirt like a lifeline. The way your shoulders curled inward. The tremble in your breath, the tears gathering despite your best effort to blink them away.

He stepped forward carefully, slower this time, voice softer. “Hey, amour. No, no, no. Don’t—don’t cry.”

You sniffled, still holding on to Sirius. Sirius gave Regulus a look, one that was quiet and understanding. Without a word, he eased his grip on you.

Regulus knelt again, more careful now, his voice close to a whisper. “Let me take you. Please. I’m not mad that you’re hurt. I’m just scared, scared that one day we won’t find you in time.”

Your fingers relaxed from Sirius’s shirt. You let yourself be guided into Regulus’s arms.

Remus stepped beside him, gently brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “Let’s get you to the infirmary, dove. Then we’ll talk. No more lectures, alright?”

Before you could reply, Remus had already swept you off your feet—again—and this time you were too stunned to fight. Regulus held the door open ahead of him, expression dark and unreadable.

“You’re going to the infirmary,” Remus said, voice calm in that terrifying way. “You’re going to sit on the bed, and you’re going to let someone fix you. And then, maybe, if there’s any sanity left between me and Regulus, we’ll talk about how the hell to keep you alive another week.”

You didn’t argue again.

The only sound in the corridor was the steady pace of Remus’s boots and the ragged rise and fall of your breath.

Madam Pomfrey did not ask questions when the doors burst open. She didn’t flinch at the sight of blood streaked down your leg, or the exhaustion in Remus’s face, or the strange, turbulent silence clinging to Regulus like a second skin.

She just waved them toward a bed and summoned a glowing salve with a flick of her wand.

You said nothing as she cleaned the wound. You watched the ceiling while your leg burned and throbbed and throbbed again. Remus sat beside you the entire time, his hand wrapped around your wrist as though you might vanish again if he let go.

Regulus stood by the foot of the bed, arms folded, jaw tight. He watched the entire process in silence—watched every wince, every breath you held, every twitch of discomfort you didn’t voice aloud. His eyes never left you.

When it was over, and when the salve had cooled and the bandage was in place and the pain had dulled to a tolerable ache, they didn’t rush you. They helped you off the bed slowly. Remus steadied you while Regulus picked up your coat and tucked it beneath his arms.

The walk back to the dorm was quiet. Comfortable, almost. Heavy with something unspoken, but not tense. The air between you had shifted.

When the door shut behind you, Regulus was the one who spoke first.

“I know you were scared,” he said softly, his voice more thread than steel. “I know you didn’t know where to go. But next time—if there is a next time, which, Merlin help me, there better not be—I want you to come to me or Remus. Not to Sirius.”

Your brows lifted slowly. You were sitting on the edge of the bed now, fingers absently tracing the edge of your bandage.

“Sirius is my friend,” you replied, tone light.

“I know,” Regulus said. “He’s my brother, and I love him. But he’s not the one who waits up at night wondering if you’re bleeding in a stairwell. He’s not the one who checks every classroom between classes when you don’t show up. He’s not the one who knows the difference between your angry silence and your scared silence.”

Remus crossed the room and sat beside you, one arm curling around your shoulders, warm and steady.

Regulus looked away for a moment, his jaw tense, and then turned back to you. “I don’t want you hiding with him because you think we’ll be angry. Even if we are. Even if you did something completely reckless and batshit and frustrating. I’d still rather know you’re safe with me than not know where you are at all.”

You blinked slowly, then tilted your head, a slow grin tugging at the edge of your mouth.

“Reg,” you said sweetly. “Are you… jealous?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded far too close to a groan. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird.” You shifted closer to Remus, resting your cheek on his shoulder, and looked back at Regulus with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “You’re jealous of your own brother. That’s so tragic.”

Remus snorted, trying to cover his laugh with a cough. “Don’t start.”

Regulus stepped forward until he stood in front of you. “I’m not jealous of Sirius, belle fille” he said.

“I’m scared that one day, you won’t come back from whatever chaos you charge into. And it kills me that someone else would know before I do.”

The teasing left you in one breath. You reached out slowly and brushed your fingers through the strands of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I'm sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled,” Regulus murmured, his voice quieter now, fraying at the edges.

“Je suis désolé. I just—when I saw you like that, I panicked. You don’t have to be sorry, ma chérie. You only have to let us love you the way you deserve.”

You let Regulus press a kiss to your temple. You let Remus rise and kiss your hand, quietly, reverently.

The three of you walk slowly, your steps echoing through the corridor softened by golden light.

Remus keeps an arm around your waist, steady and sure, even if his limp hasn’t quite faded. He smells like clean linen and the hospital wing, and you rest your weight on him with the stubborn insistence that you’re fine.

Regulus walks a few paces ahead, carrying all three of your bags, lips pressed in a tight line.

It happens fast.

You see something—just a flutter of parchment on the wall—and turn toward it too quickly. Your boot catches uneven stone and you stumble.

Remus, ever the protector, reaches to catch you, but your weight throws off his balance. His back arches with pain, and you both lurch dangerously to the side.

Regulus spins the moment he hears the scuffle. In a blink, he's between you both, hands reaching, eyes wide, heart already clawing up his throat.

“Are you serious?” he breathes out, voice strangled. “Are you both alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say too quickly, biting a grin even as your knee twinges.

“Fine,” Remus echoes, a bit breathless, jaw tight with the pain he refuses to acknowledge.

But Regulus doesn’t move. His hands hover at your shoulders, his gaze cutting between your bruised expression and Remus’s pale face. You can practically hear the thoughts ricocheting in his skull.

He’d almost lost you once this week. Watched you bleed in Sirius’s arms, your voice quiet with pain. And now Remus too? His stubborn, reckless boyfriend still healing from the last moon, almost taken down just trying to keep you upright.

It presses against his ribs like a hand squeezing too tightly.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “I swear I’m putting a bloody leash on you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. “That sounds vaguely kinky, Reg.”

“Not the point.”

Remus presses a hand to your back. “She’s alright.”

“No, she’s not. Neither are you,” Regulus snaps, then gentles his tone as his thumb brushes your shoulder.

You look up at them both—one arm around you, one hand still gripping your sleeve like you’ll vanish again—and something warm swells beneath your ribs.

Because the truth is, this won’t be the last time. You will disappear again. You’ll pick fights you shouldn’t, leap where you shouldn’t land, run headfirst into chaos like it’s written into your blood. A witch, after all, is a bitch—especially this one.

But no matter how loud the world gets, or how many times you break skin, you know without doubt that two people will always be behind you—Remus, patient and steady; Regulus, fierce and unspeakably loyal. They’ll come, always.

You lean into both of them, one shoulder pressed to Remus’s chest, fingers curled tightly into Regulus’s sleeve.

“Lucky for me,” you murmur, quiet but unapologetic, “I’ve got the best safety net in the world.”

[underurmoonlight]

"how does one get into marauders?" divine intervention. i dont know how i got here

"can you explain marauders era and the earlier eras fandoms?" i dont even know what i know

[underurmoonlight]

I like my healthy rosekiller but I like it more when they're absolutely toxic and want to kill each other as much as they want to fuck