remus lupin x reader imagines

dote & disconnection

from archiveofourown user kabeswaters

The signs were brutally obvious: your heart felt as though it was unceremoniously tripping down a staircase every time you saw him; no thought could be emerged from your brain that didn't have to do with his long, long fingertips or casual smirk; every time he said your name it was a prayer that caused flowers to grow from the base of your stomach, tickling your rib cage and creating a fluttering sensation inside of your torso.

But you had done your homework, dutifully, for three weeks time. One week for each boy. James was first, with his curly hair and defined cheekbones, his talentless grace and tactless empathy. He cared so deeply molten lava in the core of the Earth could not compare to the depth, so deeply he didn't know what to do with himself. He hugged you, listened to you, clumsily gave you advice about homework and feelings and insecurities. But his good intentions were often circled with the wrong words said at the wrong times to the wrong person. Week one's result: there was no love between you and James Potter.

Week two's study was Sirius Black. The boy with hair to match his name but a life approach which countered it aggressively. He was a broken shard of glass: rough around the edges yet completely translucent. Beautiful. Sinful. Sultry. But the firewhiskey that coursed through his veins- there was no way he was filled with something as ordinary as blood- calmed when he held you close, brushing your hair out of your face and tears out of your eyes. He made you laugh so hard and feel so safe, you thought you were over exaggerating your feelings for his best friend. But the week ended, and there was no spark to his touch. Just a home, a hearth.

You were most doubtful when entering week three. Fear was an hourly occurrence. You couldn't love either of them, but for separate reasons. As far as it went for Peter, you couldn't love him in the way that ended in moonlit undressing or soulful confessing because he was your skeleton. He was the part of your skin that was toughest to bruise and quickest to heal. Peter was that silent voice inside of your mind that reminded you of your self-worth, your beauty, your amazing-ness. You went to him when times were the toughest, when words would not even come out but you needed a body next to yours to remind you of flowers and sunshine and dogs and of life. You knew you weren't in love with Peter before you asked yourself if you were.

And so the weeks came to a close, uneasiness settling inside of your chest. Because of course, out of all of your friends, you had to fall for the one you were the closest to.

You were deeply, madly, stupidly, irretrievably in love with Remus John Lupin.

You didn't know when it started, but once it did, it didn't stop. But you knew how it began; simple actions, like the brushing of forearms or the lingering of the gaze, felt different. Felt intentional. Felt like come closer and never leave. Suddenly, it was impossible to be with Remus in the same way you used to be. Casualness was stripped from the narrative entirely and replaced with constant over-thinking about why he'd touch you there like that in front of others and dear God did it mean something? Please, let it mean something. Your relationship with Remus became strained in response, as the only solution you could find was keeping as physically far away from him as possible. And nothing destroyed you more. Because Remus' laugh was the thing that kept your heart beating, his snarky comments reminded you that people are so full-bodied in character, his small gestures of kindness made you realize what life was worth living for. How could you survive without the person that gave your breathing purpose? The simple answer: you weren't.

Of course the boys noticed. That's what five years of friendship does. Sirius asked what was wrong when you appeared in class with unbrushed hair, black-rimmed eyes, and an emotionless stare for an entire week. No response. James asked when he realized you were taking your usual portion onto your plate at dinner, but none managed to actually get consumed. No response. Peter didn't ask; rather, he found you alone one night, laying in the common room looking at nothing in particular, and simply laid his hand on top of yours. No response.