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(harry potter x reader)

your laughs echoed through the walls and you were sure you’d have multiple noise complaints from your dorm neighbours trying to sleep by the morning, but right now, you really couldn’t care less.

you and harry were having one of your sleepovers, they happened even more frequent now that you were together, and not ‘just friends’. he’d come to your dorm most of the time, you’d pick a film, raid the kitchen and use all the blankets you could find in your room to cuddle into together.

he’d only moved his hand across your waist slightly, it wasn’t even intentional, but you jolted anyway, and it sure caught your boyfriends attention.

“are you alright love?” he asked you, angling his head downward a little to see you better.

“m’fine, sorry i dunno what happened..” you answered him, tilting your head up a bit.

but once again, his hand which was resting across your waist, moved, just a little bit, as he was readjusting his position, and you flinched, a noise close to a squeak barley leaving your mouth.

he stopped, but then although you couldn’t see it, a smirk made its way onto his face.

suppressing a laugh he nonchalantly started playing with the hem of your sweater, your eyes still on the screen watching the movie, he moved his hand up so it was resting on your waist underneath the sweater, lightly massaging the area, relaxing you, until-

a loud laugh left your lips and your wriggled around, you looked like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and shocked looking up at harry.

he had a wide smile, “y’alright there honey?” he chuckled.

“don’t you dare harold- i mean it, y’know i hate tickles” he does know that, you’ve told him multiple times before when he’s done the same thing, does he care? no.

he just starts tickling that one spot on your stomach that makes you shriek and keeps on going.

harry was grinning like a madman, laughs escaping his lips almost as much as yours, you were jerking all over the place, giggle shouts filled with pleas to escape the torture of his tickles.

once again i am in love with this man

Even on your Worst Days (tasm!PeterParker x Reader)

Summary: Maybe you were imagining things, but the hugs you gave Peter each night seemed to be getting longer. His hands seemed to linger on your waist, sometimes inching ever so slightly lower. Tonight, his lips had brushed the top of your head.

You told yourself it was nothing but gratitude. Nothing but the circumstance of two single people sharing 500 square feet.

Words: 3.9k

A/N: cursing, eviction, money problems; friends to roommates to lovers; making out; implied one-night stand; non-graphic/implied masturbation & nudity; canon-typical blood and injury; mentions of food & alcohol; no one knows how to talk about their feelings; idiots in love; fem!reader

Day One

You stood outside Peter’s apartment, confused. You were fairly certain this was his apartment, the one you’d been visiting for the past two years that was perpetually messy and never quite fully stocked with groceries. This was the apartment where you and Peter marathoned Lord of the Rings—extended editions—on New Year’s Day. It was where there was a large dark spot on the countertop from the time Peter had accidentally set down a pan from right inside the oven onto the laminate and it was where you had collected most of the hoodies that made up the majority of your wardrobe, courtesy of Peter’s closet. So, unless you’d somehow walked into an alternate universe, this was definitely Peter’s apartment.

Because of this, the glaring yellow eviction notice taped to the door made your stomach churn.

Then you noticed the padlock, which had been attached to the door and subsequently broken, and you sighed, pushing open the door and stepping into the dark apartment. It was despairingly empty and the sight made your breath catch in your throat.

“I’m the bedroom,” Peter’s voice called out from the tiny room at the back of the unit. You wondered how long it had been since his Spidey-senses picked up on you contemplating his front door, though you supposed it wasn’t his door anymore.

You crept into the bedroom, the one where you’d fallen asleep too many times to count, waiting for Spider-Man to return from patrol and turn into your best friend again. Peter was there, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest.

You’d seen him beaten and bruised and bloody. But you’d never seen him look so broken before.

“What happened, Pete?” you asked, sinking down to the floor beside him.

Peter chuckled darkly. “It’s been a bad day.”

“Seems like it would take more than one bad day to end up at this,” you said quietly, gesturing helplessly around the empty room. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Day Four

You were always up early on Saturdays, your internal clock not quite able to break the habit that your cell phone alarm had ingrained into you over the course of the weekdays.

Rolling out of bed, you stretched and curled your toes into the warm carpet on your bedroom floor. There was sleep clinging to your lashes and you rubbed it away as you slipped into a sweatshirt and yoga shorts, debating if you wanted to force yourself to go on a run or take a bubble bath.

You opened your bedroom door, careful to stop it just before the hinges creaked in protest as they always did, and stood in the frame for a long moment, looking out into the living room.

Peter was asleep on your couch, his hair rumpled and his lips slightly parted. It had taken a lot of convincing and cajoling to get him to agree to stay with you, but you were glad for it because none of his other options were quite so bright and for as much as he didn’t want to worry you, he didn’t want to worry May even more.

You watched as Peter shifted in his sleep, his fingers flexing around the pillow he’d managed to salvage before all his stuff landed in the alleyway behind his old place.

In that moment you decided that neither a run nor a bubble bath would have your attention that morning. No, you were going to make pancakes. Blueberry, because they were Peter’s favourite.

Day Nine

You saw Mrs. Barton, the elderly woman who lived down the hall, in the mailroom that morning. You’d always been friendly with her, watching her cats when she went to visit her daughter and happily accepting the cookies she brought by your apartment when she was baking.

But today she stopped you as you flipped through junk mail and bills and the latest issue of National Geographic.

“Sweetie,” she cooed, “I met that dear boyfriend of yours yesterday. He was so nice, held the elevator for me and…”

“My b—?” You began to interrupt, but Mrs. Barton was not in the least deterred.

“And so handsome dear, good for you.” She patted your shoulder and gave you a little wink and then she was gone before you could correct her. There was a small part of you that felt a thrill, that liked the idea of Peter being mistaken for your boyfriend.

Day Twelve

Peter snapped a photo of you while you were reading. You looked up at the sound of the shutter clicking and raised an eyebrow. You’d long since grown used to the candid photos, but that didn’t stop you from teasing Peter about them.

“More material for my sp—” he began to deliver his usual response but you threw your book at him. He, of course, caught it deftly.

“Don’t you dare say it,” you said darkly. Peter laughed and tossed the book back at you.

Day Sixteen

“BOO!”

“Fucking hell!” You screamed, arms pushed out in front of you, hitting at your invisible attacker in the darkness. You heard Peter laughing uncontrollably and you groped for the light switch, flipping it on to see him doubled over in amusement.

“What the hell is wrong with you Parker?”

“You should have seen your face, Y/N,” Peter gasped, a look of mock horror written on his features as he tried his best to imitate you.

“We can’t all see in the dark,” you sassed, flicking him in the side of the head.

“I know,” he grinned devilishly, rubbing where your finger had nicked him, “One of the many perks of being me.”

Day Twenty-Four

Peter made you dinner that night. It had been a long day at work and the case you were putting together for your boss, to take down a known drug dealer targeting teenagers, was looking grimmer each day. You hated knowing that someone who had done something horrible would walk because they knew how to play the system, how to find guys to take the fall. You hated it so much, the injustice of it all.

“It’s not much,” Peter said as he brought two plates of spaghetti to the sofa, “But I made it with love.”

“Gross,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out at him playfully. Peter rolled his eyes and reached over to mess up your hair.

“Don’t lie,” he grinned, giving you a cheeky wink, “My love makes everything better.”

You nodded absently and when Peter asked what was wrong you unloaded, letting all your frustration out. He listened, quietly, intently.

Day Twenty-Five

The law firm was abuzz the next morning when you entered with your latte and your nose cold from the crisp air.

“Did you hear what happened?” Martin, the other clerk working on this case with you, asked. You shook your head and he shoved a newspaper in your face.

There, on the front page, was the bad man you’d told Peter about last night. Except he was all webbed up to the side of a building, evidence of his crimes splayed on the ground before him.

“Our Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man really came through,” Martin laughed at your expression, mistaking your wonder for disbelief instead of gratitude.

“He sure did,” you whispered, folding up the paper and tucking it into your bag.

Day Thirty

Peter had started to leave Post-It notes around the apartment, each with a terrible pun scrawled across it in his messy hand.

You found one stuck to the jar of peanut butter as you were making lunch.

I heard a rumour about peanut butter but I’d rather not spread it.

You smiled, eyes rolling as you put the jar back in the cupboard, Post-It still attached.

Day Thirty-Three

Maybe you were imagining things, but the hugs you gave Peter each night before you went into your bedroom, leaving him on the sofa, seemed to be getting longer.

His hands seemed to linger on your waist, sometimes inching ever so slightly lower.

Tonight, his lips had brushed the top of your head.

You told yourself it was nothing but gratitude. Nothing but the circumstance of two single people sharing 500 square feet.

You told yourself all of that even as your hands dipped below the sheets, as your fingers dipped below the elastic waist of your underwear.

In the living room, Peter pretended not to hear the sharp increase of your heart rate, the quiet hitch in your breath. He covered his head with his pillow and pretended not to wish it were his fingers making you writhe on your sheets.

Day Thirty-Four

Breakfast was awkward. Peter wouldn’t meet your eye, so you knew he’d heard you last night.

Fucking hell, you berated yourself, of course he did! He has super-human hearing.

You were so preoccupied in your own thoughts you missed the way Peter looked at you across the table, his tongue running absently over his lips.

Day Thirty-Nine

A loud crash on the fire escape made you drop the glass of wine you were about to indulge in and you cursed loudly, heart thundering in your chest as the glass shattered and white wine splashed up onto your legs.

Another curse escaped your lips as you stepped on a shard of broken glass, stumbling and hopping to the bedroom with blood gushing from your foot.

Peter was there, half in and half out of the window, his mask off and his hands shaking. His nose was bloody and his lip was split and he looked like he got the living shit beat out of him. Suddenly, the shard of glass impaled in your foot didn’t seem so bad.

When he was fully in the window, you could see that he'd been shot, grazed by a bullet on his left arm. It made you choke on a sob as you limped to the bathroom together, leaning on each other.

You helped him out of his suit and into the shower, the steam filling the room as you stripped down to your underwear and crawled into the shower beside him, both your backs against the cool ceramic tiles. Your blood mingled with his as it swirled down the drain.

When all was said and done you hugged him, kissed the top of his head.

“What are you doing?” he asked weakly, a strained smirk on his face.

“Being affectionate,” you whispered, still fighting back tears.

“Oh god,” Peter chuckled, but his grip around your waist tightened. “Then I must be dying.”

“Don’t joke,” you said softly. You shook your head and led him to your bed, despite his protests, tucking him in. And you fully intended to go back to the kitchen, to clean up the broken glass and then crash on the couch but Peter pulled you down and put his arm around you and then you were falling asleep next to your—your best friend, right?

Day Forty

It was a one-time thing.

Peter waking up and running a thumb over your cheek. You needily drawing yourself closer to him.

Peter kissing you, once, tentatively before taking your hooded eyes and bitten lip as an invitation to continue hungrily kissing your lips and jaw.

It was a one-time thing.

Breaking apart for air as Peter’s hands slipped up your camisole and your hands slipped down his pants.

It was a sloppy, short-lived one-time thing, interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door.

Mrs. Barton had made more cookies and was dropping them off. Peter answered the door and from your spot on the bed, trying to steady your heartbeat as you straightened your shirt, you heard her tut softly. “You look flushed, dear, are you running a fever?”

Day Forty-Three

“I was thinking we could get dinner sometime.”

You were midway through a conversation with Martin when the suggestion fell from his lips.

You took a minute to survey him, his lean frame and well-trimmed beard, his bright blue eyes and aquiline nose. He was handsome, smart, friendly, everything you’d ever imagined in a boyfriend. But he wasn’t—no. You stopped that thought before it had a chance to fully form.

“Oh, uh, yeah, cool! Let’s do that.”

Martin smiled at your accepting his offer and prattled on about the details, though you were only half-listening.

When you got home that evening, Peter was sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs back and forth. Queen’s greatest hits was playing on the living room speakers and Peter had a pad of paper on his lap, scribbling away furiously. He looked up as you walked in and tossed the pad aside.

“I’m thinking of adding eggs to our ramen tonight,” Peter laughed, “Spice things up a little bit.”

You looked at him, at this boy who was a frenetic ball of energy, whose hands tapped along the kitchen counter, whose head bobbed as he spoke and whose eyes searched your face, forehead creasing when he noticed your expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied, too quickly. Peter frowned, jumping from the counter and stepping closer to you, fingers poised to tickle. You shot him a warning glare and he wiggled his fingers impertinently, undeterred.

“It’s nothing, I promise,” you repeated, “I just need some air. I think eggs in the ramen sound great.”

You went out onto the fire escape and pulled out your phone, texting Martin: hey! something came up. can we do dinner another time?

You had no intention of there ever being another time but you’d never been one to dole out rejection head on.

Your screen lit up just a moment later and you read the incoming text: no problem, hope you’re okay! txt/call if you need anything

You gritted your teeth. What you needed, no one could provide except yourself. Some backbone, some courage, some absolute recklessness. You needed to tell Peter how you feel, but you also needed to not lose your best friend.

Day Fifty

“They cut my stipend.” Peter closed the door with more force than necessary, the framed art on the wall rattling slightly.

From your spot on the couch, your shoulders squared, mouth creasing into a deep frown. “What? They can’t do that!”

“They can. They did.” Peter let his messenger bag fall to the floor and stood completely still for a long moment, his hands clenched into tight fists. You wanted to scream, to stomp down to the university and smack some sense into the grants officer. Peter was doing good work, brilliant work—how could they?

You stood, hurrying to Peter’s side and wrapping your arms around him. He remained stiff in your hug and you frowned, wishing you could take all his sorrow away.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” you whispered, wanting him to fold into you, to lean on you. But he remained hard and distant until you let him go.

That night, when Peter returned from patrol—when Spider-Man crawled through your window—there were tears in his suit and you could see the dark scarlet stains of blood across his abdomen.

Again, you were on your feet in a moment, the routine of bringing him to the bathroom to be washed and patched up well-rehearsed by now.

“You can’t throw yourself around just because you had a bad day,” you said once you’d settled Peter into your bed, where he’d been spending the night more and more frequently. You were a little miffed at his carelessness and let it come through in your tone. Peter scoffed.

“It’s more than a bad day, Y/N!” He threw his arms up in frustration, hissing when the action irritated one of his wounds. After a pause, he continued, voice deflated. “I’m tired of feeling like a burden.”

“You’ll never be a burden, Peter. Not to me.”

He kissed you once on the lips, hard and passionate, pent up and frustrated. You sat, somewhat shocked, as he turned away and pulled the blankets up over his head.

Day Fifty-Eight

“I’m sorry about last night.”

When you woke up, eyes bleary, the first thing you saw was Peter’s face, his gaze soft and focused on you. His hand came up to run over your arm gently. You wondered if he was talking about his reckless behaviour or his kissing you.

“Don’t worry about it, Pete,” you said quietly, stifling a yawn. “How are you feeling?”

“Spider-Man can keep taking punches and get back up so I guess I can too.”

You smiled, knowing that was Peter’s way of telling you he’d be just fine.

Day Sixty-Six

You were seeing less of Peter since he’d picked up a new research position to make up for the cuts to his main funding. He looked tired when you did see him, dark circles growing under his eyes.

He started sleeping on the couch again, and you took this to mean that whatever might have been happening between the two of you was dead in the water.

You knew it was a shitty thing to do, but you texted Martin about dinner.

Day Sixty-Eight

Peter was eating Cheerios from the box when you walked in wearing the same clothes he’d seen you in yesterday. He gave you an appraising look and you shrugged, slightly embarrassed at having been caught.

No words were exchanged, though if you’d had a Spidey-sense, you might have heard the uptick in Peter’s pulse, seen the twitch of the vein in his neck, smelled the ooze of protectiveness that clung to his skin.

But, as you walked to the bathroom to shower, you noticed nothing, not even Peter’s darkened eyes boring a hole into your retreating figure.

Day Seventy

“I'm going to see a place tomorrow,” Peter said as you came out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel and wearing his plaid pyjama bottoms beneath your oversized NASA t-shirt.

He looked so happy and even though you could feel your heart sinking, you smiled. But Peter was a good actor and you were none the wiser.

“That’s awesome, Pete!”

“Want to come with me? See if it gets the Y/N stamp of approval?”

No, no, no.

“Yeah, for sure! I’ve got nothing but laundry to do tomorrow so please save me from that fresh hell.”

Day Seventy-One

On the subway ride back to your place, you felt like you’d been sucked into a dark tunnel of uncertainty. Beside you, Peter was prattling on about the apartment he’d taken you to see, his leg bouncing excitedly as he spoke. “I like it! Think I’ll sign the lease. Call the agent when we get back home.”

Your heart lurched at his use of the word home. Because he was right—home was no longer just your apartment. It was that space filled with him, with his citrus and cinnamon scent and his loud laugh and his snarky comments and his dedication to doing laundry because he knew you hated it and his moments of accidentally staring at you and falling asleep together and waking up together and—

“It seemed dark. And cold.” You spoke quietly, a soft shrug in your shoulders.

“You didn’t like it?” Peter asked.

You shook your head. “No. No I didn’t.”

Day Seventy-Four

“That’s the tenth apartment, Y/N!” Peter was exasperated as you both took the elevator back up to the apartment you’d come to think of as his as much as yours.

“I just don’t like them,” you said cooly, “I can’t explain it.”

“I think you can,” Peter said accusingly, arms crossing over his chest. “I think this isn’t about the apartments and it’s about…”

His voice trailed off and your eyes narrowed at him. “About what, Peter?”

He rolled his shoulders, tense and ready to spring, his tongue darting out to roll over his top teeth. Then you were pinned against the glass siding of the elevator, Peter’s arms on either side of your head and his knee wedging itself between your legs. His lips were an inch from yours and you sucked in a terse breath.

“Don’t,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure what you were telling him not to do. Don’t kiss me? Don’t make me fall even more in love with you? Don’t leave me?

The ding of the elevator, the hiss of its doors opening, tore Peter away from you.

Back inside your apartment, you retreated to the bedroom. You heard the front door open and close and Peter was gone, though you weren’t sure where.

Day Seventy-Five

You were buried in paperwork, files strewn across your desk, when your cell phone sounded with that special ding reserved entirely for texts from Peter. You slipped the device from the pocket of your pants and lit up the screen.

Come down to the lobby? :) ;)

You were on your feet in a moment, wondering why Peter was visiting you at work. Sure, he met you for lunch some days, but it was only 10 in the morning. A coil of fear loosed itself in your stomach. What if he found a place? What if he’s moving out?

When you got down to the first floor of your office building, you immediately noticed Peter, not because he was the only person not dressed in a suit, but because of the comically large teddy bear he was holding. You couldn’t help but to laugh as your feet carried you toward him.

“Do I even want to ask?”

Peter grinned, reaching out an arm as you neared and snaking it around your waist. “I could have gone with flowers, but this makes more of a statement.”

“Oh?” you arched an eyebrow at him, not pulling away from the way he held you although people were starting to look. “A statement about what?”

“That I’m beary sorry I’ve been a roommate of the worst koal-ity and it’s been grizzly having to put up with me.”

“Dear god,” you giggled, “That was paws-itively unbearable.”

Peter laughed and, if possible, pulled you closer. His lips found the shell of your ear and pressed a soft kiss there. “I mean it, Y/N. My feelings for you have been all kinds of messy and I just—”

“Pete,” you cut him off, pressing a hand into his chest and curling your fingers into the hoodie he was wearing, “You were right though. That it’s not about the apartments. I, uh, I like living with you.”

“Even though I snore louder than you?”

You rolled your eyes, but nodded. “I like being with you, Peter.”

Day Eighty

You woke up to lips brushing against your cheek, a thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. As your eyes fluttered open, you saw Peter opposite you in bed, chest bare and hair rumpled from sleep. It was like deja vu, except this time you knew you’d be seeing the same thing over and over and over, for years to come.

“Good morning, roomie,” Peter grinned, kissing your forehead, where your brow furrowed.

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

“It depends,” he winked, “I could go with ladybug for a bit. And maybe one day I’ll change it up to wifey. But for now…”

“Shut up,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around Peter’s neck and pulling him close, pressing your lips to his.

Roomie, you thought, smiling into the kiss. Had it ever really been that simple?

Taglist: not added yet because Tumblr hates me. I wanted to post this even though my blog is broken/shadowbanned/something so whatever. If anyone manages to read it, I hope you love it. I'll reblog it later once this shit is solved & tag all you amazing friends.

will forever be astonished & made better by the kindness of friends

boggart (remus lupin x reader)

summary: in which (y/n)’s biggest fear is exposed to everyone in class and remus is the one to comfort her.

warnings: mentions of finding a corpse (briefly mentioned) and loss of a sibling.

“Knock it off, Pads,” (Y/N) whispered under her breath, making sure to keep her voice low as to not interrupt the Professor.

Sirius sighed annoyingly and she pinched him on the side— making him hiss in pain —when he tried to tug at her hair again.

He was bored and had resorted to bothering her as a source of entertainment. Usually, he would’ve messed around with James, but he was too busy drooling over Evans to give Sirius any piece of mind.

“The spell on itself isn’t difficult,” the Professor explained, pacing in front of the class. They all stood in a circle around him, trying to catch a glimpse of what laid within the wooden chest behind him. “You must pronounce the following incantation ‘Riddikulus’.” He waited for the class to repeat the spell before continuing, “The difficulty lies within the creature you’re trying to defeat, a Boggart.”

Hushed whispers raised around the room.

They’d done research on this creature two weeks ago (one essay of 2 feet of parchment) and by the looks of it, that being the movement of the wooden chest, they were going to get the opportunity to actually stand before one.

Sirius tried to reach for (Y/N)’s hair once more but she caught his hand and turned to glare at him.

“I will hex you into oblivion, Black.”

She’d used his last name. Sirius knew better than to get on her nerves so he retreated, raising his hands in defeat and pouting.

Remus, who’d been watching them from the corner of his eye, chuckled at the exchange.

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