Honeybee

julia. 8teen. pisces. she/her. bisexual. caffeine addict. future cat lady. aspiring astronomer. avid marauders lover. writer when I have time to be.

masterlist. who i write for.

Remus Lupin x Reader || 1.7k words

The party had ended nearly an hour ago, but your flat still looked like a disaster.

Empty bottles crowded the kitchen counter, music hummed quietly from a forgotten radio somewhere in the living room, and someone—probably Sirius—had left glitter all over your floor.

You stood on your tiptoes trying to shove glasses onto the highest shelf when a hand appeared beside you, effortlessly taking the stack from your grip.

“You know,” Remus said, voice warm with amusement, “most hosts stop cleaning eventually.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, tie long abandoned sometime around midnight, soft brown curls falling messily over his forehead.

And he looked exhausted.

Not that anyone else would notice.

Remus wore tiredness well. Like an old coat he’d grown used to carrying around.

“I could say the same thing to you,” you replied, hopping back down onto your heels. “You didn’t have to stay and help.”

“Hm. Someone had to stop you from trying to carry six glasses at once.”

“That was one time.”

“That was ten minutes ago.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The flat had grown quiet after everyone left. Comfortable quiet. The kind that settled naturally between the two of you.

Remus moved around your kitchen easily, rinsing glasses beside you while soft music crackled through the radio. Every now and then your hands brushed reaching for the same thing, and every single time he pulled away just a little too quickly afterward.

Outside, leaves rustled against the windows.

“You missed a spot,” you murmured, pointing toward soap still clinging to one of the glasses in his hand.

Remus squinted at it.

“I’m choosing to believe that’s the lighting.”

“You’re getting old, Lupin.”

“That’s cruel.”

“You’re almost thirty.”

“And yet somehow already frail.”

You laughed quietly, and something in Remus’s expression softened at the sound.

Then he yawned.

Small.

Barely noticeable.

But you caught it anyway.

“There it is,” you said immediately.

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just yawned into a wine glass.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You practically fell asleep standing up five minutes ago.”

“That’s slander.”

You leaned against the counter, watching him for a second longer.

There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, exhaustion pulling at the edges of his features now that the night had settled down around you.

And suddenly, the thought of him driving home alone at nearly two in the morning made your chest ache a little.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you spoke.

“You could stay here tonight, if you want.”

The words seem to catch him completely off guard.

Remus stills slightly, dish towel forgotten in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s late,” you say, softer now. “And you look exhausted.”

“I can still go home.”

“I know.”

A pause.

Rain continues tapping softly against the windows.

“You’d just have the couch,” you add quickly. “Not that my couch is uncomfortable—well, actually it is a little—but I’ve got spare blankets somewhere and—”

“I’d like to stay.”

You stop talking.

Remus looks almost surprised he said it out loud.

Then, quieter:

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

Mind?

Your heart is suddenly beating far too hard for such a simple question.

“You could never be a bother, Remus.”

The room goes still after that.

Something shifts in his expression—small, fleeting, but enough to make your stomach flip.

Like your words meant more to him than they should have.

Then he looks down with a soft exhale, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that’s probably dangerous for me to hear.”

–

It takes Remus entirely too long to settle onto your couch.

Not because he’s complaining—he would never do that—but because he keeps insisting he’s perfectly comfortable while very obviously trying to figure out how to fold himself onto furniture that’s far too small for him.

“You know,” you say from the hallway, watching him attempt to rearrange the blanket for the third time, “watching this is actually a little painful.”

Remus looks up, already halfway amused.

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“That sentence somehow makes this less reassuring.”

He laughs quietly at that.

The sound follows you down the hallway long after you disappear into your bedroom.

You change quickly, the apartment now wrapped in soft midnight quiet. The wind outside has eased to a gentle occasional whoosh against the windows, and somewhere down the hall you can hear the faint creak of the couch every time Remus shifts.

You stare at your ceiling.

Then close your eyes.

Then open them again almost immediately.

Because your bed is warm.

And Remus is currently folded onto a couch with one foot definitely hanging off the end.

You last approximately three more minutes before sighing heavily and throwing your blanket back.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.

The hallway is dark except for the soft amber glow from the lamp you left on in the living room.

Remus looks up the second you appear.

He’s already lying down beneath the blanket with his curls falling messily into his eyes.

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate suddenly.

This had seemed significantly easier in your bedroom.

“I—um.”

Remus immediately starts sitting up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly. “You just look uncomfortable.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

The couch gives a loud creak beneath him like it’s protesting the lie.

You stare at each other for a second.

Then, before you can lose your nerve,

“You could sleep in my bed instead.”

Silence.

Remus blinks at you.

Your heartbeat pounds so loudly you’re convinced he can hear it.

“I mean—with me,” you add, then immediately wish the floor would open beneath you. “Not—not in a strange way! Merlin, that sounded—”

“You want me to sleep with you?”

His voice is very careful now.

You fold your arms tightly across yourself. “Only because the couch looks horribly uncomfortable.”

“The couch is fine.”

“Remus.”

A pause.

Then, quieter,

“You’re too tall for it.”

Something soft flickers across his face then. Surprise, maybe. Or something more dangerous.

“You don’t mind?” he asks.

The question is so genuine it makes your chest ache.

“Of course I don’t.”

Remus studies you for another second before exhaling softly through his nose.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

The walk back to your bedroom suddenly feels impossibly small.

You try very hard not to think about the fact that Remus Lupin is following you into your bedroom.

Or the fact that he smells faintly like rain and soap when he passes close beside you.

The mattress dips gently as he settles onto the far side of the bed with almost comical caution, like he’s terrified of taking up too much space.

“There,” you say lightly, climbing in beside him. “See? Much better than the couch.”

“Hm.”

You glance over.

Remus is lying stiffly on his back, hands folded over his stomach like he’s being buried.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“What?”

“You look terrified.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.”

“You’re two inches from falling off the bed.”

“I’m managing perfectly well.”

“You’re literally clinging to the edge.”

“I like the edge.”

You grin into the darkness.

Slowly, carefully, you reach over and tug lightly at the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“You can come a little closer, you know.”

The room goes quiet.

Remus looks at you then really looks at you and something in his expression turns unbearably soft.

Then, after the smallest hesitation, he shifts closer.

Not much.

Just enough that warmth settles beside you.

Just enough that you can feel him there.

The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight, and suddenly the space between you feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

Neither of you speaks.

Wind brushes past the windows.

Somewhere in the apartment, the old radiator clicks quietly.

You become painfully aware of everything:

The warmth of him beside you

The faint scent of soap and rain lingering on his skin

The slow, careful way he breathes like he’s trying not to disturb you

It’s ridiculous, really.

You’ve shared couches with him before. Fallen asleep beside him during grade school slumber parties and movie nights and long evenings in the library.

But this feels different somehow.

More intimate.

“You alright?” Remus asks softly after a moment.

You realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling in complete silence.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then,

“You’re still clinging to the edge.”

Remus lets out the quietest laugh beside you.

“You noticed that?”

“You look like you’re one strong gust of wind away from falling onto the floor.”

“I’m trying to give you space.”

“You’re in my bed, Remus,” you mumble sleepily. “I think we’re past worrying about personal space.”

The words slip out before you can think too hard about them.

Silence follows immediately.

Heat crawls up your neck.

Beside you, Remus goes very still.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You risk a glance toward him.

Big mistake.

Because he’s already looking at you.

In the soft darkness of your bedroom, and exhaustion lowering all his usual walls, he looks at you with something so openly fond it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your heartbeat stumbles painfully.

Neither of you looks away.

Then, very gently, Remus says,

“Thank you for asking me to stay.”

Not just for the bed.

Not just for tonight.

You can hear it in his voice.

For wanting him there at all.

Something in your chest aches softly.

“You never have to thank me for that,” you whisper.

His expression shifts at your words—small, almost imperceptible—but enough that you know they landed somewhere deep.

For a moment, he looks like he might say something else.

Something dangerous.

Instead, he only exhales quietly and lets himself relax a little more into the mattress.

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence.

Then, somewhere around the point where sleep finally starts pulling at you properly, you feel it.

Warm fingers brushing lightly against yours beneath the blankets.

Tentative.

Careful.

Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your hand shifts instinctively against his, fitting there easily.

Beside you, Remus goes very still for half a second.

Then his fingers curl softly around yours.

Remus Lupin x Reader || 0.4k words

The first thing Remus notices when you walk into the Three Broomsticks is that you’re shivering.

The second thing he notices is that you aren't wearing your coat.

Instead, some thick wool coat far too big on you hangs off your shoulders, the sleeves covering your hands all the way to your finger tips.

Remus slows slightly beside Sirius.

“That’s not your coat,” he says before he can stop himself.

You glance down absently. “Oh—no, Ben lent it to me outside. I forgot mine at my apartment.

Ben.

Right.

Your coworker.

Your very friendly coworker.

Remus feels something unpleasant twist low in his stomach.

Beside him, Sirius immediately notices.

“Oh, this should be good,” Sirius mutters into his drink.

Remus ignores him.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong as you slide into the booth across from them, still tugging the oversized coat higher around yourself. 

“It’s freezing out there,” you complain. “I think my hands nearly fell off.”

Remus hums shortly.

Sirius kicks him under the table.

Hard.

“What?” Remus says flatly.

"You're glaring.”

“I am not.”

“You look two seconds away from finding Ben and wrapping your coat around his neck.”

“I think you’re being dramatic.”

Sirius snorts into his drink.

You blink between them, confused. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Remus says quickly.

Unfortunately, he says it at the exact moment his eyes flick back to the coat again.

Your brows pull together slightly.

Slowly, Remus reaches up and unwraps the scarf from around his neck before holding it out towards you.

“Here.”

You stare at him. “Remus, I already have a coat.”

“That one’s ugly”

Sirius chokes.

Your mouth falls open slightly. “You literally just complimented Ben on  this coat yesterday.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You said—and I quote—’that’s a nice coat.’”

Remus looks genuinely cornered now.

“Well,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact, “I’ve reconsidered.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then realization makes its way across your face so suddenly it almost makes Sirius fall out of his seat laughing.

“Oh my god,” you say slowly.

Remus immediately knows.

His expression turns deeply, deeply tired.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Remus—”

“I simply think,” he says carefully, “That if you're cold, you should wear a better coat.”

“A better coat,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

“Your coat, specifically?”

His jaw tightens.

Sirius is openly losing his mind now.

“It’s a good coat, yes.”

You lean forward slightly, unable to stop smiling.

“Remus,” you say softly, “are you upset another boy gave me his coat?”

“No.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

Remus Lupin x GN!Reader || 0.4k words

You don’t think much of it the first time you steal one of Remus’s sweaters.

It’s hanging over the back of his desk chair in the library, abandoned sometime during his late-night studying, and you’re freezing.

So you pull it on.

Simple.

Except it still smells like him.

Like old books and tea and the cold winter air that always clings to his scarves after he comes back inside.

The sleeves swallow your hands entirely.

You’re halfway through your essay when someone drops into the chair across from you.

“You’re wearing my sweater.”

You glance up to find Remus staring at you over the top of his book.

Not annoyed.

Just… staring.

“Oh,” you say, looking down at yourself. “Sorry. I was cold.”

There’s a strange pause.

Then Remus clears his throat and looks firmly back down at his reading.

“You can keep it on.”

You smile slightly. “How generous of you.”

“Hm.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

Except after that, it starts happening constantly.

You steal his jumpers before breakfast because the castle is cold.

You wear them while studying in the common room.

Once, James walks into the dorms and finds you asleep in one of Remus’s cardigans and immediately backs out of the room like he’s witnessed something deeply personal.

Sirius is significantly less subtle.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he groans one evening, watching you walk into the common room wearing yet another one of Remus’s sweaters. “Just get married already.”

You nearly choke on your tea.

Remus goes terrifyingly still beside you.

“We’re not—” you start quickly.

“It’s a jumper,” Remus says at the exact same time.

Sirius looks between the two of you with deep exhaustion.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “And if Moony keeps looking at you like that every time you wear one of his clothes, I’m going to be sick.”

Your face burns instantly.

You turn toward Remus on instinct—

—and freeze.

Because Sirius is right.

Remus is looking at you strangely.

Softly.

Like he’s trying very hard not to.

The second he realizes he’s been caught, he looks away so fast it would almost be funny if your heart wasn’t suddenly pounding.

“It’s cold outside,” he says weakly.

James snorts from the armchair.

“You’re both hopeless.”

Remus ignores him completely, reaching for his book with far too much focus.

But a second later, quietly enough that only you hear it, he murmurs:

“It looks better on you anyway.”

Remus Lupin x GN!Reader || 0.4k words

Blood drips steadily from the cut on your forehead, warm and annoyingly persistent as you sit on the edge of Remus’s bathroom counter.

“It’s barely even deep,” you insist for the third time.

The crease between Remus’s brows doesn't let up from where he’s digging through the cabinet for bandages.

“You said that when your wrist was fractured.”

“In my defense, it only felt sprained.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—tired, unimpressed, and painfully fond.

Rain taps softly against the flat windows while the tiny bathroom fills with the sharp scent of antiseptic. Remus finally finds what he's looking for with a quiet hum before stepping back between your knees.

“Hold still.”

You try to. You really do.

But the second the disinfectant touches the cut, you hiss dramatically and jerk away.

Remus catches your jaw gently before you can move too far,

"Oh don't be ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’ve survived far worse than this.”

“That stings!”

“Yes,” He says dryly, dabbing at the cut again, “That tends to happen.”

You glare weekly while he works.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing faded scars along his forearms. His hair is still damp from the rain outside, curls messier than usual after dragging you both home in a rush.

He looks exhausted,

That familiar guilt twirls low in your stomach.

“You didn’t have to leave the meeting early for me,” you mumble.

That makes him pause.

Only for a second,

Then he continues carefully pressing gauze to your forehead.

“You were hurt.”

“It is quite literally just a cut.”

“You were bleeding.”

“As cuts usually do.” you quip back.

But the firmness in his voice catches you off guard.

Remus finally glances up, brown eyes darker than before.

“I don’t particularly enjoy seeing you hurt,” he says quietly.

Oh.

The bathroom suddenly feels much smaller.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very aware of how close he’s standing.

Remus seems to realize it too a second later because his expression shifts almost imperceptibly, like he regrets saying it out loud.

His attention snaps back to the bandage.

“There,” he says after a moment, smoothing the edges against your skin with frustrating gentleness. “All patched up.”

You don't move.

Neither does he.

His hands linger near your face for half a second too long.

Then—

“You’re staring,” Remus murmurs.

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m making sure you don't start bleeding again.”

“You already fixed it.”

“Hm.”

But he still doesn’t step away.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly through the storm.

Inside, Remus’s thumb brushes once against your cheekbone before he seems to catch himself.

His hand drops immediately.

“Try not to get injured again tomorrow,” he says, voice quieter now.

You smile slightly.

“No promises.”

That earns you the smallest, fondly exasperated look.

Mike Wheeler x GN!Reader 748 words

---

You’d had a crush on Mike Wheeler for so long that it felt embarrassing to even call it a crush anymore. It was just…a fact of life. Like Hawkins being weird. Like Mike overthinking everything. Like the way your heart always did something stupid whenever he smiled at you.

Mike, unfortunately, had no idea. He was completely oblivious.

Right now, you were sitting cross-legged on the Wheeler basement floor, flipping through a Monster Manual and chatting with Lucas’s friend, Mark, while Mike set up the campaign. He kept glancing at you without realizing it, brows knitting together whenever you laughed at Mark’s jokes.

Steve Harrington noticed. Of course he did.

When Dustin and Lucas headed upstairs to grab snacks, Steve clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Hey. Walk with me.”

Mik’s brows furrowed and he frowned. “Why?”

“Because if I have to watch this any longer, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Reluctantly, Mike followed Steve out into the hallway. The basement door shut behind them, muffling the sound of you humming to yourself.

Steve crossed his arms. “You’re in denial.”

Mike scoffed immediately. “I am not in denial.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you’re painfully obvious.”

“About what?” Mike snapped.

Steve gestured vaguely toward the basement. “Her.”

Mike stiffened. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said calmly. “I’m finishing it. Just put us all out of our misery and admit it already.”

“There is nothing to admit,” Mike insisted. “She’s my friend. My best friend.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “And you just happen to look at her like she hung the moon.”

Mike opened his mouth to argue—then hesitated.

Steve sighed. “Listen. You get weird when other guys talk to her. You get quieter. You get annoyed. You pretend you don’t care, but you do.”

“That’s not—” Mike stopped. “That’s not jealousy.”

Steve smirked. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Mike ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “Even if I did—hypothetically—like her, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t want to mess things up.”

Steve’s expression softened. “Kid…you already like her. You’re just scared.”

Mike looked back toward the basement door. His mind wandered to the friend Lucas had brought. The one that captured your attention all night.

Steve followed his gaze. “Man, fuck that guy.”

Mike blinked. “What guy?”

“The guy who’s gonna ask her out because you were too afraid to say anything,” Steve said. “Go tell her how you really feel before Mark sweeps her away.”

Mike’s chest tightened painfully. The idea of someone else making you smile the way he loved to—someone else holding your hand, Mark being your person—made his stomach twist.

Steve clapped his shoulder again. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m just saying you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Then he walked away, leaving Mike alone with his thoughts.

Down in the basement, you were putting books away when Mike came back in. You glanced up, smiling automatically. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said too quickly, glancing at Mark, then softer, “Can I talk to you?”

Your heart skipped. “Sure.”

You followed him to the edge of the room. Mike shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous.

“There’s this… thing,” he started. “And I’ve been really bad at understanding it.”

You tilted your head. “Okay…”

He swallowed. “You remember when you said someone asked you to the dance?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Mike took a shaky breath. “The idea of you going with someone else made me feel awful. And I didn’t know why at first. I told myself it was nothing. That I was just being dumb.”

Your pulse thundered.

“But I think,” he said, finally meeting your eyes, “I was lying to myself.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and fragile.

“I like you,” Mike said quietly. “More than a friend. I think I always have. I just didn’t realize it until I thought about losing you.”

Your breath caught. “Mike…”

He rushed on, words spilling now. “You don’t have to feel the same. I just needed you to know. I didn’t want to keep pretending.”

You stepped closer, heart racing. “Mike…I’ve liked you for years.”

His eyes widened. “Wait. Seriously?”

You laughed softly. “Yeah. Seriously.”

Relief flooded his face, followed by a shy, disbelieving smile. “Wow. I really am an idiot.”

You smiled back. “Maybe, just a little bit.”

Mike laughed, nerves easing. “So…you don’t like Mark?”

You laughed. “No idiot, I don’t like Mark.”

You just wanted to deliver a few presents and survive James Potter’s over-the-top Christmas party. Sirius Black had other plans—most of which involve mysteriously moving mistletoe and conveniently timed “accidental” kisses. When the snow settles, you’re forced to confront your hidden feelings for each-other.

Shy!Reader x Sirius Black 4.1k words

When you finally turn into James’s street, you almost sigh with relief. The entire neighborhood looks straight out of a Christmas movie—houses covered in lights, wreaths glowing faintly through frost rimmed windows, little bursts of color reflecting off the fallen snow. The street is already crowded with cars, most of which belong to people you haven't seen since middle school. It feels strange and familiar all at once.

James and Lily’s house is impossible to miss. Warm golden light floods out of every window, and through them you catch a glimpse of their Christmas tree. It towers and is completely decorated within an inch of its life. It is top full of stringy tinsel, warm lights, and mismatched ornaments. Typical James: go big or go home.

You shut off your engine and step out, the cold winter air hitting you like a slap. Your breath clouds immediately in front of your face. The snow has already piled on top of your trunk, and you make a quick work of whipping it off and grab the stack of early Christmas presents. They’re for your friends who will be leaving town soon, and you’re strangely proud of yourself for being able to get them wrapped at the last minute.

The driveway must have been plowed earlier; but the snow had clearly reclaimed its earlier occupance. You tread carefully, testing each step before taking it, because the last thing you need is to whip out with an arm full of presents in front of a whole house of near-strangers. Wind tugs at your coat, and the cold prickles against your cheeks, tinging them rosey, as you make your way up the path.

By the time you reach the porch your fingers are half-numb, but you manage to wiggle one hand free long enough to press the doorbell. The sound barely makes it over the noise inside—holiday music, muffled laughter, and dishes clattering in the kitchen all wrap around you like a warm hug.

And then you hear it.

Sirius’s laugh.

Rich, and warm, and completely unbothered by the raging storm outside. You can hear it even through the door, bright and unapologetic, and your chest tightens instantly.

You tell yourself it’s just because you’re cold.

Just cold.

That’s all.

But the truth sits right below the surface. You love his laugh, you always had. It’s stupidly contagious, the kind of laugh that makes you feel warm from the inside and out. And you hate the fact that you’re not the one causing it right now.

You hate that the thought even crosses your mind.

You swallow shifting the presents in your arm and try to get a grip on your emotions, which have apparently run wild. You want to be normal, calm. Completely unaffected by Sirius’s unfairly beautiful laugh and all that comes with it.

The door swings open before you can gather yourself.

Warm air spills onto the porch and you visibly sag with relief. Lily beams at you, her long red hair is pulled half–up and is dusted with flour like she’s been waging a war in the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon and something buttery drifts out behind her.

“There you are!” She says, already reaching out to help with the presents. “Come in before you freeze solid.”

You force a smile, stepping into the warmth. Behind Lily, you can still hear Sirius laughing—closer now, clearer—and your chest tightens all over again.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶ ➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Lily ushers you inside, nudging the door shut behind you with her hip as she sets down your presents by her feet.

“Merlin you brave soul, I was worried sick,” She laughs, shaking the snow from your coat for you. “James said no one would show up in this weather, but I told him you’d never miss a Christmas party.”

You feel your ears warm, partially from the sudden heat of the house, and partially from Lily’s words.

You murmur something about not being afraid of a little snow, though your still thawing fingers disagree.

The living room is glowing. Soft lights, tinsel, and Christmas decorations hung from every corner. It's bustling with your friends dressed in warm sweaters and fleece lined tights. The warmth of the atmosphere sinks right into your bones and you’re just starting to relax when you see him.

Sirius.

He’s half-way across the room, leaning over to say something to James, who is dressed in the most obnoxious Christmas sweater he could find. He has a drink in one hand, and a ridiculous red and gold scarf wrapped around his neck. You’re betting that was James’s idea. His hair is still a little damp from the snow and it sticks to his skin in the most unfairly attractive way possible.

You don’t know why seeing him knocks the air out of your lungs.

You don’t know why it always does.

Sirius turns his head—almost like he can sense you staring at him—and his eyes lock on yours instantly.

The smile that spreads across his face is immediate, wide, and warm enough to melt all the snow outside. The Christmas tree lights should be jealous.

“There you are!” he calls out, already abandoning James and weaving his way through the crowd.

Your heart does something incredibly inconvenient and you try to contort your expression into something that doesn't scream love-sick idiot.

Apparently you fail miserably because Lily shoots you a small, knowing grin before drifting off towards the kitchen again, leaving you stranded in the living room with absolutely nowhere to hide.

Sirius stops right in front of you, a bit breathless, like he actually rushed.

“You made it,” he says, softer now that he’s close. His voice has that warm, low rumble that you feel more than hear. His eyes do a quick sweep over you—snow still stuck in your hair, cold-flushed cheeks—and something flickers across his face. Something gentle. Something…hopeful?

It happened so quickly you’re convinced you imagined it.

You really shouldn’t think about it anyways.

“I’m not sure if you noticed,” you say, trying to joke through the fluttering in your chest. “But there’s a blizzard outside.”

“Ah, yes.” Sirius says, leaning in just a fraction. “I did hear the weather was terrible. Thought it might keep you away.”

You blink. “And that would be bad because…?”

His smile falters for a half a second, like he didn’t expect you to ask that. Then he recovers, ginning his signature careless Sirius grin.

“Because,” he teases lightly, “Who else is going to make fun of me when I inevitably do something stupid, huh?”

You laugh—but your pulse is too quick. It feels like your heart is trying to break out of your chest and your cheeks feel like a furnace.

You wipe your palms on the side of your thighs and try to convince yourself it's because the room is crowded, and not because Sirius is standing so close you can smell the peppermint in his breath.

“Anyway,” He says, voice dropping into something earnest, “I’m glad you're here.”

And it's so rare for Sirius to sound unguarded that the words hit you harder than they should.

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try not to imagine what it would feel like to kiss him under the warm lights reflected in his eyes.

“Me too.” you manage quietly.

For a moment neither of you moves. It feels like everything around you melts away.

You don’t step back.

He doesn’t either.

The silent space between you feels charged, warm, like the whole room has gotten smaller somehow.

Then—mercifully, or maybe disappointingly—you hear James yell something from the kitchen, and Sirius reluctantly steps away with an eyeroll shot at James.

“Duty calls,” he sighs, “But don’t disappear on me, yeah?”

You manage a nod even though your heart is still recovering, and with that he walks away.

As you watch him disappear towards the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of something above the archway he passes under.

Mistletoe.

You frown.

You don’t remember it being there a minute ago.

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You try to steady your breathing once Sirius disappears into the kitchen, but it’s pointless. Your whole body feels warm in a way that it only does after talking to him—like someone has lit a candle behind your ribs.

You tell yourself to move, blend in with the party, talk to literally anyone else. But your feet hesitate a beat too long as you glance back to the archway where you saw the mistletoe.

It really wasn’t there earlier…was it?

Before you can puzzle it out, Mary swoops in, looping an arm around your shoulders.

“Finally,” she says. “We were placing bets on how long holiday traffic would hold you hostage. I said you’d get here before seven, but Sirius said—”

Her words cut off abruptly as her eyes flicker to the top of your head. No—above it.

“Oh,” She says with a slow smirk spreading across her face, “Well that’s interesting.”

You blink. “What is?”

But she's already stepping back, a full smile blooming on her face as she holds up her hands in mock innocence.

And that's when a warm presence that you could recognise anywhere appears at your side again.

Sirius.

He’s holding a tray of drinks—crookedly because he’s looking at you, not at the tray or the ground in front of him—and he stops mid-step when he sees Mary’s expression. His gaze slides upwards, above you, and his mouth twitches.

You follow his gaze.

Mistletoe.

Hanging right above you like it’s been waiting.

Your stomach drops and flips at the same time and you nearly think you are going to faint from embarrassment, or anticipation.

“Oh,” you murmur, heat rushing to your face.

This is…fine. Totally fine. Just a silly little tradition, a harmless holiday thing.

But your pulse is already thrumming.

Sirius lets out a soft huff of laughter—not mocking, just surprised, maybe even just a touch of breathlessness.

“Well, gorgeous,” He says as he quickly steps to place his tray of drinks on the nearest table without once looking away from you. “Seems the house wants us to kiss.”

You want to joke.

You want to laugh it off.

You want to step away before this becomes something your heart isn't ready for.

But Sirius is magnetic, and you can’t will yourself away.

He steps closer.

Not enough to touch you, but close enough that the warmth of him reaches you, close enough that you can feel every thud of your heartbeat like an echo.

His voice drops, quieter. “You don’t…have to,” he says. “Only if you want.”

His tone is casual, but his eyes are not.

They’re soft. Almost hesitant, but you see the hope buried behind all his armor.

And something in your chest cracks.

He’s giving you a way out, but he isn’t moving away either.

“I mean,” you manage, somehow keeping your voice steady. “It’s just a tradition, right?”

“Right.” he echos, but his gaze flickers down to your mouth for a brief second.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe you both do.

But a moment later, his hand gently brushes your waist—barely there like a whisper, like he’s asking permission without words—and you feel your breath catch.

You tilt your head up just slightly.

Silently begging for him to lean down.

He seemed to get the message because he leans in and your lips touch.

It's the softest kiss. Barely a whisper. Warm, fleeting, and over before you can truly close your eyes properly. But it leaves your lips tingling, your thoughts scrambled, and your heart so full you swear it might spill out of you.

Sirius pulls back first, a flush settled on his cheeks.

He laughs—but now it's nervous—completely unlike the loud bark you’d heard earlier.

“See?” He says, “Harmless.”

You're not so sure he’s saying it for you, or for himself.

Before you can answer someone calls his name from across the room.

He steps back, reluctantly.

“You’re okay?” He asks quietly, as if the tiny kiss could have undone you.

“I’m fine.” You lie.

He smiles—small, shy, almost disbeleiving—before disappearing back into the crowd of people.

You stand there for a long moment, touchinging your tingling lips and remembering the warmth of him.

This is harmless.

Just holiday fun.

Just mistletoe.

It doesn’t mean anything.

But your heart knows better.

And as the noise of the party swells around you, you look up at the mistletoe again.

It’s still swaying slightly.

Like it had been moved.

Like someone put it there.

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You force yourself to move. Standing under a mistletoe alone in the middle of a crowded room feels…obvious.

Too obvious.

And your face is still much too flushed, and your heart beat much too fast, to handle anyone to look at you too closely.

So you inhale, straighten your shoulders, and slip back into the soft chaos of the party.

People are laughing, talking, moving around you with drinks and plates full of food. The music is louder now. The lights feel brighter. Everything feels normal.

Except your lips still feel warm.

Except your chest still feels like someone lit a sparkler in it.

Except you cannot get rid of, no matter how hard you try, the feeling of Sirius’s whisper-soft kiss.

It was fine.

It was harmless.

Just a mistletoe thing.

You repeat that to yourself until you almost believe it.

You make conversation with Lily’s coworker for all of forty seconds before your mind drifts. Then with Marleene who tells a dramatic story about a gift exchange gone wrong at her work. You laugh at the right moments, nod politely, and sip your drink.

But your eyes keep drifting towards the kitchen.

Where Sirius seemed to have disappeared.

You tell yourself it's just a coincidence that your eyes keep finding him.

That's believable, right?

Eventually, your mind takes over for you, and takes you that way, weaving through the clusters of people until the sound of the crowd fades behind you.

The kitchen is warm and brighter than the rest of the house. A little messy, like it's been used all day. There are half-eaten cookies on the counter, a pot of something simmering on the stove, and—

James and Sirius.

James is leaning against the counter, animatedly telling a story with his hands. Sirius is beside him, sipping from a mug, looking unfairly good in the soft yellow light. His hair dried a bit, curling softly at the ends. He glances up at you the moment you enter.

His expression softens instantly.

And your stomach does a traitorous little swoop.

“Ah!,” James announces loudly, spotting you. “The star of the hour!”

Your whole body tenses. Sirius nearly chokes on his drink.

“James,” Sirius warns under his breath.

James ignores him entirely. “Y’know if you wanted to make a dramatic entrance, you should have just told us. The mistletoe stunt was brilliant.”

You wish the earth would swallow you whole.

Sirius runs a hand down his face, “Prongs—”

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” James huffs, grinning. “Anyone with eyes could see the tension between you two. I’m pretty sure Mum even commented on it.”

Your face is on fire. Sirius is blushing too, but is desperately trying to hide it.

“We didn’t—It wasn’t—” you start.

James waves you off cheerfully. “Please! A holiday kiss between friends is perfectly healthy. Builds character.”

You can see him holding back a laugh. He sends a knowing look to Sirius that you can’t quite decipher.

Sirius coughs, “Again, Prongs, I am begging you—”

“Anyway!” James claps his hands once. “I’ll leave you two be. Sirius, no funny business while I'm gone, and you two, do try to keep your lips to yourselves and not scar my guests.”

Sirius scoffs, but before either of you could respond, he's gone. He disappeared right back into the living room with an exaggerated wink.

Silence.

Not cold, not tense, just…charged.

Warm, awkward, and all too aware.

You clear your throat. “I…uh. Didn't mean to interrupt."

“You didn’t,” Sirius says quickly, too quickly. Then quieter, “I’m glad you’re here.”

You shouldn’t feel that in your chest the way that you do.

You hover awkwardly by the counter, wrapping your hands around the edge because you don’t know what else to do with them. Sirius mirrors you from a few feet away, leaning back against the opposite counter.

You keep your gaze fixed on the floor. “I hope that didn't make things weird. The kiss. I—I don't want to make you uncomfortable, or ruin anything. If you want to pretend it never happened, I can—”

“Hey,” Sirius says softly.

Your eyes lift.

He looks almost…startled. Like the idea that he could be uncomfortable around you is unthinkable.

“You didn't ruin anything.” His tone is soft, but his message is firm. “Not even close.”

You exhale shakily.

“But if you want to forget it—” he continues.

“No,” you blurt out before your brain can catch up.

Heat rushes to your face, “I mean. Not necessarily, I just don’t want to lose our friendship over something so—“ you pause for a moment. “So silly.”

Sirius’s lips twitch, but the small smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Silly,” He repeats slowly, as if testing the word. “Right.”

Silence again.

Not uncomfortable this time—just fragile. Like something is shifting beneath the surface and neither of you know what to do about it.

You try to look anywhere but him. The stove, The floor. The half-eaten cookies. And when it's clear that neither of you have anything left to say, you turn toward the doorway ready to escape before you embarrass yourself any further—

And that's when you hear James’s voice boom through the hallway:

“Hey Padfoot, did you move the mistletoe, again—?”

“Prongs! I swear to—” Sirius shouts back.

You don’t even get to process it.

Because when you spin around, somehow, impossibly—

You’re both standing under the mistletoe again.

You suck in a breath.

Sirius freezes.

Slowly, very slowly, his eyes travel upward. Then back to you.

He looks like a man caught in the middle of a crime he absolutely committed.

Your heart stutters.

Your mind blanks.

This time, neither of you can pretend it’s a coincidence.

“Sirius,” You say softly, uncertain, breathless.

He swallows hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something you can’t quite name.

“I swear,” He murmurs, voice barely audible, “I didn’t…mean for—well, I kind of meant—but not—Merlin—”

The tension between you was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

But soon you’re both leaning in again—closer than last time, closer than friends should—

Your heart is pounding.

Breath shaking.

Warmth rising between you like a flame waiting to catch.

You’re inches apart.

Your breath mingles with his.

His eyes flick to your mouth again—

—and that’s when the moment shatters.

“Oh come on guys, again?” Someone shouts from behind you.

You jump. Sirius jolts back like he’s been physically shoved.

Mary and Marlene stand in the doorway, both staring at the mistletoe above your heads like it's performing some sort of scandalous show. Mary already looks five seconds away from cackling. Marleene has her hands on her hips.

“Oh, this is rich.” Marlene says. “Twice in one night, Sirius? Are you—”

“Nope!” you blurt, face once again on fire. “No. We’re not—we weren’t—”

Sirius is sputtering something equally as incoherent, but the blood rushing to your ears makes it impossible to hear.

Mortification floods you.

You feel it everywhere.

Under your skin, under your ribs everywhere where Sirius just was.

There is only so much teasing you can take, and between James and now Marlene, you’ve officially hit your limit.

And before anyone can say another word, you slip past them, and bolt down the hallway.

You hear Sirius call your name—soft, confused—but you can’t stop.

Not with your heart racing.

Not with your thoughts spiralling.

You grab your coat from the rack, shove open the front door, and step into the cold.

The snow is falling more softly now—thick lazy flakes that drift rather than crash. The world outside is quiet, the music and laughter from inside muffled into barely anything by the storm.

You walk down the steps and into the yard, hugging your coat tightly around yourself. Your uneven breaths fog the air.

Your’e not sure how long you stand there, thirty seconds, maybe a minute—just trying to calm your racing heart.

You kissed him.

He kissed you.

Twice.

Well, almost twice.

And everyone saw.

You press your hands to your face.

“Great.” You mutter.

The door opens behind you, creaking softly.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

His footsteps crunch slowly through the snow until he’s standing a few feet behind you. Close enough to feel, far enough to retreat.

“Hey.” Sirius says quietly. His voice is softer out here, warmer. “You ran off pretty fast.”

There is something in his tone, confusion, apprehension, hurt.

You swallow. “Yeah well, I didn't exactly want to be the entertainment of the evening.”

“Right.”, He lets out a laugh—but it’s nervous. A little pained.

“I didn't either,” he admits. “Though, I suppose I made it worse by…y’know.” He gestures vaguely. “Standing under the bloody plant with you. Again.”

You finally turn towards him.

He’s snow-dusted, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair a bit wind tossed. He looks unfairly beautiful.

And worried.

Your chest squeezes.

“I didn't mean to make it weird,” you say. “Or ruin anything. I just—James and Marleene and everyone were looking and I panicked and—”

“You didn’t,” He interrupts softly. “You didn't ruin anything.

You blink. “I—really?”

Sirius steps closer—not invading your space, just bridging the last bit of cold air between you.

“I’m the one who made it weird,” He says. “Because I…wasn’t exactly upset to be kissing you.” He gives you a shaky smile. “Or almost kissing you.”

Your breath catches. “Sirius, what—”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the snow.

“And that’s the part that scared me,” He says, voice low.”Because I wanted to. Both times. More than what was probably appropriate.”

He hesitates. “A lot more.”

Hearing him say it, out loud, knocks the wind out of you.

You take a step toward him, not even thinking—because suddenly everything feels too big, too important to say from far away.

“Sirius,” You whisper. “You didn't make it weird. I did. I thought—you were just playing along. Because of the mistletoe. And I—” You exhale shakily. “I like you and I was trying really hard not to let it show.”

Sirius freezes.

Then—

“Wait,” his voice cracks just slightly. “You…like me?”

You laugh weakly. “Yeah. Apparently embarrassingly so.”

For a moment he just stares at you.

Snow settles in his hair.

His breath leaves him in soft puffs of white.

“Y’know what forget I said anything—” The words don’t get to finish escaping your lips because then—he moves.

He steps close to you like an unyielding force had prompted him to do so. His forehead rests against yours and his breathing comes out heavy and labored.

“Can I?” he asks, gently moving his hands to tilt your chin up to his mouth.

Your heart stutters. “Please.”

And his control snaps. He closes the gap between you and kisses you like a man starved. One hand comes to rest on your waist, grounding, and warm even through your coat. The other moves to your cheek holding onto you as if you might slip through his fingers, or run away again.

This kiss isn’t hesitant.

It isn’t an accident.

It isn’t tradition.

You pull apart only to suck in the burning cold air. He's back on you in a heartbeat. Tasting, exploring, memorizing every inch of you.His kiss becomes deeper when you melt into him, your chilled hands gripping the front of his coat. His lips are warm despite the cold, tender and certain and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathless and smiling.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “How long I’ve wanted to do that without a stupid plant hanging over our heads.”

You laugh breathlessly, cheeks flushed and heart full.

He leans in and kisses your nose.

Your cheek.

Your forehead.

Then your lips again. Slow and sure.

Snow drifts softly around you, but you barely feel the cold anymore.

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin.

“So,” he says, eyes bright and soft. “If I promise not to move the mistletoe again can I still kiss you?”

You smile, leaning into him.

You recently moved to the small coastal town of Greyshore to open your very own flower shop. You and the mysteriously charming owner of the tattoo parlor next-door, Sirius Black, can’t seem to stay away from each other.

Tattoo Artist!Sirius Black x Florist!Reader

Part One: 1k words

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5

The fog was already rolling low when you pulled into Greyshore. It clung to the wooden slats of the boardwalk and softened the crooked, weather-worn rooftops, giving the whole town the hazy charm of an old photograph. You parked beside the harbor rail, where fishing boats bobbed lazily in the muted morning light. Their nets droop down towards the sea like petals of a bluebell flower. The fog should make the scene feel eerie, maybe even lonely—along with the fact that you didn’t know a single soul here in town—but instead, something in your chest loosened.

This, you told yourself, could become home.

Your new flower shop, The Flower Patch, sat at the edge of the old district, tucked between a café that opened far too early and a tattoo parlor with blacked-out windows. The sign above the parlor’s door was simple: Black Ink. The name stood stark against the weathered and salt-bled wood. The contrast between your pastel-painted storefront and the rugged tattoo shop made you laugh when you first saw them side by side.

You unlocked your door, the bell chiming softly, as though the shop itself were waking up. Buckets and old crates were stacked haphazardly along the walls from the move, and the faint smell of soil still clung to your fingers from unloading the last truck. You had a week before your grand opening—seven days to turn the empty space into something warm, something welcoming.

You’d barely gotten your apron tied when you heard the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine cutting through the quiet street.

You peeked through your front window just in time to see him.

Tall. Wrapped in a worn black leather jacket. Boots beaten to hell, like he’d dragged them through every bar fight and back road in the county. His long dark hair was tied at the nape of his neck, loose strands falling around a face that shouldn’t have looked that good on someone trying to pass for a grump. He shut off the engine and swung his leg over the bike like he’d been doing it his whole life.

And then, unexpectedly, he crouched down to greet a scruffy orange cat weaving around his ankles.

“Hey, Henry,” he murmured, voice warm and low, “missed me, did you? Who’s a good little terror, yes you are—”

You blinked.

This rough around the edges, tattooed, big, gorgeous man was unmistakably baby-talking a stray cat.

He scratched behind the cat's ears, completely unaware of you watching like a creeper through your window. When he finally stood and pushed open the tall black door to the tattoo parlor, the hard facade slipped back into place, like shutters drawn against a storm.

A rough-around-the-edges neighbor who was secretly a softie. You filed the information away.

——

Around noon, the bell above your door jingled. You turned, expecting the bakery owner or maybe a curious local.

Instead, there he was.

Softie.

Up close, the man was even more striking. His forearms were dusted with tattoos, a silver chain hung from his collar, and he smelt of sea salt and forest. His eyes—grey and sharp—swept across your half unpacked shop before landing on you.

“You the new florist?” He asked, leaning just slightly on the doorframe like he’d rather look bored than interested.

“Yes! Hi. Um—yes, that's me.” You let out an awkward chuckle.

Smooth, you scold yourself, real smooth.

He stepped inside. The shop suddenly felt smaller.

“I wanted to check who my new neighbor is. The last guy who owned this place sold antiques and shouted at seagulls. Figured it could only go up from there.”

You laughed, a little too brightly. “No shouting at seagulls from me. Promise.”

“Hm. We’ll see,” he said, mouth twitching like he might almost smile.

You motioned toward the buckets near the counter. “I’m still setting everything up, but if the smell of soil hasn’t scared you off, feel free to look around.”

He gave a low hum, wandering past a crate of peonies. His fingers brushed one of the petals—lightly, almost reverently—and for a moment his tough exterior cracked again.

“You like flowers?” you asked.

“I like art,” he corrected lightly. “Whatever form it takes.”

Heat pricked your cheeks. “That’s… actually really lovely.”

His gaze flicked back to you—quick, sharp. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.

He stayed a moment longer, watching as you arranged a bucket of pale roses. The fog outside drifted past the window, turning the light slightly golden, slightly blurred.

“You opening soon?” he asked.

“Next week. I still need to finish stocking, but I’m getting there.”

“You need help carrying anything?” His voice was casual, but the offer felt sincere.

“No, I couldn’t take you from your work.”

“Henry can run the shop for five minutes,” he said, deadpan.

“Henry is the cat, right?”

“He’s more responsible than some of the customers.”

You snorted. “Well… maybe. If I get desperate.”

He tilted his head. “You’ll let me know.”

The bell above the door jingled again as he stepped back onto the foggy street. He paused on the threshold.

“Welcome to Greyshore,” he said. “It’s quiet. People mind their business. Good place to start over.”

You stilled. “How did you know I’m starting over?”

His shrug was slow, thoughtful. “Everyone who comes here is. I’m Sirius by the way.”

Your eyes brightened, “Like the star!” he let a small smile slip. “I’m y/n.”

He shot you one last nod, and with that, he walked off across the boards toward his shop, the fog swallowing him until only the low hum of his motorcycle drifted back through your open door.

You stood surrounded by buckets of flowers, the scent of fresh stems sweet in the dim light, and for the first time since arriving, the heaviness of the past weeks lifted.

Greyshore was quiet. Worn. Weathered.

A place where even someone as intimidating as Sirius talked to a one-eyed cat in a baby voice.

Yeah.

I think Remus would be perfectly happy reading all day, but Sirius and James are probably bouncing off the walls. ❤️

Thanks for requesting <3 || 550 words

—

Sirius was practically bouncing off the walls–all restless energy and dramatic sighs.

Remus, on the other hand, was completely content with his head resting on your thighs and his nose buried in a novel. You were reading with him, but Sirius’s perpetual sighing and the occasional whine had distracted you so much that after rereading the same page for the fourth time, only to have your attention dragged away from it again, made you drop the book and give up altogether.

James, bless his heart, was doing his best to keep Sirius entertained. He had pulled out a puzzle from the depths of your closet, found a deck of cards buried under old menus and dry pens in a kitchen drawer, he even found one of Remus’s double chocolate brownie mixes from the cabinet and practically begged Sirius to stop moping around and pouting while looking at the thick clumps of snow falling from the window and bake with him.

“Pads, it’s your turn–go fish.”

“I really wanted to make fettuccine tonight,” Sirius sighs while pensively staring at the wall, ignoring James’s instruction.

“Sirius–”

“I just need to go to the store, I could make it if I walked although it would've been nice to take my motorbike–”

You’re about to open your mouth to tell Sirius that he’s being dramatic, but Remus beats you to it.

“Sirius!”

Remus was now, much to your dismay, lifting himself up and off your lap.

“That’s enough, we're not moping around the apartment all day because it's snowing. I know it sucks that we can’t make the dinner you want, but we can still use the ingredients we have.”

James nods his head encouragingly, and Sirius at least has the smarts to look somewhat chastised.

Remus stands, stretching out his back, and pads over to the kitchen. He had barely even made it to the fridge before James was already leaning over him and hovering like a hungry seagull.

“Tell me the goods, Moons. C’mon hit me with it.”

You finally lift from the couch and go stand behind Sirius. You lift your hands to his shoulders and squeeze. He looks up at you and pouts. You squish his cheeks together and let out a soft laugh at the annoyed look he shoots you in return.

Remus sighs, but obliges James’ request. “Asparagus, broccoli–”

“Good start,” James nods.

“Lettuce, parmesan–”

“Alright. This is just getting better and better. Keep it coming, Moony.”

“Carrots, eggs, tomatoes–”

James gasps and shoots upright like he’s been electrocuted,

“I’ve got it!”

You startle from the sudden outburst, but can’t help but smile when Sirius perks up like a dog who heard the rattle of a treat bag.

James practically vibrates. “I’ll make chicken stir fry! We have every ingredient and we still have rice–Remus remember when you bought ten bags because they were on sale?”

Remus just grumbles in return and closes the fridge with a soft thud.

James looks obscenely proud of himself while he waits for someone to argue.

Remus sighs, “I’d enjoy stir fry, loves?” he throws the question to you and Sirius.

Sirius still seems skeptical so you lean down to his ear and whisper,