streamer!kenma fucks his girlfriend on stream because his fans are insufferable.
the losing streak starts subtly enough that kenma almost convinces himself it isn’t real, though watching from behind your own screen makes it painfully obvious things are about to go downhill.
the first match slips away because of a cheater, the second because of a teammate disconnecting halfway through, and the third— well, the third is entirely his fault, though he refuses to acknowledge that out loud.
the quiet hum of his computer fills the pauses between rounds, broken only by the rapid clicking of his mouse and the occasional soft sigh he lets out when another objective falls apart on screen.
chat, naturally, notices before he does.
messages begin stacking faster with every defeat, laughing emotes multiplying as the scoreboard appears again and again with his name sitting stubbornly on the losing side. kenma leans forward in his chair, eyes narrowed slightly.
“it’s not a losing streak,” he murmurs, voice calm but edged with quiet defensiveness. “the matchmaking’s just weird tonight.”
chat disagrees immediately.
he queues again anyway.
the next game lasts longer, long enough that hope briefly returns, only to collapse during the final minutes when everything spirals at once— the unmistakable sound cue of defeat appearing before he can fix it. the screen fades, results loading slowly, and kenma stares at it without moving, fingers resting lightly on his keyboard as if continuing might somehow undo it.
on his other monitor, his chat is absolutely dragging him
apple.creampie: disrespectfully please retire
kodzukenkink: just unplug that mouse ☠️☠️
kenmasbbg: UR WASHED its time to get off unc
ilovegamerhands: blink once if u need coaching
one hand comes up to push his hair away from his eyes, headset shifting slightly as he tilts his head toward the scrolling messages.
a donation alert cuts through the noise, cheerful and traitorous— and to his surprise, it's yours.
kodzukenkink donated 1000$! “maybe try winning?”
“…wow, you guys are assholes. 'specially you, kodzukenkink.” he says after a moment, faint amusement slipping into his tone. “…you’re all very confident for people not playing,”
he’s not tilting, not really; he just exhales through his nose, leans back in the gaming chair until it creaks, and lets his voice drop into that lazy, velvet register the chat eats up.
“alright. i’m ass tonight. chat, save me. what do i do?”
the sidebar ignites. the usual mix— get good, switch to fortnite, take a nap— but one phrase starts spamming, gaining traction, bold and relentless.
he doesn’t even hesitate. a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth— the one only you ever really clock. he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“fine. you degenerates win.” he opens twitter on his phone, searches his @ with zero shame, and starts scrolling. “let’s see what you freaks are saying about me this week.”
hecanruinmykda: why'd bro fold under 0 pressure
hiswifiwife: he was waiting for this 😭☠️
first one he reads is tame, almost sweet. he tilts his head, reading it slow on purpose.
“‘kenma’s fingers are so long and pretty i want them in my mouth.’ huh.” he flexes said fingers against his phone, lets them hover over the keys for a second like he’s considering it. “that's bold. zero out of ten creativity, though.”
he keeps going, voice low and amused, like he’s reading the weather instead of porn disguised as compliments.
“‘imagine kenma whimpering your name while you ride him—’ nope.” he cuts himself off, but not before letting the sentence hang just long enough for the chat to explode. he snorts softly. “you guys are so embarrassing.”
kenmasbedhair: DEGRADE US MORE KENMA
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: ready set GOON
needsleepandkenma: all 10 fingers
“‘kenma’s voice is made for dirty talk bf ASMR i need him to call me a good girl while he takes it out on me after he loses in ranked.’”
he pauses, lips curving into the smallest, softest smile— the kind that’s just for the camera and maybe a little for you. “good girl, huh? that’s sweet.” he lets it linger for a beat, then adds, gentle, “i like the imagination. you guys are creative tonight.”
they’re eating it up. the teasing shifts, predictable as clockwork.
rankedwithkenmawhen: no gf to say that to??
spectatingmyhusband: lonely kenma canon
parasociallystable: dw dada i can be ur gf <3333
he reads the last few silently first, eyes scanning, then exhales a soft, fond sound— like he’s smiling at an inside joke.
“you keep saying i’m single like you’re trying to manifest it,” he says, voice light, teasing without bite. he tilts his head, golden eyes catching the ring light just right. “what makes you so sure?”
the chat stutters for half a second— then explodes.
respectfullyunwell: ?? WAIT HE DIDN’T DENY IT
apple.creampie: KENMA HAS A GF???
ilovegamerhands: PROOF PLS KING
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: PROOF OR BAN
he doesn’t laugh at them. doesn’t brush it off like a joke. he just lets his gaze settle on the camera like he’s talking to a friend who’s being adorably clueless.
“so… you really think i’m single?” he asks, soft, curious, almost gentle. no mockery, just that quiet invitation to keep going, to dig deeper if they want.
the chat goes nuclear— screaming, crying emojis, frantic “SHOW HER THEN” and "MUST BE PROPAGANDA," and donations flying in with hearts and question marks. he doesn’t give them anything concrete. just that same small, warm smile as he reaches for his drink, takes a slow sip, and lets the moment stretch.
“interesting,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something softer, more private. “guess we’ll see how long that theory lasts.”
he stretches then— lazy, hoodie riding up just a hint at the waist—and gives the camera his usual wave.
the stream cuts to black, and the room goes quiet except for the low hum of his pc fans winding down. you hear the familiar creak of his chair as he pushes back, the soft shuffle of his slippers on the floor, and then the door to your room easing open.
kenma slips in without knocking and immediately spots you on the bed, propped against the pillows with your phone still in hand, one eyebrow arched like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
he doesn’t say anything at first. and watches you with that half-lidded, golden-eyed stare that’s equal parts tired and amused.
you break first, because of course you do.
“so,” you say after a moment, voice carefully neutral, “i see you decided to soft launch me to several dozen thousand people tonight.”
“they were being annoying,” he says simply, dropping onto the bed beside you. his thigh presses warm against yours. “figured i’d give them something to chew on.”
you set your phone aside, shift so you’re facing him properly, knees bumping his hip. “oh, you gave them something alright. i think all your thirsty fangirls are screaming crying right now."
“they’ll survive.” he says, voice low, almost lazy. he reaches out, hooks two fingers in the waistband of your shorts, tugs you an inch closer like it’s nothing.
you lean in a little, voice dropping to that playful murmur you save just for him. “so… are you going to hard launch your beautiful, sexy girlfriend tomorrow, or are you gonna keep dangling the carrot and let them beg for crumbs?”
he hums, thoughtful, thumb brushing idle circles against the skin just above your shorts. “could be fun.” his gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up.
your pulse kicks up— not nerves, just heat, anticipation, the thrill of knowing exactly how chaotic he’s willing to let things get when he’s in this mood.
“that's bold,” you say, grinning. “you sure you’re ready for that level of degeneracy? they’re already feral tonight. tomorrow they’ll be even worse with visual confirmation.”
"i'm used to it by now. wanna show off my pretty girlfriend to everyone."
he kisses you then— slow, unhurried, like he’s got all night and tomorrow’s stream is just bonus content. when he pulls back, his voice is a murmur against your lips.
“better get some sleep. s'gonna be a nightmare tomorrow.”
you laugh against his lips, low and sure. “you’re the one who poked the hornet’s nest, babe. don’t act like you’re not excited.”
and tomorrow comes fast.
by the time he starts stream the next day, you’re already settled: pink gaming chair dragged right up next to his black one, close enough that your knees brush his when you shift.
he doesn’t announce you. doesn’t even look at the camera when he hits “go live.” just leans back, a can of coke in hand, and says in that deadpan drawl, “hey, chat. got company today. also known as yesterday's biggest dono 'kodzukenkink'” he raises his hands briefly, putting quotation marks around the username.
canonicallydownbad: HE WAS BEING FR ???????
kneesweakforkozume: KENMA SOFTLAUNCH TO HARDLAUNCH IN 24HRS???
certifiedkenmasimp: HOLY FUCK SHES GORGEOUS
you don’t flinch. just tilt your head toward him, smirking, and wave once. the donations start pouring in like someone opened a faucet. hearts, crying emojis, “MARRY ME BOTH OF YOU”, “KENMA-SENSEI SHOW US YOUR WAYS”.
kenma glances sideways at you, the tiniest curve to his mouth, then back to the screen. “chill,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. he’s enjoying this. “she’s not going anywhere. be normal for once.”
they’re not normal.
they never are.
the questions come fast, overlapping, shameless.
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: IS SHE THE ONE U CALL GOOD GIRL 💔💔💔💔😭😭😭😭
kenmasbedhair: bet she’s the reason you end stream early sometimes 💔💔
hecanruinmykda: does she make you whimper kenma
hiswifiwife: Q&A SESSION STARTS NOW TELL US KING
you laugh— clear, bright, unbothered— and lean closer to his mic just enough for your voice to carry. “you guys are so nosy."
kenma’s ears go faintly pink, but he doesn’t pull away. instead he sets the drink down, and turns his chair toward you a fraction.
“they’re asking if you’re the one,” he says, voice low, almost conversational, but his eyes are locked on yours. “the good girl thing.”
you arch a brow, leaning into his touch. “am i?”
he doesn’t answer with words. just lets his gaze drop to your lips, then back up, slow and deliberate.
chat loses what little composure it had left.
apple.creampie: NOT THE EYE SEX????
spectatingmyhusband: HELLO? ARE WE INTERRUPTING SOMETHING
parasociallystable: ATP JS BEND HER OVER THE DESK ALREADY 💔😭
certifiedkenmasimp: I SECOND THAT
kneesweakforkozume: we need an onlyfans yesterday
kenma reads the last one aloud, voice dropping into that velvet register they all lose their minds over. “'we need an onlyfans'.” he pauses, lets the silence stretch, then looks straight at the camera. “keep talking like that and i’ll bend her over this table right now. you want that?”
the sidebar turns into a wall of yes yes YES YES caps-lock and barking drooling emojis.
you feel the heat crawl up your spine— not embarrassment, just raw want. you shift in the pink chair, thighs pressing together, and meet his eyes with a slow, challenging smile. “y'know, babe, you're threatening both them and me with a good time.”
he exhales a soft laugh, then— “alright,” he says to the camera, voice flat but laced with that quiet amusement only you ever get to hear fully. “enough foreplay. we’re playing two player obby on roblox. you degenerates can behave or i’m ending stream early.”
you watch your tiny blocky avatar spawn on top of his on a floating pastel platform suspended over an endless sky, cheerful music chiming through both your phone speakers and his headset at the same time. the title screen proudly announces two player obby. you're playing on your phone while he plays on his pc, streaming his screen for his viewers.
"ooh, get ready to lose, kenma."
"(y/n).. we're supposed to work together to get to the end."
then, your avatar jumps.
misses.
falls directly into the void.
the oof sound effect plays through your speakers.
kenma exhales a quiet laugh beside you, shoulders shaking faintly.
you glance sideways at him. “don’t laugh.”
“i didn’t say anything,” he replies, which is technically true, though the amusement lingering in his voice makes it worse.
his avatar waits patiently at the edge of the platform while yours respawns, blocky arms lifting stiffly as you try again. the controls on your phone feel slightly delayed, thumbs tapping carefully as you line up the next jump.
you make it this time.
barely.
“okay,” you mutter, leaning closer without realizing, concentration pulling your brows together. “this game is stressful.”
“you’re supposed to jump when it moves,” kenma says, tone calm, eyes flicking between his monitor and the corner of his screen where chat scrolls endlessly.
“i am jumping.”
your character slips again, teetering dangerously before regaining balance at the last second.
chat explodes in celebration like you’ve achieved something monumental.
you’re both leaning into your screens, trading quiet commentary. “wait, stand on that button,” you mutter. “got it,” he replies, voice soft, focused. your characters sync up effortlessly, and it’s nice. domestic. almost normal.
almost.
then the chats starts creeping back.
jokingly, of course.
certifiedkenmasimp: bend her over when she dies again
kneesweakforkozume: lmao co-op but make it 18+
canonicallydownbad: kenma if u die she has to ride u on cam
apple.creampie: we’re kidding… unless 👀
respectfullyunwell: SPICY CONTENT OR RIOT
your eyes glance up to the chat and you immediately smirk, a mischievous idea now planted in your head. "woah. your fans really want you to fuck me on live. y'sure you don't wanna give your sweet fans what they want?"
kenma reads a few silently, lips thinning. you catch the exact second his patience snaps— not dramatic, just a quiet click. he pauses the game mid-level, and looks up directly into the camera.
"you guys really don't know when to stop," he sighs.
apple.creampie donated 500$! "kenma if you hate us so much just fuck your gf on stream and end our suffering 😒"
he doesn’t speak right away.
just reaches, wraps those long fingers around your wrist, tugs once—sharp enough to make your breath hitch— and pulls you right between his spread thighs so your ass bumps the edge of the desk, facing him.
“sit.”
you start sideways like a coward. but he lifts you up, spins you until you’re sitting on him proper— facing the camera, thighs forced wide with his knees, with your back glued to his chest. you let out a small yelp from how rough he was.
chat loses its fucking mind instantly.
he doesn’t even glance at the spam. his left arm snakes around your and his right hand dragging slow up the inside of your thigh. his middle finger traces the soaked seam of your shorts, presses just hard enough to make your hips twitch like a needy little bitch.
“look at them.” kenma's chin jerks toward the monitor. “they've been begging to watch me ruin you nonstop. and you—” his fingertip circles your clit through the cotton, slow and mean, “—you've been egging them on.”
you try to hide your face but he catches your jaw and forces it right back to the lens.
“eyes on camera, slut.”
two fingers shove under the fabric, sinking in knuckle-deep and curling right into your g-spot. your whole body jolts.
“fuck—kenma—” you try to bite your lips to keep your sounds in,
“shut up.” his thumb presses your clit in tight, nasty little strokes. “already dripping down my hand like a desperate whore. don’t act shy now.”
his chat is actual chaos. half keysmash, half straight-up “please fuck her on stream” donos lighting the sidebar on fire.
he repeats one comment, deadpan.
“‘bend her over when she dies again’.” he lets out a tiny dry huff. “so fucking predictable.”
fingers scissor once, twice, then rip out. you whine like you’re dying.
he drags those slick fingers straight to your mouth, pushes them past your lips.
“clean your mess.”
you do as he says— tongue swirling, tasting yourself while thousands watch you choke on his fingers.
“good girl,” he breathes, almost sweet. then, “such a filthy attention whore.”
pulls them out with a wet pop, smears the spit and slick across your thigh like he’s marking territory, then grips your hips and stands— lifting you like you’re nothing.
he folds you over the edge, tits mashed to the wood, ass up, face inches from the camera. ring light catches every bead of sweat, every flutter of your lashes, every tremble.
he yanks your shorts and panties down— fabric tangled around your thighs like makeshift cuffs.
with his fists in your hair, he yanks your head back so the camera gets the perfect money shot: lips swollen, eyes glassy and nearly fucked-stupid already, drool at the corner of your mouth.
“look at them,” he orders, quieter, darker. “let them see the face they’ve been paying to wreck.”
he pulls his sweatpants and boxers down just enough— blunt head nudges your entrance, fat and hot, rocking there just to make you feel how thick he’s gonna split you open while the entire stream watches.
“say it.”
“haah, fuck me.”
“louder. make them hear how bad you need it.”
your eyes flick to chat— pure depravity, begging in every language.
“fuck me, kenma— please— fuck me on stream—”
he slams in, one long, brutal stroke that punches the air out of your lungs.
your mouth falls open in a silent scream. he doesn’t let you breathe, just sets a punishing rhythm— deep, mean snaps that make your palms slip on the desk every time his hips slap your ass.
“keep looking at the camera,” he orders when your head tries to drop. hair yanked back harder. “let them see your pretty face while i use this cunt.”
tears prick your eyes— not pain, just the overwhelming stretch, the exposure, the sick thrill of being their porn.
his free hand snakes around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast and filthy until your thighs are shaking like you’re gonna collapse.
“clenching so fucking tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “you love being their camslut?”
you can’t speak— just broken, pathetic moans every time he bottoms out.
he folds over you, chest to your back, lips brushing your ear.
“come for them,” he whispers, voice pure command. “show the chat what their money bought.”
you shatter.
your whole body seizing, mouth wide in a soundless wail as you gush around him, vision blurring white. he fucks you through every pulse, relentless, until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, legs trembling so bad he has to hook an arm under your hips to hold you up.
only then does he let go— few more thrusts before he buries balls-deep and fills you with a low, guttural groan the mic eats right up.
silence for a beat. just both of you panting.
then he pulls out slow, lets you slump boneless over the desk, and finally— finally— ends the stream.
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summ: jisung came twice already, yet he’s still whining and grinding against you like he’s never been touched before.
⋆ pairing: perv!jisung x f!reader, established relationship
⋆ genre: smut (minors dni)
⋆ tags/cw: pet names (jagi, baby), jisung is hella needy, kissing, lots of whimpering and whining, teasing, scratching, multiple rounds, breeding kink, cumming, creampie, piv, unprotected s*x
⋆ words: 1.7k
a/n: okay, i genuinely think this might be the filthiest thing i’ve written so far. i mean, UGH, jisung being a pathetic, freaky guy who can go for multiple rounds and still whine for more is actually my favorite agenda ever. anyways, i wrote this kinda fast and there was zero beta reading involved, so… yeah. i’ve ‘back to life’ on repeat since yesterday, real banger. now i’ll stop yapping. enjoy this short freaky fic! >.<
the second time jisung came was, honestly, kind of a pathetic accident.
“baby, c’mon…” he whined into your neck, breathing so hard you could practically feel his chest shaking. “i said i was sensitive…”
and yet he kept rolling his hips against you in tiny needy thrusts, completely incapable of staying still every time you ran your fingers through his hair or kissed that sensitive spot on his neck.
“mhm?” you murmured, barely holding back a laugh as you pulled away just enough to look at him properly. “then why are you still grinding on me?”
jisung let out an embarrassed sound immediately.
his glasses were barely hanging onto the bridge of his nose, crooked after the last thirty minutes of complete disaster. his cheeks were flushed, his bottom lip glossy from how much he’d been biting it, and his hands were gripping your waist like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.
and the worst part was that he was still hard. painfully sensitive, even after everything.
“i dunno…” he whimpered quietly, burying his face in your shoulder again. “fuck- i’m sorry. i can’t stop.”
the apology came out so sincere you had to bite back a smile. because jisung was genuinely embarrassed.
embarrassed that he was still turned on. embarrassed by how his body reacted to you. embarrassed that he’d already come twice and still kept chasing you with tiny desperate rolls of his hips.
and obviously, that was only making it worse for him.
“are you telling me you already came twice and you still want more?” you asked slowly, letting your nails lightly scrape against the back of his neck.
and that was a massive mistake.
because jisung’s entire body shuddered against yours.
a broken moan slipped straight onto your skin and his fingers dug harder into your waist.
“don’t say it like that…” he whined immediately. “you make me sound fucking pathetic…”
another tiny grind of his hips. another shaky breath hidden against your neck.
your hand slid slowly down his back and jisung literally stopped breathing for a second.
you felt him tense the second your fingers brushed the skin beneath his lifted hoodie. the way he swallowed hard. the way he tried to stay still.
and how he failed completely.
“baby- ah, shit…” he gasped nervously, pressing himself even closer to you. “don’t tease me right now, please…”
“or what?”
the question came out soft, teasing, just a little cruel.
and jisung made the most miserable sound you’d heard from him all night. a tiny broken whine, completely muffled against your neck.
“i-i’m serious…”
but his hips kept moving slowly, needily, like his body had stopped listening to him a long time ago.
he didn’t pull away even a little. if anything, he pressed himself against you again with another desperate movement that immediately made him hide his face in your neck.
like he couldn’t survive his own embarrassment.
completely pathetic.
“do you even hear yourself right now?”
he let out another embarrassed sound. “please- d-don’t…”
the next drag of your nails against his skin pulled a broken moan out of him that he uselessly tried to hide in your shoulder. another miserable whine.
your fingers slid up to his jaw, slowly forcing him to lift his head. jisung’s cheeks were completely red. his eyes could barely stay open behind his crooked glasses.
completely gone.
“you still want more that badly?” you whispered, amused.
jisung swallowed hard. and then he made the mistake of looking at your lips, because immediately his hips rolled against you again, needy, desperate, like he physically couldn’t help it.
“please…” the whine came out shaky, completely out of his control.
and honestly, that was what finally killed you.
in one quick movement, your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer and sinking him fully into your cunt, taking him in easily.
jisung let out a high-pitched moan instantly, completely wrecked by the feeling of your warm walls wrapping around his cock again so perfectly.
“mmmh- ah, jagi…” he whimpered, brows furrowing as he buried his face against your chest. “fuck… can’t think…”
his words kept breaking apart between messy pants muffled against your tits. his hips started moving again almost on reflex, needy, incapable of staying still.
you could feel his whole body trembling.
every breath came out shakier than the last. every touch seemed to make it worse. and he couldn’t hold back the whine that slipped out when he felt his own cum slowly dripping out of you with every lazy thrust.
his gaze dropped to where your bodies connected, eyes shining while he bit down on his lip at the obscene sight.
“feels so fucking good…” he mumbled against your skin, completely gone. “swear it’s never enough with you… need to fill you up completely, fuck-”
his fingers dug desperately into your thighs while he buried himself back into your neck again, hiding there like he couldn’t handle looking at you for too long.
your back arched when you felt his cock hit your sweet spot. you could tell every time the tip brushed your cervix, he lost even more control.
you dug your nails into his back when his movements started getting sloppier, faster. moans kept slipping from his lips before he could stop them.
jisung wasn’t going to last much longer.
“too much- ah, shit…” he panted, letting his head fall back for a few seconds. “you’re gonna kill me…”
he bit down on his lower lip when he felt himself pounding into you mercilessly, another broken whine slipping out when he noticed your tits bouncing messily with the frantic pace of his thrusts.
“fuck- just like that… you milk me so fucking good, jagi,” he whimpered, gripping your thighs even tighter.
you grabbed the sheets between your fingers, eyes squeezing shut when jisung hooked your legs over his shoulders and started thrusting deeper. both of you whimpered at the same time, hit with the same electric shock.
jisung was panting audibly now, whining and whimpering every single time your cunt swallowed his cock so perfectly.
and it was the satisfaction of seeing your face twisted in pleasure and knowing it was because of him. that he was doing this to you, that his cock was making you feel this good while fucking you this hard, and all you could do was moan his name.
all those thoughts intoxicated his brain, making his cock twitch with pure excitement while he kept up those erratic thrusts.
“love you, ah- love you so much…” he whimpered against your skin, completely dizzy with pleasure.
you grabbed his face to kiss him and jisung practically melted against your mouth. he sighed shakily between kisses, clinging to you even tighter.
soon his kisses started trailing down your jaw, your cheeks, your neck, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you first.
and then you said it.
“ji- want you to- want you to breed me, fill me up completely,” you whimpered against his ear, panting.
and the reaction was immediate, because that completely ruined him.
his hips stuttered for a second before moving even more desperately, like those words finally snapped something inside him. now every movement was full of hunger, excitement.
“baby- wait, wait- ah…” his moans broke apart messily. “too much, too much- i’m so close…”
he couldn’t think properly anymore.
you could hear it in the way he babbled nonsense against your skin. in how he could barely keep his eyes open. in how he kept chasing you even while trembling in your arms.
the wet sound of your bodies filled the entire room together with your uneven breathing and the tiny miserable whines jisung kept letting out every time he felt you clinging tighter to him.
jisung felt his eyes roll back, tongue slipping out as the unbearable heat drowned him completely and stopped him from thinking straight.
you felt your cunt spasm around his cock right before a violent orgasm hit you all at once. every muscle in your body tightened, feeling that overwhelming heat flooding through you completely.
but jisung didn’t stop.
he kept thrusting, inch by inch, burying himself mercilessly into your ruined hole. every twitch of his cock sent electric shocks through your body, his tip brushing against your cervix over and over again.
“oh god- gonna come so deep inside you, jagi. you take me so well, so fucking tight…” he groaned through clenched teeth, voice thick with arousal.
he thrust all the way in one last time, burying his thick cock deep inside your sensitive center, hitting your cervix and grinding the flushed tip firmly against it.
and when he finally lost control, he lost it completely.
his entire body tensed against yours while a broken moan fell from his swollen glossy lips.
his cock erupted like a volcano, cum spilling violently inside you in endless pulses.
you could feel the sheer amount of cum filling you up, hot and sticky inside your body, dripping out of your cunt even while jisung was still buried deep inside you.
jisung threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut while broken whines slipped through his messy breathing. his fingers dug even deeper into your waist, incapable of letting you go for even a second.
his body trembled through the last few spasms, still fully buried inside your cunt.
“s-sorry, baby… i just can’t stop-” he mumbled, voice completely wrecked, still shaking. “your cunt takes me so well, so full of me…”
his eyes were shining, looking at you with that devotion that never left his face whenever it came to you.
he pulled out slowly, little whimpers leaving his throat from how sensitive he was.
then he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder, trying to catch his breath between messy inhales.
his glasses were completely crooked now. hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks flushed all the way to his ears.
an absolute mess.
and yet he still clung to you like pulling away would kill him.
you let out a soft tired laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair.
“mmh… there’s definitely something wrong with you, baby,” you answered, staring at him for a few seconds before smiling. “round 4?”
jisung let out the most embarrassed sound of the entire night, hugging you even tighter.
completely exhausted. completely satisfied.
and probably ready to start all over again in less than five minutes.
your thighs were pressed flush with your chest, his hands positioned right below your knees to keep you in place. his cock had never felt so deep in your cunny, reaching new depths as his tip kissed your cervix.
“so good baby, god you’re sucking me in.”
his thick cock was plunging in and out of your sopping pussy, filling the room with wet slapping sounds. jeongins hips slammed into yours with one final thrust as his seed came out in warm white ropes, filling you to the brim. you moaned out, leaving scratches along his back as you felt your boyfriends load fill your little cunny. his pants sounded ragged in your ear as jeongin caught his breath, slowly pulling out until his tip was just barely inside your pussy.
he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before pulling all the way out. his cum immediately oozed out between your folds, coating your pussy in his seed. but jeongin was quick to bring his fingers to your lips, collecting his cum with his fingers and pushing it back into your sore cunt.
“jeongin-ngh!” your breath was caught in your throat at the feeling of his long fingers being plunged deep back inside you. a smirk spread across his lips as your boyfriend curled his fingers, hitting that sweet spot he always seemed to find with ease.
“gotta keep you full baby, don’t want you losing a single drop.”
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its boring when things are very beautiful. it needs to be a little bit ugly. like smudged makeup. anatomy in a drawing you didnt get quite right. knickknacks strewn about. you understand
who knew that watching your best friend get this much bigger would make the "just friends" lie feel so dangerously thin ?
pairing: bang chan x reader, friends to lovers
genre: smut; fluff
warnings: explicit sexual content (minors do not interact), fingering, unprotected sex (please use contraceptives !), praise kink, size kink
word count: 3.55k
kysa's note: had this freaky title in my wips and it's finally here, drowning in praise (#lovepraisekink) hopefully it's as good as i had hoped to make it :) leave your thoughts in the comments, hope you enjoy ! xoxo.
you loved hanging out with your boys, you seriously did. you had met chan and jeongin in university three years ago — a tiny, tight-knit circle whose lives had become tangled in a way that could only be fated. out of everyone you’d met during those years, they were the ones who stuck. you loved them.
okay maybe someone a tad bit more.
bang christopher chan.
you had met him through shared music production classes back when you were all just trying to survive your first year. the first proper meeting between you all had happened while you and jeongin were drowning in a final project; chan had simply dropped by with coffee and some words of encouragement. you learned quickly that that was just how chan was — kind, caring and the literal definition of a gentleman.
he had kept that reputation up for years, whether he was picking you up from the library when you were too tired to walk or showing up at your door with food when you were drowning in assignments, detached from the world. before you knew it, he had nestled into a permanent, sweet corner of your heart. your crush on him kept growing but you reminded yourself that it's just chan — being kind and caring and him.
you controlled yourself, or rather, you feigned whatever remnants of control were left in your body. you feigned it so well that apparently jeongin knew, but the man in question remained oblivious. it was easy to hide because you believed that was just chan — the hardworking soul who cared for his two best friends with the same steady, protective warmth.
so all was good. you continued with the act.
because that’s what it was — an act. for years, you had lied, playing the part of the perfect friend, pretending his presence didn't make your pulse skip.
and that lie was currently biting you in the ass.
you were calm.
obviously.
most definitely.
it wasn't like the visuals were currently playing tug-of-war with your heartbeat.
it was your typical movie night, hosted at chan and jeongin’s place. jeongin had asked you to come early to help with snacks since chan was out at the gym. you had arrived with bags of groceries, helping him prep while he chattered away about the horror movie he had picked. while he handled the popcorn, you filled the bowls with crisps. while he stepped away for a call, you placed the bowls on the table and settled on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through your phone.
then, the door swung open.
chan entered, his body covered in a slight sheen of sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. clad in a black chrome hearts hoodie, he looked so devastatingly hot it had your mouth drying, your eyes straying to the sliver of skin visible at his chest and neck.
"hey, sorry i'm late to my own hosting duties," chan spoke, locking the door behind him. his voice was a bit deeper than usual, roughened by his workout, and it sent a localized shiver straight down your spine. "missed my session this morning so i had to squeeze it in now. you been waiting long ?"
"ah, don't worry about it — besides, innie is way more fun to be around anyways." you managed to joke, your voice only slightly higher than usual as you tried to hide your flustered state behind a playful jab.
chan just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that felt far too intimate for the living room. "is that so ? i'll remember that next time you need a coffee run."
just then, jeongin appeared from the kitchen and plopped down on the floor right in front of you, leaning his back against the sofa near your knees. he was already rambling about the jump-scares in the movie. you reached out instinctively, ruffling his hair as he talked; he was essentially the younger brother you had never had. there was a comfortable, protective warmth between you two — a bond so effortless that he felt like home. he was the only one who could get away with forcing you to watch a horror movie you were terrified of just by giving you those puppy eyes.
"don't listen to him," jeongin chirped, looking up at you with a grin. "i'll protect you from the ghosts. chan hyung is the one who's going to be screaming."
"in your dreams, kid," chan muttered, heading toward the bathroom.
a few minutes later, you caught a waft of fresh, musk-scented shampoo. before the scent could even reach your lungs, a freshly showered chan sat on the couch right beside you. his fingers carded through his wet ash-blonde hair, the hue shining as if it existed only to be his hair colour. once you moved past that, you froze.
you sat there, way too still for a living, breathing human body.
chan was sitting beside you, clad in a black tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
the fabric barely contained the gym results he had been hiding under heavy hoodies for months. his arms were thick, the skin pulled tight over hard muscle, and every time he moved, his pecs flexed against the thin material of the tank. when he leaned forward to grab his drink, the sight of his back muscles shifting and roping beneath the black fabric was enough to make your brain short-circuit. even his thighs, thick and straining against the hem of his shorts as he settled into the cushions, seemed to take up more space than they used to.
the couch felt smaller. the air felt thinner.
when did he get so big ? his arms, his shoulders, his back — the thought looped in your head, a frantic, rhythmic mantra while you stared at the tv without seeing a single thing.
you could feel the heat radiating off him, a steady pulse of warmth that made your own skin feel too tight. every time he shifted, the scent of his soap mixed with the lingering warmth of his skin hit you, sending your internal monologue spiraling into territory that definitely wasn't 'just friends'. you were so focused on the sheer physical gravity of him that you missed the way his eyes lingered on the side of your face — his expression unreadable, heavy, and far too focused.
"you okay ?" he murmured, the low vibration of his voice closer to your ear than you were prepared for. "you're awfully quiet tonight."
"oh y-yea, it's n-nothing," you mumbled, mentally screaming at yourself for tripping over such simple words. you forced your eyes back to the screen, staring at the flickering shadows with a focus that was borderline painful.
but just as your heartbeat started to settle into a manageable rhythm, the movie decided it was finished being subtle. a sudden, bone-chilling screech echoed through the speakers, paired with a visual so jarring that your body reacted before your brain could catch up.
you flinched violently, your entire frame jolting sideways as you sought out the nearest solid thing to anchor you. your hands scrambled, fingers digging instinctively into the nearest source of heat — chan’s bicep.
you didn't just touch him — you clung to him, your face pressing into the crook of his shoulder as you tried to hide from the screen. his arm was hot beneath your touch, so much wider and stronger than you had imagined when you were just looking at it. the sheer density of his muscle under the thin cotton of the tank top made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason than the ghost on screen.
"shit," you breathed out against his skin, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "i hate this. i seriously hate you both for making me do this."
jeongin let out a delighted cackle from his spot on the floor, not even looking back as he reached for a handful of popcorn. "don't pass out before the second act !"
chan didn't laugh. if anything, he seemed to go incredibly still. for a second, you worried you had overstepped, that the 'act' was finally broken. you started to pull back, your fingers beginning to loosen their desperate grip on his arm, but before you could retreat, his hand came up.
his large palm covered your own, his fingers curling over yours to lock your hand firmly against his bicep. he didn't let you pull away. instead, he shifted his weight, leaning into you until you were tucked securely against his side, practically swallowed by his bulk. the movement caused his tank top to strain even further, the fabric groaning against the width of his chest.
"it's okay," chan murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a physical vibration against your temple. "i've got you. you don't have to let go."
i don't have to let go — the thought was a dizzying loop in your mind. you could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the scent of his shampoo and warm skin wrapping around you like a cocoon. you felt so small next to him, so fragile, and the way he was looking down at you — gaze heavy and dark — made a tiny, involuntary whimper climb up your throat.
it was a pathetic, needy little sound, and you tried really hard to swallow it, but it was too late.
chan heard it.
he leaned in just an inch closer, his lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear as the movie’s soundtrack swelled to a roar, masking his words from jeongin.
"that's it, such a good girl, staying so still for me," he whispered, the praise hitting you like a physical weight. "just keep holding on, sweetheart. you're doing so well."
oh. fuck.
did he just — ? did he just call you, a good girl ?
your grip tightened on his arm, your knuckles turning white as you felt your act crumbling. the horror movie was still playing, but the only thing you could actually feel was the heat of chan’s body and the way his voice was slowly, deliberately dismantling every bit of control you had left.
the air in the room shifted, turning thick and heavy as the movie’s score reached a frantic, screeching crescendo. jeongin was still glued to the screen, completely oblivious to the silent collapse of your composure just inches away.
every time your heart tried to find its rhythm, chan’s thumb would brush slowly, deliberately, over the back of your hand — a rhythmic, possessive movement that kept you pinned to his side. you were leaning into him so heavily now that you could feel the individual ribs of his tank top pressing against your cheek, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric like a fever.
suddenly, he dropped his hand from your shoulder to your waist, fingers grazing the skin where your shirt had lifted. despite much controlling, another whimper escaped you, a tiny, broken sound that was lost to everyone but him.
"you’re so sensitive, aren't you?" chan’s voice vibrated against the shell of your ear. "making those needy little noises just because i'm holding you."
jesus fucking christ —
"stop — please stop" your mind pleaded, but your body was betraying you, arching almost imperceptibly toward the source of the praise. your internal monologue was a chaotic mess of two years of pining finally crashing into the reality of his massive, solid frame.
you felt small. you felt seen. and for the first time, you felt like he was done pretending.
he leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple as he inhaled the scent of your hair.
"i think the movie is getting to be too much for you," he murmured, though his eyes weren't on the screen. "how about we go to my room ? i'll help you calm down."
the promise — the promise of help was what finally made you stop pretending. you couldn't even find your voice to answer. you just nodded — a jerky, frantic movement that had his lips curling into a shadow of a smirk.
chan stood up, his massive frame towering over you for a second before he reached down, his hand wrapping around yours and pulling you upward. the sheer strength in his grip was effortless, reminding you of his strength that had been distracting you all night.
"innie, we're gonna head in. she's a bit too spooked," chan called out, his voice perfectly casual, slipping back into that normal tone so easily it made your head spin.
jeongin didn't even look up from the screen, waving a dismissive hand. "yeah, yeah. go protect your person, hyung. don't let the ghosts get 'em."
the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you. the silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your own jagged breathing. chan didn't move toward the bed. instead, he turned, his bulk immediately crowding you back against the solid wood of the door.
he didn't touch you yet, but he didn't have to. he just stood there, his shoulders blocking out the light, the black tank top clinging to his chest as it rose and fell with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"now," he whispered, his voice dropping into that commanding register that made your knees go weak. "tell me why you were making those sounds on the couch ? why did those pretty whimpers escape your throat, baby ?
your mouth went dry, mind reeling as the words fell into your ears — he found your whimper pretty ? and the nickname — good god.
you looked up at him, the height difference feeling more pronounced than ever in the quiet of his room.
"i... i don't know," you breathed, another sound escaping as he stepped even closer, his thick thighs brushing against yours.
"liar," he coaxed, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your lower lip. "you were being such a good girl out there, acting so sweet for me. do you want to keep being good ?"
your soul agreed before you could.
"b-big — y-you're so b-big, channie" you whispered, throat bobbing as you waited for his reaction with bated breath.
chan chuckled as his fingers slid back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to take all of him in.
"is that what's distracting you, sweetheart ?" he murmured, stepping even deeper into your space until you were pinned flat against the door.
up close, the sheer scale of him was terrifying in the best way possible. his chest was a broad wall of solid muscle, the thin fabric of his tank top damp and clinging to every ridge of his torso.
"i've been working so hard for you," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that chesty, gravelly tone that made your knees buckle. "waiting for the day you’d finally stop pretending and just tell me how much you liked it."
he worked out for you ?
the realisation hit you with a force, making your knees buckle.
his free hand came down, his large palm splaying over your stomach, his fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your waist. he pressed in just enough to make you gasp, his thumb grazing the bottom of your ribs.
"made my shoulders broad for you to lay on, made my biceps bigger for you to hold, made myself stronger so i can — " he continued, his voice trailing off into a low, dark growl as he pressed his hips firmly into yours.
the sentence didn't need to be finished. you could feel exactly what he meant as his eyes darkened, tracking the way your breath hitched the moment you felt the hard length of him through his shorts, pressing firmly against your thighs.
you could only let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, your hands coming up to rest uselessly against his massive biceps. they felt like iron beneath your palms, so thick that your fingers couldn't even dream of meeting on the other side. the realization of just how much bigger he was than you sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.
"channie, p-please — " you whispered, arching into him as you moved your hands to his chest, slightly digging in order to ground yourself.
the friction of your palms against his chest only made him growl, a low sound that vibrated through your own ribcage. he couldn't wait for you to finish your plea. with a single, effortless motion, he hooked his hands under your thighs and hiked you up, your back hitting the door with a soft thud as you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.
the sheer bulk of him was even more overwhelming now that you were flush against him. just then he pressed his lips against yours, groaning as you moaned into the kiss. a shiver ran down your spine as chan sucked on your lower lip, swallowing your tiny gasps. a slight nip on your lips had you moaning his name and all his restraints snapped.
chan laid you on the bed, the mattress divotting deeply under his weight as he crawled over you, caging you in with those massive shoulders. as the last of your clothes were discarded, the reality of him hit you like a physical blow.
god, he was big everywhere. your eyes blown wide, you tracked the lines of his body — the roped muscle of his thighs, the sheer width of his chest, and then, the sight of him fully hardened and twitching against his stomach. he was thick, heavy, and looked utterly impossible.
chan didn't give you time to overthink it. he was over you in a second, his large hand sliding down to find you already sopping wet, your body betraying how long you had craved this. he pushed two thick fingers inside you, stretching you open as he watched your face go slack, eyes rolling back.
"fuck, you’re so wet for me, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice a gravelly vibration. "did you get like this just thinking about me ? thinking about how much of me you could take ? fuck, you're so ready."
you arched off the bed, your fingers digging into the iron-hard muscle of his biceps. "please, c-chan — put it in. oh fuck — please, i need it so bad."
"you want it?" he growled, "show me how much you want it. tell me, princess."
"want you so fucking bad, i'm aching — please, channie — " you whimpered, spreading your legs wider giving him a perfect view of your sopping cunt stuffed full of his fingers. that was all the invitation he needed.
he repositioned himself, the broad head of his length probing at your entrance. he moved slowly, testing the tension, but as your own juices acted as a slick invitation, he could'nt help but slide in one heavy thrust.
the friction was staggering. you felt your breath leave your body in a silent scream as he slid in all at once, his sheer girth stretching you to the absolute limit. he didn't stop until his pelvis crashed against yours, buried to the hilt.
"oh god — fuuuuuuuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping against yours as he took a ragged breath. "you're so tight — nghhhh, you're wrapping around me like you were fucking made for me. such a good girl, taking all of me so perfectly. fuck — you feel heavenly, baby."
it felt like he was everywhere. the sensation was so deep it was visceral — you could swear you felt him pressing against your very ribs, filling the entirety of your core until there was no room left for air — breathing nothing but him. as you looked down, a visible, terrifyingly hot bulge appeared in the soft skin of your lower stomach, marking exactly where he was stretched inside you.
"look at that," he whispered, his eyes following yours to where his size was distorting your form, his thumb stroking your hip. "look at what you're holding for me. it's right in your tummy, isn't it ?
he didn't wait for a response before he started snapping his hips, his pace sudden and much fucking needed. every thrust was a heavy, wet thud, his balls slapping against you as he drove himself into you with the strength he’d spent years building.
"fuck — yea yea yea — just like that," you sobbed out, your head tossing back as he hit your sweet spot. "nghhhh, channie, right there — oh god, fuck !"
"yeah ? you like that ?" he growled, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you up, making the penetration even deeper, even more ruinous. "fuck, you're taking every inch beautifully. you were always mine, hm ? you just had to be brave enough to let me in. so brave for me, sweetheart. good fucking girl — fuck, you're so tight."
you were a mess of whimpers and shattered breaths, your body shaking under the weight of his broad shoulders and the relentless stretch of him. the sound of wet friction and his heavy grunts filled the room, a filthy symphony of the three years of pining finally exploding.
"that’s it, give it all to me," he choked out, his voice breaking as he felt you begin to climax. "fuckfuckfuck — stay right there. let me fill you up until you can't feel anything but me. you did so well for me, sweetheart. oh god, fuck —"
he delivered one final, soul-crushing thrust, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled into you as you both unravelled simultaneously. wrapped in his arms, swallowed by his bulk, you finally understood. the gentleman was gone, but the man who remained was exactly what you had always needed to be whole.
( 뮤즈 ) ⃕ ωhen yours and a strangers kiss cam goes viral on the internet, you now make it your life’s mission to track him down — only you don’t know he is doing the exact same.
এ smau fluff strangers to lovers female reader explicit texting they both horn dogs
eventual james potter x fem!reader; inevitable angst and annoyance as james slowly matures over his time at hogwarts. slowburn. total word count: 53.7K
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two boys send you a series of letters over the course of the school year. one, a sweet ravenclaw boy who wants to get to know you. The other, well— you don’t know, but he already knows you.
eventual james x fem!reader | 14.0k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | the marauders are… reasonable human beings? technically oc love interest for plot reasons, james is a yearner, girlhood in its truest form
The first morning back is crisp and golden—the sort of late summer day that makes Hogwarts look like something out of a painting. You’ve just arrived off the train, your trunk bouncing along behind you, and the air’s got that unmistakable scent of lakewater, freshly-polished wood, and the beginnings of autumn. You’d missed it. Even if you’d never admit that to anyone.
Lily walks beside you, chattering about her summer, about Petunia being an absolute nightmare (what else is new), and how she’s already dreading the mountain of work that NEWTs are supposed to be.
You hum along at the right places, nodding as if you’re paying attention, but you’re mostly distracted—scanning the crowd ahead, watching as students laugh and jostle their way toward the carriages. You can already see the back of Sirius’ head, black hair tied back with a ribbon someone must have dared him to wear, and James beside him—his usual mess of curls half-tamed under a Gryffindor scarf, even though it's hardly cold enough for it yet.
They’re not causing trouble.
And that’s… strange.
You don’t realise you’ve slowed down until Lily stops too, blinking at you.
“You alright?”
You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forgot how much taller everyone’s gotten. They look like seventh years,”
She snorts. “Speak for yourself. Potter still looks like a fifteen-year-old with too much energy and not enough shame,”
You glance back at the group of boys as they vanish into one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The usual suspects: James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The ‘Marauders’—still the stupidest name you’ve ever heard. Though you have to admit (not aloud, obviously) that it suits them. Or… used to.
Because something’s changed.
It started at the end of last year, when James had pulled you and Lily aside—separately, mind you, in an unusual display of emotional intelligence—and apologised. Properly. Not with a joke, not with a smug smirk, but with sincerity so unsettling that it had rendered you both speechless for a good few moments. You’d shared looks with Lily afterward, both trying to decide if it was a prank, some elaborate ruse meant to throw you off-guard.
It wasn’t.
And he hasn’t gone back on it either.
Which is why you’re currently standing in the entrance hall of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with your friends, and you feel a little… off.
Because things are peaceful. For the first time in years, things are actually peaceful.
The Marauders aren’t hanging hexed signs on people’s backs, they aren’t enchanting staircases to flatten when someone climbs them, they haven’t even thrown water balloons from the Astronomy Tower. And sure, they’re still winding up Severus at every opportunity—but even that’s been reduced from full-scale ambushes to petty jibes and muttered comments in the corridors.
It’s quieter.
Less… annoying.
And that should be a good thing.
It is a good thing. Probably.
—
You settle into sixth year like slipping on an old jumper. The classes are harder, of course—double Potions is hell on earth, and Charms seems to have tripled its expectations overnight—but there’s a rhythm to it.
You get up, you go to class, you spend time in the common room with the girls, laughing and playing Exploding Snap or braiding Dorcas’ hair while Marlene does impressions of the professors.
There’s no chaos. No Marauder-related distractions. And no James Potter, appearing behind you to tug on your robes or ask if you’re sure you didn’t drop your dignity in the corridor somewhere.
It’s… peaceful.
But peace, you realise after the third week, is a little boring.
No one’s called out your name in a loud, humiliating spectacle at dinner. No one’s nicked your favourite quill only to return it days later enchanted to sing show tunes. No one’s bewitched your name onto the Prefect noticeboard with the title “Most Likely to Hex You for Breathing Too Loudly.”
And no one’s watching you anymore.
Not in that way.
Because even when it was annoying—especially when it was annoying—there was something almost flattering about it. That attention. That sense of being seen, even if it was by someone like James Bloody Potter. It made you feel... well, not special exactly. But noticed.
You’d never admit it out loud. Not to Lily, not to Marlene, not even to yourself if you could help it. But in the quiet moments—when the library’s too silent, or the common room too tame—you find yourself missing the noise.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
—
The girls are thriving, though. Lily’s top of every class (no surprise there), Marlene’s got half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team vying for her attention, and Dorcas has taken to sketching everyone in increasingly dramatic poses. She caught Sirius with his eyes closed in History of Magic and drew him like a fallen angel; he signed it and stuck it to the back of Peter’s chair.
Even that felt nostalgic.
Because back in the day—not even that long ago—Sirius and James would’ve been howling with laughter, probably doing impressions of Binns until the man floated out in exasperation. Now, they seem more subdued. Not boring exactly, but... more grown up. As if they’re slowly starting to realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.
Well. Not entirely.
You still catch James showing off in the corridors sometimes—trying to balance a stack of books on his head while walking backwards or charming Remus’ tie to change colours during class. But it’s gentler now. Less abrasive. Like he’s finally learning the difference between being funny and being cruel.
And the strange thing is: you think you might actually like this new version of him.
You’re not sure what to do with that.
—
You’re sitting by the window in the common room, watching the storm pelt against the glass, your Transfiguration notes spread across your lap and a blanket tucked round your legs. The others are upstairs—Lily’s doing prefect rounds, Dorcas is in the bath, and Marlene’s probably flirting with the Ravenclaw Beaters again.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You stare at your notes, then out the window. Somewhere down by the greenhouses, you think you can see Sirius running through the rain, jacket over his head. You squint, and sure enough, James follows a moment later, slipping slightly in the mud but catching himself with a laugh you can’t hear.
They’re soaked.
They’re laughing.
And they didn’t come bother you once today.
You look back at your notes. Your quill sits idle in your hand.
You’re being ridiculous. Pathetic, even. You hated when they bothered you. They drove you mad, especially James. The constant attention, the teasing, the half-jokes that toed the line between affection and annoyance—it was exhausting.
But it also made you feel like someone had your name in their mouth. Like someone saw you.
You press your lips together.
No. You’re being selfish.
You wanted peace, didn’t you? You got peace.
And now you’re here, sulking because a boy hasn’t thrown a dungbomb near you in three weeks.
Brilliant.
—
Lily finds you later, your notes long forgotten, the storm still raging outside.
“You look like someone drowned your owl,” she says lightly, collapsing onto the sofa beside you.
You blink. “Just tired,”
“Mm,” She eyes you. “You’ve been a bit… quiet lately,”
You shrug. “Just getting used to the workload,”
“You sure it’s not something else?”
You hesitate. Then: “Do you think James actually changed?”
She tilts her head. “Honestly? Yeah. I do,”
You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”
“Yeah,” She picks at a thread on the blanket. “He’s still a prat, obviously. Still immature and annoying and thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but… he’s not mean anymore. Not like he was,”
You nod slowly.
“And he apologised,” she adds. “That meant something to me. To you too, I think,”
It did. It still does.
You think back to that moment at the end of fifth year—James, red-faced and stammering, looking more like a boy than he ever had before. You remember how he wouldn’t meet your eyes at first, how he said your name like it mattered. And how for the first time, he didn’t laugh at the end. Didn’t wink. Just waited.
You’d told him it was fine. It wasn’t, but it was getting there.
Now, it might actually be.
But still.
“I kind of miss it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Lily looks at you, confused. “Miss what?”
You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… never mind,”
She doesn’t press.
But later, when she goes upstairs and you’re alone again, you look back out the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the sky dark and drowsy. You think about James—how he used to be, how he is now. You think about how, somewhere in that strange in-between space, you stopped dreading his presence and started noticing his absence.
And the worst part is?
You’re not even sure when it happened.
—
It’s a dull, grey Thursday in early December, the kind that makes you want to burrow into your scarf and pretend the rest of the term doesn’t exist. You’re in the Great Hall for breakfast, half-asleep, cradling a mug of tea between your hands and trying to pretend that the mere idea of double Potions doesn’t make you want to fling yourself into the Black Lake.
Around you, the usual morning chaos unfolds: first-years bickering over toast, owls swooping in with letters and parcels, and Marlene arguing with Dorcas over who used the last of the strawberry jam. Lily’s scanning the Daily Prophet with her usual “this world is doomed” expression, and you’re debating whether or not to try and eat a banana when—
A piece of parchment glides gently through the air in front of you and lands, neatly, on your plate.
You blink. Then stare. Then blink again.
It’s folded perfectly, sealed with a little silver charm in the shape of a star, and it is absolutely not yours.
The table goes very still around you. Lily sets her paper down. Marlene pauses mid-swipe at the jam pot. Dorcas leans in with her eyebrows already raised.
You glance upward, half-expecting someone to shout “surprise!” or for Peeves to come crashing down from the ceiling, cackling. But there’s no sign of trickery. Just a few owls flapping overhead and a Ravenclaw table full of students minding their own business—or appearing to.
“Open it,” Dorcas hisses, eyes wide.
“I—what if it explodes?” you whisper back, only half-joking.
“It won’t,” Lily says. “Look at the charm. It’s a standard animation seal. Whoever sent it used proper magic,”
“That just makes it more suspicious,” you mutter, but your curiosity’s already gotten the better of you.
You peel the charm off and unfold the parchment.
The handwriting is careful, slanted slightly to the right, and clearly someone’s taken their time with it. The ink is deep blue and slightly shimmering at the edges—someone’s fancied this up a bit.
You begin to read.
Hi, sorry to send this in such a dramatic way, but I figured a floating letter was better than stammering at you in person and making a complete idiot of myself.
I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but I’ve… well, I’ve noticed you. And I was wondering if you’d maybe want to write to me over the holidays? Just letters, nothing weird. Or, you know, more, if you’re up for that.
No pressure though. I just think you’re kind, and funny, and I’d like to get to know you.
From, Nick (Ravenclaw, sixth year, dark blond hair, sits near the windows in Charms—just so you can place me, if you want to).
You stare at the letter.
Then read it again.
And a third time, just to be sure it says what you think it says.
It does.
You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke, and immediately try to stuff the letter under your plate, but Lily’s already yanking it out of your hand.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, skimming it with wide eyes. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read,”
“Wait, wait, let me see—” Marlene leans across the table, grabbing the other side. “‘Just letters, nothing weird’—what does that even mean? Is he worried about sounding like a creep? Oh, this is brilliant,”
Dorcas is fanning herself dramatically with her napkin. “Do you think he wrote a rough draft? This is totally a rehearsed letter,”
You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your cheeks threatening to set fire to your fringe. “Stop. Please stop,”
“I will not stop,” Lily grins. “You’ve got an admirer. An actual, charming, respectful admirer who wants to write to you like it’s the 1800s. That’s romantic,”
“It’s embarrassing,” you groan.
“It’s amazing,” Marlene corrects. “And you have to write back,”
“I don’t even know him!”
“That’s the point!” Dorcas says. “He wants to get to know you. He gave you a perfect way out, he’s not assuming anything, he’s just interested. That’s rare,”
They’re all smiling now, all leaning in, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a little helpless and a lot flattered.
Because it’s sweet. It is. And no matter how much your face is burning, there’s a fizzy, fluttery sort of feeling in your stomach you can’t quite ignore. You glance up again, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.
You spot him almost instantly.
Nick: dark blond hair, just as described, pale eyes, face mostly hidden behind a book, though he’s clearly not reading. He looks up. You look down. He looks away quickly, ears going pink.
You smile without meaning to.
“Right,” Lily says, dragging her bag into her lap. “We need paper. A quill. What colour ink should we use?”
“I’m not writing him back in the middle of breakfast,” you hiss.
“Why not?” Marlene’s already pulling a little bottle of silver ink from her satchel. “Strike while the iron’s hot! He’s probably dying of anxiety over there,”
You hesitate for a moment too long, and then the decision’s made for you—because Dorcas finds a clean piece of parchment, Lily’s already got your hand in hers, and Marlene is dictating a reply out loud while you splutter about how this isn’t how people normally handle these things.
You’re still trying to snatch the quill back when a voice drawls from behind you:
“What’s all the noise about, then? Secret girls-only plot to overthrow the Ministry?”
Sirius.
Of course.
You twist in your seat and find him lounging half on the bench, half on the table a few seats down, chin in hand, eyes glinting with nosy curiosity. He’s got toast in one hand and mischief in the other.
Lily lifts her chin and says, very primly, “None of your business,”
“Oh, now I have to know,” he says, kicking his legs up beside you.
You glance to your side—and there he is.
James.
Sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, a few seats down, half a piece of toast hanging forgotten in his hand as he watches the scene with a blank expression.
It’s only a second, but you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes.
Recognition.
Understanding.
And something sharp that he swallows before it can show too clearly.
Because James Potter knows what giggling girls and secret letters mean. He knows.
And it shouldn’t matter—it really shouldn’t. You’re barely even friends. Civil, maybe. Tentatively polite. But whatever it is between you now, it’s not enough to warrant the sudden, stiff way he turns back to his plate.
It shouldn’t sting.
But it does.
—
You finish the letter with the girls' help. It’s nothing dramatic—just a polite reply saying you’d be happy to exchange letters over the holidays, and that you appreciate his kindness. You keep it short and friendly and completely avoid saying anything that might sound too enthusiastic.
(Which is a lie. You’re a bit enthusiastic. But you don’t need them knowing that.)
Dorcas folds the reply with military precision, Lily reattaches the little star charm, and Marlene volunteers to deliver it on your behalf—“to spare you the embarrassment,” she says sweetly, already halfway across the hall.
You look down at your plate, appetite long forgotten.
“Alright?” Lily asks, nudging your shoulder.
You nod. “Yeah. I think so,”
“You’re allowed to be excited, you know,”
“I am excited. I’m just… surprised,”
She smiles. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”
You glance again toward the Ravenclaw table. Nick’s looking at Marlene like she’s an incoming Howler, his whole face red to the ears as he takes the letter from her hand.
You smile again.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is,”
—
Across the table, James doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t need to.
Because he saw the whole thing. The letter, the blushing, the girls all but bouncing in their seats. He saw Marlene walk across the hall with that parchment and Nick take it with shaking hands.
And it’s stupid. Petty.
But it hurts.
Because it’s been nearly two years since he realised he might actually like you—properly, not just in the annoying-you-is-fun way, but in the way that meant he started watching you when you weren’t looking. Noticing when you got a haircut. Learning the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh.
He apologised. He grew up. He’s trying.
And it still wasn’t enough.
You’ve got someone now. Or the beginnings of someone.
And he’s just James Potter, watching from afar with jam on his toast and something bitter on his tongue.
He shoves the toast in his mouth and doesn’t say another word for the rest of breakfast.
—
You don’t expect the first letter from Nick to come so quickly. It arrives the morning after you get home for the holidays, hand-delivered by a glossy, silver-feathered owl you don’t recognise. Your name is written in the same neat, slanting script, and it still makes your stomach flip just a bit.
The note is folded crisply, the parchment thick and expensive-feeling. You hesitate before opening it, standing by the kitchen window with snow dusting the garden outside, everything quiet.
First off, thank you for not laughing at me. I thought I’d regret sending that letter the second I did it, and I very nearly snatched it out the air mid-flight to get it back. But you were so... kind. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t kindness. So thank you.
It feels a bit odd writing like this, doesn’t it? But I also kind of like it. There’s no pressure when it’s just words. I don’t trip over them this way.
So, here’s me: I like Charms best. I once accidentally set my robes on fire in Herbology (don’t ask), I’m allergic to pineapple, and I think people who can fall asleep on trains are borderline magical.
Tell me something about you? Anything. Something silly, or secret, or both.
Yours (nervously), Nick
You smile like an idiot for a full five minutes before you even think about writing back.
And so it begins.
The letters come every few days, sometimes short and scrawled in rushed excitement, sometimes long and meandering with little sketches in the margins. He tells you about his mum’s failed attempt at decorating the tree with actual enchanted snow, and how it flooded the sitting room. You send back a drawing of a dog dressed in a Father Christmas hat (badly drawn, but Nick says it’s ‘profoundly moving’). He tells you he’s rereading Hogwarts: A History just for fun, and you reply with a list of reasons why that’s definitely unhinged behaviour.
Sometimes he signs off with ‘Yours, Nick.’
Sometimes with ‘Yours (hopefully).’
Once—‘Yours (unless the owl’s eaten this and you never see it).’
You find yourself checking the sky for owls more often than you care to admit.
It’s not dramatic. Not whirlwind, heart-racing, can’t-breathe kind of love. But it’s nice.
And after the year you’ve had, ‘nice’ feels revolutionary.
—
You return to Hogwarts with a small box of letters tucked at the bottom of your trunk, tied neatly with a silver ribbon courtesy of Dorcas, who insisted they deserved to be “presented like the delicate artefacts of flirtation they are,”.
The minute you’re back in the dorm, you’re swarmed.
“Show us everything,” Marlene demands, already bouncing on the edge of your bed.
“Yes, come on, let’s see what your secret Ravenclaw Casanova had to say for himself,” Lily adds, mock-prim, though she’s clearly grinning.
You hesitate only a moment before reaching into your trunk. The box feels warmer than it should, like it’s soaked up some of the good from the past few weeks.
You hand it over, and the girls descend like a pack of curious Kneazles.
“Oooh, look at this one—‘Yours (unless the owl eats it)’—alright, he’s cute,” Dorcas says approvingly, flopping onto her stomach with the letter held aloft.
“Is this a little sketch of a Thestral wearing a party hat?” Lily giggles. “He’s got your sense of humour. That’s weirdly adorable,”
Marlene sniffs, mock-serious. “I give it two weeks before they’re holding hands by the lake,”
“Two? You’re being generous,” Dorcas snorts. “I give it until Sunday,”
You hide your face in a pillow. “You’re all horrible,”
“Don’t change the subject,” Lily grins. “Have you written him since we got back?”
You nod, biting your lip. “Told him I’d meet him after lunch. Figured we could, I don’t know… actually talk in person,”
They cheer like you’ve just won the bloody House Cup.
—
You find Nick leaning awkwardly by the courtyard archway, his hands stuffed deep into his robe pockets, and his scarf trailing loosely over one shoulder. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps—and immediately fumbles to straighten up.
“Hi,”
“Hi,” you smile.
It’s quiet for a moment, but not the awkward kind. Just the sort of quiet where snow mutes everything, and your breath fogs the air between you, and the castle feels suspended in time.
“It’s nice to see your face,” Nick says finally. Then pauses. “I mean—obviously I’ve seen your face before. Loads. I’m not, like, suddenly surprised you have a face,”
You laugh.
“I know what you meant,”
He exhales, relieved. “Good. I wasn’t sure I’d manage to string two sentences together without turning purple,”
“You’re only a bit pink,” you tease. “That’s manageable,”
You end up walking the long way around the courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. It’s a bit stiff, at first—he trips over his words, you don’t know where to put your hands—but something about it feels... promising. Like maybe the letters weren’t just a fluke.
He makes you laugh. You make him stammer in a way that’s far too endearing. It’s not dramatic, and it’s not sweeping—but it feels nice.
And when he says, quietly, “I’m really glad I wrote to you,” you don’t hesitate before replying, “Me too.”
—
From then on, you start seeing him more often. You meet by the greenhouses for walks after Herbology. You sit beside each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. You laugh when he fumbles his words or stutters a bit too quickly, and he blushes when you compliment his handwriting.
It’s soft. Sweet. Easy.
And that ease is what James hates most.
He doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t. But every time he sees you and Nick tucked away in a corner, talking with your heads bent close, something in his chest twists too tightly.
He tries not to look. He tries.
But he always does.
He catches glimpses of you in between lessons, notices the way your smile tilts differently when you’re with Nick, the way you lean in without thinking. He sees the way you laugh, just slightly quieter than with the girls, more private.
He sees all of it.
And it kills him.
Because Nick doesn’t look nervous anymore. Not like he did in December. He looks like he belongs next to you now, like he’s settled into a space James never even realised was open.
And James?
James is still stuck in the same place, staring from a distance and pretending he doesn’t feel like his lungs collapse a bit every time your eyes skim past him without stopping.
The worst part is that Nick’s not even unlikeable. He’s polite. Respectful. He doesn’t show off or brag. He’s never hexed someone. He’s the kind of boy you should be with.
Which makes James feel like even more of a twat for hating him.
But he can’t help it.
Because you’re slipping further away with every shared smile and hushed conversation, and James Potter—Golden Boy, Quidditch Captain, supposed heartthrob—is left standing on the sidelines, too late and too cowardly to do anything about it.
Not that he deserves to.
Not really.
Not after everything he used to be.
—
There’s a quiet little path just past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, winding between thickets of tall grass and old stone walls from Merlin-knows-when. It’s not quite on the Marauder’s Map because it’s not technically a shortcut or a secret passage — it’s just peaceful. Removed. The kind of place couples start to frequent when they want to be left alone.
You and Nick have discovered it recently.
It’s become something of a habit, heading out there after classes with a thermos of tea or stolen pastries from the kitchens, bundled up in scarves and gloves, talking about everything and nothing as the winter wind rushes through the trees. It’s your space now, and it’s lovely. Safe. Uncomplicated.
You don’t notice the stag at first.
He’s standing far off at the treeline, half-hidden behind some low-hanging branches. Massive antlers, golden-brown fur, eyes sharp even from this distance. He looks almost surreal — like he belongs in some enchanted forest painting, too noble and elegant to be real.
Nick notices your distraction. “What is it?”
You tug his sleeve and point. “Look!”
His head turns, eyes following your finger. When he spots the stag, he startles slightly. “Blimey,”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, smiling. “It’s just a deer,”
“That’s not just a deer, that thing’s the size of a carriage,”
You laugh. “Don’t scare him off,”
You take a slow step forward, fascinated. The stag doesn’t move. Just watches you, eerily still.
There’s something oddly… familiar about him.
And James — because yes, of course it’s James — is having what could only be described as a full-scale emotional breakdown inside his stupid stag body.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not exactly.
It had started out harmless enough — a little sulking, a bit of brooding, the usual staring-longingly-across-the-classroom-at-your-empty-chair sort of behaviour. And then Sirius had made some off-hand joke about how you and Nick probably had a “special little spot” by now, and James had laughed like he wasn’t actively dying inside.
Cue: terrible decisions.
Because obviously the most reasonable response to your blossoming teenage romance was to follow you in his Animagus form. Spy on you. Lurk.
Real mature.
But he couldn’t help himself.
There you were, sitting beside Nick, cheeks pink with cold, smiling in that soft way James remembered from last year when he made that ridiculous fireworks spell in Charms just to make you laugh. And Nick — bloody Nick — looked like he’d won the lottery.
It should’ve been him. He should be the one making you smile like that.
And then you turned, eyes catching the movement in the trees. James froze. For one horrible second he thought you recognised him, that somehow you could see straight through the fur and hooves and spot him for who he really was — awkward, lovesick, completely out of his depth.
But instead, you grinned.
Properly grinned. That wide, sparkly-eyed smile that had always made something in James’ chest flutter.
“You know stags are a sign of good luck,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You tilted your head. “Are they?”
“In some places, yeah. Seeing a stag’s supposed to mean… well, something sacred. Or new beginnings,”
James, still very much standing there like a massive idiot, nearly snorted.
New beginnings, his arse.
You took a step closer to Nick, hands fiddling with your scarf. “How fitting,”
Nick’s cheeks flushed red, even under the pale winter sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
James felt the moment before it happened.
There was a hush in the air, the kind that hangs between two people right before something changes. A kind of invisible pull. You leaned in—just slightly—and Nick moved at the same time, closing the space with a nervous sort of determination.
And then you were kissing.
It wasn’t a dramatic, spin-you-around kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. Sweet.
But it wrecked James all the same.
He wanted to close his eyes, but he felt as though he physically couldn’t. He wanted to disappear, but he was literally a giant animal. Instead, he stood there, paralysed, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy while he pretended to be a woodland creature.
You pulled away first.
Nick, ever the gentleman, looked nervous again.
“Sorry,” He muttered, hands fumbling. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, obviously, but I didn’t want to make it weird. Was that… alright?”
You stared at him for a moment, lips parted. “It was,”
Nick smiled, visibly relieved.
And James—full of repressed feelings and bad decisions—bolted.
He galloped full-tilt back through the trees, hooves skidding over frosty ground, lungs burning with the kind of emotion that didn’t make sense in this form.
When he finally transformed back, he nearly punched the wall.
—
He storms into the dormitory, robes askew, hair windswept and damp from snow.
Remus looks up from his book. “Alright there?”
“No.”
“Did you fall in the lake again?” Sirius asks from his bed, chewing a Sugar Quill and looking thoroughly unconcerned.
“No,” James grinds out, pacing the room. “Worse.”
Peter sits up. “Worse than the lake?”
“I watched her kiss him.”
There’s a pause.
Sirius, now mildly interested, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You what?”
“In the forest,” James says, throwing his arms up. “I was— I don’t know—just following—walking—I didn’t mean to stay that long, but then I saw them and I couldn’t move, and then he kissed her.”
He collapses into the armchair with the weight of a man who’s just seen war.
“Mate,” Remus says gently, closing his book, “you followed her?”
James groans. “Don’t say it like that.”
“In Animagus form?”
“Don’t say it like that!”
Sirius is cackling now. “James, my boy, you absolute idiot,”
James throws a cushion at him. “Do you want me to cry?”
Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “So… you watched them snog and then what? Ran off crying in your stag form?”
“Yes, Pete, that’s exactly what happened, thank you for summing it up so eloquently,”
Remus sighs. “Look. I know this is hard. But what did you expect to happen? You’ve been watching them from afar for weeks, acting like you don’t care, and now you’re surprised that she’s moved on?”
James sulks deeper into the chair. “I didn’t think it would hurt like this,”
Sirius tosses a Bertie Bott’s bean at his head. “Then do something, mate,”
James blinks. “What?”
“Tell her,”
“I can’t,”
“Why?”
“Because!” James flails his arms. “She hates me,”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says calmly. “She was just… wary. And to be fair, you earned that. But you’ve changed. She sees that,”
“Lily’s talking to you again,” Peter adds. “That’s a massive shift from last year,”
“She’s dating Nick,” James mutters.
“So?” Sirius shrugs. “Relationships end all the time. Especially school ones,”
Remus shoots him a look. “Not exactly the message we want to send right now Pads,”
“Sorry, Moony, but it’s true. James has been pining for her like a tragic protagonist in a bad romance novel for years. If he doesn’t say something soon, he’ll combust. Or do something even stupider than stalking her through the forest,”
James groans. “You’re making it sound so much worse,”
“You made it worse, mate. You literally watched her kiss another boy from the bushes,”
He buries his face in his hands. “What do I even say? ‘Hi, sorry I was a git to you for years, but now I fancy you and have no idea how to act like a person anymore’?”
“Honestly,” Remus says, “not a terrible start
James peeks up between his fingers. “I can’t just tell her,”
“Then write,” Peter suggests, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always better in writing,”
The room falls quiet.
James slowly lifts his head.
“…Do I have to sign it?”
Remus frowns. “You want to send it anonymously?”
Sirius leans forward, interested. “Like a secret admirer?”
“No, like… a vent. I get it all out with no risks,”
“You think she’d read it?” Peter asks.
James shrugs. “She might,”
Sirius leans back, chewing on his quill now. “Alright. An anonymous letter. Bit dramatic, but very you,”
“You think it’s stupid,”
“I think,” Sirius says, “it’s better than sitting here moping while she falls in love with someone else,”
James doesn’t reply.
Instead, he stands, walks to his trunk, and pulls out a piece of parchment.
And a very fancy quill.
Because if he’s going to tell you the truth—even secretly—he’s going to do it properly.
—
It arrives one cloudy morning at breakfast, right between a plate of toast and a half-soggy letter from your mum asking if you’ve remembered to send your Nan a Christmas thank-you.
You barely register it at first—the slip of parchment settling onto your plate with an elegant little flutter, the ink shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. You glance up, expecting to see an owl flapping off, but the air above the Gryffindor table is clear.
Weird.
You look down again. It’s not a scroll, not a Howler, not a folded scrap from Lily asking about Herbology notes. It’s stationery. Thick, cream-coloured parchment that feels almost too nice for Hogwarts post. The edges are trimmed with delicate gold foil. The writing, when you unfold it, gleams like the surface of the Black Lake at midnight.
And it is… a lot.
You don’t know me. Not properly, anyway. Maybe you think you do, and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I’ve made sure you didn’t want to. Maybe I got too used to being the kind of boy people only like in theory. I can be a bit of a twat, but if I’d ever had the courage to actually be honest with you, this is what I would’ve said:
I notice everything.
I notice the way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way your handwriting changes when you’re writing something personal. I notice that you give away half your dessert even when you complain you’re starving, that you always carry extra hair ties in case your friends need one, that you hum when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed that you like thunderstorms more than sunshine, and that you pretend not to care when people don’t listen to you, but it bothers you. I wish it didn’t.
You’re not just pretty, you’re brilliant. You’re clever in ways people overlook, and kind in ways that make them assume you’ve never been angry. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your temper flare and your spine straighten and I’ve wanted to be someone who could stand beside that, not against it.
I used to think if I just waited long enough, you’d look at me the way you look at the pages of a good book — like something worth opening. But I don’t think you ever will. And I’m tired of pretending I’m fine with that.
So this is me. Being honest. Finally.
I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.
You read it three times before you even breathe.
It is—quite literally—the most intense thing anyone’s ever said to you. And they didn’t even say it. They wrote it. Anonymously. No name. No initials. Just… left it here like a bloody emotional bomb.
“Oh my God,” Marlene breathes, peering over your shoulder. “Who wrote that?”
You blink, still dazed. “I don’t know,”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dorcas is already reaching for the paper. “Let me see,”
Lily sets down her tea. “That’s not Nick’s handwriting,”
You snatch the letter back instinctively, folding it like a guilty thing. “It’s not from Nick,”
“Oh hell no,” Marlene says, loud enough to turn heads from the other end of the table. “What kind of coward doesn’t sign their name to something like that?”
You flush, tucking the letter under your plate. “Can we not do this here?”
“No, sorry, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says, hands in her hair. “You just got the Hogwarts equivalent of a bloody sonnet and we’re supposed to ignore it?”
You shrug, trying for breezy but failing miserably. “It’s probably a joke,”
“It’s not a joke,” Lily says, eyebrows furrowed. “No one puts that much effort into a joke. That was… honest. Painfully so,”
Dorcas whistles low. “I can’t believe someone’s been carrying all that around. And didn’t even sign it,”
“They should’ve,” Marlene says. “You don’t get to say all that and then disappear. It’s manipulative,”
“It’s anonymous,” you say quietly. “Not manipulative,”
“They want something from you without saying who they are,”
You shrug. “I don’t care who they are,”
Which is, of course, an outright lie.
Because for the next two weeks, you read the letter every single night after the others have gone to sleep.
You tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s like solving a puzzle, trying to piece together who might’ve written it based on the phrasing, the details. You go through every male voice in your head like a bloody index file: is it someone from your year? Another House? Is it someone who sees you more than you realised?
And worse: is it someone you’ve hurt without knowing?
Because how long has this boy—whoever he is—been noticing you? Caring about you from some hidden distance? How long has he been watching you laugh, cry, argue, love your friends… and stayed silent?
Because now that someone has said those things to you—someone who wants your laugh, your bad handwriting, your bloody spare hair ties—you’ve started comparing. And Nick, for all his sweetness and quiet charm, hasn’t said anything remotely like that.
Nick likes you. He likes your face, your smile, your laugh. He likes sitting next to you at lunch and holding your hand when you walk to class. He likes being liked.
But whoever wrote that letter doesn’t just like you. They see you. In this terrifying, intense, specific way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread it.
And that’s the problem, really.
Because now every interaction feels dimmer by comparison.
When Nick compliments you, it feels too rehearsed. When he kisses you, you wonder if he’s noticed the freckles on your shoulders, or if he’s just decided that kissing you is nice. You still like him. You do.
But you also can’t stop thinking about the letter.
—
Meanwhile, in the boys’ dormitory, James is slowly unraveling.
He hadn’t meant for the letter to actually get to you.
Well, he had, obviously. That was the plan. Fold it all up, pour his heart onto the page, let the Marauders deliver it like some weird emotional owl service. But he hadn’t expected it to work. He thought maybe you’d read it once and toss it in the bin.
But you didn’t.
You read it. And then you kept reading it.
James knows because he keeps watching you. Not stalking—definitely not stalking—just… observing. From across the common room. Or the Great Hall. Or occasionally (and he hates himself for this) while pretending to tie his shoelaces in corridors you happen to be walking through.
You’re thinking about it. He can tell.
You’ve gone quieter, more introspective. You still hang out with Nick, still smile when he tugs you along to some late lunch in the courtyard. But the spark in your eyes when you look at him doesn’t quite reach the edges like it did before. Not like it does when you’re reading.
James sees you in the library with it tucked into a Transfiguration book.
He sees you smiling at it in Charms when Flitwick isn’t looking.
And every time, it hurts.
Not because you know it’s from him—but because you don’t.
You’re holding a piece of his soul and you don’t even know it’s his.
The Marauders are no help.
“Just tell her,” Sirius keeps saying. “It’s not going to kill you,”
“Yes it will,” James mutters into his pillow. “Instant death. Right there. You’ll have to plan my funeral,”
“Moony can write the eulogy,” Peter suggests. “Something tragic,”
“I’m not writing him a eulogy,” Remus says dryly. “I’m writing him a howler if he doesn’t grow up,”
But James doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to hide.
Because this is worse than being rejected. This is watching you choose someone else while still holding onto the most vulnerable thing he’s ever written and having no idea it’s from the boy who used to trip over his words around you.
He thought writing it would help.
It hasn’t.
If anything, it’s made everything worse.
Because now he knows how close he got. And how far away he still is.
And you— well, you’ve got a letter folded fourteen times and stashed in your pillowcase like some embarrassing secret. You’ve got Nick waiting for you after class and your friends teasing you about mystery boys and you’ve got no idea that the person who sees you best is someone you’d written off two years ago.
But you’re starting to wonder.
Because whoever wrote that letter knew things even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.
They knew how you listen harder when people talk about books, how you write longer sentences when you're nervous, how you care more deeply than you let on. That kind of observation doesn’t happen overnight.
That kind of thing takes years.
—
There are times in relationships when it feels like the edges of your life blur together, and the lines that once separated who you were from who you are in someone else’s eyes start to fade. It’s a strange and subtle thing. At first, it feels like you’re merely adjusting — slipping a little to fit more comfortably into someone else’s world. But gradually, as time passes, the edges of that world begin to shape you. And in the process, you start to lose sight of where you end and they begin.
That’s what happened with Nick.
At first, you thought it was something gentle — a sweet, budding connection. After all, the letters had been lovely, hadn’t they? The way he wrote about things you’d never noticed, the way his words seemed to speak to you in places where you hadn’t realised you were waiting for someone to. He was kind, he was funny in his own way, and he tried his best to get close to you. Really close.
But the truth is— he tried too hard.
You hadn’t noticed it at first, or if you had, you dismissed it. After all, it was sweet, wasn’t it? The way he wanted to take you to Hogsmeade every weekend, the way he seemed to try to do all the right things, say all the right words. He’d bring you flowers—small, simple ones from the Greenhouse, wrapped in brown paper. You’d smile, thank him, and tuck them into a glass jar on your windowsill.
But soon it wasn’t just flowers. It was sudden plans to study together for hours, even when you weren’t sure if you really needed to. It was long conversations about everything and nothing, always turning into late-night talks that kept you tethered to him, even when your mind wandered to other things—or to other people.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the truth crept in. Little by little, things started to change. At first, it was just the fact that when you sat with Nick, it was easy to forget. You didn’t think about the boy who’d written you that anonymous letter, you thought maybe this was enough—that Nick was enough. But after a while, something started to feel… off.
It wasn’t his fault, not exactly. Nick was a genuinely good person. But somewhere along the way, he began to push harder than you could keep up with. And rather than reassuring you, that energy felt suffocating. The careful gestures, the predictability, the pressure to move things forward.
You began to realise that you weren’t sure if you wanted to move forward. Not with him. Not like this.
The shift became obvious one cold afternoon in the library, when Nick tried again—really tried—to kiss you. His hand brushed yours as he leaned in, but instead of feeling that warm flutter you’d always read about in romance novels, you felt yourself stiffen.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You did. But with each moment that passed, the picture you’d once thought was perfect started to crumble. In that space between the kiss and the hesitation, you saw what was missing. It was like the world suddenly tilted. You realised you’d been holding on to something that wasn’t quite real, a dream of what could be, rather than what was.
You pulled away.
“I think…” you started, the words heavy in your throat. “Maybe we need to talk,”
Nick paused, his expression flickering with concern. “Talk about what?”
“I think I’m not really sure what I want anymore,” you said quietly. It wasn’t easy. It never is. “I think I’ve been… confused. I don’t want to lead you on,”
He blinked, his lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. “You’re saying this now?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner,” You looked at him, trying to make it hurt less. “But I think maybe we both rushed into this, and now… I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready for this. For us,”
There was a long silence, his face softening, eyes full of something like defeat. And then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.
“I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my head,” he admitted. “I wanted to be the one to make you forget. To make you forget the other person. The one who… knows you. Like that letter,”
You froze at his words, staring at him. “What do you mean?”
Nick shifted uneasily, rubbing his neck, looking around as if he wanted to find some kind of answer in the shelves of books. “I mean…” he said slowly, “You were never really mine, were you? Not in the way I wanted. Not in the way I needed,”
A knot tightened in your chest. He was right, but it hurt to hear it. “You’re not wrong,” you murmured, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I don’t think it was this,”
Nick gave a soft, resigned chuckle. “Yeah, I think I figured that out a little too late,” He paused. “I tried. You know? I tried to make it work, tried to be what you needed. But I guess… you’re right. I couldn’t compete with someone who really knows you,”
“I’m sorry, Nick.” You said the words because they were true, because you did care about him, but you also knew that this wasn’t right anymore. You couldn’t force it to be something it wasn’t.
He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. “I just… I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m okay with the idea of you still thinking about someone else. I’m not him, am I?”
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No. You’re not,”
For a moment, you both sat there in the quiet of the library, the sounds of students working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment. It was a peaceful kind of sadness, though. Not dramatic or explosive — just two people who had tried, who had cared, and who were now realising that they had reached the end of the road.
Nick exhaled softly, meeting your eyes. “I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me,” he said quietly. “I think you need to find the person who really gets you. The person who sees all of you, like that bloody letter,”
You felt something tighten in your chest at his words. “I want you to be happy too. I’m sorry,”
He smiled faintly, his eyes soft. “Don’t be. It’s just… I think we both knew this wasn’t going to last, not like this. I care about you. I always will. But I can’t be the person who’s always second best. I can’t compete with someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen,”
You nodded, your throat tight. “I get it,”
“Good luck,” Nick stood up, dusting off his robes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Even if it’s not me,”
And with that, he walked away.
—
It took a few weeks for the aftermath to settle in. You weren’t sure if you’d done the right thing. But as time passed, you started to understand. You’d never been in love with Nick. You’d never been in love with the idea of him, either. And even if you hadn’t fully understood what that letter meant—the one you’d read so many times, the one you’d kept hidden under your pillow—you were starting to.
You’d tried. You’d tried to make it work, to make Nick fit, to make everything make sense. But in the end, you couldn’t ignore the cracks that had formed the moment you started comparing his kindness to the depth of someone else’s words.
You hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was that you were looking for. But you knew you would. It wasn’t about finding someone who could match Nick’s sweetness, or someone who could take his place.
It was about finding someone who saw you.
—
The Marauders had a plan. A very misguided, very well-meaning plan. And, naturally, that plan revolved around James.
They were determined to fix him, to make him move on, to help him forget about the girl who had (without him knowing) already managed to ruin him. But, as usual, they hadn’t bothered to take into account the very real fact that James didn’t want to move on. At least, not in the way they thought he should.
Ever since his brief but very real heartbreak — the one that no one, especially you, knew anything about—James had been moody. His attempts at pretending he was fine fell flat. He acted like he was fine, smiled like he was fine, but everyone who knew him could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fine. He was not fine.
But the Marauders, being the Marauders, had an answer. They were going to find him someone to kiss, someone to distract him from you.
James had tried to shrug it off. He had told his friends, repeatedly, that he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He didn’t want to be fixed, and he certainly didn’t want to forget you, not when he couldn’t forget that letter, not when every little thing about you still echoed in his head.
But the Marauders were insistent.
“Mate, you’ve got to move on,” Sirius said one evening, sprawled across the couch in the Gryffindor common room. He was half-teasing, but there was a seriousness to his voice that James couldn’t ignore. “You’ve never kissed anyone else. Never shagged anyone. How do you know you don’t like it, huh?”
James shot Sirius a dry look. “I don’t need to shag anyone to know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he muttered. He had been hoping to avoid the topic altogether, but Sirius, as always, was relentless.
“You don’t know that until you try, Prongs,” Sirius said, winking as he nudged James in the side. “Besides, you can’t just pine over her forever. You’ll drive yourself mad,”
James clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not pining,” he growled. “I’m just… not interested in anyone else. It’s that simple,”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so,” He flashed a grin. “But you’re coming to the Quidditch after-party tonight, right? I’ve got a plan to fix this. You need to at least try,”
And that was how James ended up, several hours later, at the Gryffindor Quidditch after-party, reluctantly swept into the chaos of his friends’ scheming. There was no getting out of it. Sirius had insisted. Remus had given him a knowing look. Peter had simply nodded along, looking vaguely terrified of being left out of the plan.
James had been forced to accept that the Marauders weren’t going to leave him alone until he did something. So, with as much reluctance as he could muster, he gave in.
The party was rowdy, with a thrumming energy that could only come from a Gryffindor Quidditch victory. It didn’t take long before Sirius had dragged James into a conversation with a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, a girl James vaguely recognised from the common room. She was nice enough, but James wasn’t interested. Still, he followed through because, well, Sirius had already set it all up.
"Just give it a try, mate," Sirius whispered, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room. “You might actually enjoy it,”
James barely suppressed a groan. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of kissing anyone but you felt wrong. There was a tightness in his chest every time he tried to think about being with someone else.
He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was the letter, or the way you had slipped so easily into his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he wasn’t supposed to be kissing someone else.
Nevertheless, after some awkward small talk, the girl leaned in, and there it was. His first real kiss, forced and strange, under the loud cheer of the party around them. It lasted barely ten seconds before he pulled away, completely baffled by the sensation. She smiled at him, clearly pleased with herself, but it didn’t feel right. The kiss, the girl, the situation, none of it.
It wasn’t until Sirius erupted from across the room, clapping and cheering loudly, that the full weight of the absurdity of the situation hit James. Sirius, always the showman, made it a scene—announcing loudly that James had officially kissed his first girl, and proudly pointing at James with a triumphant grin as if it was some massive accomplishment. It was a joke, sure, but it made James cringe.
You were standing near the punch bowl with Marlene and Dorcas at that very moment, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as the whole situation unfolded in front of you.
There was something about the way Sirius made a spectacle of it that rubbed you the wrong way. The obnoxious cheering, the over-the-top comments, the way everyone turned to look at James and the girl like they were stars on a stage.
You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bothered you so much. Maybe it was the sheer lack of subtlety. Maybe it was the fact that James didn’t seem to care much for the girl at all, or that he was only doing this to prove something. You couldn’t quite place it, but something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.
You found yourself staring a little too long, a little too intently, at the scene. Maybe it was the stupid party. Maybe it was the fact that James had always been so full of himself. But whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with you.
Your friends noticed. Marlene raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You okay?”
You blinked, startled by the question. “Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, though your voice was a little too sharp to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she and Dorcas exchanged a knowing look, and you felt a flush of embarrassment rise up your neck.
You glanced back at James, still awkwardly standing with the girl, still the centre of the attention. You looked away, the feeling in your chest growing uncomfortable. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way this felt, or the way it made you feel. And yet, you couldn’t deny the slight tug of something — something more complicated than you were willing to admit.
After the party, James felt it too. The awkwardness. The discomfort. The wrongness. He sat with the Marauders, and despite the fact that they were celebrating his “success,” James couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been for nothing.
“I don’t know what I expected,” James admitted, dropping his head into his hands as they all sat around in their dorm. “It didn’t feel right. I didn’t… I didn’t enjoy it,”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, an almost sympathetic look crossing his face. “You didn’t enjoy it?”
“No,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It just felt wrong. It wasn’t the same,”
The Marauders exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Of course it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Not when his mind was still filled with someone else. Not when James wasn’t ready to let go.
“Well, mate,” Remus said softly, “I think we all know what’s really going on here,”
James shot him a look of frustration. “I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else,”
“Alright,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly serious, “If you’re really not ready then we’ll leave you to it,”
James sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “I don’t want anyone else. I just… I don’t know what to do about it,”
The Marauders fell into a thoughtful silence, each of them looking at James with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. There was nothing they could do for him, not unless he was ready to confront the real reason he was so stuck.
And, for now, James was content to wallow. He didn’t want to move on, and he wasn’t about to let anyone push him into it.
—
There was a strange sort of silence to James’ heartbreak. It didn’t roar like his laughter or crackle like his temper. It didn’t come out in jokes or pranks or the boisterous chaos that usually followed him around like a second shadow.
No, this was something different. Something quieter. Quieter than anyone had ever expected of him. There was a whiteness to it, an absence, a stillness—a kind of stillness that looked out of place on him.
He didn't speak to anyone about it anymore. The Marauders had tried—Sirius, mostly, with his not-so-subtle nudges and jabs—but James had stopped responding. He didn’t mope, exactly. He just grew more introspective. Not solemn, not angry, just… somewhere in between. And every time someone mentioned your name, something behind his eyes would flicker and then dim again.
It wasn’t until he overheard you, Marlene, and Lily chatting in the corridor near the library that everything shifted again.
You were trying to be quiet—your voice low, tone calm, your words slightly hesitant. But James had always been good at picking you out from a crowd. It was something he hadn’t even realised he’d trained himself to do until recently. So when he passed by that corridor and caught your voice, he paused. And then he heard it.
“Well, it wasn’t like Nick did anything wrong. He’s sweet. I just…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It stopped feeling like it was about me, you know? He was chasing something, not necessarily me. And after that letter turned up, it just made it worse,”
James stopped breathing. That letter.
“You still don’t know who it’s from?” Lily asked, a note of intrigue in her voice.
You huffed out a laugh. “No. And it’s driving me mad. I feel like… whoever wrote it knows me better than I know myself. And I don't even know his name,”
Marlene scoffed. “If he knew you that well, he’d grow a spine and tell you who he is,”
James ducked into an empty classroom before they could spot him, heart pounding. His palms were damp. His whole body felt too hot, too aware. You'd broken up with Nick. Because of him. Not that you knew it was him, but still. His words had changed something.
He had told himself, after that first letter, that it was a one-time thing. A catharsis. An exorcism of all the things he couldn’t say to you out loud. But after his revelation. He found himself itching to write another. And another.
The second letter had come days after he saw you in the courtyard laughing at something Dorcas had said, your head thrown back in a way that made his chest ache. He’d gone back to the dorm, heart full and throat tight, and written about it—how he wished he could be the one making you laugh like that. How he’d never seen anything brighter than the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
Then came the third letter, and the fourth. And soon, it had become a habit. A ritual, almost.
When he couldn’t sleep, he wrote.
When he saw you in class and wanted to say something but couldn’t find the nerve, he wrote.
When you passed him in the corridor and gave him a polite, almost friendly smile, he wrote.
And the letters changed. They weren’t just emotional ramblings anymore—they were layered with observations, with memories, with confessions he had never let himself say aloud.
You wore your hair different in Potions today. I liked it. But I think I would’ve liked it even if it looked awful, which is… probably not a great thing to admit, is it?
You’ve got this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating—it only appears when you’re really focused. I don’t think you know you do it.
When you walk down the corridor, I can tell what kind of mood you’re in before I even see your face. It’s in the sound of your steps. In the rhythm of it. Happy-you walks different than annoyed-you.
You never responded. You couldn’t. There was never a return address, never any way to send anything back. But James didn’t care. He didn’t need a reply. Just writing to you—being able to express it, even anonymously—felt like enough.
Sort of.
Because the truth was, as much as it helped to write the words down, it also hurt. Every letter was a reminder of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Everything he’d spent years pretending not to feel—buried beneath jokes and hexes and all the noise of adolescence.
And you? You kept every single one.
You didn’t tell the girls about it. Not really. Not after the second letter. You pretended it was over, that it had been some sweet, silly little mystery. But in truth, you’d hidden them. All of them. In a little shoebox under your bed, wrapped in an old jumper. Some were creased from how often you unfolded and re-folded them. Some had the faintest smudge in the corner from where you’d cried, unexpectedly, at something you hadn’t realised you needed to hear.
You didn’t know what to do with them. You weren’t over Nick—not really. That kind of closeness doesn’t disappear overnight. But it was impossible to keep pretending that he had understood you like this anonymous writer did.
Whoever he was, he had seen you. Not just the version of you that most people acknowledged—the smart, sharp, sometimes-sarcastic girl who was always one step ahead of a comeback. No, this person had paid attention to the margins of you, the unnoticed edges. The things you didn’t even know were there until he wrote them down.
I think I started liking you back in fourth year. You were defending someone in the corridor—some little second-year who’d dropped their books, and some Slytherins were laughing at him. You didn’t even hesitate. You stepped right in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when I knew.
Only I’m not sure if I just like you anymore. It’s something more. Something I don’t know how to name.
Is it pathetic to say that I hear your voice before I see you? That I can pick you out of a room before I even look up? I don’t mean to. It’s just—it’s like my ears are tuned to you. Like a frequency I can’t ignore.
You lay awake most nights now, reading the letters again after the others were asleep. You tried to analyse the handwriting. You wondered if it was someone in your year. You made a list of suspects in your head and crossed off half of them, even though it didn’t bring you any closer.
Sometimes, when you caught James looking at you from across the room, you’d wonder. But then you’d scoff at yourself, because James Potter? Really? He was… well, James. All swagger and messy hair and cocky grins. You’d made peace with the fact that he wasn’t half as insufferable anymore, but he was still James.
And yet…
The letters were not the work of someone who didn’t care. They weren’t careless. They were intimate in a way that left you breathless. Each one revealed a little more—each sentence brushing up against truths you hadn’t admitted even to yourself.
They came like clockwork now—one every week, always arriving in the oddest of places. Slipped inside your Arithmancy book. Folded neatly on your dinner plate. Once, even tucked inside your scarf in the common room, which really freaked you out because it meant he was closer than you thought.
It was terrifying and exhilarating. And the worst part? You were beginning to need them. Crave them, even. His words had become a constant, something you looked forward to with equal parts dread and hope.
The box under your bed grew heavier by the week.
And James? He was slowly losing his mind. Every time he saw you reading a letter—head tilted, eyes flicking across the page, your expression soft and unreadable—it hurt in the best and worst way. You liked them. He knew you did. But the longer he went without saying anything, the more impossible it felt to tell you the truth.
Because what if knowing ruined it? What if it stopped being magical the second his name was attached?
He was a coward. Marlene had said so, loudly, and James knew it was true. He could face down a rogue Bludger, duel a seventh-year, prank Filch and escape with a grin—but he couldn’t tell you he was the one who had been writing to you.
And yet, he couldn’t stop.
He poured his soul into those margins. Into those pages that would never carry his name. Because it was the only way he could tell you the truth and survive it.
And maybe that was enough.
Or maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be.
—
You didn’t mean to tell them. Honestly, you had every intention of keeping the whole thing a secret forever. But Marlene had a sixth sense for drama, and Dorcas had a sharper nose for mystery than a trained bloodhound. So when your bed-curtains had rustled suspiciously in the middle of the night and Marlene had caught a glimpse of shimmering ink through the crack of your open trunk, it was game over.
You’d barely managed to shove the letter beneath your pillow before she pounced.
“Aha!” she whispered in triumph, yanking back your curtains with no regard for your sleep schedule. “I knew you were hiding something!”
“Marlene, go away,” you groaned, but Lily was already sitting up, blinking owlishly, and Dorcas was dragging her own blanket across to your bed.
“Nope,” Dorcas said brightly, sliding in beside you with terrifying ease. “Spill it. Is it more letters?”
You were betrayed by the silence. The way your face didn’t even have time to arrange into a proper lie before the truth fell across your cheeks.
“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “There’s more?”
“There’s loads more,” Marlene said, shoving aside your blankets and finding the shoebox tucked beneath your bed like a woman possessed. “Holy hell, you’ve got a whole bloody collection.”
You didn’t fight it. Not properly. Not after the fourth letter was unfolded and read aloud in a reverent hush, the girls falling completely silent around you—save for the occasional sniff or soft exhale of disbelief.
“He watched you drop your quill and memorised how you tucked your hair behind your ear,” Dorcas said, practically vibrating. “I thought blokes only noticed when girls breathed near them,”
“It’s beautiful,” Lily whispered. “It’s like something out of a novel,”
“Romantic,” Dorcas agreed.
“Terrifying,” Marlene added. “I mean, what if it’s Mulciber or something?”
You almost choked. “Please don’t even joke about that,”
Thus began the unofficial—and entirely chaotic—formation of The Girls’ Detective Agency. It wasn’t your name for it, obviously, but once Marlene had made badges (from parchment, glitter, and sheer manic determination), you didn’t have much choice in the matter.
The mission was clear: uncover the identity of your mysterious letter-writer.
Their methods, however, were… questionable.
They started with handwriting analysis. Marlene attempted to casually wander through the library, requesting to borrow ink samples from boys “just out of curiosity,” and Lily spent an afternoon in the common room “helping” people with their Transfiguration essays so she could examine their penmanship. Dorcas, who had stolen your Divination notes under the pretext of “astrological clarity,” tried to match the emotional tone of the letters to various star signs.
“I’m telling you,” she said one night with complete certainty, “this is a Cancer Sun, maybe a Pisces Moon. This is water sign poetry,”
You didn't know what a Pisces Moon was meant to mean, but Dorcas said it like gospel, so you just nodded.
Meanwhile, Marlene was not subtle. At all.
“What if it’s Remus?” she hissed once across the common room, loud enough for three people to turn around. “He’s broody. And he reads so much poetry,”
You swore you saw Remus twitch.
But you shook your head. “No. It’s not him,”
You were sure about that. Remus was clever, kind, thoughtful—but the letters didn’t sound like him. His voice was steadier, more deliberate. The person writing to you was something else entirely—someone who struggled with the weight of what he felt, who was reckless with his emotions in a way that wasn’t controlled or clean. Someone who wrote like he was bleeding onto the page.
There were flashes—little things—that made you wonder if maybe, maybe, it could be James.
But every time the thought flitted across your mind, you swatted it away.
James Potter didn’t write letters like this. James Potter was a menace with a Quidditch obsession and a lopsided grin. James Potter, who had only recently evolved into someone tolerable, wasn’t exactly someone you pictured lying awake at night, pouring his soul into parchment.
Sure, he wasn’t as obnoxious as he used to be. And sure, there was something softer in the way he looked at you lately—but you’d chalked that up to the fragile peace you’d made after last year’s chaos. There was no way he was the one leaving notes beneath your scarf.
Besides, if he’d written something this vulnerable, he would’ve shoved it into your hand and dared you to read it aloud just to watch you squirm. Right?
So, no. Not James.
You were wrong, obviously.
But that wasn’t the point.
—
The final week of term came faster than expected. sunlight glittered on the edges of everything—floating house flags outside the Great Hall doors, open windows letting in a soft breeze, a warmth that seeped into your bones. Everything felt a little too warm, a little too bright.
And still, the letters kept coming.
The last one arrived on the morning of the train home.
It was simpler than the others. A small square of parchment, no shimmering ink this time. Just words. Words that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.
I don’t know if I’ll write again. I think I might be running out of ways to say it.
I miss things I’ve never had with you, and that’s a strange kind of grief.
Have a nice holiday. Try not to overthink things. I know that’s rich coming from me.
Yours, always— even if you never know who.
That was it.
You folded the letter carefully, hands trembling, and slid it into the shoebox with the others. And then you stared at it for what felt like hours, until Lily touched your arm gently and said, “We’ll miss the train,”
And that was that.
—
James watched you leave through the frost-smeared train window, his heart quieter than it had been in months. The Marauders were deep into a loud game of Exploding Snap, Sirius laughing at every blast, Peter shouting protests, Remus rolling his eyes fondly.
None of them knew he’d written another one.
James had stopped telling them after the fifth or sixth. It felt private. Sacred, almost. Sharing it would have made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. So he kept it to himself—his stupid little secret. His confession scrawled across parchment instead of spoken out loud.
He knew he was being a coward. That had become obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he saw the way you read them, all curled up with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Not when he noticed the way your hand trembled slightly on the paper. You felt something. He was sure of it.
But he also knew that eventually, you’d want more. And he couldn’t keep offering faceless intimacy forever. So he wrote the last one. Said goodbye. Sort of.
And then he sat on the train with his forehead pressed to the glass, pretending he didn’t care that you hadn’t figured it out. That you were probably leaving for the summer thinking about someone else entirely. That maybe, despite everything, he’d never actually be enough.
—
Back at home, the days grew longer. The pace slowed. The house was warm, the food good, the sleep long and uninterrupted. And yet every night, without fail, you found yourself at the window.
The box of letters came out the first night you returned. You told yourself it was for closure.
It wasn’t.
You read them again—each one from the beginning. Chronologically. Like chapters in a book. You traced the handwriting with your fingers, letting the words sink into you slowly.
He loved you. That was the truth of it.
Maybe he hadn’t said it directly. Maybe he hadn’t signed his name. But no one wrote like that without meaning it. No one watched you so closely, noticed so many tiny things, remembered throwaway moments from years ago unless they’d been in love with you for a long, long time.
And you were still no closer to knowing who he was.
That was the worst part.
How could someone be so close and still so invisible?
You stared out the window into the night, watching your breath fog up the glass. The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in silence. Somewhere out there was someone who had seen all of you—really seen you—and hadn’t asked for anything in return.
And you missed him. Terribly.
Not Nick. Not the quiet comfort of that easy romance.
But him. The one who knew the cadence of your footsteps. Who listened for your voice before he saw your face. Who remembered fourth year like it was yesterday and noticed how your hands trembled when you were angry.
You missed someone you didn’t know. And it felt like the loneliest thing in the world.
—
I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore.
I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that no one else ever could. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you hum softly to yourself when you’re studying, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. I’ve memorised the way your voice sounds when you laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed, the way you frown when you’re trying to figure something out.
And I’ve done all of this because I care about you. So much more than I should. I’ve tried to get over you, to forget you. I’ve tried to date other people, to move on. But none of them were you. None of them could be.
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need you to know that I’ve been here, always here, loving you in the quietest ways, the most secret ways.
Maybe this is selfish. Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask you to care about someone who has never had the guts to say this to your face. But I don’t know what else to do anymore. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t matter to me. Because it does. You matter to me, more than I can say.
I’ve always been here, waiting, in the margins of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong. But if you ever look up, I’ll be there, still waiting.
—James F. Potter
He stopped writing. Blinked down at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
His hand hovered over the signature. It looked too sharp, too obvious. Too final.
He stared at it for a long time.
Folded the letter in half.
Then unfolded it.
Folded it again.
“Mate, you’re torturing yourself,” came a groggy voice from across the room. Sirius, of course. “Just send it to her already,”
James looked up. “She won’t want it,”
“You don’t know that,”
“She might hate me,”
Sirius yawned and flopped back down onto his pillow. “She definitely won’t hate you. That’s the worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that tragically romantic brain of yours. And even if she did… so what? At least you’d know,”
James looked down at the folded parchment.
He could send it. He could sneak into the Owlery now, under his Invisibility Cloak, and you’d get it tomorrow. And then you’d know. Everything.
But then you’d know.
He imagined your face when you opened it. The surprise. The disbelief. The way you’d go back and read every single letter again, this time with the truth laid bare. Would it be relief? Would it be disappointment?
Or worse—would you already know, and just not want to face it?
James tucked the letter into his pillowcase and lay back down.
james takes your cold shoulder to heart, and the rest of the boys scramble to find ways to bring him back to normal.
eventual james x fem!reader | 6.4k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | characters are 15/16, reader and lily hold grudges, marauders map creation, the boys become animagi but it’s not pretty, graphic body descriptions for the transformation, james sulks a lot, snape gets bullied and also calls lily a slur
The castle feels colder this year.
Not in temperature—though the Scottish Highlands aren’t exactly tropical—but in atmosphere. Or maybe that’s just how it feels to you as you and Lily step through the entrance to Hogwarts, robes brushing your ankles, the sound of the train’s whistle still ringing in your ears.
She’s beside you, jaw set and green eyes hardened in a way that’s unfamiliar. There’s no soft laughter from her as you pass by the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, no excited chatter about what classes you’ll share or which teachers will be the worst. The summer did little to smooth things over. If anything, it just hardened the memory.
The memory of that day.
You can still feel it sometimes—the hot rush of humiliation crawling up your neck, the stunned silence of the courtyard erupting into laughter, the sickening feeling of hatred when you realised the Marauders had planned the whole thing.
And James Potter—James bloody Potter—had laughed the loudest.
You can still remember the way his smirk faltered, just slightly, when you met his eyes through the crowd. Just a flicker of hesitation, not nearly enough to mean anything.
And Severus—he hadn’t even checked on you or Lily. Had just gathered his things, shoved past, and disappeared without a word. As if you were strangers. As if you hadn’t defended him through everything, stood by him through the stares and the whispers and the accusations. That had hurt almost more than the prank itself.
Now, back at school, you can feel the ghosts of that moment hanging over you like a stormcloud. People stare a bit too long. The Marauders laugh a bit too loudly. And Severus Snape? He barely looks your way.
“Still no word from him?” you ask Lily as you head toward Gryffindor Tower.
She doesn’t answer at first. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
“No,” she says finally. “Not all summer.”
You don’t have to ask who she means.
You try to be angry on her behalf, and part of you is. But there’s another part that aches quietly. For the way he used to sit with you in the library, dark eyes flicking over potion texts while he muttered about new brewing methods. For the way he used to smirk when you caught him scribbling notes about you and Lily in the margins of his books. That Severus is gone now.
And maybe he never really existed.
—
James hasn’t made eye contact with you once since the start-of-term feast.
It’s been a week.
You’ve seen him, obviously. Hard not to. He’s still surrounded by Sirius and Peter and Remus at every meal, still has that same tousled hair and the same lazy slouch in his chair. But something’s…off. His usual grinning entrances into the Great Hall are now subdued, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for someone and hoping they won’t be there.
You.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying it, at least a little. Watching the arrogant king of Gryffindor stumble down from his throne.
You breeze past him in the corridor one morning on your way to Charms. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, maybe not—but you don’t even glance his way. Lily follows your lead, nose in the air.
“Alright,” you hear Sirius mutter behind you, “this is getting ridiculous. James, either talk to her or get over it. You’re acting like a bloody widow,”
“She hates me,” James says, voice low. “She’s not even mad. She’s just done. I dunno what’s worse,”
You smile to yourself, just slightly. Good.
—
Up in the Gryffindor dormitory, James lies flat on his back on his bed, arm flung over his face. The ceiling above him is cracked in one corner. He’s counted it eleven times already this morning.
Peter sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed, munching on a Chocolate Frog, eyes darting between the cards and James like he’s trying to decide which is more interesting.
“You could write her a letter,” Peter suggests, voice sticky with sugar.
James groans. “Right. To my mortal enemy, Sorry I dumped potion slime all over your head while I was trying to humiliate your best friend’s other best friend. Let’s start over?”
Peter winces. “Maybe…leave that bit out,”
“She wouldn’t read it anyway,”
Peter shrugs. “She used to laugh at your jokes. Remember? Even the stupid ones,”
James doesn’t answer. Of course he remembers. He remembers everything.
He remembers the way you used to sit in the common room with your legs tucked under you, books open on your lap, tongue between your teeth while you annotated the margins. He remembers how you used to call him “Potter” with that infuriating mix of fondness and disdain that made his heart beat faster every time.
He remembers the look in your eyes when the prank went wrong.
The fury. The betrayal.
James had thought he was being clever. That if he embarrassed Snape enough in front of the whole school, he’d finally back off. But the spell had ricocheted. The charm had caught your robe instead. He still sees the greenish film spreading across your chest like a bruise. Still hears the goat-bleat echoing in the courtyard, followed by laughter.
His laughter.
He hates himself for it.
—
You, on the other hand, have compartmentalised. Perfectly. Efficiently.
James Potter is a chapter closed and buried. Along with the rest of the Marauders.
You sit in the common room now with Lily, the two of you pretending to focus on your Transfiguration homework. Your quill taps idly against the parchment as Lily doodles swirls in the margins of her notes.
“Do you think he regrets it?” she asks suddenly, so quietly you barely hear.
You look up. “Who?”
She doesn’t need to answer.
You sigh, then shrug. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
You flinch slightly at the name. Sev. It feels wrong now. Like it belongs to someone else. A memory.
“Because he’s a coward,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Lily’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t disagree.
You both sit in silence after that. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the distant chatter of younger students. Across the room, James walks in, Sirius at his side. They’re laughing about something, but James glances your way out of instinct.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
Lily does, though. Just briefly. You see her shoulders tense.
“They’ve got no idea what it’s like,” she mutters. “To be mocked for something you can’t change. To have your friends abandon you,”
You nod. Your chest is tight.
You’ve stopped expecting apologies.
—
You notice the change almost immediately.
For weeks, James Potter had been sulking through classes like a ghost, his usual antics replaced by a quiet brooding that honestly would’ve been refreshing if it weren’t so pitiful. He stopped hexing quills to fly out of people’s hands during lectures. Stopped charming the stairs to vanish underneath unsuspecting Slytherins. Even his hair seemed less windswept—as if it too had given up.
You’d assumed he’d stay that way, at least for the rest of the term.
But then, he started whispering again.
Not to you, of course. But to Sirius, and Remus, and Peter—heads huddled close together during meals, parchment slipped between sleeves, expressions ranging from mischievous to manic. It wasn’t like before, when they were preparing to flood the Potions corridor with foam or levitate someone’s trousers during Charms. This was different. Focused. Secretive.
You tried not to care.
Lily, however, did care—if only because it meant the boys were creeping around the library more than usual, and the library was her sanctuary.
You catch them one Tuesday evening, seated behind a massive stack of spell theory books in the far corner. You and Lily had claimed the table next to theirs an hour earlier, mid-revision session for Transfiguration.
At first, you barely noticed them.
Then Peter’s voice piped up, too excited for library etiquette: “What about the Infiltrators? Sounds mysterious,”
You and Lily exchanged a look.
Sirius’s voice followed, a drawling whisper. “That sounds like a weird disease, Pete,”
You peeked around the side of the bookshelf. James had his feet propped on the table, quill balanced between his teeth, a large sheet of parchment stretched in front of him and several open books littered around them.
You catch part of the title of one: Obscure Etymologies for the Crafting of Secret Societies.
Lily rolled her eyes hard enough that it was practically audible.
You nudged her with your foot and leaned in to whisper, “Should we tell Madam Pince they’re desecrating her precious archives?”
“I’d rather let her catch them herself. She’ll have them in body bags,”
From the boys’ table came another suggestion—Remus, this time: “What about The Cartographers?”
James let out a noise that was either a scoff or a dying bird.
“Sounds like we do geography homework for fun,”
You tuned them out after that. Or tried to.
Lily muttered something about “bloody egos,” and you bit your tongue to keep from laughing.
—
The name came to them at some point. Whatever they were using it for.
You heard it floating through the common room one night, spoken with reverence and entirely too much smug satisfaction.
“The Marauders,” James said, as if the words were dipped in gold.
You didn’t even have to look up from your essay to picture the smirk on his face.
“Marauders,” Sirius echoed, testing the syllables like a fine wine.
Peter clapped once. “It sounds cool, right? Like, sneaky but heroic,”
They kept repeating it over the next few days—dropping it casually in conversation, testing how it felt in different tones. “The Marauders are on the case!” “A Marauder never reveals his secrets.” “Marauders strike again!”
You were ready to strangle the next person who said it.
—
To their credit, the Marauders were quieter during first term.
Still obnoxious, still immature, but... less destructive. The chaos was channeled, somehow. It wasn’t hard to guess why.
You’d seen flashes of it: Sirius sneaking down the hallway with a blank bit of parchment that shimmered slightly when light hit it wrong. Peter nicking ink bottles from Slughorn’s storage cupboard. James with his head bent over notebooks, muttering complex layering spells to himself under his breath. Remus dragging obscure books from the Restricted Section with quiet urgency.
You didn’t know what they were building, but it had consumed them.
—
Down in the boys’ dormitory, the table between their beds had turned into a miniature workshop. Spells layered over spells, charms that blinked with gold threads, parchment that wouldn’t burn, ink that shimmered under moonlight.
“It’s going to work,” James said one night, eyes gleaming as he tapped his wand to the corner of the map. The ink curled outward like a vine, sketching the curve of a hallway before fading into nothing. “We just have to link the tracking enchantment.”
Remus looked skeptical. “Easier said than done. We need an anchor charm. Something alive, but unobtrusive,”
“A fly?” Peter offered.
Sirius shook his head. “Too small. What if it gets squashed?”
James grinned. “What about... our own magical signatures?”
Remus blinked. “You want to bind our magic to the map?”
“Only a little bit,” James said quickly. “Not like... dangerous amounts. Just enough to trace the field,”
Peter chewed his lip. “Is that even possible?”
James shrugged. “We’ll find out,”
—
It became their mission. Their purpose.
James Potter, who’d spent the start of term a sulking husk of his former self, was suddenly alive again. Energised. He woke up early to test linking spells. Stayed up late reading enchantment theory. He stopped doodling hearts with your initials in the margins of his notes, which honestly, you were thrilled about. And annoyed. But mostly thrilled.
Even Sirius, who never took anything seriously, became laser-focused.
“You’ve got to see this part,” he said to Peter one night, pointing at a new feature he’d scribbled in—secret passages that didn’t exist on the school’s official floorplans. “We can get to Honeydukes without stepping foot outside,”
Remus muttered, “Just what we need—more sugar-induced psychosis,”
“Says you, Remus,” Sirius said. “You eat more chocolate than the rest of us combined,”
Remus hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah, so what?”
—
Meanwhile, you and Lily continued your crusade of ignoring them with all the dignity of queens holding court above a gaggle of jester-boys.
Every time you caught them sneaking past curfew or darting behind tapestries, you gave Lily a look that said they’re up to something. And every time, she gave you one right back that said don’t you dare get involved.
You didn’t plan to. Honestly. You had better things to do.
Like pass your O.W.L.s. Like figure out whether or not Severus Snape was officially dead to you (you were leaning yes). Like convincing Lily that “Slug Club” was just code for “favouritism with snacks.”
Still, you couldn’t help the curiosity that crept in. The Marauders were quiet. Too quiet. And whatever they were building down in their dormitory was clearly working, because they hadn’t been caught out after curfew once since term began.
One night in the common room, Lily leaned over her Arithmancy chart and muttered, “Whatever they’re doing, they’re getting good at it.”
You frowned. “And somehow, I hate them more for it.”
—
In the boys’ dorm, James beamed at the glowing outline of the final blueprint. He tapped the parchment twice, and the lines shimmered with silver.
“We solemnly swear that we are up to no good.”
The ink shifted.
Names appeared on the parchment in miniature script, dotting across the halls of Hogwarts. Tiny footprints trailed behind each one. Students in the library. Peeves floating near the Astronomy Tower. Filch in the dungeons. Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing.
And four tiny dots in Gryffindor Tower.
Peter stared. “It’s working,”
Remus whispered, “It’s really working,”
Sirius whooped, grabbing James by the shoulders. “You bloody genius! We’re legends!”
And in the corner of the parchment, four names bloomed in curling letters.
Messrs. Lupin, Pettigrew, Black, and Potter, purveyors of aids to magical mischief-makers…
“...are proud to present,” James whispered. “The Marauder’s Map,”
Sirius grinned, and Peter threw his arms in the air like they’d just won the Quidditch Cup.
Remus just sat back, watching them, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“We did it,” he said quietly. “No more guesswork. No more getting caught,”
“No more fun getting ruined by bloody rules,” Sirius said.
James stared down at the parchment, the gold-glinting trails of names and rooms. For the first time in months, he felt right. Like he had direction. Like he was moving forward.
He thought of you. The way your eyes had hardened that day in the courtyard. The way you hadn’t looked at him in weeks.
He couldn’t fix what he’d done.
But at least now, he was building something that mattered.
—
Christmas came and went, bringing snow-dusted corridors, hot butterbeer in the common room, and an awkward quiet between you and everyone who wasn’t Lily.
James was gone for the break, whisked away to his parents’ stately manor for two weeks of holiday cheer and quiet sulking. Sirius had joined him, which wasn’t a surprise. Remus returned home to his mother’s cottage near the forest. Peter went somewhere with too many cousins.
You stayed at Hogwarts. So did Lily.
It wasn’t so bad. The castle was emptier, the air colder, the stars clearer at night. You and Lily took long walks through the frost-bitten greenhouses, played chess by the fire, avoided talking about them. It was the kind of peace Hogwarts rarely offered. It helped. A little.
But when the new term started, James came back... off.
Not angry. Not loud. Just—flat.
Even the others noticed.
“You alright, mate?” Peter asked the second night back, poking James with the tip of a Sugar Quill.
James gave a one-shouldered shrug and kept scribbling in the corner of the nearly-finished map. “Fine,”
But his eyes weren’t lit up like they had been in October. The Marauder’s Map was nearly complete—ink shimmering with spells layered so thick they practically pulsed when touched. They had built something brilliant, yes. But now it was done. The project that had distracted James from his guilt, from you, from everything... was suddenly over.
And he looked lost again.
—
Remus brought it up during one of their late-night meetings in the dormitory.
“He’s spiralling,” he said, glancing at James, who had fallen asleep at his desk with parchment stuck to his cheek.
Sirius nodded grimly. “Needs something new to obsess over. Something big,”
Peter, nibbling on a licorice wand, frowned. “We can’t just keep inventing stuff forever,”
Sirius looked thoughtful. “What if we didn’t invent something new?”
Remus raised a brow. “Do not say what I think you’re about to say,”
“I mean, come on—” Sirius leaned in, lowering his voice. “What if we finally did it?”
“...Did what?” Peter blinked.
“The Animagus transformation.”
The silence that followed was immediate and electric.
They’d talked about it for years. Since second year, really, when they’d first pieced together Remus’s secret. They weren’t stupid—not with the strange disappearances each month, the hospital wing visits, the sudden excuses. And once he’d finally told them, the reaction had been unanimous.
We want to help.
Not just in words, but in action. If Remus turned into something terrifying every full moon, then they would too. That had been the plan. It was just that... the process was terrifying, incredibly dangerous, and strictly illegal. Even Slughorn wouldn’t touch it. They’d promised they’d wait—until they were smarter, stronger, more careful.
But maybe waiting had become an excuse.
Sirius cleared his throat. “We’ve done our research. We know every step.”
Remus sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Are you serious?”
“Always. Literally,”
Peter frowned. “It’s dangerous.”
“It’s badass,” Sirius corrected.
James stirred then, head still on the parchment. He blinked up at them blearily. “What’s badass?”
Sirius looked him square in the eyes. “We’re going to become Animagi.”
For a moment, James just stared. Then—something sparked in his eyes. The first real light since before the holidays.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“That’s my name alright,” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. “You guys really just keep handing me that joke,”
Peter groaned. “Every time.”
But James was smiling—really smiling—for the first time in weeks.
And just like that, the Marauders had a new mission.
—
They started the process immediately.
The first step? Keeping a Mandrake leaf in your mouth for an entire month. That meant from full moon to full moon, no swallowing, no spitting it out—not even during meals. If the leaf was lost, the whole process had to start again.
It was unpleasant, to say the least.
James nearly swallowed his on day three after Sirius made a joke during breakfast. Peter dropped his in the sink while brushing his teeth. Sirius almost sneezed his into his cauldron during Potions. Still, they persisted.
And the strangest part? The castle noticed.
Not the professors—not really. But the students did. The Marauders were quiet.
They stopped arguing in the corridors. Stopped loudly mocking Filch. They were—god forbid—well-behaved.
You noticed immediately.
“They’re up to something,” you said flatly as you watched them walk silently into Transfiguration one morning.
Lily glanced up from her notes. “They haven’t pranked anyone in weeks.”
“Exactly.”
Peter coughed and immediately turned red. James flicked a finger at his sleeve and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like a warning. They slid into their seats, saying nothing.
You and Lily shared a look.
“I don’t trust it,” you muttered.
—
Over the next few weeks, the boys carried out the enchantments meticulously.
They followed every instruction in the old Animagus guides they’d managed to find (and smuggle) from the Restricted Section.
First came the potion.
After the Mandrake leaf, they had to spit it into a crystal phial under the full moon’s light. Then came the ingredients: one of their own hairs, a silver teaspoon of untouched dew, and the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawk Moth.
Tracking all of that down was... not easy.
Sirius broke into Greenhouse Seven. James used the map to avoid Filch while collecting dew before dawn. Peter found the moths in the attic. Remus handled the potion prep. It took weeks. They hid the phials under loose floorboards, dark closets, enchanted drawers—anything safe and undisturbed.
Miraculously, the first attempt actually worked.
Each of them had a phial filled with a swirling, dark red liquid. Their magic—ancient and wild—had started to settle.
But there was still more to do.
—
For the transformation to succeed, they had to wait for a lightning storm.
Which meant more waiting. Waiting and chanting.
Every morning at sunrise, and every evening at sunset, they placed their wands over their hearts and whispered the same incantation.
Amato Animo Animato Animagus.
Again. And again. And again.
Some days it felt like nothing.
Some days it felt like everything.
James was the first to feel it—the strange flutter beneath his wand. A second heartbeat.
“Felt it last night,” he whispered one evening. “Faint. Like... something was waking up.”
Remus nodded. “That’s good. That’s how you know it’s working,”
“Do we tell anyone?” Peter asked.
Sirius looked scandalised. “Tell people we’re illegally transforming into animals? Absolutely not.”
James smiled faintly. “This is for us.”
And it was.
—
You, meanwhile, grew increasingly suspicious.
They skipped breakfast. Showed up late to class. Never spoke to anyone except themselves.
“Okay,” you said to Lily one morning as the boys disappeared out the portrait hole before the sun had even properly risen. “I need to know what they’re doing,”
Lily yawned. “Still think they’re just inventing some new prank,”
“It’s too quiet. That’s not their style,”
“I’m not saying I care,” Lily said, tying her hair up in a ribbon, “but if they blow up another corridor and we’re caught in the crossfire, I will personally hex James Potter into the next century,”
You smiled. “Can I help?”
“Absolutely,”
But no matter how carefully you watched them, they gave away nothing.
Whatever the Marauders were doing—it was secret, strange, and somehow important.
And James Potter? He looked... alive again.
—
In the boys’ dorm that night, lightning lit the windows.
A storm had finally come.
James stood, heart pounding, phial in hand.
Remus lit the candles. Sirius double-checked the warding spells on the door. Peter wrung his hands, nervously glancing between his friends.
James took a deep breath and uncorked the bottle.
The potion shimmered. Glowed.
Now or never.
He raised his wand. Placed it over his chest.
“Amato Animo Animato Animagus.”
Then he drank.
His transformation wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth. It was raw. Violent.
One moment, he was standing there with his wand pressed to his heart, eyes wide and wild as he muttered the final incantation. The next, he was writhing, collapsing onto his knees, a horrible crunch of bone and crack of skin echoing through the dormitory.
Sirius would later joke it sounded like he was turning inside-out.
And in a way, he was.
You don’t just shift into something else—you become it. Your magic burns through every nerve, rewriting you, reshaping you.
James’s fingers broke and bent backwards, elongating into thick, sinewy legs. His face tore forward—muscle grinding against bone—as antlers exploded from his skull. He cried out, a ragged, animal sound that made Peter reel back in horror.
But then it was done.
Where James had been, now stood a stag. Tall, sleek, and trembling.
It took a minute before any of the others moved.
Sirius whispered, “Bloody hell.”
And the stag turned his head toward them—eyes still so James, full of wonder and disbelief and pain.
It wasn’t easy, turning back either. James collapsed the moment he was human again, soaked in sweat and shaking from head to toe, teeth chattering.
But he was smiling.
“It works,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “It bloody works,”
Sirius went next.
His transformation wasn’t elegant either—but it was quicker.
He was determined not to scream like James had. But his pride cracked the moment his spine snapped into something long and low and his limbs folded in on themselves. His shout echoed across the dormitory walls as his body shrank, shoulders popping out of their sockets, then back in at impossible angles.
Peter had to look away. Even Remus winced.
When it was over, a large black dog stood panting on the floor—eyes too bright, still feral around the edges.
The dog wagged its tail twice before immediately slipping on the rug and bashing into the nightstand.
Remus snorted. “Still Sirius, then,”
It took longer for Sirius to change back. His concentration kept slipping. But eventually, he returned—flat on his back, grinning madly.
“That was mental.”
“Are you okay?” James asked.
“I think I dislocated something.”
“What?”
“Is there a joint in your spine?”
They laughed, exhausted.
Peter was next.
He hesitated.
He wasn’t brave like James, or fearless like Sirius. He was... Peter. The one they always pulled along, dragged into plans with too many moving pieces and too many ways to fail.
But he wanted this. Needed it.
So he drank the potion. He said the words.
And then he screamed.
His transformation was somehow worse than the others. His body crumpled in on itself—shrinking, folding, compressing. His bones cracked—so loud Sirius thought something had broken permanently. His nose disappeared entirely. Fingers curled into paws. His spine snapped in three separate places.
Then he was gone.
And in his place sat a small, twitching, frightened rat.
He stayed like that for a while. Peter’s magic was... weaker. But they waited. Helped him. Coached him through the terror and the pain.
When he finally returned, he was crying.
But he was one of them.
“You did it, mate,” James said, voice gentle. “You did it.”
Peter hiccuped and nodded, wiping at his eyes with trembling hands.
—
They sat together in silence after that, each of them bruised and aching and wide-eyed.
Four friends.
Four animals.
“Well,” Sirius said eventually, “now we need names,”
James perked up instantly. “Obviously.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Sirius sat up straighter, despite his spine still crackling ominously. “We have to name ourselves. This is important.”
“Like code names?” Peter asked, voice still shaky.
Sirius nodded. “Exactly,”
“Right,” James said, rubbing at his antler-bruised head. “Let’s think. We need names that fit our forms,”
Sirius looked smug. “I want to be Padfoot.”
Everyone turned to him.
“...Padfoot?” Remus repeated.
Sirius shrugged. “It’s cool. Stealthy. I’m a dog, I pad around. Padfoot.”
James snorted. “Okay, sure.”
“Then I want to be Prongs,” James said without hesitation. “Because, you know—”
“The antlers,” Remus said flatly.
James beamed. “Exactly.”
Peter fidgeted. “I don’t have any names,”
“Hmmm,” James hummed animatedly. “What about Wormtail?”
Sirius looked like he was about to make a joke, but stopped when he saw Peter’s expression.
“You know, because rat tails look like worms?”
Peter nodded. “I guess it fits,”
James clapped him on the back. “It fits. Wormtail it is,”
Remus blinked. “What? No—you lot are the Animagi. I didn’t transform,”
“Yeah,” James said, “but you’re the reason we did it,”
“And besides,” Sirius added, “you’ve been dealing with this moon thing your whole life. You’ve earned the name more than any of us,”
Remus opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Fine,” he said. “Moony, then.”
The Marauders were born that night—not just in name, but in purpose.
They weren’t just pranksters anymore. They were more.
They were a pack.
—
The next morning, you saw them at breakfast.
All four of them, sitting together, nursing mugs of tea with varying degrees of exhaustion on their faces.
James had a bandage on his wrist. Sirius flinched every time someone touched his shoulder. Peter kept blinking, like the sunlight was too much. Remus looked pale—but content.
You stared at them from your spot at the Gryffindor table, narrowing your eyes.
“What did they do?” you muttered.
Lily glanced up, then rolled her eyes. “Knowing them? Built a secret Quidditch pitch or something,”
You weren’t so sure.
There was something different about them.
Not just the injuries, not just the tired eyes. It was in the way they sat closer together. In the way they looked at each other—like they’d done something they weren’t ready to share with anyone else.
But whatever it was, they weren’t saying a word.
Sirius caught your eye across the room. Smirked. Raised his cup.
You gave him the flattest look imaginable in return.
And still—you couldn’t help the whisper of suspicion curling at the back of your mind.
Something had changed.
—
It was only a matter of time.
You felt it before you even saw it—James Potter, shoulders squared, eyes gleaming again, laughter back on his lips. That particular swagger in his step had returned, the one that always meant trouble was brewing somewhere nearby.
He was himself again. Or, at least, the version of himself that drove you absolutely mad.
The Animagus transformation had put a fire back in him, a sort of untouchable pride that shimmered beneath every word he spoke. Barely anyone in wizarding history had pulled it off, and he’d done it at fifteen.
So of course he thought he was invincible now.
You weren’t surprised when the prank came. Honestly, you’d been waiting for it—like watching a thundercloud slowly form and stretch across the sky.
Still, the sound of Severus’s yell was enough to twist something sharp in your chest.
You turned the corner just in time to see him hanging upside down in the middle of the courtyard, robes flapping over his head, pale legs flailing embarrassingly in the air. He was trying to reach his wand, which had fallen somewhere below—but he couldn’t grab it.
James was standing a few feet away, wand raised, grinning like the entire thing was some hilarious spectacle.
The worst part? People were laughing.
Not just the Marauders. Actual students. Fourth years. Sixth years. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws alike. Even a couple professors on the far end hadn’t noticed yet, or maybe they had and just didn’t want to intervene.
“Look at him!” Sirius was practically doubled over, clutching his sides. “He’s like a flobberworm caught on a hook—”
“Didn’t even have to cast a full charm,” James added. “He was halfway in the air before I finished the spell—”
“James!” Lily’s voice cut through the courtyard like a whip.
You saw his wand falter just slightly.
You were right behind her, the same tightness coiled in your gut as the last time—when they'd done this before, last year, with a laugh and a cruel joke and no thought to who got dragged down with it.
Severus might’ve distanced himself, but he’d been your friend. He’d been Lily’s. He’d sat next to you in every Herbology class and made dry comments that made you bite back a laugh. He’d whispered spells under his breath so you could double-check your pronunciation. He’d cared.
And now… he was this. This punchline.
“Put him down,” you snapped.
James hesitated. “Look, he—”
“Now.”
His smirk wavered. Just for a second. You saw it in his eyes—that moment of recognition, of guilt. Like last year was suddenly at the front of his mind again, bright and bloody. Like you standing there, furious and unamused, was enough to make him second-guess himself.
But before he could even lower his wand—
“I don’t need help from a Mudblood,” Severus spat from the air, voice heavy with venom, “or her stupid shadow.”
The silence was immediate.
Sharp. Cold.
The courtyard might as well have frozen over.
You felt Lily go still beside you.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. Not for a moment.
Your vision tunneled—eyes locked on Severus, who was still flailing a bit, but with far more hatred than fear now. His gaze was fixed on you and Lily, wild and narrowed. His face was red, twisted with something that looked like rage and shame and wounded pride all at once.
He meant it.
You blinked.
And whatever lingering thread of respect, of friendship, of understanding you’d been clinging to—snapped clean in two.
Lily didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
You grabbed her wrist, gently, and turned away.
You didn’t look back.
Not at James, not at Severus. Not at the crowd still watching, slowly beginning to murmur as the tension cracked and started to buzz.
You and Lily walked away, heads high.
But you could feel the weight of the moment settling like dust on your skin.
It wasn’t just about a prank anymore.
It hadn’t been for a while.
—
You sat with Lily by the lake later that afternoon, knees drawn up to your chest as you stared out at the grey water. The wind had picked up—cool and biting—and the trees across the shore swayed like they were whispering secrets between their branches.
Neither of you had spoken since leaving the courtyard.
Eventually, Lily broke the silence.
“I knew he was angry,” she said quietly. “I knew he was hurting. But I didn’t think he’d… say that.”
You didn’t respond.
She rubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, then quickly dropped her hand again like she was embarrassed.
“Thanks,” she added.
“For what?”
“For walking away. For not… for not making me say anything. I couldn’t.”
You nodded.
There wasn’t anything to say, really.
Severus had made his choice. And he’d made it loud enough for the whole school to hear.
—
James was standing frozen.
Severus had fallen the second his concentration broke—crumpling onto the cobblestones with a groan. He’d scrambled for his wand, muttered some ugly retort under his breath, and stormed off before anyone could stop him.
The crowd was still there, some people chuckling nervously, others pretending they hadn’t found any of it funny at all.
But James wasn’t laughing.
Not anymore.
He barely even noticed when Sirius tried to get his attention.
“Mate? Hello? Earth to Prongs?”
James flinched like someone had slapped him.
“That…” he muttered. “That wasn’t funny.”
Peter frowned. “Which part?”
“The whole thing, Wormtail!”
He spun on his heel and took off, legs moving before his brain had fully caught up with what he was doing.
—
You heard your name being called before you saw him.
He skidded to a stop by the tree line near the lake, breathless and flushed and looking more like a boy than you’d ever seen him.
“I just—wait—can I say something?” James asked, voice half a gasp, hands up like he was ready to get hexed.
You stared at him. Lily stayed seated.
He swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
You didn’t say anything. Let him flail.
“I mean really sorry,” he went on. “Not like a passing, 'oops I was a dick’ sort of sorry, but—actual—I’ve been thinking about this all year sorry.”
You arched a brow.
He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “I know you don’t want to hear it. And honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t either. I was a complete arse last year. I didn’t think. I didn’t care what happened to you or Lily—I was just showing off.”
“Obviously,” you muttered.
“But I do care. I do,” he insisted. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve apologised last year, properly. Not just some joke or half-effort.”
Lily finally stood.
James blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to move.
“What Severus said,” he continued, turning to her, “was disgusting. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry that you had to hear that. And I promise—if I ever hear it again, from anyone, I’ll hex them until they can’t speak anymore.”
She didn’t reply, but she nodded stiffly.
James stepped back then, gaze flicking between the two of you.
“I’ll leave you alone now,” he said. “I get it. You don’t want anything to do with me. Or any of us. But I just—needed you to know I’m sorry.”
And then he turned and left, hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed slightly.
You and Lily stood in silence for a long time.
Eventually, you said, “He meant it, d’you think?”
Lily exhaled slowly. “I think he did.”
You looked out at the lake again. The wind had softened.
James suddenly discovers that girls exist. And then seems to realise that you are one.
eventual james x fem!reader | 6.0k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | marauders are cocky little shits ofc, james is an obnoxious flirt, the marauders humiliate severus (and unintentionally lily and reader) in public
The September sun was weak and golden, casting a lazy glow over the Hogwarts grounds as students spilled out of carriages and onto the familiar stone steps of the castle.
The air was thick with the chatter of summer stories—trips abroad, new broomsticks, and fleeting first kisses on starlit beaches. The scent of warm earth clung to the castle walls, a final breath of summer before the Scottish chill crept in.
You stood with Lily and Severus near the edge of the crowd, half-listening as Lily recounted the letters she’d exchanged with Dorcas over the break.
The two had written back and forth nearly every week, mostly sharing trivial gossip about mutual friends and the latest Which Broomstick articles. But despite Lily’s cheerful recounting, you were more focused on Severus, whose face was carefully blank.
You recognised the expression by now—it was the mask he wore when he didn’t want you or Lily to see how much something bothered him. His eyes kept flickering over toward the clumps of Gryffindor boys, his lips pressed into a hard, flat line. You didn’t need to ask who he was looking at.
You spotted them easily enough—James and Sirius in the center of it all, their laughter carrying over the hum of the crowd. Peter shuffled after them, nearly tripping over his own feet in his effort to keep up, and Remus walked slightly behind, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around as though half-hoping to be ignored.
And they were different. Taller. Broader. Their voices richer with the remnants of a summer spent outside, and something about the way they carried themselves had shifted, as if they suddenly knew their presence mattered.
James, in particular, was different. The boy who had spent the past three years as an insufferable menace—the one who had hexed your bag to spew out a swarm of singing paper cranes in the middle of Potions—now strolled through the crowd with a maddening sort of confidence.
His hair was still a mess, but now it looked intentional, as though he’d spent time ruffling it into disarray. His tie hung slightly loose around his neck, giving him a roguish look, and he slung his broomstick over his shoulder with all the casual grace of a boy who knew everyone was watching.
And everyone was watching.
A few fifth-year girls by the doors were giggling into their hands, stealing glances in his direction. Even Marlene, who had always been sharp-tongued and disinterested in school gossip, tilted her head slightly as the boys passed, her eyes briefly lingering on them before she smirked and nudged Dorcas with her elbow. The two exchanged a glance that made your stomach turn sour.
“Since when did they become the heartthrobs of the castle?” you muttered under your breath, half to Lily, half to yourself.
Lily’s green eyes narrowed slightly. “Since they realised girls exist, apparently.” Her tone was dry, but you could tell she was just as irritated as you were.
James caught your eye as he passed. His grin widened. With an exaggerated flick of his wrist, he tossed his broomstick from one hand to the other, showing off his reflexes. It was a ridiculous, peacocking display, but he looked irritatingly pleased with himself as he strolled by.
“Looking forward to the first Quidditch match, then?” he called out, though he was clearly speaking to you. His voice carried easily over the crowd. “Better get a good seat, might see me break a record or two,”
You glared at him. “I’ll be sure to bring my sick bucket, just in case the show makes me ill,”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s missed you, James. I can tell,”
James didn’t respond right away. He just kept looking at you, his hazel eyes glittering with amusement, as though your snark was the highlight of his day.
You turned back toward Lily and Severus, deliberately ignoring him.
But the exchange seemed to satisfy him.
—
The Great Hall was louder than ever that evening. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the dusky lavender sky, dotted with early evening stars. You sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene. Severus was over at the Slytherin table, his face half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair as he bent over his meal, avoiding any and all attention.
You could feel the heat of James’ gaze before you even glanced his way. He was two seats down with Sirius, laughing a little too loudly at a joke Remus had made, occasionally glancing sideways in your direction. When you finally shot him a flat, disinterested look, he didn’t even try to be subtle. He smirked and tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you to keep ignoring him.
It was maddening.
Lily noticed. “You know he’s only doing it because you react,” she muttered, poking at her mashed potatoes.
“I’m not reacting,” you snapped back in a low voice.
“Sure,” Dorcas drawled, not even looking up from her pumpkin juice. “That’s why you’re glaring at him like you want him to burst into flames,”
Marlene snorted. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though. He’s bloody annoying,”
You let out a frustrated sigh, shoving a bite of bread into your mouth just to keep yourself from saying something regrettable. The longer you sat there, the more it grated on you—James’ easy confidence, the way Sirius whispered something in his ear that made him glance over at you again, both of them grinning like idiots.
Your fingers tightened around your fork.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
The bread was dry in your mouth, sticking unpleasantly to the roof of your mouth. You forced it down with a gulp of pumpkin juice. You were halfway through formulating a perfectly scathing glare when James’ voice rang out across the table.
“Oi, McKinnon!” he called out suddenly. “You coming to the pitch tomorrow? Early practice. Gotta keep the team sharp if we’re going to destroy Slytherin,”
Marlene raised a brow but nodded, clearly amused. “Bright and early, Potter,”
James grinned. His eyes flicked back toward you. “You should come too,” he said, voice light and teasing. “You could watch me practice. Might even dedicate a goal to you,”
It was such a pompous, ridiculous thing to say, you actually let out a laugh—but it was cold, sharp, and entirely without humour.
“Right,” you drawled, your voice dripping with disdain. “Because that would be such an honour,”
Dorcas snickered into her goblet, but James seemed unfazed. In fact, his grin widened, as though he was utterly delighted by your scorn.
You scowled and turned back toward your plate.
“That boy,” you muttered, stabbing your carrots with more force than necessary, “is going to drive me mad.”
Lily cast you a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching faintly. “You do know you’re giving him exactly what he wants, right?”
You scowled. “What he wants is a concussion,”
Marlene let out a low chuckle, but from the corner of your eye, you caught James still watching you—head propped in his hand, wearing a lopsided smirk that made your stomach twist with irritation.
And yet, you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Stupid traitorous blood vessels.
—
The next few weeks at Hogwarts passed in a blur of early autumn mornings and late-night study sessions, but James made it his personal mission to remain a consistent, inescapable thorn in your side.
No matter where you went—whether it was rushing to Transfiguration, trying to concentrate in the library, or simply walking to the Great Hall—he was always there, hovering on the edge of your awareness.
And always, always, with that insufferable smirk.
At first, you chalked it up to him being bored.
That was the only logical explanation.
James and his friends had been tormenting you, Lily, and Severus for the past three years—hexing Severus’ cauldron to bubble over, charming your quills to squawk like chickens mid-essay, or charming your bag to fly around the classroom, spilling ink all over your notes. So, of course, this new fixation was just another game. Another way to irritate you.
But then he didn’t stop.
If anything, it escalated.
You were coming out of Charms one afternoon when you heard his voice—loud and overly casual—float down the corridor.
“Hey, did you see that Wronski Feint during practice?” he announced to no one in particular, but you immediately knew the performance was for your benefit. You stiffened as you walked by, but James’ voice carried on, deliberately and obnoxiously. “No? You should really pay more attention. Could’ve sworn you were watching me,”
You didn’t slow your stride or glance in his direction. You simply kept walking, grinding your teeth.
The next day, you spotted him leaning against the doorframe outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. His tie was loose around his neck, and he was running his fingers through his hair in that deliberately careless way you were starting to recognize as his signature move. It was so predictable now that you could practically count down in your head before he did it.
Three… two… one—
“Oh, this?” he said loudly when you walked by, tugging at a lock of his untamed hair. “Yeah, just got off my broom. Early morning practice. You know how it is—gotta be the best on the field, after all,”
You turned your head sharply, fixing him with a withering glare. “Is that what you tell yourself to make up for the fact that you’re insufferable off the field?”
For a brief moment, you saw James’ eyes flash with surprise, as though he hadn’t expected you to bite back so quickly. But then the corners of his mouth quirked upward, clearly thrilled.
You stalked off before he could fire back with some infuriatingly cocky retort, but you could practically feel his grin at your back.
—
It wasn’t just the hallways. You were convinced he was orchestrating it now—finding ways to place himself in your line of sight or to make sure his voice reached your ears.
In Potions, he made a show of stretching as he walked past your table, rolling his shoulders like he was nursing a Quidditch injury, despite the fact that you were fairly certain Gryffindor hadn’t had practice in two days.
“Ugh, strained my shoulder last match,” he announced to no one in particular, though his eyes flickered in your direction. “Happens when you carry the whole team, you know?”
Dorcas, who was hunched over her cauldron beside you, snorted so quietly you nearly missed it. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips.
You gripped your stirring rod a little too tightly, turning the ingredients with more force than necessary.
“Do you think if we hexed his lips shut he’d still find a way to talk?” you muttered under your breath.
Dorcas’ eyes glimmered with mischief. “Oh, definitely. He’d probably find a way to mime his Quidditch stats,”
You let out a sharp, unrestrained laugh, drawing the attention of the students around you. When you glanced up, you found James watching you. His hazel eyes had a glimmer of something warm in them—something that caught you off guard, if only for a moment.
But then he winked.
Your face immediately hardened. You turned back to your cauldron with a scowl, ignoring the strange, uncomfortable heat building in your chest.
—
It didn’t stop.
By the time the third week rolled around, James’ antics had grown so frequent and shameless that Lily had taken to audibly groaning whenever he opened his mouth in your vicinity.
“Honestly, does he think it’s subtle?” she muttered to you one evening as the two of you made your way to the library. “It’s embarrassing,”
You didn’t even have the energy to argue. You were too busy fuming about the incident from earlier that day when James had dramatically “dedicated” his goal during a Quidditch scrimmage to you in front of half the school.
Now, as you and Lily made your way toward the library, you could still hear his voice in your head, all dripping arrogance and showmanship.
You were mid-rant when Lily suddenly came to a stop, glancing over your shoulder with a grimace. You followed her gaze—and there he was again.
James was sauntering down the corridor toward you with Sirius at his side. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and he was saying something that made Sirius snicker under his breath. The two of them were a walking embodiment of cocky, lazy confidence, and it made your blood boil.
James caught sight of you and, predictably, his entire face lit up. He slowed his stride, falling slightly behind Sirius so he could meet your eyes as he passed.
“Hey,” he drawled, casual as ever, with that infuriating half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just heading back from the pitch. Did you catch the scrimmage? Thought of you, y’know. Every goal,”
You leveled him with a look of pure disdain.
“Funny,” you said, voice laced with false sweetness. “Every time I see you, I think about throwing myself into the Black Lake. But you don’t see me announcing it, do you?”
For the first time in weeks, James actually seemed momentarily stunned into silence. His eyes widened slightly before his lips parted in surprise, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something flash behind his eyes—something oddly genuine, like he was genuinely caught off guard by how cutting you could be.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A low, warm sound that made your stomach clench with irritation.
“I like you,” he said, far too sincerely for your liking. “You’ve got fire,”
And then he was walking away, still grinning to himself, while you stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your heart hammering far too quickly for someone who was supposed to be unimpressed.
Lily arched a brow. “You sure you’re not reacting?”
You glared at her.
“Shut up.”
—
It happened right before Christmas.
You remembered that because it was the first properly cold morning of the term—the kind that bit at your skin and left the stone corridors of the castle slick with condensation. You had been walking with Lily and Severus down the main courtyard steps, talking idly about your latest Charms assignment. The courtyard was crowded, full of students making their way toward the greenhouses or heading down to the lake before the weather grew too bitter.
You had been halfway through complaining about Flitwick’s unreasonable essay length when it happened.
It began with a flash of light—brief, sharp, and disorienting. For a second, you thought someone had simply cast a Lumos a little too enthusiastically. But then you heard the noise.
A loud, high-pitched squealing filled the air. It was shrill and almost cartoonish, like the sound of a pig being chased around a farmyard. You froze, confused, your eyes darting around for the source of the noise. And then you saw him.
Severus.
Your stomach plummeted.
He was standing several feet away from you, trembling slightly. His wand had been knocked from his hand and lay several feet behind him in the damp grass. His face—no, his entire head—was unrecognisable.
In place of his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones, his features had morphed grotesquely. His skin was mottled and sagging, and his eyes were comically large and bulging, like a frog’s. His mouth stretched into a wide, drooping line, slurred and drooling at the edges. But worst of all was the sound—every time he opened his mouth, no words came out. Just that hideous, animalistic squealing.
For a moment, you didn’t understand.
Then you saw them.
James and Sirius were several paces away, wands still drawn. Sirius was bent double with laughter, clutching his stomach, while James stood upright, grinning broadly, his eyes alight with the kind of reckless, boyish amusement you had once found so infuriatingly charming.
Your stomach turned.
Severus took a step back, wild-eyed and humiliated, his mutated face flushed with raw, boiling shame. You were already moving toward him, reaching for your wand, your chest tight with anger, when you felt it.
A sudden, powerful whoosh of magic slammed into you.
You heard Lily cry out beside you as the spell hit you both—an obvious bit of collateral damage, careless and incidental. You staggered backward from the force of it, blinking as your vision blurred.
When you wiped at your face with your sleeve, you realised your skin was sticky with a thin, viscous film of potion. It clung to your cheeks and hair, leaving a bitter, chemical taste in your mouth.
You stared down at your hands in shock. The tips of your fingers had turned an unnatural shade of green, the skin puckering slightly as though you’d been submerged in a swamp for hours. You felt your cheeks swell—puffy and numb—and when you glanced at Lily, you saw her frantically scrubbing at her own arms, where iridescent scales were spreading in a glittering patchwork over her skin.
The crowd around you had gone deathly silent. Students were no longer passing by on their way to class. They had stopped. They were watching.
Someone laughed.
It was Sirius.
“Merlin’s balls, Snivelly,” he cackled, doubling over with glee. “I was going for ugly, but you’ve outdone yourself. You look bloody spectacular,”
James snorted beside him, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Tough luck, Sev,” he drawled, wand still loosely in his hand.
You felt a sharp jolt in your chest.
It wasn’t just a prank. It wasn’t just childish rivalry. This was cruel. And what was worse—it was public.
Severus was still staggering slightly, blinking furiously, his enormous, frog-like eyes watery with equal parts rage and humiliation. His shoulders were rigid, his hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. You knew that if he could speak, he would be cursing them with every hex he could think of.
Instead, he just stood there. A grotesque, disfigured spectacle.
Your wand was in your hand before you even realised it.
“Finite!” you barked, voice shaking slightly. The spell lifted from your skin in a thin, shimmering mist. The potion residue vanished, but your cheeks were still slick with it, sticky and warm. You spun on your heel, grabbing Lily’s wrist, helping her clean the remaining scales from her arms. Your hands were trembling slightly, but you forced them steady.
When you turned to Severus, you hesitated. Your hands hovered over him uselessly, unsure how to help. You couldn’t reverse the effects with a simple counter-curse—whatever they’d hit him with was complex, possibly potion-based. You clenched your jaw.
Before you could even speak, you heard James’ voice again.
“Relax, he’ll be fine,” he said breezily, waving a hand as if he were dismissing a particularly dull lesson. His tone was light, almost bored, as though it were all just harmless fun. “We were just—”
“Just?”
Your voice rang out louder than you intended, raw and incredulous.
You rounded on him, wand still clenched in your hand, your chest tight with fury. You were dimly aware of Lily standing stiffly beside you, her fists trembling at her sides. Dorcas and Marlene had appeared somewhere in the crowd, their eyes wide, but you were too focused on James to notice.
“Just what, exactly?” you spat. “Just making him a laughingstock in front of the entire school? Just making sure everyone will talk about this for weeks? Just making sure he’ll remember this every time he walks into a room?”
James blinked, clearly startled by the venom in your voice. For a fleeting moment, you saw something flicker behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or maybe just surprise at the force of your anger.
But before he could speak, Sirius clapped him on the back and let out a sharp, barking laugh.
You turned sharply to Severus. His breathing was shallow and uneven. His wand was still lying several feet away in the grass, but he didn’t move toward it. He didn’t move at all. His hands were still curled into fists, shaking slightly at his sides, but his eyes—now back to normal, though still rimmed with faint red—were fixed on the ground. Refusing to look at anyone. Refusing to let them see.
You felt something cold and leaden settle in your chest.
You turned back to James and Sirius, trembling with rage, but they were already walking away, laughing to themselves. Laughing.
James’ hand was still casually ruffling his hair as they strolled toward the castle steps, as though nothing had happened. As though the entire incident was a meaningless bit of entertainment.
You felt something twist in your chest—sharp, ugly, and unforgiving.
For the first time, you didn’t just find James Potter irritating.
You hated him.
—
The Gryffindor common room was warm and buzzing with the low hum of evening chatter. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a dim, golden glow across the room. Groups of students were scattered in their usual spots—some lounging on the worn, oversized armchairs, others cross-legged on the rug, trading Chocolate Frog cards and talking over the sound of a battered wizarding wireless crackling faintly in the corner.
It was the usual cozy, carefree scene. One you might have found comforting, even, if you weren’t still seething.
You stood near the far wall with Lily, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes sharp and unyielding. You hadn’t spoken since you’d entered the room. Neither had Lily. You hadn’t needed to. The quiet, crackling tension between you was louder than any conversation.
Across the room, James sat on the arm of a squashy red sofa, laughing idly at something Sirius had just said. He had shed his outer robes, lounging comfortably in his shirt and tie. His hair was its usual mess, sticking up wildly in every direction, and he ran his fingers through it as he grinned at whatever nonsense Sirius was spouting. His broomstick was propped lazily against the wall behind him, as though he’d just returned from practice and hadn’t even bothered to put it away.
He was relaxed, comfortable—unbothered.
And that made something in you snap.
You didn’t consciously decide to move. You just did. Your feet carried you across the room with swift, deliberate steps, each one driven by the raw, simmering anger that had been building in your chest since that afternoon. You vaguely heard Lily following behind you, but your eyes were locked on James.
The room was still filled with idle conversation, but it dimmed in your ears, muffled and distant, like everything else had blurred except for the space directly in front of you. You came to a sharp stop right in front of him.
James glanced up, momentarily surprised. His grin wavered slightly when he saw the look on your face—hard and cold, all sharp angles and barely restrained fury.
“Potter.”
The casual, easygoing lightness in his eyes flickered, confused by the way you spat his name. He straightened slightly, his fingers still loosely curled around the arm of the sofa, but his grin hadn’t entirely disappeared.
“Hey,” he greeted, still wearing that maddeningly lopsided smile. “What’s—”
“Don’t.” Your voice was low and firm. Sharp enough to cut.
James’ grin faltered. He blinked, slightly caught off guard. Around you, a few people were starting to glance over. Even Sirius’ voice had dimmed slightly, sensing the shift in your tone.
You stared at James, your chest tight, the words already rising in your throat, burning hot and unchecked.
“You think you’re funny?” you asked flatly, your voice low and cold. “You think you’re charming?” Your lips curled in disgust. “You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.”
The noise in the room dimmed further. Several Gryffindors nearby turned their heads, eyes flickering between you and James. Even Sirius, who had been halfway through a sentence, fell silent, his brow furrowing slightly.
James’ eyes widened faintly at your words. His mouth opened slightly, as though he was about to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance.
“You humiliated Severus today,” you continued, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Publicly. Deliberately.” Your eyes narrowed, and you felt your throat tighten with the force of your own anger. “You hexed me and Lily, and you didn’t even notice.” You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Because we were nothing more than collateral damage to you. Because that’s all anyone is to you—pawns in your pathetic little game.”
James’ lips parted slightly. The easy smirk was gone now. His hazel eyes were wide, blinking slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
But you weren’t done.
“You’re not clever,” you hissed. “You’re not funny. You’re not some tragic, misunderstood hero. You’re just a coward with a wand and too much free time.”
For the first time since you’d known him, James Potter didn’t have a comeback.
He was still staring at you, his face oddly still, but his eyes were tight around the edges, his throat bobbing slightly. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again.
“We’re not your entertainment.” Lily stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. Her green eyes were like shards of glass as she looked at James, and when she spoke, there was no warmth left in her voice.
“Not me,” she said slowly, her tone hard and deliberate. “Not her.” She glanced at you briefly, then turned her gaze back to James. “And certainly not Severus.” She took another step closer, her voice barely above a whisper but thick with restrained fury. “Grow the hell up. You’re not a child anymore.”
You saw James’ throat tighten, saw the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. His hands had slipped from the arm of the sofa, falling loosely into his lap, and he was staring at Lily as though she had physically struck him.
And for once, he didn’t say anything.
No glib remark. No boyish grin. No cocky retort.
Just silence.
Around you, the entire common room was still. All eyes were on the two of you. You could feel the weight of the stares—the sudden, suffocating attention pressing in from all sides. You could feel the tension settle heavily in the room, thick and suffocating, like the whole castle was holding its breath.
You stared at James for a moment longer, daring him to speak, daring him to try and laugh it off. But he didn’t. His eyes were on you, wide and unreadable, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line.
“I hope you have the Christmas you deserve.”
You turned sharply on your heel, the blood roaring in your ears, and without another word, you walked out of the common room. You didn’t glance back, but you heard Lily’s steps following closely behind you.
The heavy wooden door swung shut behind you with a dull, resounding thud.
Neither of you spoke as you walked through the dim, winding corridors. Your breath was still shallow with adrenaline, and your hands were trembling slightly, your fingers curled tightly into fists. You didn’t slow your stride, didn’t glance at Lily, didn’t say a word.
But you didn’t need to.
Because the image of James’ face—stunned and silent, stripped of its usual arrogance—was burned into your memory, a hollow ache had settling in your chest.
Not like it had a few weeks ago. No, this was raw unbridled loathing.
—
James Potter had been hexed more times than he could count. He’d had stinging jinxes blast him off his feet, been thrown into the air by poorly aimed levitation charms, and had more than one duel with Sirius that had left him sore and limping for days.
But none of it—not a single curse or hex—had ever landed with the same sharp, breathless impact as your words in the common room.
He sat there for a long time after you and Lily had left. Long after the crowd had dispersed, after the low hum of conversation returned and people pretended they hadn’t just watched Gryffindor’s most popular pranksters get publicly shredded.
James didn’t say a word.
He was still on the edge of the sofa, his elbows braced against his knees, fingers loosely clasped. His eyes were fixed on the carpet, unmoving.
Sirius, who had initially made a few half-hearted quips about your “overreaction,” gradually fell silent. Even he could sense that something was off. After a while, he clapped James once on the back, muttered something about heading up to the dorm, and left.
Remus, who had watched the entire thing with that unreadable, mildly disapproving expression he sometimes wore, simply gave James a brief look before heading upstairs himself.
Peter, sensing the shift, trailed after them.
And then James was alone.
He wasn’t entirely sure how long he sat there, staring at the fire as it crackled low in the grate. His jaw was tight, his hands stiff, but he couldn’t move. The words kept circling in his head, sharp and unyielding.
You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.
His throat tightened.
He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to people being angry with him. Merlin knew plenty of professors were. McGonagall practically had a permanent glare reserved just for him. Even some of the older students rolled their eyes when they saw him and Sirius sauntering down the corridor, up to no good.
But you—you weren’t supposed to be like that.
James had spent years goading you, teasing you, pulling you into his line of fire because he liked watching you fight back. He liked the way your eyes flashed, the sharpness of your wit, the defiance in your voice. You were clever, quick, and infuriating in all the best ways.
He’d always thought you were fun. Even when you scowled and hexed him, even when you spat insults at him, there had always been a part of him that assumed you were playing along.
Because he had been.
But now, sitting alone in the dying firelight, he realised he’d been wrong.
You weren’t playing. You weren’t rolling your eyes with secret amusement or secretly enjoying the banter. You genuinely, sincerely disliked him. Loathed him, even.
And what was worse—he wasn’t entirely sure he could blame you.
—
After the Christmas holidays, James tried to shake it off. He returned to Quidditch practice, flew longer and harder than usual, pushed himself until his muscles burned.
He let Sirius convince him to pull a few small pranks—nothing serious, just minor jinxes that left a few Slytherins stomping down the hallways in a rage—but none of it worked. None of it pulled his mind from the image of you, glaring at him with cold, unrestrained contempt, your voice shaking with fury.
You were avoiding him.
And it was driving him mad.
It wasn’t as though you had ever sought him out before, but he had gotten used to your presence—used to you rolling your eyes whenever he strolled into the common room, used to the exasperated glances you shot him when he launched into some self-congratulatory Quidditch monologue.
But now, you didn’t even look at him.
You walked past him in the corridor without sparing him a glance. You sat at the opposite end of the common room with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene, your back turned sharply whenever he walked by. When you passed by him on your way to class, you barely acknowledged him, your face hard and impassive.
It was worse than if you had hexed him. Worse than if you had screamed at him.
Because it was deliberate.
He started pulling back without even realising it. His usual attempts to show off—the casually loud mentions of Quidditch practice, the not-so-subtle hair ruffling, the needlessly flashy spellwork—gradually fell away. He stopped making excuses to linger near you, stopped trying to catch your attention with deliberately obnoxious comments.
Instead, he found himself watching you from a distance.
He would glance across the common room at you, quietly studying the way you leaned forward when you were deep in conversation, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Or he would spot you walking ahead of him in the corridor and, for some reason, he would slow his pace slightly, watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear or bit your lip when you were lost in thought.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some sign that you weren’t still furious with him, maybe. Some proof that you didn’t completely hate him.
But he never found it.
—
Meanwhile, things with Severus shifted.
You didn’t notice it at first. It was subtle—the way he started keeping his voice lower in the corridors, the way his eyes flickered warily toward passing Gryffindors when the two of you walked together.
But then he started making excuses.
He began skipping your usual study sessions in the library, claiming he had extra Potions work. You caught him slipping away early from the Great Hall during dinner, retreating to the dungeons alone. You asked him twice to meet you by the lake on Saturday, but he mumbled something about needing to help Slughorn with an experiment and left before you could ask again.
And then one day, you saw him walking across the courtyard. Alone.
You were on your way to class with Lily when you spotted him heading toward the castle. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair falling in front of his face, obscuring the sharp lines of his profile. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and he was walking quickly, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Your first thought was that he must have been hexed again, but then you saw the Marauders loitering by the courtyard steps. James, Sirius, and Peter were laughing about something, but they didn’t even glance in Severus’ direction.
Because they didn’t need to.
Severus was already slipping away on his own. Already making himself small.
Already retreating.
You felt something twist in your chest.
“Hey!” you called out sharply, your voice carrying across the stone courtyard.
Severus slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. His expression was wary, his eyes flickering toward the Gryffindor group before settling on you.
“Wait up,” you said, hurrying toward him.
But instead of waiting, he shook his head slightly and quickened his pace.
“Sev—”
“Just—go with Lily,” he muttered under his breath, not slowing. “I’ll see you later.”
And then he was gone, slipping through the castle doors without looking back.
You stared after him, blinking, your chest tightening with a slow, familiar ache.
Lily placed a hand gently on your arm, her voice quiet. “He’s trying to protect himself,” she said softly. “You know that, right?”
You swallowed hard, but didn’t respond.
You just stared at the castle doors, feeling something cold and bitter settle deep in your chest. Because you did know.
there’s always a few hours where you live in blissful ignorance on your return to hogwarts. it never lasts.
eventual james x fem!reader | 2.7k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | the marauders suck (it won’t last forever dw) and they bully people bc ofc they do, james is so annoying in this
The Hogwarts Express was packed as always, the air thick with the mingling scents of pasties, fresh parchment, and the damp wool of students’ robes.
You had barely set foot on the train before you were dragged into a compartment with Lily, who was already complaining about the boys.
“They’re insufferable,” she huffed, arms crossed. “I saw them at the station, and James was acting like he’d come back from summer with some grand revelation about himself,”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. What is it this time? A new Quidditch move? A newfound respect for the rules?”
Lily snorted. “Worse. He’s taller now,”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said grimly. “And he won’t shut up about it.”
You shrugged. “How bad can it be?”
Lily gave you a look that told you everything you needed to know.
—
By the time you arrived at the castle and made your way into the Great Hall, it became painfully clear that she hadn’t been exaggerating.
James Potter was tall now, and he was making it everyone’s problem.
From the moment he stepped into the hall, he was on a mission. He strode over to the Gryffindor table like a man on a mission, and before Remus could sit down, James was pressing against him shoulder to shoulder. “Oi, Remus, hang on,” he said, a wide grin splitting his face. “Did you shrink over the summer?”
Remus didn’t even look up as he took his seat. “No, James,”
James leaned in, mock serious. “You sure? Because I swear you were at least this tall last term,” He held his hand up next to Remus’s head, shifting it ever so slightly higher than necessary.
Remus sighed and turned to Sirius. “Are we humouring this?”
Sirius, lounging in his seat, smirked. “Absolutely not. Don’t give him the satisfaction,”
James, undeterred, moved on to Peter. “Pete, my good man,” he said cheerfully, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “How’s the weather down there?”
Peter swatted him off. “You’re barely taller than me!”
“But I am taller,” James pointed out, practically buzzing with energy. “And that’s what matters,”
It didn’t take long for his newfound height to become the central theme of his personality. It was as if, over the course of one summer, he had discovered his life’s purpose: to loom over everyone who was even an inch shorter than him and let them know it.
And it wasn’t just his own friends he tormented. No, James was equal opportunity about it.
Throughout the first week, you saw him standing next to anyone and everyone, sizing them up with exaggerated curiosity. “Ah,” he would announce, stepping back and rubbing his chin as if making a great discovery. “Short. Tragic,”
Some people laughed. Others rolled their eyes. A few, like Severus, scowled and stalked away, though that only seemed to amuse James more.
Sirius, Remus, and Peter suffered the worst of it.
“You know this is just going to encourage him, right?” Remus muttered after Sirius nearly punched James for his latest “short people” joke.
“I don’t care,” Sirius growled, rubbing his temples. “I’ll break his stupid tall nose,”
James, now leaning casually against the Gryffindor table, grinned. “Merlin, it must be so hard being so small,”
Sirius lunged, and James yelped, dodging behind Remus. “James, I swear—”
“—that you’ll thank me one day when you realise you were standing next to greatness this whole time?” James finished smoothly, winking.
Peter groaned. “I hate this. I hate this so much,”
“It’s been five days,” Remus muttered. “How much longer can this possibly last?”
As if to answer that question, James caught sight of you across the room. His eyes lit up.
Uh-oh.
“Ah, excellent,” he said, striding over with purpose. “I haven’t tested my theory yet,”
Your fork was halfway to your mouth. You lowered it slowly. “What theory?”
“The one where you are also, tragically, shorter than me,”
Lily, sitting next to you, let out a long sigh and rubbed her temples.
You stared at James. “Potter, you just had to run from Sirius. Do you really want to start this with me?”
James beamed with all the brightness of the sun. “Absolutely,”
You glanced at Lily, who was already shaking her head.
Then, with all the calmness in the world, you turned back to James and said, “Would you like to be short again?”
James frowned. “What?”
Before he could react, you flicked your wand under the table and whispered a spell so quietly it was almost imperceptible.
James didn’t even have time to register what had happened before his calf seized up violently. His smug expression flickered—then his leg gave out entirely.
With an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, he keeled over.
A few heads turned. Sirius, seeing his friend crumpled on the floor, burst out laughing. “What the hell was that?”
James, groaning, pushed himself up onto his elbows. “My leg,”
Lily stifled a snicker. “What a tragedy,”
You speared a piece of roasted potato with your fork. “Hm. Not so tall now, are you?”
James glared up at you. “That was rude,”
“Was it?” you asked innocently. “I thought it was a very appropriate reaction.”
Sirius practically howled with laughter.
James groaned again, flopping dramatically onto his back. “This is bullying,”
Lily leaned down with a smug smile. “Welcome to our world, Potter,”
—
After the Great Height Incident—as Sirius had started calling it—James seemed to learn precisely one lesson: messing with you and Lily was fun. Unfortunately, that meant you, Lily, and Severus were now prime targets for the boys’ endless shenanigans.
It started subtly at first. You’d be in the library, peacefully reviewing your notes, and suddenly James would happen to walk by, stretching extravagantly. “Merlin, I keep forgetting how much taller I am than everyone now,” he’d say loudly, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
Sirius would nod solemnly beside him. “It’s tragic, really,”
Peter would sigh dramatically. “So difficult being so much better than everyone else,”
And then Remus, without even looking up from his book, would mutter, “You lot are insufferable,”
But that was only the beginning.
Soon enough, they were showing up everywhere. You, Lily, and Severus had your usual study spot under the large bay window in the library—a quiet, peaceful place where you could actually focus. Or at least, it used to be.
Now, the second you pulled out your books, the four troublemakers of Gryffindor would materialise.
“Alright, what’s on the syllabus today?” James asked one afternoon, plopping himself unceremoniously onto the bench across from you.
You sighed, not looking up from your parchment. “Potter. Go away.”
Sirius slid into the seat beside him. “That’s no way to talk to your study buddies,”
“You’re not our study buddies,” Lily said, exasperated.
James gasped, clutching his chest. “Evans, I’m hurt. You wound me.”
“I can fix that,” Severus muttered, reaching for his wand.
Remus—who, unlike the other three, had actual academic aspirations—had the decency to look somewhat guilty as he pulled up a chair. “I do actually need to study, but, er… I doubt they’ll leave if I don’t come with them,”
“Correct,” Sirius confirmed cheerfully.
You narrowed your eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
Sirius grinned. “Very much,”
They didn’t even pretend to study. James spent ten minutes balancing his quill on the tip of his nose. Sirius kept tossing sugar quills into Peter’s open mouth. Peter missed all of them. And Remus, bless him, tried to read, but his attempts were constantly interrupted by James tapping his shoulder every three minutes just to point out glaringly obvious things around the room.
By the time Lily slammed her book shut in frustration, you were about two seconds away from hexing the whole lot of them. “Honestly, can’t you go bother someone else?” she snapped.
James grinned. “Why would we, when you’re so fun to annoy?”
Severus shot him a glare so venomous it could’ve melted through stone. “You have a death wish.”
Sirius leaned back lazily, propping his feet up on the table. “Nah, we just have excellent taste in entertainment,”
You turned to Remus, the only reasonable one. “Can you control them?”
Remus sighed, rubbing his temple. “No,”
Lily groaned. “This is unbearable.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” James said. “We’re simply enriching your academic experience,”
“I will enrich you straight into the hospital wing,” you muttered.
Sirius cackled. “See? Fun.”
And just like that, your peaceful study sessions were gone.
—
It started, as most things did with James and Sirius, with boredom.
You were vaguely aware of their antics throughout the day—whispered conversations in the corridors, Sirius elbowing James in the ribs while the two of them barely suppressed their grins, Remus sighing deeply whenever they entered a room. The usual signs that something stupid was about to happen.
You just didn’t expect it to happen to Bertram Aubrey.
No one really knew why James and Sirius chose him. Maybe he’d said something mildly irritating in class. Maybe he’d taken the last good seat in the common room. Maybe he’d simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever the case, Bertram became their next victim.
And unfortunately for him, James and Sirius had decided to test a rather bold hex.
It happened in the courtyard between classes. One moment, Bertram was minding his own business, chatting with a group of Ravenclaws. The next, James had flicked his wand and muttered, Engorgio Skullus!
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then Bertram’s head swelled.
Like a balloon.
A very large balloon.
His eyes widened—quite literally—his glasses stretching to accommodate his rapidly expanding skull. A strangled, horrified yelp escaped him as his head reached twice its original size. His expression twisted somewhere between panic and outrage as the entire courtyard exploded into laughter.
“Oh Merlin,” Peter wheezed, clutching his stomach.
Remus dragged a hand down his face despite being the one who supplied the two with the spell in the first place. “I am not involved in this,”
James, barely holding back his own laughter, clapped Sirius on the back. “Brilliant work,”
Sirius gave an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you,”
Bertram, meanwhile, was screeching. “What have you done?!”
The laughter quickly turned into a scramble for safety as a very large-headed, very furious Bertram Aubrey came charging after James and Sirius.
James yelped. “Run!”
The two of them bolted, Bertram lumbering after them with the grace of an enraged troll. His head made it impossible for him to move properly—his balance was completely thrown off, his steps uneven, his weight shifting dangerously every time he turned a corner.
They didn’t make it far before a thunderous voice rang out across the courtyard.
“Potter! Black! Don’t even think about turning that corner.”
The laughter immediately died.
McGonagall had arrived.
By the time you heard about it, James and Sirius had already been sentenced to double detention.
You were sitting at dinner when the news broke, passed down through whispers and amused glances. James and Sirius trudged into the Great Hall, both looking exceedingly pleased with themselves despite the fact that James’s left hand was now stained entirely black from whatever punishment they’d been assigned.
You sighed, shaking your head as they collapsed onto the bench across from you. “What did you think was going to happen?”
Sirius smirked. “We were hoping for more running time, honestly,”
James flexed his ink-stained fingers with a dramatic wince. “But worth it,”
Lily scoffed. “You permanently traumatised Bertram Aubrey, and for what?”
James grinned. “For science,”
“For chaos,” Remus corrected, still looking exhausted from association alone.
You snorted despite yourself. “You deserve whatever detention McGonagall gave you.”
James shrugged. “Maybe. But admit it—you wish you’d seen it.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.
—
A sensible person might have learned their lesson by now.
James Potter, however, was not a sensible person.
It had been a few days since the Aubrey Incident, and though James and Sirius were still suffering through their detentions, neither of them seemed particularly remorseful*.* If anything, they were emboldened*.*
Which was why, despite multiple warnings, despite physical evidence that you were very capable of hexing him, James still thought it was a good idea to try the height joke again.
You were in the common room, comfortably curled up with a book, minding your own business. Lily was beside you, finishing up an essay, while Sirius lounged on the floor, flipping a stolen Chocolate Frog card between his fingers.
James, fresh from another detention and looking far too smug for someone who had just spent two hours scrubbing cauldrons, sauntered in and immediately made a beeline for you.
“Oh, excellent,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite short person,”
You didn’t even glance up. “Potter.”
“Just thought I’d remind you how tragically small you are,” he said, grinning as he loomed over you. “Must be so difficult, looking up at greatness all the time.”
Lily sighed. Sirius smirked.
You, still not looking up from your book, flicked your wand.
There was a sharp crack!—and then a very loud yelp*.*
James immediately stumbled, nearly toppling over as his knee buckled under him. He barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the couch, eyes wide. “Oi!”
Sirius howled with laughter.
“James,” he gasped between laughs, “I swear—you’re going to get hexed every single time you pull that.”
James groaned, rubbing his leg. “That was just plain mean,”
“You deserved it,” Lily said primly, dipping her quill into her inkpot.
James shot her an indignant look, then turned back to you. “You didn’t even look at me!”
You turned a page. “Didn’t have to,”
Sirius collapsed against the couch, still cackling. “Oh, that was beautiful,”
James sighed dramatically, dropping onto the floor beside him. “Still worth it,” he grumbled.
You hummed. “If you say so,”
He stretched his leg out with a wince. “I do,”
Sirius elbowed him. “Tell me, oh mighty tall one, how’s the view from down there?”
James groaned, flopping onto his back. “I hate you,”
Lily snorted. “You should hate yourself.”
James just sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “One day,” he muttered, “you’ll all see how truly tall I am.”
“Not if tour leg cramps permanently,” you replied absently.
Sirius grinned. “Brilliant. I can’t wait for next time,”
it’s your first year at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and aside from an initial minor setback, you’re settling in well.
eventual james x fem!reader | 2.7k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
a/n | caved and started writing that james project i was talking about, it’s gonna be seven parts (one for each year) with varying lengths, actually so looking forward to writing it
The platform is alive with noise and movement—students hugging their families goodbye, owls hooting from their cages, and the occasional burst of sparks from overenthusiastic wand-wavers.
You weave your way through the crowd, dragging your trunk behind you, and step onto the Hogwarts Express. The air inside is thick with chatter, compartments packed with first-years buzzing with excitement and older students catching up after the summer.
Finding a seat proves harder than expected. Nearly every compartment is full, and the ones that aren’t seem to have formed their own unspoken cliques already.
Eventually, you spot one that isn’t completely crammed—just four boys, sprawled across the seats, deep in conversation. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding open the door.
“Mind if I sit here?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
The boys glance at you, then at each other. One of them—messy dark hair, glasses—leans back slightly, clearly considering. Another, with neat brown hair and a slightly more polite expression, opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can, the smallest of the group pipes up.
“Sorry, no room,” he says quickly.
You blink. There is room. Not loads, but definitely enough for one more. You glance at the seats again, then back at them, raising an eyebrow. They don’t budge. The dark-haired one with the glasses smirks slightly, as if waiting for you to argue.
You don’t bother. Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “Right. Fine,” and slide the door shut with a little more force than necessary.
Typical. First day and already off to a bad start.
Frustrated, you push on down the corridor, peering into compartments as you go. Most are even fuller than before, but finally, you spot a tiny sliver of space in one near the end of the carriage.
There’s a girl with vivid red hair sitting by the window, her nose buried in a thick textbook. The other seats are taken, but there’s just enough room to squeeze in if no one minds.
You knock lightly before sliding the door open. “Alright if I sit here?”
The red-haired girl looks up, blinking as if pulled from deep concentration. She takes in the full compartment, then shifts slightly to make room. “Yeah, go on,” she says, giving you a small smile.
Grateful, you heave your trunk into the overhead rack and drop into the seat beside her. For a moment, neither of you speak—she’s still absorbed in her book, and you take the chance to glance at the title. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
“Bit of light reading?” you say, nodding at it.
She grins. “Something like that. Just wanted to get a head start,”
“Lucky you,” you reply. “I’ve barely even looked at mine,”
The girl laughs, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I was just curious, really. I’ve been trying some of the wand movements at home, but obviously, nothing happens. My sister—“ She hesitates for half a second before continuing. “She’s not a witch, so she thinks I look ridiculous waving my wand around at empty air,”
You nod. “At least you’ve got the motions down. I still feel like I’m going to snap mine in half by accident,”
She laughs again. “Yeah, I keep checking mine’s still in one piece. I practised holding it so much over the summer I thought I’d wear it out before term even started,”
You smile, settling into your seat. Talking to her already feels easier than trying to force your way into a conversation with anyone else on the train. “So, are you Muggle-born, then?”
She nods. “Yeah. I only found out about all this last year, and it still feels… strange, I guess? But exciting. I just hope I don’t mess everything up,”
“You probably won’t. And if you do, at least you’ll have company. I reckon half the first-years are going to end up turning teapots into frogs by accident or something,”
Lily grins. “At least that would be impressive. I’m more worried about setting something on fire,”
“You and me both,” you say.
The train continues rattling along the tracks, the countryside rolling past the window in a blur of green. The chatter in the compartment swells and fades as conversations shift, but you and Lily keep talking.
It’s mostly about Hogwarts—what subjects you’re most excited for, which house you think you’ll end up in, whether the moving staircases are real or just a myth.
“I don’t really mind which house I’m in,” Lily says after a while, tapping her fingers idly on the cover of her book. “They all sound interesting in different ways,”
You nod. “Yeah. I just hope I don’t end up somewhere awful. Imagine getting stuck in the one house where everyone’s horrible,”
Lily wrinkles her nose. “That’d be the worst,” She pauses. “Do you have family that went to Hogwarts?”
“Yeah, a few,” you admit. “They keep telling me it’ll be the best years of my life, which is a lot of pressure, honestly,”
She grins. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,”
Before long, the train begins to slow, and the hum of conversation shifts as people start shuffling into their robes.
The compartment is suddenly full of movement—trunks being pulled down, nervous chatter about the Sorting Ceremony, the occasional lost toad being retrieved from beneath seats. You and Lily exchange a glance, the weight of what’s coming finally sinking in.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Not even slightly,” you admit.
She laughs. “Same. But I suppose it’s too late to turn back now,”
The train pulls to a stop, and the doors slide open. The night air is cool as you step onto the platform, taking in the towering figure of a man calling for first-years to follow him. The castle looms in the distance, its windows glowing against the dark sky.
Whatever happens next, it’s officially begun.
—
The excitement of arriving at Hogwarts is quickly overshadowed by the nerve-wracking experience of the Sorting Ceremony.
The Great Hall is a blur of candlelight, floating above the four long tables where the older students are already seated. The air is thick with anticipation, and the chatter of the first-years falls to a nervous hush. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflects the sky outside, dark and starry.
As the ceremony begins, one by one, students step forward to place the Sorting Hat on their heads.
You watch each person ahead of you, some eager, others visibly trembling. The Hat mutters something as it’s placed on their heads, then announces their house with a flourish.
Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—the names echo in the hall, each one met with cheers and applause from the appropriate table.
Finally, the moment arrives. Your name is called, and your heart skips a beat. You make your way down the aisle, the eyes of hundreds of students on you, each of them silently judging or sizing you up.
You climb the steps to the platform, trying to ignore the way your knees feel like jelly. The Sorting Hat is waiting for you, perched on a stool.
You sit down, and it is placed gently on your head. The cool fabric brushes against your forehead, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then the Hat speaks, its voice low and murmuring in your ear.
“Ah, I see... courage, certainly. And a desire to prove yourself... but a touch of caution too. You’re not afraid of a challenge, though, are you? I can sense a bit of ambition lurking in there, just under the surface...”
The Hat seems to deliberate, shifting slightly as it considers you. You can feel it probing your thoughts, weighing the choices. It’s as though your very soul is being laid bare, and the pressure of it almost makes you want to squirm.
“Hmm, yes... definitely brave, but with a clever streak. Yes, yes, I know where you belong...”
Please just say it already, you think desperately, trying to steady your breath.
The Sorting Hat finally calls out, “Gryffindor!”
Relief washes over you, and the sudden, overwhelming weight of your nerves lifts. You stand, giving a small smile to the cheers from the Gryffindor table. You know, deep down, that it was the right choice for you. The bravery, the will to stand up for what’s right—it makes sense.
But as you make your way to the table, your eyes flicker over to the group of four boys who had claimed there was no room for you on the train. They’re already sitting together, grinning broadly, clapping each other on the back as they welcome the new arrivals.
You catch their eyes as you sit down, and for a moment, they stare at you like they’re half-sure they’ve seen you before. Then one of them, the one with messy black hair and glasses, smirks and gives a half-hearted wave.
Great. Just my luck.
You roll your eyes, disgruntlement tugging at the corners of your mouth until you’re frowning. The boys are all in Gryffindor too. Of course they are.
The rest of the Sorting Ceremony passes in a blur. You hear the names of other students being called, but your focus is pulled back to the group as they laugh and joke amongst themselves.
Despite your earlier annoyance, you feel a twinge of curiosity about them. You wonder if they’ll always be this rowdy, or if it’s just first-year excitement.
Lily, sitting beside you, is grinning. “Well, we’re in the same house,” she says, nudging you lightly. “At least we’ll be able to stick together,”
You nod, feeling your earlier annoyance about the boys from the train fade. It’s not like you have much choice, anyway. But then again, it’s not the worst thing. Maybe there are worse things than being surrounded by a bunch of rowdy Gryffindors.
When the Sorting is finally over, the Headmaster stands, his voice booming through the hall. “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Before we begin the feast, a few words—“ But the rest of his speech is drowned out by the mouthwatering smells of the food that suddenly appears on the tables.
The chatter picks up again, the tension from the Sorting easing as everyone eagerly grabs at their plates.
You’re too busy eyeing the vast spread of food before you to hear much of the rest of the speech, but you’re vaguely aware of the boys throwing a few half-hearted jests around the table, already in full swing.
—
The rest of your first year at Hogwarts passes in a blur, the excitement of arrival quickly replaced by the everyday hustle and bustle of student life.
At first, it’s overwhelming—everywhere you turn, something is new, something is strange. The moving staircases seem to change direction just when you think you know where you’re going, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall never stops being fascinating, no matter how many times you see it.
It takes time to get used to the constant hum of magic in the air, the eerie whispers of ghosts, and the strange ticking of clocks that seem to come from nowhere. And don’t even get started on the sheer number of subjects you have to juggle.
In the beginning, it feels like every lesson is a battle—Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration lessons are a challenge, with all the wand flicking and concentration required, and you can’t seem to make heads or tails of the theory behind Charms. But slowly, everything starts to fall into place. You manage to keep up, and your confidence grows.
Friendships begin to form naturally. Your dorm mates, Marlene and Dorcas (along with Lily), are both easy to get along with, though they couldn’t be more different.
Marlene is loud, confident, and a bit of a daredevil, always getting you into minor trouble when she dares you to climb a tree in the middle of the night or sneak a peek into the Forbidden Forest.
Dorcas, on the other hand, is quieter and more thoughtful. She’s often seen with a book in hand, but she has an infectious laugh and a dry wit that makes you feel at ease around her. Both are easy to talk to, and by the end of the first few weeks, you all fall into a comfortable rhythm.
Your room, though small, is cozy. There’s a large window that overlooks the grounds, and at night, when the stars are visible, it’s easy to feel like you’re part of something bigger. You and Marlene have become particularly close, while Dorcas is often found deep in conversation with Lily, especially when the two of them start discussing spells and charms that they’ve been experimenting with.
The common room becomes a safe space for study sessions, late-night gossip, and the occasional nap.
Unfortunately, you also become all too familiar with the Gryffindor boys. You can’t seem to escape them—whether it’s Sirius Black’s voice echoing through the corridors as he cracks jokes, or James Potter’s comments about other students that walk by, they’re everywhere.
While they’re certainly fun to watch, and you do start to find their antics amusing in the end, you can’t shake the feeling that they’re never really serious about anything.
It’s in your first Potions lesson that you meet Severus Snape.
Professor Slughorn, who is strangely enthusiastic about everything, divides the class into groups of three, and you, Lily, and Severus end up paired together.
At first glance, Severus is a bit odd—he’s quiet, almost brooding, and his sharp, pale face seems like it belongs to someone much older. He doesn’t seem to mind being in the same group as you and Lily, but he also doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, muttering under his breath as he carefully measures ingredients.
But despite his aloofness, you find that you get along decently well. He’s not rude, just... reserved, and he’s clearly very good at Potions. When you and Lily struggle to get the potion just right, he offers a quiet suggestion or two, and the two of you exchange surprised looks when it works.
“You’re good at this,” you remark as the potion finally takes on the proper colour, a soft greenish hue that bubbles gently.
He looks at you, his dark eyes almost piercing. “I’ve been brewing since I was a kid,”
Lily glances up from her cauldron. “Really? That’s cool,”
He doesn’t answer her question directly but gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I don’t have much else to do,” His tone is distant, and you sense there’s more to the answer, but you don’t press.
Despite his oddities, there’s something in Severus you can relate to—perhaps it’s the feeling of being an outsider, the awkwardness of trying to fit in while everyone else seems so confident. Still, you can’t help but feel that there’s a lot more lurking beneath the surface, and you find yourself wondering what makes him tick.
After that first Potions lesson, you, Lily, and Severus share a few more classes together—though it’s not like you’re all best friends. Severus stays to himself for the most part, but he’s never openly hostile, and you find that you can work together when needed. He has a strange intensity about him, but for the most part, you leave it at that.
As the year goes on, you find that your time at Hogwarts isn’t quite as eventful as you might have imagined. There are no dramatic moments, no life-changing revelations—just the slow, steady pace of school life. Yet, in a way, that’s comforting. There’s a certain rhythm to everything.
Hogwarts, for now, is just Hogwarts—a school that now served as your new home.
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chris absolutely fucking loves when you sit on his face, he fantasizes about it every second of the day. you could be past your fifth orgasm and he’d still want more.
your thighs bracket his face as he shoves his tongue deep into your throbbing pussy. his nose teases your clit every time he adjusts his position and it feels like heaven.
“fffuck, chris,” you moan, one hand holding onto the headboard of the bed, and the other fisted in chan’s soft curls.
your eyes rolled back and you let out a broken moan at the feeling of his tongue stretching you open.
“hah, ssso c-close!”
the coil in your tummy tightened and your hips bucked as you came all over chan’s face. he moaned in return and flattened his tongue to scoop up your cum.
your thighs trembled as he kept abusing your poor overstimulated clit. his tongue teased your puffy folds, and he chuckled at your whimpers and whines.
“t-too much, hnggh—“ you whined, trying to get off of him, but his hands kept you down.
synopsis ᜊ‧₊˚ each members fav position to have you in :p
wc ᜊ‧₊˚ 859
warnings ᜊ‧₊˚ SMUT, piv, slight mention of choking, spanking, hair pulling, jeongin is a lil mean? not much tho/slight exhibitionist
a/n ᜊ‧₊˚ sigh i wanna do more posts like these i love them
chan : missionary or mating press
we BEEN knowing this. he loves to see how good he’s making you feel, watching your face contort in pleasure as he holds your legs up on his shoulders, hitting new depths. sometimes if he’s feeling bold he’ll reach down and wrap a hand around your throat GRRRR.
“fuck baby, look at how well you’re taking me,” his hand reaching down to rub circles on your clit, “such a drooling pretty mess for me.”
lee know: doggy
ass UP face DOWN. if you were particularly bratty that day, it gives him free access to your ass and omg he takes advantage of that (you’re getting spanked !) gives him completely control of the pace and position and LORDDDD he teases you so much knowing that.
a swift hand came down on your ass cheek, a pretty pink mark already forming as he gripped your hair in his other hand, yanking your head up. “yea you like that honey?” he hissed in your ear, “‘s what you get for being a brat all day”
changbin : up against a wall or reverse cowgirl
when he needs you he needs you NEOW. most of the time when it’s up against a wall, he won’t even wait until you two are fully unclothed. his pants and boxers pooling around his ankles and your pants pulled down and panties pulled to the side, and if he’s extra horny, he’ll lift up your shirt to stare at your boobs. when he’s less needy and more patient, he LOVES to have you ride him. but it’s gotta be reverse, obviously he loves to stare at your tits but it’s just smth about watching your ass bounce on him gets him painfully hard.
“baby sshh..gotta keep it quiet if you don’t want the neighbors to hear us” he shushed, knowing damn well with how fast he was fucking you that that would impossible, and might even leave a hole in the wall!!
hyunjin: spooning
something about the perfect curve of your waist or the easy access to your boobs he has from his position behind you, but it just gets him going! he’ll even be so generous to help hold your leg up for you when you get too fucked dumb to hold it up yourself! he loves gripping your thighs while pounding into you, resting his chin on your shoulder as he stares at you with pure love in his eyes.
the sound of skin slapping filled the room as his grip on your leg tightened, “you going dumb on my dick muse? hm?” he taunted as his thrusts picked up speed.
han: praying mantis
he loves just being close to you!! pressing his cheek up against your extended leg as his thrusts get sloppy cause he feels soooo good. loves the stability of it too cause let’s be honest he gets stupid in that pussy! gives him perfect view of your fucked out cunt and how perfectly he fills you up.
“baby!” his whines grow louder and more desperate, drool dripping off his tongue as he stares down at how wet you are, god you’re dripping around his cock! he presses kisses against your leg as he whispers about how good it feels.
felix: 69
he’s all about making sure yall are getting the same amount of pleasure and what’s easier then doing it at the same time! he loves being SMOTHERED in your pussy omg suffocate him. his arms will wrap around your hips making sure you don’t squirm too far. but above all, the sound of you gagging on his cock gets not only him rock hard, but leaves you dripping in his mouth!
he couldn’t even speak, not when his mouth was full of your cunt, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. his mouth wrapped around your clit, sucking gently as he felt your mouth take him deeper. he pulled away for a second, letting out little whimpers, “fuck baby just like that, choke on my dick”
seungmin: lotus
idk man i just feel like he likes to hold u and just be kinda close. unpopular opinion maybe but i feel like he’s the least freaked out of the members so just being close to his partner during such an intimate time is important to him and what could be more close then being all tangled together??
“i know honey it feels so good doesn’t it?” he mumbled against your lips as he grinds into you deeper, hitting all the right spots.
jeongin: bent over anything
he’s a needy man when it comes to you so ANYTIME ANYWHERE ON ANY SURFACE. bent over the counter, the bed, the hood of his car?? he doesn’t care he’s impatient and wants your pussy NOW. you didn’t hear this from me but he loves the potential thrill of being caught GASP.
his thrusts came in hard, leaving you gasping and drooling for air as you scrambled to find anything on the counter to hold onto. “you like that huh? you like that anyone can walk in and see me pounding you on the counter? of course you do.”
