#kingsley shacklebolt

[At Disneyland on the teacup ride]

Remus, Molly and Kingsley: *spinning calmly, enjoying their ride in peace*

Sirius, Arthur and Tonks:*flying past them, spinning as fast as they can, screaming*

Thank you for 400 followers! You guys always make day a little better!

Kingsley: Remus just flooed, he hasn’t seen Dolohov yet

Fred: Then what is he doing in London?

Sirius: One would hope my cousin…

Kingsley Shaklebolt seems to have it all together – he’s the right hand of two governments, smooth and clean and competent, leaving no room for questions or arguments. His documents are flawless, and no one in his considerable network of connections has a thing to say against him.

Anyone would think that he takes the work home – entertains in some Sacred Twenty Eight country home of decadence and splendor, serving port on silver trays beneath vaulted ceilings. He’s got the money, after all.

What really happens when Kingsley gets home to his considerable four-story London house in Warwick Square, inherited from his titled great-uncle, is not half so interesting. In fact, the house is hardly touched most nights. He lives only on the first floor, in the two rooms he uses as a bedroom and an office. Neither are kept exceptionally clean, but they’re comfortable and lived in. His infrequent guests sit in the living room he mostly uses for the Floo. He’s alone, and likes it that way. It gives him the energy for his daily performances at work.

The second, third, and fourth floors have under-charged tenants, usually students and young families. He likes knowing the space is being used. He smiles if they pass him on their way, and is quite forgiving as a landlord, but otherwise they stay out of each other’s lives. 

The only tenant who ever made Kingsley change his routine was Nymphadora Tonks, whose two year stint in his top flat gave the house its loudest, most fun, and latest nights in its history.

greyeyedmonster-18:

1% inspiration, 99% perspiration

or: Remus Lupin and the Terrible Dirty Talk

(this is what i started learning to write smut for. i have the longest standing headcanon that james potter, as charming and sunshiney as he was, would be terrible at dirty talk. i am nervous, i am a baby deer in the woods yet again as i release this second endeavor into smut territory. please be kind <3)

about 4k.

—

Remus sat on his best friend’s couch, awkwardly slouched so he could put his forehead on the armrest as he only half-listened to Sirius in the kitchen talking to his six-month-old baby in French. Preparing some kind of bottle while Remus nursed a hangover and a fractured psyche after the events of last night. The tea Sirius had made him was sitting on the end table, steam wafting in the air around him, but Remus couldn’t be bothered to move to just yet, replaying scenes over in his mind, trying to remember where it when right and where it had completely taken a turn.

“Oi, put that on a coaster, I’m not about to get rings on my table,” Sirius said, walking into the room, and Remus picked his head up to squint at Sirius, his glasses forgotten at James’s flat. Forgotten because he had seen enough; forgotten because it gave him an excuse to go back to James’s bedroom in the event he wasn’t invited back again. Sirius was holding baby Teddy in his arms, cloth over his shoulder, dark curls thrown up into a ponytail with a pink scrunchie, “You look absolutely pathetic.”

Remusfelt pathetic. Somehow more sleep deprived and strung-out then his best friend who had an infant, who had just transitioned into a crib and wasn’t having it.

Remus groaned, and sat up, picking up his cup of tea and holding it in his hand, “Call it method acting.”

“I’ll continue to call it pathetic. James is a terrible date then? Bad luck.”

“I didn’t say that,” Remus said carefully.

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