theofficialmadman

[theofficialmadman]

Black secrets

Summary: "Don't give away to much, or it will lose it's value."

Pairing: Sirius black x hufflepuff!reader

Warnings: past toxic friendship, past toxic relationship (not with the reader), insecurities, self conscious , fake dating

Thank you all for the loving comments, I will try to write more <33 This part takes place before the last.

Wc: 1.1k Masterlist Last Part

I literally flew through the corridors. My heart was racing, my legs felt light, and for the first time, my head didn't seem to throb. The sun shone brightly and seemed to smile at me. I smiled back and enjoyed the beautiful weather.

Suddenly, I bumped into someone.

I looked ahead and saw a boy from Slytherin, who looked at me with big, inquisitive eyes. Where did I know those eyes from?

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

He still looked at me with that gaze. Eventually, he shook his head. "As if someone like you could hurt me."

What?

He already pushed me aside and was about to leave after saying that, but I didn't let him go so easily.

"What do you mean?"

He looked away and shook his head again. "Forget it, Whisky."

"What… How do you know-"

"Everyone knows you by now, and you should know why." I felt small under those eyes. How they followed me. How they assessed me. How familiar they seemed.

"How do you know 'Whisky'?"

His eyes widened at that. He looked at me for a long time, as if he were just coming up with his answer.

"I'm (y/n)."

Then he looked away. I tried to catch his gaze, but I couldn't. Finally, he turned around.

"I only know Whisky, who always chases after everyone and now pretends to be with Sirius Black. Not (y/n)."

Then he walked away.

"Hey, wait! You can't just-"

"I have to go to the Quidditch field. Leave me alone."

And before I could say anything else, he was gone. My confusion slowly turned into panic as I realized what that fifth-year just said.

Pretends.

Who the hell was this boy with blavk hair and those familiar eyes? And how did he know?

~~~

"Why did you talk to Leander? And about what?" Cassie looked at me appraisingly. It seemed she and Phina didn't catch everything Leander had said in the common room. Lucky.

"I just warned him not to pick a fight with Sirius. We all know how that ends. He'll end up in the hospital wing again," I said, gathering my things and placing them on our dresser.

Our rooms were far from the other houses. It wasn't always pleasant to climb the entire way up. And who came up with the idea to place Slytherin in the basement? Whisky still always came down to wait for me.

"So what? Let him end up in the hospital wing; it's more fun for us! Otherwise, everything here is sooo boring… Since Whis-"

"Our team should win, not start a brawl," I interrupted Phina before she said something that would infuriate me. I understood her desire for something new all the time and the amusement of drama. But I didn't want any drama with Leander and Sirius at the moment.

"That's strange, though," Cassie began, leaning forward with a sly grin. "Since when does our untouchable Seraph care about our Quidditch team? Usually, you only went for Whisky. Or are you hoping to see her there?"

I shook my head laughing, as always. Don't reveal too much; otherwise, it loses its value. "Yes, sure, Cassie." Give nothing away, or it loses its value. "You have a vivid imagination in your sweet little head."

Hidden revenge hurts the most. And I know what it looks like. But when I look at Whisky, I don't see that hidden revenge. I see guilt feelings, as if she genuinely cares about me. Yes, as if that little snake somehow cares about me in her new perfect world!

Cassie didn't say anything more and looked away. Sometimes, she reminded me so terribly of Whisky that I wanted to hit her.

"Come on, Phina, let's go upstairs already."

And sometimes, she was so unlike Whisky that I wanted to strangle her.

"Can you wait for a damn moment for me? It's not that hard, is it?"

Both looked at me silently as I sighed and finished tying my hair into a ponytail. I stood up and examined myself in the mirror. "Not great, but it'll have to do."

Then I turned to the little mice, waiting for my next move. "Wasn't that difficult, was it?"

Phina looked like she wanted to say something, but Cassie gave her a look that made her hesitate. I didn't want to wait for their game, so I started walking. They followed me as always.

Take it away from them, and they'll want it again.

~~~

One foot in front of the other. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right-

"(Y/n)! There you are, we've been looking for you!" Maya and Lydia approached me. I was on my way to my room to contemplate this encounter.

"Come on, let's go to the game together; it's starting soon. And you definitely shouldn't miss it!" Lydia looked at me with a meaningful look while Maya took a moment to understand her hints.

"Yeah, you're right."

I joined them and walked towards the field with them, trying not to show anything. I kept the encounter with the boy to myself for now.

"Would it be okay if we meet up with Luis and Luke? They don't know you yet and would like to get to know you. They're nice guys, even if Luke can be a bit rough, he's still nice." Maya explained, looking at me expectantly.

I wasn't good with new people, but if they wanted to get to know me, it would be impolite to simply say no. So, I nodded with a smile, and we headed to the spectator stands.

On one side, there were mostly green robes, with a few yellow or blue ones. Slytherin was very serious when it came to the game against Gryffindor. The same could be said for those sitting on the other side.

As we approached the stands, I could already see two boys my age in Ravenclaw robes from a distance. They both had black hair and seemed to be twins, although you could distinguish them easily. One had a very serious expression and a scar on his face, while the other looked more relaxed, but something seemed to be on his mind.

Maya waved to them, and Lydia ran towards the one with a smile on her face, hugging him. He seemed surprised at first but hugged her back.

"Feeling better?" she asked him, and he smiled a sad smile. He nodded slightly but very uncertainly, and Maya scrutinized him with concern.

The somewhat grim one cleared his throat and turned to me. Instead of saying anything, he nodded his head towards me and looked at his brother pleadingly. The brother quickly caught on and let go of Lydia.

"Hey, sorry, this must be weird for you. Everything's fine, don't worry. You're (Y/n), right? I'm Luis, and this is Luke." He smiled at me, and I nodded back. "Nice to finally meet you. We've heard about you from everywhere."

I looked away shyly and didn't know what to say. I didn't have to say anything, as Luke spoke up. "We need to find a seat soon. Otherwise, Slytherin will take them all."

"And where should we sit?" I asked, looking at the others.

Luke looked at me in disbelief. "To Gryffindor? On your friend's side? Where do you want to go?"

I looked at the Slytherin side where I usually sat and was startled by his question. "I- It's just a habit, sorry."

Luis laughed softly, not mocking but friendly. "You were a Slytherin fan? How did you even end up with Sirius?" He looked at me for a long time, and my heart stopped. "But he also dated Seraph, so it seems he puts Quidditch aside in his relationships."

"Now let's go!" said Lydia, who seemed to want to get me to the spectator level as quickly as possible. Luis laughed, and Luke just grinned at me slightly as we walked in.

The field seemed huge every time I saw it. The preparation seemed to be over, and the players were in their team tents. We found seats near the front but not too close so that we could have a good view of the field.

It took a long time for all the spectators to sit down, and the murmurs subsided. I looked into the spectator rows around us and saw people I had known since childhood suddenly very close. Some even smiled at me, although we had never spoken.

Eventually, it was time. The players were called and summoned to their positions. It didn't take long until I saw Sirius, but it seemed like an eternity before our eyes met.

When he saw me, he pointed at me and smiled. As if to say, I'm winning for you. I blushed slightly and smiled back at him. Eventually, I couldn't look into those eyes anymore and looked away.

Into other familiar eyes. Wide-open eyes that looked at me in shock. Seraph was sitting across from me. I felt uncomfortable as she looked down and then back at me. But she wasn't looking at Sirius.

The Slytherin players gathered, and the last player was called to his position. The boy I had encountered. The one who glared at me from below. The one who seraph looked at in disbelief.

"And Regulus Black, as Seeker, to his position!"

Regulus.

Black?

Taglist: @theofficialmadman @fanboyluvr @fjdjsiskcjfj @starsval @olkathedestroyer @helloitsmeeeeeee @xamapolax @maripositanoctruna @ancientimes @cloudlst @marina468 @regulus-black-223048 @loving-and-dreaming @tarzanathetumblingwarrior @princesspuffle8@lonely-nerd-sodaholic@lostgirlsstuff@wolken-n @thepunisherfrankcastle@nefri-black@solitarioslilium@briskesby@ropickle@my-current-fandom-is @hawkinsavclub1983@dancingwithreality

[theofficialmadman]

I’ve been waiting for this for a long time and needless to say, I’m OBSESSED with the final artwork 🤩 I love how he’s kissing her forehead, eyes closed, as if he can’t believe it still. I love how her lips are slightly parted, the longing, love and desire. I love EVERYTHING about this! It’s so beautiful and sweet 🥹

cludi_a_.

[theofficialmadman]

Complete

Recently fired Y/n receives a job offer from Bruce Wayne. Date Jason and run the Wayne Enterprises social media. It was better then her other idea...

Featuring stalkers, awkwardness, and friends who won't let you fail at this because they're having too much fun.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21

[theofficialmadman]

Loving lies

Masterlist

Pairing: Sirius black x hufflepuff!reader

Tangled in lies

Whispers of th Heart

Unveiling Loyalties

The Whims of Fate

Dating?

Hey there 😅

I was gone for a while, because I just couldn't write anymore :') And I wanted to ask if you were still interested in my Sirius x hufflepuff reader story? This is the master list that should have been made a long time ago, but I didn't expect it to be so long.

Thank you for all the loving comments!!! Everytime I read them I am so proud and happy that I wrote my silly idea. I hope you would still read it and leave your sweet comments for me to read. Love you alll<33333

Just leave a comment if you still want more <3

Taglist: @theofficialmadman @fanboyluvr @fjdjsiskcjfj @starsval @olkathedestroyer @helloitsmeeeeeee @xamapolax @maripositanoctruna @ancientimes @cloudlst @marina468 @regulus-black-223048 @loving-and-dreaming @tarzanathetumblingwarrior @princesspuffle8 @lonely-nerd-sodaholic @lostgirlsstuff @wolken-n

[theofficialmadman]

the fact that we only have “herculean task” and “sisyphean task” feels so limiting. so here’s a few more tasks for your repertoire

icarian task: when you have a task you know you’re going to fail at anyways, so why not have some fun with it before it all comes crashing down

cassandrean task: when you have to deal with people you KNOW won’t listen to you, despite having accurate information, and having to watch them fumble about when you told them the solution from the start (most often witnessed in customer service)

feel free to chime in i ran out of ideas much faster than i anticipated

[theofficialmadman]

Yeah, I've met your demons, but they do not scare me I know they'll be angels once they learn to fly I've seen all your seasons, your cold February I know you'll be blooming in a matter of time

What I'm saying is I get you, get you Nothing we can't get through If I see you going down that road Then I won't let you I'll catch you no matter how far you fall

'Cause the best of me loves the best of you And all the rest, I can see right through You trust in me and I'll trust you too 'Cause the best of me loves the best of you

-  Best of You, by Andy Grammer

Art by: @artyventurer Commissioned by: @melphss

[theofficialmadman]

art by @theairtfreak

[theofficialmadman]

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart pt. II

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 3,3k  warnings: curse words, mentions of a one night stand, unexpected pregnancy summary: an appointment with Madja reveals more about your condition; pt. I

It hurts.

Azriel has always wanted a mate. Azriel has always wanted to be in love. Azriel has always wanted a child. A family. To be a father. He has never spoken this wish out loud, has always kept it to himself, but deep inside his mind and heart the thought has always been there.

He never deemed himself worthy, yet still he has always wanted a family. A family with his mate. A home where their children would be joyfully running around.

But now things are different and he is sure he is not worthy of the life he created. With you. A female he spent a night with. Not his mate. Not his wife.

You are wonderful and brilliant… He had never planned on risking your life just for one night of pleasure and fun. He had never wanted what is happening here, right now. 

Under different circumstances – if you had been his mate or wife– you would have talked about children before trying to conceive. You would have talked about the potential risk of the wings.

But how it is now, you were given no choice. You had no choice. He ruined your life...risked it just for his pleasure.

You are becoming a mother. He is becoming a father. Sooner than expected. And not planned.

You are a female he has been intimate for only one time. He doesn’t even really know you, you don’t know him and yet he put a baby inside of you. A baby with wings. A baby that can risk your life.

His throat constricts so much it makes it hard for him to swallow, the back of his mouth is burning, his eyes feeling like salt has been sprinkled into them.

His scarred fingers curl tighter around the counter, his gaze solely focused on you. 

A small whimper parts your lips, Madja's hands are as carefully as possible pressing down on your belly. "The bleeding…since when has this been going on?" Her voice is soft, gentle. 

But Azriel is immediately on alert. He straightens up, leans forward, forehead lying in furrows as he looks between you and the healer. Panic courses through his veins, an icy shiver dancing down his spine.

You haven't told him about the bleeding, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily. He already worries too much, you did not want to add more on top of hos remorse and regrets. And the bleeding hasn’t been going on for too long. It has only started…

"A few days ago." You avert your gaze, not wanting to see her expression. You know you should have contacted a healer earlier, but you thought the bleeding would just go away again.

"How much is a few?" Madja raises her brow at you, a bit of reprimanding lacing in her voice and shimmering in her eyes.

"Three days, I think."

Majda purses her lips, her expression as if she is deep in thought. And she probably is. Her fingers stroke over your skin again, you cringe, and suck in a sharp inhale. The pain is quite vivid, and as much as you don't want to let it show, you can't hide it. 

Hands placed on your belly, she presses down gently and it feels like something shifts inside you, like the baby is turning and a low cry of pain leaves you.

Icy claws pierce into Azriel's heart at the sound, and he curls his fingers towards his palms. He knows it isn't Madja's intention to hurt you, but she is hurting you...his...his...the mother of his unborn child and that is enough for him to be on edge.

"It is what I thought…" She looses a long breath and finally lifts her head to meet your gaze. There are many emotions you can't place, except for one: worry.

"The tips of the talons are scratching against the inside of your womb, that is where the bleeding comes from. Your hips and womb are not made for a baby — an Illyrian baby— with wings. There is not enough room for the wings."

You know this. Azriel knows this. Everyone knows this. But hearing it...it hurts and makes concern spread out again. Throughout your entire being, and you shudder.

You turn your head a little, a sad smile on your lips when your gaze lands on the father of the unborn child.

Azriel, his expression pained, eyes dead, pushes off the counter and stalks over to you, and places his hand on your shoulder. It is just a small gesture, but it calms your rapidly beating heart, and makes the tears that started to build up in your eyes disappear. 

"But there is a chance for…" Azriel's voice is hoarse. He can't finish the sentence. 

"There is a chance both the baby and…your—Y/N will survive. We only need to get the babe out quite a few weeks earlier, and with a C-section. And that quite a few weeks earlier. Meaning in the next few weeks."

That is so early. Too early. But you trust Madja.

And so, you find yourself nodding, accepting everything if it means you and especially the little baby growing inside of you will survive.

Turning your head, you find Azriel looking at you, expression pained and worried. But you nod slowly, a smile appearing on your lips. "It will be fine," you whisper.

He does not react, only holds your gaze and that for a long moment. The shadows dance around him, stretching out, curling and swirling, brushing over your belly in calming, soothing motions.

It is almost like they can sense the life growing inside of you, and they probably can, somehow communicating with the little babe. Comforting it. It feels like they are whispering, 'It will be alright, and we will get to know you, little faerie. We took care of your father, and we will take care of you.'

Azriel's grip on your shoulder tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he needs something to ground him, an anchor. The weight of the news hangs heavy in the room, there is an undercurrent of tension, of uncertainty that courses through the both of you. Azriel opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat.

Madja steps forward, her lips pursed while she regards the two of you for a moment. But when she speaks her voice is unwavering and soothing. "Y/N, Azriel, I need you to understand that this will not be easy, nothing of this pregnancy will be. The surgery will be dangerous. But we can do this. You can do this. After all, you have each other. And Y/N, you are never alone in this."

You draw in a deep inhale and turn to look at Azriel again. 

He nods, his jaw clenched and turns his attention back to you, his eyes showing fear but also a little glimmer of hope. "You will be fine. We…" Azriel swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "We will be a family."

You don't know if he is just saying this to comfort you, or if he really means it, but tears start to burn behind your eyes at the mention of you three being an actual family. The thought is too beautiful. 

You smile through the pain, your love for the little baby coursing through every fibre of your being. And not only for the baby… 

"I know, Az. We can do this."

Azriel's hand moves from your shoulder to gently cradle your cheek. "We'll get through this." 

It feels lightning zaps between you, your eyes staying locked. You look deep into each others eyes, lost in the moment of this intense contact between your eyes. And your souls. Your chests warm from the inside out and something behind to glow deep inside of you.

His callused thumb brushes over your cheek and then Azriel closes his eyes. He turns his head a little, and so do you, now looking back at the healer. 

Madja gives a small nod of approval. "Exactly. I'll start making preparations for the surgery. And we will talk again in a few days. If anything comes up, you have to tell me immediately. In the mean time I will give you some herbs and potions for the baby and for you, also something that will help with the bleeding. I tried to push in the wing a little, and it should be fine for now."

You exchange a look with Azriel. "Here." He offers you his hand for support as you climb down the healer's bed. You accept, carefully curling your cold fingers around his and—

"Your hands..."

Your didn't want to be straightforward, but the emotions and hormones get the best of you and often make you talk before thinking.

Silence stretches our for a moment, and it almost seems like he wants to pull his hand back, but you won't let him. "You can tell me later." Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. "We have time."

The cool evening air greets you when you step outside the High Lord and Lady's estate where Madja looked over you. Azriel insisted on taking you home, and of course you agreed.

"Thank you," you say after a moment of walking, still holding onto his hand. It feels so good, so right. 

Azriel is about to answer you, but gets no chance to do so. 

Suddenly, an unexpected fae male collides with you, jostling you for a moment. He had probably rushed out of a shop and not seen you. The impact sent a shockwave through your body, and for a fleeting moment the world seems to spin. He hit you harder than expected, but he apologises immediately. Yet, Azriel has none of it. Azriel, with his graceful wings tucked against his back, stands tall, glowering at the male, holding him by his arm. 

His anger and power stretch out like a dark cloud, the cobalt stones on his armour glowing vividly. 

"Careful!" Azriel growls, a protective arm wrapped around you to shield you from the fae male. "Don't you see she is pregnant." His wings stretched out slightly, a dark, yet comforting shadow.

You slide your hand over Azriel's and look up at him. "Azriel," you say in a soothing tone. "He probably didn't notice."

"He still should be more careful." Azriel's arm lowers a little, fingers spread wide to cover a big part of your round belly. The touch is simultaneously tender and protective.

The fae male once again stammers an apology and quickly retreats from the scene, his eyes filled with regret as he rushes away.

Azriel's protective stance softens, but he keeps his arm around you. His fingers, resting on your belly, tracing comforting circles as he acknowledges, "He could have hurt you and the baby."

"It is alright," you whisper. "I am alright and so is the little babe."

He nods slowly, almost like he does not believe you, but you set out again. "Come on, lets go home it is getting cold out here."

His protective side is wonderful and you love it, but you don't want him to worry too much. You are fine, you've mentioned so many weeks, months without him knowing about the baby, managed your every day life without him. It is good having him now, but you can also still protect yourself. 

You head home, Azriel not once removing his arm from around you, only when you step into your flat. The place where a short time ago you told him about everything. 

"You want to stay for a little?" you offer, and Azriel accepts, nodding but not saying a word. He closes the door behind you, and you sit down on the couch, soon joined by the shadowy male. 

"Somehow I imagined this all in a very different way. With a different outcome."

A cold chuckle parts Azriel's lips and he crosses his hands behind his neck before lowering them again to wipe his hands down his thighs. "Me too."

You give him a side-long look. "Just phenomenal sex and then never seeing you again."

"Is it so bad to see me again?" Azriel turns to you, his brow raised slightly. There is a sparkle in his eyes, and you know it comes from the mention of the phenomenal sex. Males…

"I would have preferred different circumstances," you answer honestly and move your hand over his. "But everything happens for a reason, so it is alright for me. I am alright with how things have turned out. And no, seeing you again is not at all bad. Quite the opposite actually."

He regards you for a long moment, not saying a word. There is still a glow in his eyes, but it is dimmed now, his whole posture slouching a little. He looses a long breath and stretches his legs. 

"I feel like I destroyed your whole life." His chin falls to his chest, hands one again crossed behind his neck. 

You immediately move close, your hand lifting and curling around his biceps. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever say something like that."

"But it is true!" He lifts his head and with eyes wide open looks at you. "The babe has wings because of me. Because I—"

"I wanted to sleep with you that night as well, knowing you have wings. I did not even think it would be an option to get pregnant that night. We both were sure we took the tonic and yet it happened. Receiving for fae is so difficult and still it happened. Azriel, everything happens for a reason and there is no blame on you."

You lift your hand and brush your finger tips over his face. "I gave you my consent that night. I wanted you in the same way you wanted me. I wanted to sleep with you, and I did not for one second think about the consequences — the possibility of becoming pregnant. Neither did you. The blame is not solely on you and will never be. For making a baby it always needs two people. I wanted fun that night. Pleasure, sex for no reason other than enjoying myself. And you wanted the same, we are both not innocent in this."

Your thumb catches a stray tear. Azriel turns his body to you, eyes not once leaving yours. He swallows thickly.

"You remember what I told you that night when we slept together?"

The corner of your mouth curls. "All the filthy things you whispered into my ear? Or when you told me to scream your name for everyone to hear?"  

You raise your brow at the shadowsinger and give his hand a gentle squeeze. A smile blooms on your face, some lightness filling the gloomy atmosphere.

And it even makes Azriel chuckle a little, his eyes flashing as if he is remembering exactly what he said to you. And you do too, and a hot rush fills your entire being. But you bite down on your lower lip, and focus on what he wanted to tell you. 

Azriel is smiling slightly, colour blooming high on his defined cheeks and he hums. "Apart from the filthy things."

His hand is holding yours and he meets your gaze. It almost feels like he can look right into your soul – like something connects your souls. Not the baby, something else... 

"You told me that I am the most beautiful female you've ever seen, if I remember correctly."

Now, he is leaning in. "You do remember correctly. And nothing has changed about that."

Something has shifted, the tension and the desire from that night is back. The room feels warmer all of a sudden, him and his presence the only things on your mind. Almost fully on its own accord, your body leans into him. 

Azriel's lips brush yours, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "I still think so and it has nothing to do with the baby. It is you, and back then was also you. I saw you and wanted you."

He kisses you gently. "I wanted you like I’ve never wanted anything before. I've never felt like that before, and I am not just saying this right now. I mean it."

The next kiss is a little deeper, more passionate. His tongue sweeps over your lips, parting them and you allow him the entrance, lips melding. You lose yourself in him and the soft groans escaping him, accompanied by your sighs. 

Azriel lets one hand slider under your shirt, his warm, callused palm placed on your bare skin. "May I?" he asks and you nod, although you don't even really know what he is asking for. 

Azriel gets up, and down onto his knees in front of you. 

He is crouched down in front you and the couch, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and excitement as they meet yours. The only sound in the dimly lit room is the gentle rustling of Azriel's wings as he tucks them in, and for a moment you find yourself dreaming about a time where he teaches your child how to fly. 

With tenderness visible in every line of his being, he reaches out and places his hands on your pregnant belly. The love in his touch is palpable, his fingers tracing the gentle curves of your bump as if he can feel the heartbeat of the little babe inside. Wonder and joy fills his eyes, and a few tears slip out of them. 

The shadowsinegr leans in closer, his lips pressing a soft kiss onto your belly. You can feel the warmth of his breath and it sends a shiver of happiness down your spine. His love for the little babe reaches you and your own tears roll down your cheeks. "Our baby," he whispers, voice quivering.

Your heart swells, and happiness over the life growing inside of you outrules the worry and the fear about it having wings. 

You can't help but smile, your hand moving to rest atop his. 

The room falls quite and Azriel presses his lips against your belly once again. Then he looks back up at you. As you gaze into his eyes, you know that, with him by your side, you can face whatever is about to come. And you will have a future together. 

When he sits back down on the couch, Azriel helps you bring your clothes back in place and leans in again. 

"We can do this," he whispers against your lips. "We will do this. We will be a family. The kind of family our little boy deserves."

His words are so lovely, so wonderful, they make your heart warm from the inside out, and yet you pull back with a giggle, and tears glistening in your eyes. "Our little boy? How do you know it will be a boy?"

Azriel smiles, both his hands now cradling your face. He looks at you like you truly are the most beautiful female in the entire world, his eyes full of love and hope. "I have a feeling." 

He leans his forehead against yours, stroking your skin gently. 

"And yes, yes, we will be a family. A wonderful one." Your eyes close, and you revel in the feel of his hands on your face, his closeness, his presence. You blow out a breath and shift a little, wanting to snuggle against him, but—

A scream parts your lips, and you can feel liquid. Everywhere. Wetting the couch beneath you and running down your legs. Your hands fold over your belly and you groan loudly. And the liquid is not the one of your water breaking…it is a deep red. 

The last thing you hear before the blood rushing in your ears gets too loud is Azriel saying — or rather shouting, "I'll get Madja!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ tags for this series: @amysangel @bookishbroadwaybish @theofficialmadman tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

[theofficialmadman]

Did I daydream this, or was there a website for writers with like. A ridiculous quantity of descriptive aid. Like I remember clicking on " inside a cinema " or something like that. Then, BAM. Here's a list of smell and sounds. I can't remember it for the life of me, but if someone else can, help a bitch out <3

[theofficialmadman]

𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 as much as you wanted to stay by his side, you couldn't bear the thought of watching him fall in love with other women while you're stuck at the kitchen washing dishes and measuring ingredients. so you dreamt of leaving, of traveling to different islands to share your lovely songs and tunes; but the more your desire to leave grows, the more sanji finds himself drowning in your warmth. or, you and sanji over the years, wherein five times you tried to leave him and the one time you finally did, despite his refusal to let you go.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 musician reader, 5 + 1 things, pining, unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i swear i cannot escape a brainrot whenever i watch a new show. this automatically wrote itself, i don't even remember how i came up with this idea. anyway, i'm surprised there aren't many sanji fics that involves the unrequited love trope, seeing that it suits him. or maybe that's just me. this is only a SNEAK PEEK though.

𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 full version now published here!

You accepted it years ago.

You accepted the fact that you somehow fell in love with Sanji Vinsmoke along your weird journey of working in a sea restaurant full of former pirates and making music while at it. How the pesky feelings grew and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. Maybe it was when he learned to cook your favorite food and gave it to you afterwards, or the way his crystal blue eyes reminded you of snowflakes every winter.

Or maybe it was when he pulled your hair out of jealousy the moment he learned that Zeff would be taking in another child in his care, but brushed it and even braided it after the latter cleared the misunderstanding. Maybe it was when he supported you in your dreams and told you they weren't silly, maybe it was when he fought off drunk men that were trying to hit on you. Or maybe it was the way his voice would drop an octave lower whenever he asks you for a favor. The list could go on and on and you still wouldn't know the reason why. It doesn't matter anyway. You tripped, you fell, and now you're pining.

Drying off the last of the plates, you washed your own hands after and patted them dry on your skirt. You were the last one to leave the kitchen, the other staff already back in their quarters after a long, exhausting day of cooking. You fixed the signature blue bandana tied in your hair then went on your way towards the upper deck.

You weren't blessed with a talent in cooking, so you offered to do chores instead. Washing the dishes, cleaning the restaurant, and doing the laundry were few of the things you do in the Baratie. You can't say that you enjoy it, but you were beyond grateful that Zeff gave you a chance despite his opposition to let a woman work inside his restaurant.

As you were about to go to the newly laundered clothes you hung on a thin wire earlier that morning, you heard two voices speaking. You also smelled cigarette smoke wafting through the air, and you only knew one person who could be smoking at this hour. Your breath hitched in anticipation.

"You bringing a woman to your bed again, Sanji?" The other person asked playfully, but there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. You carefully took a peek so you won't accidentally reveal yourself and be accused of eavesdropping. Two people came into view with their backs facing you.

"Now, what are you talking about, Patty? I am a gentleman. I only had a nice chat with the lovely lady and escorted her back to her ship." Sanji interjected, a cigarette hanging on his lips.

Patty huffed. "I didn't know that chatting included kiss marks on jawlines."

This caused Sanji to laugh and say, "Not my fault she was charmed by my food."

"The boss man ain't gonna like it when he finds out about this."

"He's not gonna find out." Sanji assured him, wiping off the said kiss mark on his jaw. You stared at him as he did so, and you pitied the woman who planted that kiss, knowing she was just one of the many beautiful ladies Sanji had flirted with before. However, a tinge of pain in your chest said otherwise, taunting you that it was not pity you're feeling, but foul jealousy.

"Why don't you look for more decent women, eh? How about 'little lass' for a change?" Patty suddenly suggested.

It was like someone had hit your stomach with one of the metal pans in the kitchen with the way it lurched in surprise and nervousness. Your heartbeat started to quicken the longer you waited for his response, making your grip on your skirt tighter. In moments like these, you allowed yourself to hope, to wish that he saw something in you and that he finds you beautiful and lovely enough to be the person standing by his side.

But his answer made all that hope crumble down into nothing but dust.

"I don't see her that way." Sanji said after a long stretch of silence, taking a long drag from the cigarette then releasing the smoke in a single breath.

Ah.

You blinked repeatedly, trying to keep the tears from forming. It's always been like this, so why can't you get used to it? Taking a deep breath, you gulped away the knot forming in your throat and decided to leave. You can grab the clothes later.

"You're too kind for him." Someone behind you spoke, making you jump and tense up. Turning around, you saw Zeff looking at you with an unreadable emotion in his eyes and his hands on his hips, almost like he knew your secret. Of course he does. He always sees everything.

You stumbled on your words. "Sir?"

"That boy is always up to something." He began, switching his attention to Sanji. "One minute he's stubbornly immature in the kitchen, and the next he'll be a thirsty man staring at women like they're liquid booze."

Clearing your throat, you forced a smile.

"Well, he can be a lot sometimes." You agreed, remembering the days when the two of you would fight over irrelevant matters. Then you chuckled and continued, "But he's kind. He's gentle, and lovely, like a freshly made poem you keep repeating in your head. But then he's also confusing, hot-headed, and reckless. He's like the sea, isn't he? Calm yet wrapped with mystery, dangerous yet beautiful..."

You trailed off, an unbearable heat rising up your cheeks and neck once you slowly began to realize that you just ranted out your feelings to the head chef. You glanced at him with wide eyes, preparing to see a disgusted look on his face; however, Zeff didn't appear to be repulsed by your little speech. In fact, the corners of his lips were slightly quirked up.

"But I cannot swim. If I were to drown, he wouldn't save me." You quickly added, hoping to shut down the topic.

He sighed. "You will meet someone who deserves you as much as you deserve them, little lass." He simply said. He then laid his hand out, and on his palm was a little box poorly tied with a ribbon. "Here, for you."

Altnough you were a bit confused at the random gift, you accepted it and cradled the box to your chest. "I'll be okay, Zeff." You insisted, grinning cheekily. "When I become famous, I'll sing my songs here in Baratie, and people would flood the restaurant to hear my singing. And to eat your food too, of course."

The head chef nodded, relief flooding his expression. "I look forward to that." He said while awkwardly returning your smile.

That night, when you were sure that everyone in the Baratie was asleep, you opened the loose floorboard on the floors of your bedroom and grabbed the wooden box you kept hidden for a long time now. You opened the lid and began counting the Berry you saved for the past few months.

Tomorrow was the perfect day to leave.

You just can't stay here. Yes, you had a roof over your head, delicious food to eat everyday, and clean clothes to wear but you were so miserable. This wasn't the life you wanted. You wish to go out there, sing your heart out, and fall in love with someone who actually loves you back.

A knock on your door made you freeze. You held your breath as the person on the other side continued to knock a few more times. "You awake?"

Pain surged through your veins, your chest twisting in agony. Sanji.

"You didn't come down for dinner. I guess you're too tired, hmm?" He said, his muffled voice gentle, and the sound almost prompted you to stand up and open the door for him. But you dug your fingernails in your palms and resisted, because you can't just let this opportunity pass by.

You heard a brief clinking sound before Sanji spoke again, "Sweet dreams, ange."

Once his footsteps faded away, you cautiously moved towards your door and opened it as quietly as you can. There, on the floor, was a small plate with a slice of your favorite dessert: angel's food cake, topped with fresh cream and strawberries.

You bent down and saw a note beside the plate. And when you got to read the contents of the note, you burst into tears and sobs that wracked down your entire body.

Happy Birthday

— S.

You ate the cake with tears silently falling down your cheeks, and that was the first time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.

again, this is only a sneak peek of the actual fic, i'm currently halfway in completing it. please let me know if you want to read it, because i might publish it next week. if not, i'll just drown in sorrow and self-pity.

[theofficialmadman]

transgressions | masterlist | complete (54K words)

FBI agents Aelin Galathynius and Aedion Ashryver are no strangers to investigating serial murders. They cut their teeth on them.

Their time in Doranelle, though, working with a trio of detectives who call themselves The Cadre, might prove to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. In more ways than one.

introduction: mistaken identity

part one: case notes

part two: a conflict of interest

part three: eight foot toss

part four: the other scenes

part five: the taunt 

part six: undercover

part seven: no training required 

part eight: bolder as we go

part nine: shadows in the trees

part ten: reasons for distance

part eleven: clarity on the inside

part twelve: laying bait

part thirteen: the missed appointment

part fourteen: connecting the dots

part fifteen: retrospective  

part sixteen: the aftermath 

part seventeen: life changes

[theofficialmadman]

Flirtation

summary: when Sirius won't stop tormenting you with pet names, you think to take revenge, but he doesn't react as you expected

Sirius Black x shy!reader ♡ 546 words

You jolt a little when a hand lands on your shoulder, a second before Sirius plops down beside you in the common room. 

“Sorry, dollface,” he says, sliding his hand from your shoulder to your neck in what you suppose is meant to be a soothing motion. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You smile, though your heart only beats faster now that you know it’s him. “You didn’t scare me.” 

“No?” He asks, and there’s that unrelenting teasing tone in his voice. “Does my beauty just shock you every time you see me, then?”

You flush, looking to where your fingers play with the hem of your skirt. Sirius knows he can turn you into a stammering, blushing mess with only a pet name or a tilt of his lips, and he never lets you forget it. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been dating or how much time you spend with him, you never get used to his audacity. 

“Doing alright, sweet thing?” he croons, taking your face in both hands so you have no choice but to meet his eyes. They’re alight with mirth. 

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” 

“You’re blushing.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.” He makes an indent in your overwarm cheek with his thumb, looking entirely too entertained at your misery. And it feels unfair. Why should he be able to fluster you whenever he likes, and you can’t even bring yourself to look him in the eyes? “I know I’m a lot to take in, but really, sweetheart.” 

You force yourself to do it, before the boldness has a chance to leave you. “Sorry, baby,” you say, forcing yourself to look deep into Sirius’ cool gray eyes, “I can’t help but be nervous when you’re looking at me so prettily.” 

You relish for a moment in victory as Sirius’ eyes go wide, but then his mouth drops open and he melts. 

“What did you just call me?” he breathes.

Your confidence has exceeded its time limit. You cringe in on yourself, but Sirius catches your hands before you can use them to cover your face. 

“C’mon,” he says, in that soft voice that he almost never uses in public, the one that makes you want to curl up in his lap and tell him all your secrets, “please?”

You glance around, but no one is paying attention to the two of you. “Pretty.” It’s a whisper, but Sirius beams all the same. 

“And?” 

You slouch shamefully, sinking into the couch cushions. “Baby?” 

Sirius throws himself back like you’ve shoved him, grinning like a lunatic. He comes back to you quickly, and there’s pure, unadulterated adoration in his eyes when he says, “You’re killing me, dollface. Say it again.” 

You sigh, but indulge him. “Baby.” 

He clasps your hand between his, pulling it to his chest theatrically. “Yeah, sweetness? Whatever you want, you can have it.”

You’re trying to be exasperated with him, but you’re laughing. “Siri, stop, please.” 

He pouts. “If that’s what you want. But if you ever decide you really want something from me, just say the word, angel, and I’ll do it.” 

“Sure thing, pretty boy,” you say quietly, emboldened by his behavior, and this time, when Sirius flops back dramatically on the couch, he takes you with him.

[theofficialmadman]

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

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

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Of course.”

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

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

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must be good friends.” 

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

“We must be.”

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

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

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

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

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Nice highscore." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." 

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

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

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

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

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

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

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

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

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

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

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like music,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, it's you!" 

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

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

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

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

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

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

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

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

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not a big drinker." 

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

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

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

"What's in San Marino?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

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

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

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

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

"You play Snake?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is your first date?" 

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

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

"It doesn't," you say. 

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

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He's devoted," you guess. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Half?" 

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

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

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

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

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Charming, isn't it?" 

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

"Wolf."

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

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

"No trouble at all." 

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

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

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

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

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

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

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

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

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

Not promising. "Okay." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to hear?”

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

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

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

The date is suddenly over. 

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

You nod rather than answer. 

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

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

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

“Do you want my coat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

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

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

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

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

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

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

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

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

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

Your thumb traces a scar. 

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

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

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

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

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close? Remus is fucked. 

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

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

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

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

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

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

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

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

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

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

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

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

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

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

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

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

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

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

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

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

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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

[theofficialmadman]

Dropping a very special Sketch-a-wish, voted on by my lovely Patreon members for August! The winning request was to illustrate an off-page scene from The Folk of the Air series, when Cardan was writing his letters to Jude. I countered that Cardan went through the five stages of grief writing those letters, and each deserved it's own illustration. (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) You'll also notice some familiar outfits throughout! Have a great weekend. :)

[theofficialmadman]

Nesta, Elain and Feyre - A Court of Thorns and Roses

Artist: @/itslopez

[theofficialmadman]

Rhys, Tamlin and Feyre - A Court of Thorns and Roses

Artist: @/sajrafox for @libriinscatola

[theofficialmadman]

@imissthembutitwasntadisaster