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thekinslayed · 1 year ago

Text

Sweet, Wonderful You

summary | Aemond finds himself pleased with his new wife.

pairing | newlywed aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), semi-public, spanking, hot hot sex, arranged marriage, fingering, Aemond Has Feelings, lots of fluff and marital bliss <3

wordcount | 5.6k

note | if i had a penny for every time Aemond was up to no good in a tent, i'd only have two pennies, but it's weird that it’s happened twice!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

(divider by @zaldritzosrose)

There was a slight rattle upon the earth when the hunting party returned with a thunderous arrival. Cheers and applause greeted the group of a hundred or so men, composed of noble lords, young squires, and knights to keep them all guarded in the woods. The hounds raced with the horses, barking at their feet. They had returned successfully after a full day and a half of hunting the prized stag, having departed a night before the rest of the royal party.

Among the cluster, three heads of silver hair held a stark contrast from the rest. They rode straight to the center of the camp, stopping just before the royal tents. You stood with the Queen and your good sister, Helaena, who held a green little creature in her palm. Your fingers were wrung together anxiously as the princes dismounted their horses. One by one, Prince Aegon and Prince Daeron handed off their horses to the keepers, before coming over to greet their family, followed by your new husband, the one-eyed Prince Aemond.

The King’s second son spotted you almost immediately upon returning to camp, keeping his good eye on you until he beckoned his horse to a halt. As he walked over, you felt a warm tinge in your cheeks when his good eye raked over your form. Your husband extended a hand to you when he was close enough, to which you hastily removed your glove to place your smaller palm in his. He dipped his head to press a kiss to your knuckles, greeting you, “Dear wife.”

“Well done, my prince. I was told of your great skills in hunting the stag,” you praised him. Behind his tall figure, you can see the beast being dragged away, blood staining the better half of its neck. You can feel the stares of onlookers around you, no doubt wanting to catch a glimpse of the newlyweds together. Your husband merely hummed, offering you a quip of a smile.

"I was lucky, nothing more," Aemond said with a little bit of humility. The queen urged everyone to head inside the warm tent as the breeze began to lap at your faces with a sharp chill, the day slowly starting to dim. The prince took your hand and placed it on his elbow, turning his head to examine the dress you wore. It was a dark red, embellished with dragons of black thread, completed with a black underskirt and a dark fur trim along its neckline. A true Targaryen garment, paired with black fur-lined gloves your husband had given you before he left for the hunt.

"Thank you for coming to greet me, my lady. You look lovely," he complimented, making you blush. It wasn’t often the prince would unleash compliments so openly, and in the short period you have been together, you had been bestowed mostly with formal and terse praises, this was a first. You ran a hand down your skirts shyly, happy to find your husband pleased with your attire.

“Do you like it? It was a gift from Dragonstone. Your sister had written of her regret of not being able to come to the celebrations. Her being with child had prevented her from traveling, it seems,” you informed him. From your touch on his elbow, you feel your husband tense up. This immediately wiped the smile off your face, glancing up at him in slight worry of what you had said something to gain this reaction. His good eye blinked before his lips pursed, letting out another low hum.

“Half-sister.”

“W-what?”

“Rhaenyra, she is my half-sister,” Aemond corrected. You all but blanched at the return of his cold and distant tone, mentally kicking yourself for having forgotten the strife between King Viserys’ children. You didn’t miss the way when he mentioned her name, almost jeering.

“Right, of course,” you chuckled awkwardly, before caressing his bicep with your other hand. Your husband led you into the tent, greeted by lords and ladies alike, who uttered praises of the pair of you making such a handsome couple. ‘Good fortune shall come to this union!’ and ‘Your marriage shall ever be fruitful!’ they praised, and you thanked them graciously with a smile. Aemond let you entertain your guests, who had traveled from all over the Seven Kingdoms to witness the marriage of the royal prince and his lady.

Somehow, you managed to make your way to where the Queen sat with her father, the Lord Hand. They bore satisfied smiles on their faces, and you approached them with your husband, an equally bright smile on your features.

“This has been the most splendid affair! The gods have been kind,” Alicent said, visibly pleased. Aemond expressed his word of thanks to his mother, before exchanging a courteous nod with his grandfather.

“Yes, they have,” you spoke softly, turning your head to look at your dragon prince. “They’ve kept my husband out of harm’s way, for that I am glad.”

Otto held a satisfied smile on his face at your words, pleased with having orchestrated this union. It was by his doing that your father had been called to court to sit on the King’s council, and with the highly revered lord’s arrival to the Red Keep, he brought with him his only daughter, seven and ten years of age. You had been given the role of a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena, joining the handful of other royal ladies that accompanied the princess.

Aemond always knew he would marry for duty. To whom, he knew naught, up until he heard of you. It was determined that you shall be wed to the prince upon the endorsement from Otto Hightower to the King, though your father had asked for the marriage to happen after you turned eight and ten. Aemond had caught glimpses of you with Helaena and her ladies, but had never sought you out himself. He wasn’t one to meddle with his sister’s activities with her group, with their singing, sewing, and all of their giggling, but the few times he had seen you he thought you the most handsome out of all of them. A shy little thing you were, never boisterous or commanding. The princess often asked you to be her sole companion most days, when she had grown tired of being surrounded by different voices and faces. Helaena had expressed her delight after learning of your and Aemond’s nuptials, happy to see her favorite lady and her favorite brother together.

He was pleased with this union, to say the least. You were quite the beauty, graceful, and well-equipped with the knowledge of history and philosophy, as well as the talent for playing the harp. He considered himself lucky not to be stuck with a woman he would not agree with in ego, like a Lannister. As meek as you were, you still possessed wit, but of an unassuming kind. The prince courted you for 4 moons, gracing your days with his presence as he accompanied you on walks through the royal gardens, sat with you in the library while you both read, and visited you in Helaena’s chambers when the rest of her ladies were dismissed. On your nameday, he had gifted you with an exquisite set of jewelry, a pair of earrings and a necklace of sapphire. He took quite an interest in you, despite his usual stoic expressions. Aemond was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and as much as he tried to ignore it, to be graced by the sight of you became a part of his days, and dreams of you filled his nights. However, despite all the time you had spent together, it was difficult to move past the formalities, especially with your interactions being heavily chaperoned and coupled with your timidness around the prince and Aemond's stiff demeanor. It turned out that Aemond's mastery of history and philosophy failed to equip him with the expertise of courting a woman.

Much to his dismay, the prince felt he had barely scratched the surface of you after four moons, but he considered it no matter, for he had a lifetime to explore your every facet.

One thing he did learn, however, was how you turned flustered so easily at his words, and how he reveled in making a beautiful woman blush.

On the night of your nuptials, Aemond had seen a shift in your usual doe-like eyes to something lush. The prince was grateful for having been granted his request to forego the bedding ceremony. You had made such pretty sounds for him, from the moment he sucked his first mark on your neck, to when your plush bosom was exposed to the dark room, up to when he stretched you out on his fingers, and ultimately, his cock. To have shared this moment with the debauched eyes of the others would be a great disgrace, and Aemond felt prideful of having witnessed such a reaction in his new wife. He saw a heady tinge glaze over your eyes when you had first spilled on his fingers, your confidence growing as you dug your nails into his shoulders while he thrust his hips into your weeping cunny.

The morning after, his lady wife greeted him with a bashful smile, sweet as always. The evidence of your consummation merely existed in the marks on your neck and the blood-stained sheet discarded on the floor. On your second night, you had offered yourself to your husband, despite the terrible ache in between your thighs, but Aemond graciously declined, not wanting to have his wife too sore on the royal hunt that was to follow.

As the night went on and the nobility began to disperse from the royal tent to retire to their accommodation, Aemond found himself in his own pavilion, thinking about you. For the sake of propriety, you had been placed in a separate tent from your husband. He had bathed himself clean from the muck that clung to his pale skin, and changed into his night clothes to retire after almost two days of rigorous hunting. However, in the warmth from the small fire in his tent, Aemond felt a strange twinge in his chest. He felt the need to see you, perhaps even share the bed for the night. Aemond thought himself ridiculous, especially with the slight air of formality that still lingered between the two of you, but was a pull he felt, an odd need to be around you. And in the dead of night, the one-eyed prince, in all his formality and adherence to standards, let his feet guide him out of his tent to make the small walk towards yours.

Your handmaiden was brushing your hair after helping you change into your nightgown when you heard a low voice through the tarp of your accommodation. You recognize it as your husband’s, and you had bid him to enter without hesitation. The maidservant made quick work to finish brushing your hair, before leaving with a bow when Aemond had entered. You turned to your prince, rising from your seat to greet him with a soft smile. The surprise on your face was evident, not expecting him to seek you out so late in a somewhat public environment. Perhaps he had a matter to discuss, one that could not wait until the morn.

Gods, was it about the dress?

“Is something the matter, lord husband?” you asked him. In the dim flicker of light from the small fire you had requested in your tent, Aemond’s good eye ran over the swell of your breasts, accentuated by the shadows. The prince cleared his throat, crossing his hands on his lower back.

“Should there be a matter at hand for me to see my wife?” he asked rhetorically. You blushed, flustered for having asked such a question.

“Of course not,” you chuckled sheepishly, before approaching to hold him by the elbows, beckoning him to the fire. “Come.”

Your husband walked around the tent, studying the arrangements made for your accommodation. You walked over to the makeshift vanity they had provided, rubbing some oil into the ends of your hair to finish your nightly routine.

“You were treated well in my absence, I hope?” Aemond spoke up. You turned to find him settled on the edge of your cot, leaning his weight on his palm.

“Oh, yes. Everyone has been kind... though quite curious I must say,” you answered, wiping away the residue on your fingers. Aemond raised an eyebrow at your words.

“About?”

You bit the inside of your cheek at his question, recalling the incessant prodding of the ladies of the court to learn more of how your husband has been thus far. You tried to answer the queries to the best of your abilities, though avoiding indulging too much in your husband’s private matters. That proved to be quite difficult, because the questions they asked the most were about his abilities in the marriage bed.

“About us. H-how our first night was and the like,” you stammered. You had no intent to lie to your husband, especially not so early in your marriage, but it still flustered you to discuss such matters. The corner of your husband’s lips quirked up in a smirk, and his eyebrow stayed raised as he continued to question you about the court’s inquisitiveness.

“And? What did you tell them?” He urged. Your fingers fiddled with the fringes of your robe, an anxious habit. You bit your lip while your cheeks turned pink, your mind struggling to find the words.

“I told them it was quite… satisfactory,” you admitted, to which your husband responded with a hum.

“Satisfactory?”

“Well, I couldn’t really say much with your mother listening close by!” You all but squeaked, earning a low chuckle from the prince. He nodded his head slightly, satisfied with your answer. He rose from the cot, walking over to where you stood. Your head tilted up slightly as Aemond loomed over you, his good eye darkened to a dark amethyst from the lack of illumination in the tent. His smirk never fell, amused with how quickly you had grown flustered.

“And what did you really think about our first night, princess? Was it indeed satisfactory?” He asked. Your eyes tore away from him, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. They shifted around the room warily, focusing on anything but his piercing gaze, before giving him a meek nod. Two of his fingers lifted your chin back up to look at him, and he tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrow to silently urge you to use your words. By your sides, your hands curled the fabric into your tight fists.

“Y-yes… more than that,” you admitted, warmth spreading all over your face up to the tip of your ears. Aemond merely hummed, his good eye raking over your features in thought.

To say your wedding night was satisfactory was a great understatement. As a girl, you had been taught whatever happened in the marriage bed was to be done under the grace of the Seven and with the utmost delicacy, it was your duty after all. To indulge in anything else would be a sin, and my, what a sweet sin it was. Your lord husband had managed to spurn sounds from you that you had never heard from your own lips. You had never been so overcome with such fire, such pulsing desire. He had touched you in ways that would have your Septa gasp in horror.

You had expected pain and a husband who would only do so much to get himself to spill his seed in your womb, yet there was little of that. Prince Aemond may not be the image of a romantic prince from the fairytales of your girlhood, but he had shown you a fire only a dragon can possess. He was as prolific of a lover as he was a scholar, and for a moment you had wondered how many women he had touched, licked, and sucked the way he did with you in order to become such a master in this art, though it mattered little. You were his woman now, and he was welcome to devour you however he liked.

Your husband prepared you for what felt like hours, scissoring his deft fingers in your sweet cunt, his lips sucked on the stiff buds of your breast relentlessly, up until you were covered with a sheen of sweat before he finally took hold of your thighs and split you open with his cock.

He made you a quivering mess that night, spilling on his fingers and his cock beautifully. You were in awe at your own body’s response to his touch, your mind grew hazy the further you lost yourself in the throes of pleasure. When you had returned to your senses, he had wiped you clean and threw the furs over your naked body.

After having been exposed to him in the intimate enclosure of your marital chambers, you had wished to be kept in your new husband's embrace when you slept, but cordiality soon returned between the two of you. It was almost as if the events that had just passed were merely a dream, a fleeting expulsion of desire, and the night ended with you and Aemond lying on separate sides of the mattress.

The morning after, the quivering ache of your thighs served as a keepsake of your wedding night, and as much as you struggled to walk through the halls of the Keep, you found yourself craving more. On your second night, you had offered yourself to your prince, in hopes of being consumed by such fire again. To your dismay, your husband had refused, mostly because he watched you walk around with a slight limp all day and didn’t wish to put you in a further state of discomfort. On the third night, with Aemond having already departed for the hunt, you laid alone in your marital chambers, left to thoughts of your dragon prince.

Now, on your fourth night, your husband stood before you, his thumb caressing the plump flesh of your bottom lip. From his proximity, you could see how his pupil began to dilate, black threatening to overtake purple.

“Are you still sore?” He asked in a low whisper. You shook your head lightly, careful not to shake off his grip, before whispering a soft ‘no’. With your words, his good eye flickered to meet your gaze for a second, before returning to your mouth. His head dipped down, capturing your lips in a kiss. You sighed, secretly in relief, at the feeling of his mouth upon yours once again. You let him guide you, following his pace as his tongue dipped into your cavern. The kiss was gentle, but getting your fill after going without his caress for two days made you breathless almost instantly.

The both of you pulled away, and Aemond was tantalized at the sight of you. There it was, the change in your gaze. A look akin to hunger glazed over your orbs, and a flush ran across your cheek to the tip of your nose, your pink lips glistened with spit. He descended his lips onto your neck, replacing the fading marks on your neck with new ones. A soft whimper left you when your prince sucked on a spot that almost had your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You softly caressed the back of his head, feeling the silky strands of silver under your fingertips.

Decency nagged in the back of your head, reminding you that despite the privacy provided by the pavilion, the thin tarp would do little to conceal any sound that would indicate to the guests your activities.

“Aemond…” you breathed out. Your husband hummed against your skin, the vibrations of his voice shooting down straight to your core. “S-should we be doing this here?”

Aemond lifted his head, pressing his forehead against yours. You closed your eyes as the warmth he exuded engulfed your entire being. “I do not see why not. We are alone, dear wife.”

“People will hear,” you reasoned. Your eyes opened to find him looking at you with an impish smirk, a sight so roguish in contrast to the formal prince you once knew.

“Let them hear. Why don’t we let them all know how diligent we are in doing our duty, hm?” He said, pulling away from you. You let him walk you backward, sitting on the edge of the cot when the back of your knees hit the wooden frame. Aemond bent to recapture your lips, his hand wandering down to cup your clothed breast. With frantic hands, you untied the robe covering your nightgown, shrugging it off to discard it off to the side. You had donned more modest apparel compared to the one you wore on your wedding night, sleeves much longer than the frail straps of the nightgown he had first seen you in. Still, the cotton was almost sheer, and the dark rings of your nipples were visible even in the dim light.

Next, you pulled Aemond’s tunic from his breeches, helping him pull off the garment. When he bent down to kiss you once more, your hands slithered to the back of his head. Your fingertips toyed with the clasp holding his eyepatch in place with the intention of taking the leather off, but his hand quickly covered yours, halting its ministrations.

“No,” was all he said. Aemond straightened back to his full height, looking down at you from the tip of his aquiline nose. You visibly gulped at the commanding aura that seemed to surround him, making you feel submissive, completely pliant to his will. Your thighs squeezed together to soothe the ache in your throbbing core, watching his long fingers untie the laces of his breeches. Before you were granted the sight of his long, beautiful cock, he grabbed either side of your waist to urge you to lie on your stomach. Your dragon grabbed a pillow, placing it underneath your abdomen to prop your hips up. Your heart thumped in anticipation, and your breath hitched in your throat when you felt the cool air kiss your rear when he lifted the hem of your nightgown. His large, calloused hands took hold of either cheek, spreading and squeezing the supple flesh of your rear. In between, your cunny started to glisten, tears of arousal dripping from your slit.

A gasp left your lips when you feel his tongue swipe a hot strip down your opening, hearing him groan as he tasted your essence. He bestowed more licks to your cunt soon after, dipping into your slit to test. You pressed your face into the sheets in an attempt to muffle your whines, but in suppressing your responses, your hips started to squirm restlessly the more his tongue prodded at you. A squeal, one a little too loud to your liking, escaped you when your husband’s hand smacked your rear.

“Stay still,” he ordered, before diving back into your sweet cunt. You fisted the sheets in your hands, biting your lips hard when Aemond began fucking you with his tongue. The hot, wet muscle breached your walls deep in this position, much deeper than the first time. Breathless moans fell from your lips at the sensation of his mouth on your cunt, the act so utterly sinful and debauched. To your knowledge, you had never heard of any husband doing such a thing to his wife, more often than not hearing of the wife doing it to her husband instead. You silently thanked the gods for having bestowed you a husband unlike the others, a prince who took pleasure in giving you yours.

A particularly loud moan filled the space when two of your husband’s fingers replaced his tongue, preparing you for his cock. Aemond stood back tall, his purple eye trained on the way your cunny swallowed his fingers, and the imprint of his hand that started to redden on your arse. You subtly moved your hips back to meet his hand, desperate for more.

“My, look at you, dear wife. I always thought you were a prim little thing, but here you are, fucking yourself on my fingers, moaning like some common whore,” he remarked. You whined at his words, embarrassment creeping up your spine, though you cared little, not when your lustful cravings for your husband clouded your mind. You craned your head to meet Aemond’s gaze from your position, catching the way he smirked out of the corner of your eye.

“Do you like it that much?” He asked, to which you nodded eagerly. You softly pleaded, ‘Please, husband’, and Aemond grunted in response.

“What is it you want, princess?”

You propped yourself on an elbow, turning to face him, still on your stomach. Your eyes slightly widened to find his cock already exposed. He had been softly stroking it while fucking you with his fingers, evidently overcome with as much desire as you were. Now, his length sat heavy in his hand while he awaited your answer, tip flushed a deep red while it weeped a clear liquid.

“I want you, Aemond, all of you,” you made known. The prince let out another hum, before pulling his fingers out. You felt the mattress dip as he kneeled on the bed, caging you in between his legs. He propped himself on a hand by your side, the other holding his cock to line himself with your slit. Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt the blunt end of his cockhead press against your slit, letting out a whine when he breached your opening. His chest pressed against your back, the weight of his body on yours a welcome comfort. The prince’s breath was hot against the side of your face, and his deep groan echoed directly into your ear. He slid into your cunt inch by inch, tight walls hugging his length perfectly. He cursed under his breath when he finally bottomed out, lips pressing a kiss to your cheek as his nose nuzzled to inhale the scent of your sweet flesh.

“Gods above,” he groaned. His hips started to move with small, slow thrusts, still letting you adjust to the size of his impressive length. You whimpered, pressing your forehead against the bed while Aemond panted in your ear. “Such a tight fucking cunny. Perfectly made to take my cock, hm?”

“Yes, husband, it is all yours,” you moaned. As your walls started to relax, Aemond gained more space to thrust his length in and out of you. His pace began to pick up, the fabric of his breeches rubbing against your rear as his hips drove forward to meet yours. His cockhead kissed the tip of your cervix, causing a wave of pleasure to spread in your lower belly.

Hearing Aemond’s grunts in your ear only spurned your arousal further. With his body covering yours, you felt him everywhere, from his breath that hit the side of your face, the fine hairs of his chest tickling the skin of your back, and the slapping of his hips against your plump flesh as he drove his cock into you relentlessly. His large hand crept up to intertwine with yours, holding your smaller hand tightly. The cot’s wooden frame began to creak at the sheer force of his thrusts, your body jerking as he fucked you mercilessly. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip to bite back the sobs that threatened to escape you, but your head was turned to the side to meet Aemond’s eager lips. He swallowed down the desperate moans that reverberated from you, before pulling away to press his damp forehead against the side of your burning cheek.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, reverent and faithful, as your husband hurled you closer to your release. Aemond felt your walls start to tighten back up, pulsing, indicating the beginning of your release. His free hand sneaked in between your front, finding your pearl to stimulate. The circles rubbed on your nub only served to tighten the coil in your belly that threatened to snap, and your eyes clenched shut as your husband rendered you witless.

“Are you going to come for me, sweet wife?” He rasped in your ear. A chorus of whiny yesses fell from your lips, followed by more sobs.

Aemond felt a hot lick of pleasure deep within his belly, indicating his own climax was fast approaching. He drove his cock even harder into you, the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit at a lightning speed that began to cramp his forearm. He paid it no mind, determined to have you fall apart first. Your walls pulsed uncontrollably, squeezing and massaging his cock. Your nipples rubbed against the pillow underneath you, and with a particularly harsh thrust, you fell apart on Aemond’s cock.

Your release washed over you like the tide, rendering you lightheaded as you spilled around your husband’s length. He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, chasing his own end. Your legs bent to kick upwards as you began to squirm in overstimulation, though Aemond’s weight on your body prevented you from moving away. With one more thrust, then two, Aemond’s cock twitched in your cunt, before painting your walls with hot, white dragonseed.

After he emptied his fill into your womb, your husband slumped in exhaustion, lying on top of you with his sweaty forehead pressed against your shoulder. Both of you took a moment to catch your breath, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You remained lying prone, eyes closed, as Aemond pulled out of you. You felt the mixture of your juices spill from your slit, whining when he pushed it back into your sensitive core with his finger.

You opened your eyes to watch him walk off to grab a clean cloth to clean you with, pouring some water from a jug to soak the fabric. The damp material felt cool against your hot skin, still sheened with sweat. You shifted to lie on your back, turning to look at Aemond as he cleaned himself off. Your eyes ran down the ripple of fine muscle down his back, tracing the way his form tapered at the waist with your gaze.

“Will you stay?” You whispered, making him look at you. His good eye studied you, with your flush face and glistening skin. You looked at him with a gaze that made him feel warm inside, a feeling so strange and new.

“Do you want me to?” He responded, to which you nodded yes. Throwing the rag on a basket, Aemond walked back to the cot, settling under the furs that you pushed back for him. Hesitantly, he lifted his arm to wrap around you, and you snuggled into his embrace without him having to ask.

It was quite pleasant, he realized, to have a wife to hold in his arms. And as you drifted off, he caressed your back soothingly, planting soft kisses on your forehead that you didn’t feel in your slumber.

It was past the hour of the wolf when a sudden strong breeze in the night air drifted through the tent, causing you to stir awake to snuggle further into your husband’s warmth. A comforting warmth sparked in your heart to be in such a position, never having expected the prince to be one to cuddle at night. A satisfied sigh left your lips, before they pressed a soft kiss to the base of his neck.

You tilted your head up to cast a glance at him, letting out a small gasp when you caught the twinkle of a gemstone lodged into your husband’s left socket. The sapphire glinted like a star, reflecting the dying embers of the fire. Slowly lifting your hand to his face, your thumb softly caressed the indent of his scar, in awe of such beauty. You thought back to when he refused to remove his eyepatch earlier in the night, and you wondered why he chose not to flaunt such a mesmerizing sight. He must have slipped off the leather patch when you had descended into slumber.

In the short period you had come to know your husband, you had learned the loss of his eye was a pain he held in his heart. The small details Helaena had divulged caused an ache in your heart for the young boy that he was, and you understood why he harbored such grievance. To catch a small glimpse of the sapphire, albeit unintentionally, felt like an intrusion on the deepest part of Aemond's core, a peek of the well-hidden display of all his true glory.

Aemond slightly stirred from your touch in his face, causing you to pull away lest you disturb his sleep. You leaned to press a light kiss to his jaw, before going back to sleep with an affection in your chest that would only grow as the days went by.

In the morn, Aemond returned to his tent just as the dawn broke through the horizon. Few began to litter around, mostly setting up for everyone to break their fast before they departed back to the Red Keep. He dressed for the day, donning a dark green doublet, embroidered with dragons of gold thread. Afterwards, he walked over and peeked into your tent, finding you having your hair fixed by your handmaiden, still clad in your shift. Aemond left to let you finish getting ready, walking over to where his family began to gather around. Daeron and Aegon were already in playful banter despite the early hour, while Helaena sat with their mother, playing with a beetle she had found in the grass.

“Brother!” Daeron greeted, slapping Aemond on the back. The second son let out a warning grunt, to which the youngest only responded with a grin. “Where were you last night? We tried to find you, but you weren’t in your tent. We wanted to celebrate your nuptials, brother, Aegon had even snuck some jugs of Dornish wine into his tent!”

“Ah, let him be, Daeron. He must have been taking a shit in the woods,” Aegon quipped, earning a hearty laugh from Daeron and a glare from Aemond. Alicent sighed, massaging her temples at hearing her son’s words.

“I was with my wife, Aegon. Perhaps you should check on yours,” Aemond retorted, eye glancing over to where their sister had wandered off to the trees to find more critters to add to her collection. The smile on Aegon’s face dropped, following his brother’s gaze.

“Boys, please, it is too early. Daeron, why don’t you come sit with me while Aemond fetches his wife? Aegon, don't let Helaena wander too far.” Upon their mother’s words, all three sons split up to walk off in different directions. Aemond walked back to your tent, just in time to catch you step out. His good eye slightly widened at the sight of you, beautifully dressed in a light blue garment of your homeland’s style. It was vastly different to the dress Rhaenyra had gifted you, but it suited you better. What caught his eye, however, was the shimmering jewelry paired to your dress. The gems of sapphire sparkled under the morning sun, sitting prettily on your chest and dangling from your ears. You gave Aemond a small smile, approaching him and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Good morrow, lord husband,” you greeted him, caressing his cheek. Aemond muttered a greeting in return, still tantalized at how well you wore the stone. Pride swelled in his chest to see the marks he had left peek underneath the necklace, his possessiveness growing with well you wore the stone, clearly now marked as his.

“How beautiful you are, dear wife,” he praised, causing you to blush as you expressed your thanks. His eye regarded you with fondness, a softness in his gaze that previously wasn’t there. Taking his hand in yours, Aemond let you intertwine your fingers as you walked hand in hand to greet everyone. Your heart hammered in your chest as you felt the promise of something good coming to your marriage. You had never expected such delight to come your way when you were promised to the King’s second son, but as the days passed, you found yourself blossoming under the warmth of his presence. Indeed, good fortune shall come to your union.

#bella writes ✍️#this is queued #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #hotd x reader

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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

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Grimmauld: The House That Buried Its Children & The Ones Who Stay

brother!sirius black x fem!black!reader (centered) , james potter x fem!reader

synopsis: within the ancient and noble House of Black, where shadows cling like whispered memories, the story of its heirs unfolds — bound by blood, silence, and a past that never lets go. this is the quiet tragedy of a family built on legacy and expectation, the tale of three siblings — Sirius, Regulus, and you — whose lives were shaped by the name Black and forever haunted by the weight it bore.

cw: grief, trauma, loss of family, sibling conflict, secret romance, emotional and psychological distress, neglect, abuse, war, death, sacrifice, PTSD, intense emotional themes, bittersweet romance, legacy burdens, depression, death, very minor brief hints of suicide, forced marriages, and mourning. (timelines aren't canon compliant)

w/c: 13k (what can i say, the Black trauma is very detailed and long)

a/n: this is probably the best thing i’ve written — maybe the best i ever will — and i won’t apologize for the angst <3

masterlist

1978

It is raining the night Sirius leaves.

Not the kind of rain that arrives with spectacle and fury. Not the dramatic sort that rips through the clouds like a wound or makes the house tremble with thunder’s weight.

But a quieter sorrow. A gentle and ceaseless drizzle that feels older than memory, as if it began long before the sky turned grey and will linger long after the world forgets what it means to be dry, to be warm, to be whole.

Grimmauld Place breathes in that rain like it knows what’s coming, like it has always known, and the halls are colder than they’ve ever been. Not because the hearth has gone dark or the embers have died, but because something unseen is curling into ash in the walls. Something made of shared secrets and childhood echoes and the paper-thin thread of love that once bound a family, now fraying with every breath, every step, every silence.

There is no shouting now. Not anymore. Not since the voices collapsed into exhaustion, into finality.

And even though it might have been an hour ago or maybe two, or maybe longer than that, the house still hums with it, still remembers the shape of the words, the violence of the vowels, your mother’s voice cutting through the air like something sacred and profane all at once—a blade you’ve heard so many times your bones flinch on instinct, and your ears have begun to confuse cruelty with comfort, with home, with love.

You sit on the stairs, knees drawn up and head pressed to the banister, half-swallowed by shadows like the house is trying to hide you or keep you from breaking, and you listen even though it hurts. Listen because it’s the only way you know how to say goodbye without saying it, without naming it.

And down the corridor, your mother’s voice rises again, shrill and bitter and full of rot. But Sirius does not raise his voice in return. Not tonight. Not this time. And that silence is worse than any screaming. That silence is a goodbye carved in stone. It is a decision made in a place too deep for you to reach.

You do not know where Regulus is. Only that he is not here. Not in this moment that has changed everything. And maybe that’s his gift—to disappear when it matters most, to tuck himself into corners and shadows and silences so precisely that not even grief can find him.

Maybe he is in the library with the door shut and the curtains drawn, pretending that thunder doesn’t exist and neither does rain. Maybe he is curled so tightly into himself that to unfold him would be to shatter him completely.

But you are not Regulus. You never were. And silence does not fit in your mouth the way it fits in his—soft and seamless and sharp. You are not good at pretending you don’t feel the world falling apart around you. You are not good at swallowing the scream that’s lodged in your throat or the ache that is blooming beneath your ribs like something alive and vengeful and unspoken.

You are not good at pretending you don’t care.

And tonight, as the rain keeps falling and the house holds its breath and Sirius walks away without looking back, you feel something in you break in the exact shape of him.

You rise when you hear the trunk click shut. You move before you think, your bare feet slipping across the floor as if your body already knows it has to chase him before your mind catches up.

You don’t remember crossing the corridor, only the way your breath falters when you see him at the door—one hand on the handle, the other curled tight around the strap of his bag.

His hair is damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes bright with something that is not joy, not quite sorrow either, more like finality, like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Sirius,” you breathe, and the name comes out small and frightened, like it used to when you were six and couldn’t fall asleep without his hand wrapped around yours.

He turns, and for a moment you almost forget how to speak.

“Don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks halfway through. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s already rehearsed it, like he’s already said goodbye to you in his head.

“No you don’t,” you say, stepping closer, arms trembling now. “You don’t have to leave me, Sirius, please. You can stay. We can fix it, I’ll talk to her, I’ll try harder, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t fix this,” he interrupts, and his voice is rough around the edges, like it’s been scraping against his own ribs. “You shouldn’t even be trying. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands are shaking now, reaching out without permission, fingers grasping for something to hold on to, something steady in a world that’s coming undone.

“But you’re my brother,” you whisper, and your voice breaks entirely, like it’s never learned how to carry this kind of goodbye. “You’re my favourite person in the world. You always were.”

“I know,” he says, and this time his voice shakes too. He drops his bag. Takes a step toward you. “You were mine too. You never had to earn that.”

You want to laugh, or fall to your knees. “So don’t go.”

“I have to,” he murmurs, but softer now, like he’s hoping you won’t shatter if he says it gently enough. “I’ve stayed for as long as I could. But staying... it’s not living anymore.”

“But I need you,” you say, almost like a child, almost like a prayer. “You’re the one who made it bearable. You’re the reason I could stay. If you go—Sirius, if you go, I don’t know who I’ll be without you.”

He’s closer now, so close you can see the shine in his eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, as if to make the leaving softer. As if to make sure you remember his face from this angle too.

“You’ll still be you,” he says, and his hands come up to cradle your face, as if he could hold all the years you’ve shared between his palms.

His thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, slow and reverent. “You’ll still have the stars in you. You’ll still sing in the morning when you think no one’s listening. You’ll still make Regulus eat when he forgets. You’ll still be light, even here.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t want to be light. I just want you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it hurts. “I want you too. But I can’t stay. Not when staying is killing me.”

You press your forehead to his, tears dripping between you, breath shared like it used to be when the world was smaller and kinder.

Sirius’s breath hitches. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, just like he used to when you were children afraid of thunder.

For a moment, you are six again, hiding under blankets while he told you stories about stars and carved tiny moons into the wood of the headboard. For a moment, there is no family name, no blood purity, no war waiting at the doorstep. Only the brother you loved first.

“Take care of Regulus,” he whispers, voice like wind through a dying tree. “He’s going to need you. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Even if he pretends he doesn’t want you near.”

“He hates me,” you say, and it stings because part of you believes it. “We don’t talk anymore. We’re twins but we’re strangers.”

“Then love him anyway,” Sirius says, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Because this house is going to eat him alive. And you’re the only one left who can remind him what a soul is.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “No. You can stay. Please. I’ll—I’ll talk to Mother. I’ll make her stop. You don’t have to leave me, Sirius. Not you. Not you too.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment something in his eyes breaks, softens, just slightly, but then it’s gone again and his mouth sets into that line you’ve come to dread—the one that means he’s already decided.

“She’s never going to stop,” he says, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t know how. This house will never stop. And you—you don’t understand, you think this is just noise, but it’s not, it’s poison, and it’s been inside us since the day we were born.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts a hand to brush your tears away, gentle like always, like you’re still little and he’s still the one who could fix things just by being there. “I want you to stay,” you whisper. “You’re my brother. You’re the one person I—”

Your voice breaks, and you fold forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like if you hold tight enough, he won’t go.

“You’re the one person I feel safe with.”

Sirius exhales sharply, and for a second you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to change his mind. That he’ll sit down, put the bag away, crawl back into the twin bed down the hall and wait for morning. But instead he presses a kiss to the top of your head, slow and lingering.

“You were my home long before I knew what that meant,” he says quietly. “But I can’t live in a place that only wants to break me.”

“I don’t care about the house,” you cry. “I just care about you.”

“I know,” he says, and his hands are trembling now too. “That’s why I have to go. Before I forget who I am. Before I become what they want.”

You look at him and realize this is the last time he’ll ever be your brother here. The last time he’ll be Sirius Black of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. After this, he’ll belong to somewhere else. To someone else.

And still—still—you whisper, “Don’t go.”

He closes his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just reaches for the trunk, fingers curling around the handle like it’s an anchor, like if he doesn’t hold on he might shatter entirely. And then he turns, and he walks. Like he’s already gone.

You stumble after him, barefoot and unraveling, your voice rising into something feral, something half-child, half-grief.

“Sirius, please—don’t do this. Don’t go. You can’t leave me here. Not with them. Not alone.” The words come out wrong, cracked and too loud, but you don’t care.

You’d burn yourself down to keep him in this hallway if it meant he’d stay. You reach for him — just his sleeve, his hand, anything — but the world shifts.

You don’t know if it’s the mist curling under the door or your own shaking limbs, but your feet slide out from under you. The marble rushes up and meets you with no softness at all.

Your knees hit first, a dull, ugly sound echoing through the corridor. Then your palms, scraping raw against the cold. A flare of pain licks up your legs and into your chest, sharp and immediate — but not worse than the ache already blooming beneath your ribs.

Blood beads along your skin, tiny red betrayals of how fragile you are. You cry out before you can stop it, a startled, broken sound. Not for the fall, but for what’s walking away.

That’s when he turns. When he finally looks.

His eyes find you — crumpled on the floor, bloodied and shaking, your face wet with tears you can’t seem to stop. For the space of a single breath, he doesn’t move. And you see it then — the boy he used to be. The boy who held your hand through thunderstorms. The boy who carved moons into your bedframe because you were scared of the dark. The boy who always came back for you.

For a moment, just one, he looks like he might come back again. Like he might run to you, drop everything, fall to his knees and pull you into his arms and promise you the world won’t win. That he won’t let it. That he won’t let them.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run back. He doesn’t kneel beside you and press his forehead to yours. He doesn’t reach for your hands or wipe the blood from your knees. He only stands there, soaked in silence, the storm rising behind him like the breath of something ancient and cruel. His mouth opens, just barely, and the words come soft and weightless, as if he already knows they won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Then the door yawns wide and swallows him whole.

Rain pours in, cold and relentless. It soaks the marble, the hem of your nightclothes, the trembling shell of your body. You don’t rise. You don’t call his name again. You crawl. Fingertips dragging against the stone, knees splitting open with every inch, the sting lost beneath the throb of something deeper. You reach the threshold on hands and knees, soaked and shaking, and watch the place where he used to be.

You wait for him to turn back. To look over his shoulder. To see you the way he always used to, like you were the only part of this house worth saving. You wait for the sound of footsteps, for the thud of the trunk being dropped, for the whisper of his voice promising that he didn’t mean it.

That he’s still your brother. That he’ll stay.

But the silence is complete. And he is already gone.

You kneel there as the blood from your knees stains the rainwater pink, as the storm creeps into the house, into your lungs, into your bones.

You stay until the cold makes you numb and your arms are too tired to hold you upright. You stay because you do not know where else to go. Because nothing feels real anymore, except for the way your chest keeps breaking open in slow, quiet pieces.

You are thirteen years old, and you have never known this kind of silence. Not even in the dead of night. Not even in your mother’s shadow. You will remember this silence for the rest of your life. You will carry it like a second skin, like a wound that never quite closes.

That night, you will wash the blood from your knees in water gone lukewarm.

You will not cry again. Not then. Not in front of the mirror. Not where anyone can see. But the ache will settle into your spine, deep and wordless, and it will never let you go.

You will grow into silence like it’s the only thing that ever wanted you. You will wear it like a second skin, learn its contours, let it fill the spaces where love used to live.

You will master the art of stillness, of holding your breath when you want to scream, of smiling when your throat burns with grief. You will stop reaching for people who walk away. You will become so good at pretending you don’t need anyone that even you begin to believe it.

You will teach yourself to cry only behind locked doors. You will carry sorrow in your ribs like a splinter, sharp and invisible, a secret that hums when it rains. You will speak softly and laugh rarely and wonder, always, if you are too much or not enough.

You will look for Sirius in the curve of strangers’ hands, in the way someone tilts their head when they listen, in every boy who calls you brave without knowing why. But no one will ever be quite him. No one will ever hold your name like it’s sacred.

You never spoke to Sirius again.

Not after that night. Not after the front door of Grimmauld Place slammed like the end of the world. Not after your knees stopped bleeding and your voice forgot how to say his name without splintering.

Not after you wrote that letter two weeks later, alone in the dark, words trembling like a heartbeat you couldn’t hold still. You didn’t send it. You couldn’t. So you folded it and slipped it into the lining of your trunk, where it still waits.

1981

You are sixteen now.

You wear Slytherin green like silk-wrapped steel and walk the halls like the castle owes you something. Your mother calls you her softer one, the quiet twin, but there is nothing soft left in you. Not really.

Not after everything you’ve learned about silence and what it costs. You’ve mastered the art of holding your breath, of keeping your voice still, of curling your fingers into fists behind your back. Regulus watches you sometimes like he almost remembers who you used to be. But you don’t look back.

And yet here you are — beneath the Quidditch stands at midnight, with your tie crooked and your shirt coming undone, with James Potter’s hands at your waist and his mouth pressed to your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not with someone who makes the world feel brighter than you know how to bear. But your hands won’t listen. They tangle in his hair, slide over his jaw, trace the freckles across his shoulder where his sleeves are rolled, where his skin is warm and golden and too much.

“Someone will see us,” you whisper, the words barely formed, lost against the breath between you.

James just smiles, that crooked, reckless smile that should not feel like safety. “Let them.”

Your heart stutters. He always does this. Knocks the wind out of you with nothing but his grin and the impossible tenderness in his eyes.

“You Gryffindors are all the same,” you murmur, but the words are an echo, stripped of bite.

“And you Blacks are all trouble,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise. Like worship.

His fingers brush your hair behind your ear, soft, reverent, and you freeze for half a second. Not because you want to pull away. Because you don’t. Because when he touches you like that, something in you splinters. Something buried and locked.

You look at him, and he’s still there — real, impossibly real — and you don’t know how this happened. How someone like him ended up here, with someone like you. How he looks at you like you’re not something broken.

And still, you stay. Still, you let him touch you. Because no one else knows you like this. Because with him, you are not a name or a legacy or a weapon in the making.

James doesn’t ask why. He never asks. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back — because he touches you like you’re not broken, like you’re not a Black, like your blood isn’t dripping with secrets that could ruin everything it touches.

He doesn’t flinch when you go quiet. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or pity. He just waits. Steady. Warm. Like he has all the time in the world to watch you come undone and still choose you after.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your brother found out?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a wondering.

You scoff, sharp and breathless. “Which one?”

He looks at you then, really looks — the way he always does when you try to be cruel and fail. His eyes never waver. “Both.”

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is, you do think about it. You think about it more than you want to. You think about Sirius finding out and looking at you like you’ve become someone else, someone dangerous, someone he can’t save. You think about Regulus finding out and looking at James like he’s something to destroy. A danger. A betrayal. A boy who dared to love the wrong part of you.

Sometimes you think about dying before they ever find out. That would be easier. Cleaner. You could keep this — this secret softness, this impossible thing — untouched by consequence.

James shifts closer, and when he speaks again, it’s not words, not really. It’s warmth. It’s the space between heartbeats. “You’re not your family, you know.”

The sentence cracks something open. You swallow around it. The air tastes like smoke. Like ash.

“Yes, I am,” you say. Quiet. Final. “That’s the problem.”

But you kiss him anyway.

You kiss him like it’s a prayer with no god left to hear it, like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Because here, under the stands, in the dark, with his mouth on yours and his hands at your waist, you are not a name or a legacy or a shadow waiting to fall. You are not a sister, not a secret, not a danger.

You are a girl. Wanting. Wanted.

His fingers thread through your hair, and you let him. You let him touch you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like he doesn’t see the ruin clinging to your bones or the storm sitting in your chest waiting to tear everything down.

And that’s enough. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. It’s not forever.

You always know when he is near.

The air changes first — grows thin, almost reverent, like the world itself remembers. Like the stone corridors remember. Like the dust in the windowpanes and the cracks in the floor still carry his name beneath them.

The sound softens, dims around him. Laughter hushes. Footsteps falter. It’s the kind of silence that used to fall over you both when you stayed up too late, whispering stories by the fire, your shadows dancing on the walls like they had lives of their own.

There was a time when his presence meant warmth. Hearth-smoke and moth-eaten blankets. Winter pressed against the glass while you curled into each other like the last two embers in the world. He would talk about stars — draw them with his voice, sketch them in the dark with words that made you believe escape was possible, that the night sky could make you brave. You would fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing and wake to find his hand still wrapped around yours.

But all of that is gone now.

Now there is only stone beneath your feet and a bone-deep cold that doesn’t leave you. You are ruins, both of you. You are the silence after a song. You are what’s left when the fire goes out.

You see them just as you’re turning the corner out of the library, a book held tight to your chest like it can keep your ribs from cracking open. Defensive Magical Theory, something dense and forgettable, a shield made of ink and false comfort.

Your knuckles are white. Your fingers ache. Your robes are perfectly pressed, every pleat a performance. Because since he left, you have had to become flawless. You have had to become iron.

And there he is.

In the center of them like a flame, Sirius with his head tilted back in laughter. It is the same laugh that once made you believe the world could be beautiful. The same laugh that stitched broken hours into joy. And now it’s a blade.

Now it cuts. Because he laughs like nothing was lost. Like he didn’t tear himself out of your life and leave you to bleed in the quiet. Like he doesn’t remember the night you screamed his name until your throat gave out and your knees went red on the marble.

He laughs, and you want to tear the sound out of the air.

You remember it all too clearly — the way the front door slammed like a gunshot, the way you chased after him with shaking hands and a voice that couldn’t carry the weight of your grief. You begged him not to go. You begged like a child, raw and ragged and terrified. And he looked back, once, with something like pity.

Now you are ghosts in the same castle. Passing shadows. No nods. No glances. No names.

You walk past each other like graves being dug on opposite sides of the world. And you do not look back. And he does not turn around.

But your heart still breaks in your chest, quietly, every single time.

They round the corner and time thickens, slow as honey spilled on cold stone. His eyes find yours first—piercing through the crowd, through the clatter of footsteps and whispered names.

For a breath, the corridor dissolves. No James, no Remus, no ticking clocks or careless breezes—just you and him, two children once again, sharing a room heavy with secrets and the soft crackle of an old record player spinning lullabies.

But this time, he does not smile. He does not speak your name. He only looks at you as if trying to recall a face buried beneath years of silence, like the memory itself has fractured and turned to glass too sharp to hold.

Your heart clenches, a sudden, fierce knot, because you remember everything—the way his fingers braided tiny plaits into your hair when exhaustion pulled at your lids, the way your small hand reached for his in the dark before Regulus could even string words together, the way he whispered that you were his favorite, that he would never leave you behind.

But he did.

He burned the letters you wrote, one after another—long, trembling confessions stitched with apologies you never owed. Letters full of Regulus, school, a house growing colder and quieter, a mother retreating into silence, and a brother who refused to eat. You signed each with love, fierce and stubborn, because even after the cracks, even after the distance, you loved him still.

Regulus told you he saw the letters in the fire, unopened. Your handwriting curled into ash like a voice that never mattered. And you cried—not in front of Regulus, but later, submerged in the bathwater, where no one could hear.

You cried as if something sacred had been ripped from your chest, as if your brother had died and left only a hollow shell behind, wandering with someone else’s heart inside.

Now he passes you in the hall, silent and cold. Your fingers twitch, aching with memory, yearning for the ghost of his palm that once cradled your cheek—the night he left, trembling breath promising strength, begging you to protect Regulus when he could no longer do it himself.

You nodded through your sobs, because you were always the older twin by a single minute, and he said it meant something—that you were meant to keep him safe.

You have tried. But Regulus does not want your protection anymore.

You pass him in the corridors too—your twin, your mirror just slightly cracked, a shard drifting farther with every passing year. His eyes have grown colder, sharper, his mouth set like a blade forged from quiet bitterness.

Sometimes he speaks, brief and clipped, syllables sliced thin—news, reminders, fragments of a life you once shared but now only touch through echoes. There is no laughter, no whispered confessions in the dark, only the vast, cold distance measured in the space where hurt has settled deep and unmoving.

And still, you ache for the warmth you once knew. You ache when you see Sirius throw his arm around James like it costs him nothing, when he leans in close and laughs against his shoulder, calling him brother with a light that never shone for you.

You hate yourself for it, for the ugly bloom of envy rising in your chest, a bitter flower twisting through your ribs, because James gets to have him.

James gets to be near him every day, to tease him, to bicker with him, to follow him into trouble and hold a place beside him like it was always meant to be that way.

You used to be that person. You used to be the one Sirius reached for first.

Now you walk past them with your chin lifted, your stomach hollow, wondering if he ever thinks about that night.

Does he remember your hands clutching his sleeve? Your voice cracking as you called after him? Does he think of the blood staining your knees and how long you sat on the steps of Grimmauld Place, shivering long after he was gone?

He does not look back now.

But James does.

His eyes find yours and hold you there, a quiet tenderness breaking beneath the weight of unspoken things. He sees the ghosts too, the empty spaces where love was stolen. Maybe he even feels the ache when Sirius talks about his sister as if she never existed, or only existed in shadows and silence.

James tries to reach for your hand beneath the table, tries to make you laugh in the soft places where the world feels less heavy—but it is not the same. It will never be the same.

Because you are no longer the girl you were when Sirius left. You have spent too many nights wondering why love was not enough to make him stay.

And he is not the brother you remember.

The wind moves gently through the willow branches, like fingers combing through hair. The sunlight glimmers through the gaps in its leaves, casting thin golden lines across your cheek as you lie curled against James beneath the canopy of green.

You should not be here. You both know it. This is not the kind of softness your life has been shaped to allow. But here, in this sliver of stolen time, you forget the weight of your name and the way your chest has ached since you were old enough to know that in the Black family, love always came with locks and keys.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, and your head rests just below his chin. Your fingers are loosely entangled on the warm grass. His heartbeat is steady against your back, a rhythm you are slowly teaching yourself to trust.

You don't speak at first. Just listen—to the breeze, the rustle of willow limbs, the distant laughter from the Quidditch pitch.

And you try not to think about how long it’s been since you laughed like that with someone, without feeling like you were stealing it from a world that was never meant for you.

He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. There is something so gentle about him tonight, and it makes your ribs ache.

You know he is about to ask you something. You always know when James is thinking too much.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, hesitant and fragile, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter the space between you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, your head heavy against his chest, eyes shut tight as if the darkness behind your lids might keep the world at bay. You already know what’s coming.

“Have you ever thought about talking to Sirius again?”

The words hit you like ice water spilled over skin. Your whole body stiffens, every nerve on fire, the warmth of his arms suddenly burning too bright, too close.

You sit up with a sharp movement, pulling away like his question has scorched you, like it’s a wound you thought had scabbed over but still bleeds when touched.

His brows knit together in confusion he reaches out, as if to catch you before you fall apart, but you shake your head fiercely, as if to say don’t. Don’t reach for me here.

Your voice comes out sharp, brittle, colder than you expected, words clawing their way from a place you’d hoped was buried deep beyond reach.

“Why would I do that?!”

James blinks slowly, the calm in his gaze unwavering, gentle but not naive.

“Because he’s your brother.”

You laugh then, a sound bitter and quiet, like broken glass scraping against old stone. It catches in your throat and leaves a raw ache in its wake. You stand abruptly, arms crossing over your chest as if to hold yourself together, and you turn away, facing the shimmering lake instead, the silver-blue water reflecting back a fractured version of your own haunted eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with all the things left unsaid. You feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, soft but relentless.

And somewhere deep inside, the fight inside you trembles—part pain, part stubborn hope—that maybe if you don’t speak his name, you can keep the memory from unraveling completely.

But the truth is a jagged stone lodged in your throat. You’ve thought of him every day since he left—the brother who once braided your hair and whispered promises like a sacred lullaby. The brother who vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes and cold silence behind.

You want to believe that love could have held him here, that if you’d been enough, he wouldn’t have slipped away. But love in your world is never simple.

James sighs deeply, sitting up beside you with a careful softness that somehow feels like it might break under the weight of your silence. “I just think maybe it would help. You’re hurting, and he’s—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the air sharper than you meant it to, like glass breaking in a quiet room. Your voice trembles, but the edge is there, raw and fierce. “Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend you understand.”

James’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “I’m not pretending. I just know Sirius. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was hurting too. You know what that house did to him.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a bitter crack, like a blade scraping bone. “Do I? Do I know what it did to him? Because last I checked—” Your voice catches, then steadies, voice sharp and jagged — “I was there too. I lived it. I breathed the same suffocating air. I walked those same cold hallways. I heard the same poisonous words about blood and duty and silence that built a prison around us all.”

You turn slightly, hands clutching the grass beneath you until your nails dig into dirt. “I watched those cursed portraits scream their curses night and day, felt the walls shrink closer, trapping my breath. I watched my brother—the only one who stayed—fade, twist into someone I barely recognized, someone swallowed by shadows and cold.”

You swallow hard, the memory like a stone lodged in your throat. “And yet, somehow, he’s the one who gets to hurt? The one you all rush to protect? The only one whose pain matters?”

James shifts uncomfortably, voice quiet but earnest. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

But you shake your head, bitter tears burning the edges of your eyes. “No, James. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Your voice cracks, ragged and breaking, revealing the wounds you’ve fought to hide. “You all look at him like he’s some kind of hero. Brave Sirius Black—the runaway, the rebel who escaped the nightmare of that cursed house. The one who got to find Gryffindor, friendship, love. The one who got to build a new life from the ashes.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of everything left unsaid. “And what did I get? What did Regulus get? We got left behind.”

Your hands ball into fists, digging deeper into the earth, grounding yourself to the pain you can still touch. “I begged him to stay. I cried until I had no tears left. I chased after him on bleeding knees, desperate and small, and he left anyway. Left like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

You swallow, voice raw, “He never looked back. Never answered a single letter. Never came home. Not for me. Not for Regulus. And I waited. I waited years, hoping maybe one day he would come back. And you want me to just… talk to him now?”

Your breath catches, broken by the shuddering ache in your chest. The world feels hollow, cruel, and empty around you, and the distance between you and Sirius stretches wider than any words could ever cross.

James’s voice drops, soft and cautious, like stepping on fragile glass. “He was just a kid. He was doing what he had to do.”

You laugh, bitter and broken, the sound splitting the silence like a wound. “And I wasn’t?” The words shatter on your cracked lips, voice cracking with the weight you’ve carried far too long. “I was a kid too. Barely thirteen. And I had to stay. Had to sit at that cursed table and swallow every poisonous word Mother spat about the purity of our name. Had to learn to bite my tongue until it bled, lower my eyes until they almost forgot how to look. Had to be perfect — or at least pretend.”

Your hands tremble as you clutch your knees, the ache raw and alive beneath your skin. “I had to watch Regulus vanish into silence, buried under pressure and cold that no one—not one soul—asked if I was okay. No one ever tried to save me.”

James’s hand reaches for you, slow and hesitant, but you recoil like his touch burns you.

You fall back against the tree, the rough bark pressing into your spine, your palms clutching your eyes as if the darkness can swallow the ache whole. The tears come harder now, hot and unrelenting.

“You think he hurts? You think he cries?” Your voice breaks, raw and ragged like a shattered song.

“Because I do. I do every time I see him walk the halls like nothing happened. Every time I watch you two laugh like you’ve known each other forever, and I wonder if he ever laughs like that for me. If he ever remembered me.”

You choke back a sob, voice barely more than a cracked whisper, “I sit in a common room full of snakes and secrets, keeping my head down, swallowing my pride and my pain, because I’m still there. I never left. I never got out.”

“You don’t get it,” you whisper, but the whisper breaks halfway, splintering like thin glass. You’re shaking now, fists curled into the grass as though it can hold you together. “You never will.”

James doesn’t speak. He watches you the way someone watches a dying star—helpless, reverent, a little afraid.

“You were always allowed to be human.” Your voice wavers, rough with disbelief and years of swallowed words. “You were allowed to get angry, to mess up, to fall apart and still be loved. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where love is a chain. Where affection only comes after obedience. Where silence is survival.”

You laugh, but it’s not really laughter—it’s the sound a wound might make if it could scream.

“You have people. People who would tear the world apart if you broke. You have a mother who kisses your cheek and a father who’s proud of your name. You have friends who call you home, James. You’re the sun, don’t you see that? You’re the sun and everyone else just gets to grow around you.”

You’re crying harder now, tears streaking down your cheeks in thick, aching lines. You try to wipe them away, but they keep coming.

“You got to love Sirius without bleeding for it! You got to become his brother in the safety of a dormitory, with warmth and laughter and stolen butterbeer. You didn’t have to earn it in that house. You didn’t have to survive it!”

Your voice rises now, shrill with grief. “You got the best parts of him. The jokes, the loyalty, the fire. I got the version who left. The one who didn’t even look back.”

You gasp for breath between sobs, pressing your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

“Do you know what it feels like to scream for someone as they walk away? I begged him. I begged him not to go. I ran after him barefoot in the cold, my voice going hoarse. And he left anyway. He left me there.”

You pull your knees to your chest, rocking slightly. “He chose to leave. And then he chose you. He chose you over me. Over Regulus. Over every piece of his old life. You’re his brother now. You’re his family. And I—”

You look up at James then, face soaked, lips trembling. “I’m just a ghost he doesn’t talk about.”

The words fall out of you like stones from your mouth, one by one, and each one seems to hurt more than the last.

“You sit around the fire with him and laugh about pranks and broomsticks and I sit alone in the dark, wondering if he remembers the sound of my voice. If he ever thinks about the way I cried that night. If he ever sees my handwriting and feels guilt. Or if it’s just... easier. Easier to forget I existed.”

James moves again, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He doesn’t touch you this time. He just listens.

You curl tighter around yourself. “You want me to forgive him. You want me to reach out. But you don’t know what it costs to touch someone who let you rot. You don’t know what it’s like to scream for someone and never hear your name again.”

Your voice drops to a whisper—ruined, splintered, soft.

“He’s your brother now.”

And then, the softest, most broken truth:

“But he was mine first.”

You fold in on yourself completely, hands trembling, heart heaving with grief too old for your bones, and the only sound left in the world is your breath—shattered, uneven—echoing in the hush beneath the willow branches.

James looks at you then like he finally sees the wound beneath your skin. Not something angry. Something abandoned. Something small and bleeding and still waiting on the floor of a house that swallowed you whole.

The year slips through your fingers like water, and you try to hold it tight, but it’s already gone.

It’s strange how time moves differently when you’re pretending everything is fine, the days bleeding at the edges into one another with a quiet rhythm of routine that softens sharp edges but never heals the cracks beneath.

You go to class, you study, you sit beside James under the willow tree and pretend not to ache when Sirius walks by laughing with Remus, a sound that feels like a sun you cannot touch anymore.

You watch Regulus drift further away, his shoulders straighter, his eyes colder, his voice a careful blade you no longer recognize—once a warmth you could finish, now a silence you cannot breach.

You used to finish each other’s sentences; now he barely finishes his own. He doesn’t talk to you much anymore, not really. At the long, silent dinner table, he sits across from you, nodding when spoken to, answering questions like they’re lines from a script he’s been forced to memorize but doesn’t want to perform.

He disappears into his room, each time returning quieter, more distant, as if someone has reached inside him and hollowed him out with a spoon, leaving only a shell that reflects nothing back but shadows.

You want to scream at him, to shake him until he remembers how to breathe, to pull him back by the collar like Sirius did when you were children and Regulus was about to climb too high in the trees, but you don’t.

Because you don’t know if he would let you catch him, and you don’t know if you still have the strength to hold on to what’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you keep your head down, your voice soft, your secrets close, like fragile embers you cannot risk exposing to the wind. And still the year ends.

There’s something about the last few weeks of school that tastes like dread, like metal pressed cold against your tongue, like the low rumble of a storm you know is coming but cannot stop. You walk the corridors counting how many times Sirius glances your way and how many times Regulus doesn’t, memorizing James’s grin like it might be the last warmth you touch for months.

You stop sending letters home because there is no one waiting to read them.

Because summer means going back. Not home. Back.

Grimmauld Place isn’t a home. It is a mausoleum, a cold, echoing archive of all the things you never got to say, the silence between your words etched deep into the walls.

It smells of wax and dust and something darker, something ancient and unforgiving beneath the surface. The portraits still scream behind their frames. The silver still gleams with a sharpness that cuts through the gloom. The curtains block out the sun like heavy lids refusing to open.

Your room remains untouched, waiting in suspended breath for you to return and pretend you don’t hate it.

You dread the silence most. The way it wraps itself around the furniture like cobwebs spun from forgotten sorrow, the way the house watches you with a patient, waiting hunger, as if it expects you to fold back into its cold embrace and fall in line with the shadows that have claimed it.

Regulus is already there. He has been slipping for a while now. You have seen it in the way he avoids certain topics, in the sharp flinch when someone utters the word “Mudblood,” in the way his fists clench so tightly at insults to the Dark Lord that his knuckles whiten, before he tries to play it off as nothing.

His robes darken with every passing day. His smiles become rarer, like a flame too weak to chase away the night. His wand is never far from his grasp, a silent threat held close, as if waiting for the moment he must become someone else—someone you barely recognize anymore.

So you pack your trunk slowly, each movement deliberate as if by folding your robes with care you might fold yourself back into a place that no longer holds you. You close your books with trembling fingers, the pages whispering secrets you cannot bear to carry anymore.

You don’t say goodbye to Sirius because his eyes no longer meet yours, and you don’t say goodbye to James because you know the pain would only unravel tighter if words were spoken.

You watch as Sirius swings his arm around James’s shoulders, already grinning at the thought of staying with the Potters for the summer, and something inside you twists — not anger, not sadness, but a sharp, aching envy that claws at your ribs like a hungry bird.

Because he gets to escape.

He gets to walk into a house that smells like sugar and laughter and freedom, a sanctuary where love is worn openly like a second skin.

He gets to sleep in a room where nothing screams at him in the dark, where the walls cradle him instead of closing in. He gets to sit at a table where voices rise and fall like music, where people eat too much and ask about your day as if it matters, where family is not a story told in fragments but a living breath around you.

And you get the house.

The house with your name carved deeply into the bannister, a cold reminder of roots that bind you to shadows. The house where every unspoken word drips from the ceiling like damp, settling into the cracks until the silence itself weighs heavy and thick.

The house where your mother waits, her eyes colder than winter and expectations sharper than knives, where portraits hiss and leer from their frames like silent witnesses to your undoing. The house where Regulus drifts through the halls like a ghost caught between worlds, already halfway gone, already fading into something you cannot hold.

The house where no one speaks Sirius’s name aloud, where you are still the older twin, and yet each day you feel smaller, as if your own shadow is shrinking beneath the weight of everything unsaid.

You step off the train, and the air already feels colder, a thin frost settling on your skin even though the season has only just begun.

The night tastes bitter with regret, heavy and metallic on your tongue, and Grimmauld Place waits like a patient predator, breathing you in as though you never left, as though it has been holding its breath for your return. It closes the door behind you with the hush of finality, a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

The silence settles on your shoulders like dust, thick and suffocating, a reminder that you belong here — even if you wish with every trembling heartbeat that you did not.

You try not to flinch when the wards hum around you. When the doorknob bites your palm. When the portraits blink awake at the scent of your return. They watch you with knowing, disapproving eyes, oil-painted mouths already ready to spit something cruel.

This house was never a home, but once it breathed — not warmth, not safety, but noise, presence, life. It used to echo with slammed doors and uneven footsteps racing up the stairs, with Sirius shouting something reckless and defiant down the corridor just to make someone angry enough to shout back.

It used to be full of Regulus’s low hum when he thought no one could hear him, that quiet little song he’d hum while reading in corners, while brushing his hair, while stitching up the tear in your sleeve when you’d come back from a duel pretending you weren’t crying.

It used to be full of voices, arguing and demanding and laughing and hurting and always, always living.

Now it is quiet in the way that makes your chest ache, the kind of silence that feels like a punishment rather than a peace. The air tastes like dust, like something lost and forgotten and left to rot behind velvet curtains and locked doors. The carpets still muffle your steps, but there's no one left to hear them anyway.

This is the first summer without Regulus.

Not the shadow version that’s lingered these past few years, the one who walks too quietly and listens too carefully and parrots the words of your parents with a voice that isn’t his. Not the stranger in dark robes who stops humming and starts watching. Not the version who still existed in some half-form, drifting down corridors without speaking, but still there.

No, this is the first summer without him, without the boy who used to read beside you in the library, his knee bumping yours under the table. The one who used to steal sweets from the kitchen and then blame you with an innocent blink. The one who tied your shoelaces together under the table at family dinners and bit back a grin when you tripped on your way out.

That Regulus faded the way ink fades in water — slowly, gently, irreversibly. You didn’t notice at first, only that he laughed less, and then not at all. That his hands stopped reaching for yours. That his voice grew thinner and his silences heavier. You lost him the way you lose something to illness, slowly and with a thousand tiny betrayals of the body before the final breath.

But this time is different.

This time, he did not come back.

No warning, no owl, no quiet knock on your door, no hurried explanation in a whisper only you would understand. Just silence. Just your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line when you asked, and your father’s eyes skimming past you like your question was a speck on his glasses.

You sit in his empty room. It smells like dust and lavender and something that aches in your teeth. The bed is still made. The books are still in their careful order, spines aligned like soldiers. His desk is untouched. His quill still leans in the inkwell.

The window is cracked just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of air, like the room itself hasn’t quite decided if it should keep holding on. There’s dust on the windowsill now — and there never used to be — and that tells you more than anything else. That the room has been waiting. That no one has come back.

This time, he is truly gone.

And you are alone.

You try to shrink yourself into corners. You keep your footsteps light, your voice quieter still. You tie your hair the way your mother prefers it and fold your napkin just so and tuck your wand out of sight at the table.

You speak only when spoken to. You say nothing when the family says things that hurt. You keep your grief compact and clean and buried deep in your chest like a well-folded shirt, like something shameful.

You make yourself smaller every day, and still, somehow, it is never enough.

But this summer — it’s different. This summer, they hand you your fate like a gift wrapped in silver and blood, gleaming like something sacred, rotting like something buried.

You sit at the long dining table, the one with claw-footed legs and too much silence, and you hear the words spill from your mother’s mouth like prophecy. Your father folds his hands, watching you without warmth, without softness, only the calm expectation of obedience.

They tell you the name.

He is a man older than both of them, old enough to have stood beside your grandfather, old enough to know better, but still willing. He is loyal. He is powerful. He will honor the purity of your blood.

He will preserve the name of the House of Black.

You are seventeen. He is not young. You do not need to ask his age. You already feel it sinking into your skin like ice.

Your stomach coils, tight and bitter.

“No,” you say. Soft at first. Like a breath you’re trying to swallow.

Your mother doesn’t even blink. “You will.”

“No.” Again, louder this time. Sharper. The air around you stills.

She lifts her chin, unbothered. “You are a daughter of this house. This is your duty.”

“Duty?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth. “You want me to marry a man three times my age so you can keep the family name alive like it’s something holy. You want me quiet and obedient and grateful.” You’re trembling, but you don’t care.

“I am not a vessel for your legacy.”

Your father rises. His voice cuts across the room like steel. “You will not speak to your mother with such—”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” you snap, voice breaking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide who I am just because you raised me to be afraid of you!”

Silence floods the room, thick and bitter.

“You want to talk about duty?” you say, your voice low, shaking with fury. “Let’s talk about Sirius. You pushed him out like he was nothing. You wrote him off, erased him, like he never belonged to you in the first place. And Regulus—”

You choke, just for a second. But it’s enough to taste the grief under your rage.

“Regulus is gone. And you didn’t even flinch.”

Your mother’s gaze turns to ice. “Sirius was a disgrace,” she says. “Regulus was loyal. We will not lose the last child we have left.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong. Crooked. Cracked open.

“You already did.”

You stare at them — these people who gave you their name and called it love.

“I’m not your child,” you say, the words leaving your mouth like a final spell. “I’m what’s left. After the screaming. After the silence. After all the sons you burned through.”

You do not cry in front of them. You never cry in front of them.

The house taught you early that tears are weakness, that silence is survival, that emotion is something to be buried beneath polished shoes and perfect posture.

But the moment the door shuts behind you, the weight drops. You press your back to the cold wood and slide down until you are curled on the floor, your body folding into itself like it’s trying to vanish. And you cry. Not the gentle kind. Not the cinematic kind.

You cry until your throat burns and your face is damp and your chest feels like it’s being carved open from the inside. You cry the way the walls might, if they could. With all the grief they’ve soaked up over the years spilling out through the cracks.

You cry for every year you were quiet. For every word you never said. For every version of yourself you buried to stay alive in this house.

You feel seventeen and seven and seventy all at once. You feel like a ghost of your own girlhood, flickering between doorframes. You feel the house watching. Breathing. Remembering.

The floor beneath you is cold and unkind, and still you cling to it because it's the only thing solid left. You think of Sirius, and the way he used to laugh so loudly it shook the curtains. You think of him sleeping now in a house full of warmth and sugar and safety, a house where love isn't earned but given, where no one flinches when he reaches for joy.

You think of Regulus, not the boy they mourn in stiff silence, but the boy who once left crooked notes in your textbooks and stared out windows like he was already halfway elsewhere.

You think of the way he disappeared — not all at once, but slowly, like a tide pulling further and further out until you could no longer see where he ended and the darkness began.

And you think of James.

James with his easy smile and his steady hands, who never asks for more than you can give, who touches your shoulder like it means something, who holds your gaze when the room is too loud.

James, who looks at you like there is still something worth saving, like you are not the ruin this house has made of you, like you are more than a name etched into silver and expectation.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you now, curled like a child, broken open in the hallway like a spell gone wrong. You wonder if he would still look at you like you matter. If he would still believe you could be more than this.

But the truth is: you are not Sirius, brave enough to run and let it all burn behind him. You are not Regulus, quiet enough to disappear without a sound. You are not even James, bright enough to belong to a world that doesn’t hurt like this.

You are just you — the one who stayed.

The one who held her breath while the house tore itself apart. The one who learned how to fold pain into politeness, how to wear duty like perfume, how to live without taking up too much space.

You stayed because someone had to. Because someone had to carry the name. Because someone had to keep the silence from swallowing everything.

And now, you are the last one. A girl with no room left to run, with a dress being stitched by house-elves who won’t meet your eyes, with a fate wrapped in silver and blood and sealed with your mother’s satisfaction. A girl being handed over like an heirloom. A girl they call duty. A girl they call legacy. A girl they will call wife.

And you cry not because you are weak — but because you were strong for too long. Because this house eats daughters and calls it honor.

Because deep down, you are still waiting for someone to come back. Or take you away. Or give you a reason to leave. But no one comes. And so you cry.

So you give in. Not to the marriage — no, that would be too clean, too final — but to something slower, heavier, something like gravity or grief.

You give in to the house. To the quiet. To the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say aloud. You let it wrap around you like ivy, creeping in through the cracks in the walls and the bruises you keep hidden under your sleeves. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t cinematic. It’s the kind of surrender that looks like silence.

Each day becomes a ritual of forgetting. You wake late, eyes heavy with sleep you never earned. You push food around your plate until it cools and congeals and no one bothers to tell you to eat. You wander from room to room like a ghost, dragging your fingertips along the wallpaper as if it might remember you.

You reread the same book, the same page, five times, and the words never stick — they slide through your brain like oil through a sieve. You braid your hair tighter and tighter each morning until your scalp stings, until the ache becomes something solid you can carry. You stop speaking at meals.

You stop asking where Regulus went. You stop writing letters to Sirius, because no one writes back and ghosts don’t send owls.

And then one night, when the wind wails like a child outside your window and the rain lashes against the glass with the fury of everything you’ve swallowed, your feet carry you where your mind dares not go.

Up the stairs. Down the hallway. To the door you haven’t touched since he left. Sirius’s room.

You shouldn’t go in. The house groans like it’s warning you. But your hand is already on the handle.

The room is a battlefield.

The bed is splintered, cracked in the middle like a snapped spine. The posters are slashed, half-hanging like open wounds. The wallpaper is clawed down to the plaster. His name, once spelled in bold ink across the wall, is a black smear now — a wound too scorched to read. The air smells like old fire and bitter memory. You step inside.

You lower yourself to the floor with slow, trembling hands, and that’s when it breaks.

The scream tears from you before you can stop it — low and ragged and real.

You cry for Sirius, who ran and burned and somehow found something close to freedom. You cry for Regulus, who disappeared into silence and shadows and never looked back. You cry for James, whose laughter doesn’t belong in this house, whose kindness is a bruise you keep pressing. But mostly, you cry for yourself.

And when there are no more tears left to cry, your eyes catch something under the bed — a soft flicker of gray, tucked away like a shy secret waiting patiently.

Eventually, with trembling fingers, you take up your quill and smooth a sheet of parchment across your desk.

You’ve written to him a hundred times before—maybe more. None of them ever came back. None of them were ever answered.

And this one, you know, will be the last.

Dear Sirius, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I imagine it will not. And even if it did, I cannot picture you reading it. Perhaps you would glance at the ink, then turn away, pretending not to know the hand it came from. Perhaps you have already taught yourself to forget. Still, I write. I write because I do not know what else to do with my hands, now that they have nothing left to hold. Regulus is gone. They will not say how or where or why, only that he vanished, and everyone speaks of him now in the same tone they used when they stopped saying your name. He is gone, and I feel something in me beginning to follow. This summer has been long. There is sun in the air and dust in the curtains and no one speaks above a whisper. They say I am to be betrothed by autumn. He is pure of blood and proper of name and perfectly forgettable. I have already begun practicing how to look content beside him. Everyone tells me how lucky I am. No one asks if I am well. The house is colder than I remember. I think you were the last warm thing in it. Since you left, it has not once felt like home. The corridors are quieter now. The portraits turn their eyes away. Today I found your old toy — Buttons, the little grey dog with the floppy ear. He was under your bed, asleep in dust, but still whole. I pressed him to my face and thought I might fall apart from the scent of him. Smoke and summer and boyhood. I found Honeybell too. Her stitches are split and her eye is gone. But I held her anyway, the way you hold something that remembers what you cannot say aloud. Regulus’s was still in his room. Mister Wisp. The black raven. He was soaked through with rain. His wings sagged. His thread was fraying. He looked like something abandoned. He looked like someone who had waited too long. I placed them on your bedroom floor. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. The three of us, in our own way. I sat with them until the sun went down and the house forgot me again. I hope you are safe. I hope there is laughter where you are. I hope someone brushes the hair from your eyes with tenderness. I hope you never once feel as forgotten as we did when you vanished. I want to hate you, but I never could. This is the last letter. Not because I have stopped loving you. That would be easier. No, I am stopping because love should not be sent into silence forever. And I have been silent for too long.

Ta Sœur, Pour Toujours

You fold the letter and press it to your heart, feeling the weight of every word settle deep inside you.

You sit there in the broken room, cradling the worn plushes as the first pale light of morning spills through the cracked window, soft and hesitant, like forgiveness that always comes too late.

The summer stretches endlessly, longer than any before, a slow and quiet rot rather than rest—a soft unraveling that steals breath and hope alike. Time does not move but lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing down on your bones like a heavy secret.

Outside, the war no longer whispers but rumbles beyond the horizon. Names vanish like ghosts, smiles falter under the weight of dread, and the sun mourns openly, bleeding orange into clouds as if the sky itself knew the darkness to come.

Grimmauld Place waits in silence. Its walls have always been cold, but now they hold a quiet deeper than stillness, a silence like held breath, like a house on the edge of swallowing you whole.

And then Sirius returns.

He had never meant to come back, not truly.

But something pulls him through the shadows, not duty, not family in the way you understood it. Perhaps it was memory, haunting and relentless. Perhaps regret, bitter and sharp. Perhaps it was you—the echo of your voice that chased him through sleepless nights, the image of you at thirteen, trembling and begging him to stay, a scar etched deep across his ribs.

So he came back.

By the end of summer, Sirius Black stood before the house he had sworn never to return to, and this time he did not knock. This time he did not wait. The door groaned open as if it had been waiting for him all along. Dust hung heavy in the air, the stench of magic—old, burnt, and wrong—clinging like smoke caught deep in his lungs.

Something had happened here. Something violent. The house was not quiet. It was hollow. Empty. Ruined.

And that was when he found you.

Not sitting in the drawing room, not wrapped in a blanket with a book and tea, not curled in the window seat staring out at a life that had never been yours.

But lying on the marble floor, exactly where he had left you.

You did not die screaming. There was no flash of rage, no final incantation on your tongue, no defiant end befitting the fire that once lived inside you.

You were simply still. Folded into yourself, as if the world had leaned too hard on your ribs and you forgot how to fight it. Blood pooled around you like petals from a ruined bloom, soft and red and blooming in silence.

Your hair fanned around your face like something sacred — a fallen halo, a crown undone — and your limbs lay slack in a kind of surrender that spoke not of weakness but of exhaustion. Like the house had finally exhaled, and you let it take you with the breath.

Sirius dropped the moment he saw you. Not with ceremony, not with noise — just gravity doing what grief always does.

The way your knees once buckled when he walked away.

The way your voice had cracked, trying to stretch the word “stay” into something that could bind him.

The way your chest must have caved in, not from a curse, but from absence. He fell in the way people fall when something inside them has been waiting to shatter for years.

He reached for you. What else was there left to reach for, if not the girl who once braided red ribbons through his coat sleeves, who lined his pockets with honey drops and letters that smelled of ink and lavender, who sat beside him on staircases and said nothing, simply stayed.

He had run for so long — from this house, from this name, from everything that shaped him — but no one ever told him that ghosts have longer arms than memory. That your voice, the soft echo of it, would find him across every burning bridge.

And now you were here. Not thirteen anymore, not crying in the hallway where he left you. But also, not gone from that moment either.

You had never truly moved past the marble floor. He saw it in the way your fingers still curled inward, as if clinging to something invisible. In the tilt of your head, angled just like the night you begged him not to go.

He saw the years between then and now, every one of them, stretched like threads between your ribs — unravelled, fragile, frayed.

He saw the waiting. The tea that went cold on windowsills. The letters that never found their way past trembling hands. The summers that rotted slowly around you while everyone else grew up.

The stuffed animals lined like offerings beneath dust-heavy light. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. Childhood turned reliquary.

He saw it all and understood too late that grief does not knock — it carves its name into your skin and waits. It waited for him here.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer never answered. He had lived, but not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You had stayed, but not whole. You had waited so long for someone who was always running, and now that he was still, you were gone.

The sun began to rise, golden and slow, creeping through the cracks like a forgiveness that had missed its hour. It lit the marble floor like a chapel.

But it could not touch you. It could only fall across your shoulder, warm and useless. The kind of light that arrives after the room has already emptied.

And Sirius stayed there. Not as the rebel or the Black heir or the boy who broke free. But as a brother.

A brother who came home too late. A brother who looked at the cost and could not look away.

Time passed for him. He found love. Friends. A family not built of blood, but of choice. He laughed again. He dreamed. He lived. The world opened for him, and he stepped through — a boy turned man, a soul scraped raw but mending, slowly, beautifully. There were hands that held him.

Voices that called him home. Places where the sky was wide enough to forget. And he let himself forget.

And you stayed.

You stayed in the house that swallowed your name like a secret. In halls that knew only how to echo orders and lock away softness. With a father who spoke in sharp edges. A mother who carved obedience into you like scripture.

A twin who disappeared — not all at once, but in whispers and footsteps and doors that no longer opened. You stayed among portraits that scowled at your breath. Among books that weighed more than comfort. Among silences that wrapped around your throat until you mistook them for lullabies.

You stayed. Right where he left you. And the world, as it always did, looked away.

Except this time, the blood wasn’t from scraped knees or childish scuffles.

It was from the war that bloomed like rot through every crack in your home. From the letters you weren’t allowed to send. From the screams you weren’t allowed to make. From the spells you learned not to cast. From the hope you were forced to smother before it ever took its first breath.

And Sirius wept.

Not the kind of weeping that shatters in public. Not the kind that can be soothed by arms or words or tea gone cold.

This was the kind of weeping that hollowed. That stripped him to the marrow. That made him reach for a version of you that no longer breathed.

He wept for the sister whose hands once clutched his in the dark, when the storms rattled the windows and the world felt too big.

He wept for the girl who tucked notes into his pocket when Mother screamed. He wept for the ghost of you still sitting on the staircase, waiting for a brother who never turned back.

He wept for the birthdays you spent alone. For the letters he never wrote. For the words he never said. For the child you were — bright-eyed and bruised and so full of belief.

For the woman you could have been — fierce and aching and free.

For the way you died in the exact place he left you.

And for the way he only came back when there was no breath left to forgive him.

Time seemed to pass, though slower now — not measured in calendars or seasons, but in aches. In absences. In the small betrayals of memory.

For Sirius, time lost its rhythm. It did not tick or toll. It bled. It staggered. It sighed through floorboards and doorways and walls that still remembered the sound of your footsteps.

Time became the color of mourning — the dull grey of ash, the deep bruise of regret, the cold white of hospital sheets that never warmed beneath your weight.

It moved in the dust he could not bear to sweep, in the scent of your perfume fading soft on a pillowcase, in the broken music box that no longer turned, in the echo of your laughter — not in reality, but in the cruel trick of dreams.

He searched for you in everything, in the corners of rooms, in the backs of crowds, in the shadowed silence of the old stairwell where you once sang lullabies to the dark.

And when he found the letter — the one you never sent, crumpled at the back of a drawer, ink smeared as though you’d tried to erase your own voice — he pressed it to his lips and sobbed like a boy again. Like the child who promised he’d take you with him. Who swore you’d never be left behind.

Three plushes laid neatly beside each other, like a shrine to what was once whole. Not toys anymore, but gravestones — soft and worn and sacred.

They should have meant nothing. Just fabric, stuffing, thread. But Sirius could barely look at them without his chest caving in.

His own — hadn’t moved in years. You must’ve thought he’d come back for it. That if you left it untouched, just as he left it, maybe it would bring him home.

Yours was different. It was torn down the middle, the seam split like a scar, like a scream frozen in time. The stuffing spilled out like spilled insides, like something wounded and left to rot. It looked like it had tried to hold itself together for too long, and finally failed.

And Regulus’ — pale blue-grey, delicate in a way only he had been — soaked through and warped from rain. It lay slumped over, waterlogged and forgotten, as if the storm outside had wept it into surrender. The window above had cracked open, and the sky had poured in for hours. Sirius liked to think the heavens had mourned with him that day. That even the sky had broken, just a little.

You never knew, but Sirius never let them go.

Not once.

Even when the world fell apart. Even when the Order returned and war carved new hollows into their lives.

Even when Azkaban loomed like a ghost at his shoulder. He kept them — hidden, at first, under floorboards and false bottoms of trunks. Then folded into boxes labeled with things like “storage” or “old keepsakes,” as if a name could make them matter less.

But they always came back out. Back to his bedside. Back into his hands on sleepless nights. Because they weren’t just toys. They were the last soft things left. The only parts of his childhood that hadn’t turned to ash.

They were what remained of the real family he had chosen — not the one etched into tapestries or carved into rings, but the one built in whispers and quiet dreams.

You, Regulus, and him. Three children clinging to hope like a secret. Three hearts hoping that if they held each other tightly enough, they could outrun their legacy. They could be something else. Someone else. Someone free.

But grief is not kind. It is greedy. It takes and takes and keeps on taking.

So it took Regulus, too.

No goodbye. No body. Just whispers in the dark — that he had gone beneath the water, chasing a kind of redemption Sirius hadn’t known his brother still believed in. That he had died trying to undo what he never had the power to fix. A boy with the name of a star, drowning in a sea too vast to name.

And Sirius had hated him, once — for his silence, for his compliance, for surviving the home that killed you. But when Regulus vanished, Sirius understood he’d been wrong. Regulus hadn’t survived. He’d only delayed the dying. Now it was just him, and the plushes — three relics, three ghosts, three pieces of a family no one ever thought to grieve.

Because what were children like them, if not warnings? What were Black children, if not cautionary tales?

1994

Years later, Sirius will stand before a boy with too-bright eyes and a scar that speaks of wars no child should remember. And in the boy’s grin — wide, reckless, full of sun — Sirius will see James, not as memory, but as marrow, as instinct.

But it's not James that makes him ache, not really.

It’s the quiet moments, the in-between ones — when the boy furrows his brow in thought, or stares too long at the stars, or speaks with a gentleness he doesn’t even know he carries.

That’s when Sirius sees Regulus, not in likeness but in the ache of being too young for so much weight.

And most of all, he sees you.

He sees you in the boy’s stubborn defiance, in the way he fights for others before himself, in the way he loves — fiercely, awkwardly, with every unguarded part of him. He sees you in the boy’s eyes when he reaches for Sirius without hesitation. He sees the child you once were, all scraped knees and wild dreams, asking impossible questions and believing in things too big to name.

And it undoes him. Every single time.

Because this boy, this Harry, carries all the pieces of the ones he lost — but he carries you most of all.

Sirius will not know how to name that kind of grace. Only that it feels like standing in the past and being forgiven by it.

And in that child, in the fragile miracle of his existence, Sirius will understand that love does not end. It threads itself into blood and bone and story. It survives. Even when nothing else does.

And that understanding — that impossible, aching recognition — will be the cruelest grace of all. Because by then, the war will have come and gone, carving its tally marks into the bones of everyone left standing.

He will have buried too many. James, Lily, and names he once spoke with laughter now spoken in silence, in dreams. The fire will have gone out, and Sirius will have learned to live in the smoke. A man half-built from memory, half-held together by loss. He will carry it all, quietly.

The old house on Grimmauld Place will still stand, but he will not return. Some ghosts are too sacred to disturb, and some rooms still remember how to bleed.

Yours will remain untouched — the air thick with dust and song, the bed still hiding three plush toys like relics of a time when the world had not yet shattered. The scent of childhood still clinging to the curtains, as if waiting for someone to come home.

And though the world will move forward without him — blooming and burning and beginning again — Sirius will remain quietly stitched into the edges of it, in every reckless laugh, every act of love carved in defiance, every child who believes that family is something you choose.

Because what he lost cannot be measured in names or battles or years. It is deeper than that. It is a wound shaped like a sister’s lullaby, a brother’s silence, a best friend’s grin. It is the kind of grief that builds a home inside your ribs and dares you to live with it.

And even when there is no one left to speak your name aloud, Sirius will. Not out of duty, but because somewhere within him, the boy who once held your hand still waits in the dark.

He still listens for the echo of your laughter through silent halls, still glances at the doorway like you might walk through, still dreams of a world where everything broken might find a way to mend.

There is a quiet place in him that never grew older than sixteen, still caught in the house where you stayed behind, still curled beside you in the dark, still whispering stories of escape to the ceiling.

That part of him hears your voice when the world forgets how to be kind.

It sees your eyes in every child who refuses to stop hoping, every child with bright eyes and a scar on their forehead — especially the one who looks at him like he is something good.

It believes, even now, that the love you gave was too bright to vanish, too true to ever fade.

Sirius Black remained — not because he survived, but because love, once given, does not know how to leave, and grief, once born, does not know how to die.

And then, years later, it was his cousin who ended him — blood of his blood, born of the same ruin, raised on the same silken lies, sipping from the same poisoned cup. Bellatrix did not strike like chance, but like prophecy, like the final breath of a story written long before they ever lived it.

It was not kindness that undid them, nor mercy. It was inheritance — a name carved too deep, a legacy that devoured its own.

In the end, nothing could tear down the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Except itself.

For those whose fate was never their own,

for the one who bore the weight alone,

for the one who stayed,

so ends the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

a/n: um..hi? is this too angsty? :(

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comatosebunny09 · 11 months ago

Text

cater 2 u | sylus

summary: you can't sleep. he tires you out in the best way. warnings: female anatomy described, soft!dom sylus, fingering, explicit language, praise kink, pet names, heavy petting, bodily fluids now playing: go to war - tanerélle alright - victoria monét notes: for @muvaginger. the sylus brainrot is too real. thank you so much for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

It comes through the serene, amber glow of your bedroom. Through the slurry of your thoughts and your restless leg syndrome.

It’s a gentle pressure in the form of idle fingers smoothing along the skin of your belly. Meant to soothe, to anchor you down as the maelstrom behind your skull threatens to spill out and sweep you away.

His reminder that he is here and very much real.

“Can’t sleep?” he rasps from behind, voice heavy with exhaustion. Sends tingles down your spine, and his breath stirs the hairs at the nape of your neck.

Your stomach pulls, heart sinks. You must’ve woken him up with your jostling about.

He doesn’t sleep well himself. The constant traveling between the N109 Zone and Linkon has its drawbacks. Transitioning from darkness to light so abruptly has surely mucked up his circadian cycle.

Doesn’t help that he abhors the sun. On cue, it defiantly creeps through the slit of your curtains, casting both your faces in an amber stripe. He bears it all if only to see you. To feel your pulse beat beneath his lips, to hold you like this.

You stroke his wrist with an apologetic thumb. “No, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He groans low like distant thunder. Tugs you closer until your ass sits all perfectly in the notch of his pelvis, and his chin finds the pocket of your shoulder. He tangles your legs together, arms possessive around your middle while he caresses your feet with his surprisingly soft ones.

He clings to you like a lifeline. You revel in the notion that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. Stripped down, bare-boned, all lovey-dovey, with cartoonish hearts swirling overhead.

He’d thump you for thinking like that. He hasn’t gone soft; he swears it.

“S’alright. Can’t expect you to completely change your routine for little old me.”

You scoff at that. Study the flutter of the curtains across from your bed as a breeze eases in. You’ve already changed your lifestyle so much to accommodate him.

“You talk like I wouldn’t give you the world.”

A chuckle roils in his chest, vibrating your back. Your bed sheets rustle as he shifts to press his lips to your carotid. Mouth lingers there like he intends to soak all the warmth of your body into his. You shiver.

His voice crackles with emotion peeking through the grogginess. Something quiet and raspy, barely audible beneath the hum of the AC. “You are my world. And right now, my world is having trouble sleeping.”

Sylus can be the epitome of sweet when he wants to be. Has a hand, hot and coaxing, on your sternum, scorching you from the outside in. His thumb coasts over the grooves of your ribcage, and he roots his nose behind your ear, inhaling deep.

“So, what can I do to help?”

The pressure in the room shifts. Heavy, buzzing like white noise in your ears. When you swallow thick, your throat clicks, and you feel his lips curve upwards against your skin.

His tone is deceptively innocent. Had he been anyone else but Sylus, you would deem his intentions pure. However, the coarse pads of his fingers outlining the underside of your breast warn you against it. You inwardly snort at his cheekiness. So much for being ‘sweet.’

You go for coy. Make yourself cozier halfway on your back, a smile rounding your lips. You reach back to curl your hand around his nape. Thread fingers in a thatch of messy white, and he groans something bitten-off at the attention. You quietly grant him more access to your body, knowing the path he intends to err down.

“Dunno,” you say on a wistful exhale. “Maybe a big, fat sleeping pill would help.”

That laugh again. Coarse like P80-grit sandpaper, and you feel it shoot straight to the space between your thighs. You clench them together to ward off the pulsing.

He ponders all low and throaty, dragging his mouth up your neck until his teeth tease your earlobe. He steadily grows hard against the cleft of your ass. Rolls his hips sluggishly against you as if to convey, yes, this is very much your doing.

“I can think of more effective ways to help you relax, sweetie.” There’s danger there. A wicked curve to his tone, reminiscent of the bold under-notes of whiskey. You take the bait regardless.

“Like how?”

“Hmm. Well, I was thinking we could start with a nice massage.”

To punctuate his words, cupped palms mold around your tits. Weigh and knead them all slowly and thoroughly in the way you like. In the way that makes your tummy flutter and your panties sticky, and you’re pinching your thighs together to take the edge off.

“Starting right here.”

His breath is hot and sodden as he traps your puckered nipples between his fingers. Tugs, and it borders between pain and pleasure. Occasionally, he scrapes his nails over them, the sensation amplified by your nightshirt stretched thin over your breasts. You bite your lip against a whimper. He sees that as a challenge to make you cry his name.

“Then maybe here,” he pursues, groping your tits with one hand whilst the other embarks on a languid journey southward.

You’re halfway between a pant and a giggle as the flat of his nails graze your belly, all honey slow in pursuit of your waistline. Sylus then drags his fingers over your thigh, avoiding the space where you crave his touch most.

You wind your hips to chase his hand, and he chuckles something abrasive at how cute you are. How adorable his little darling is, desperate for his fingers, his touch.

Instead, he takes to kneading your thigh, and he peers down to watch your skin crater between his fingers as he slowly encourages your legs to open.

“Here,” husked into your ear, his voice prickling your skin. He runs meticulous lines up and down your inner thigh. Gentle, gentle, and you spread open so pretty for him like a flower.

Each time, he ventures closer to the sticky mess between your legs. He braces you against him with an arm snaked around your neck. Not enough pressure to choke you, but enough to remind you of his power and how the tide could easily shift if he deems it necessary.

“And here.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him, all shaky and ragged. His dick jumps against your backside when he finally, finally teases the seam of your pussy. It’s quick and maddening, and you ruck your hips up to chase the sensation once more. He laughs because you’re so eager, and your mind fills only with Sylus, Sylus, Sylus.

“Sy,” you pant. You sound pitiful. Needy, but you could give two shits about keeping up facades right now. You crave him in a way that edges animalistic, and he knows it by the earthy scent of your pussy permeating through your panties.

“Yes, sweetie?” he coos. It’s doting, nurturing, and dulcet because he knows you love it when he talks to you like this. Like you’re something delicate, something to be exalted, and he’d give you the moon and stars if he could.

He teases you through your panties with the flat of nails, reveling in how your hips jerk and your breath catches each time he does it. Teetering along the edge himself, his breaths jerky and his hips winding in tandem with yours.

“Please,” you whimper, pelvis undulating against his like waves licking the shoreline. “Please, please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for anymore. You don’t know what you need anymore.

“Hmm? Please, what?”

“Please just…fuck.” He gets off on this, making you beg so nicely for him. You’re too tired to argue. Too drunk off the feel of his body behind you and his weighted dick pressing to your spine, and if he keeps talking like that, you’ll cum from the pitch of his voice alone.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“Here,” you gasp out, and your vision’s blurry around the edges as your stomach gnarls and twists. You wrap shaky fingers around his wrist, guiding him to where heat builds. Where you throb for him so eagerly. “Need you here.”

“Right here?” he parrots, his voice strained. His mouth seals around your jugular as he strokes up the slit of your pussy. Hard in that way you like, sending pleasant jolts to your synapses.

You burn hot as your hips surge off the bed, and he groans something appreciative at how your body responds to him. You’re always so good. Too good to him.

He taps your pussy once, twice. Sucks in a breath, and spots of milky white circle the edges of your vision at his ministrations.

He groans alongside you as he builds a steady rhythm thereafter, stroking you with the finesse of an artist molding pottery. And he rubs and pats and teases until you’re a mess of incoherencies in his arms. He licks up your throat, breathing all hot and uneven in your ear, promising the best of things.

“Oh, you feel so good here. Need you to stay with me, kitten,” he rasps, closing a large hand around your neck. “Want to take care of you.”

You’re trying to hang on. You honestly are, but if he keeps on like this, you’ll be painting the seat of your panties with your cum in no time.

Cold air suddenly kisses your swollen labia. You’ve barely time to react to him rucking your panties to one side before his fingers are there again. Spindly and rough, parting your pussy lips and pulling back the hood of your clitoris in search of the pearl nestled within.

He finds it in no time. Presses against that unfathomable bud of pleasure, and he rubs in meticulous circles. You shackle his wrist down as he alternates between outlining the rim of your sticky, slutty pussy hole and playing with your clit. Teases a finger inside when you’re sobbing ‘til he’s knuckle deep, and fuck.

You both groan as he eases home, your walls greedily sucking his finger in. How sweet you sound, chanting his name like a broken hymnal. Thrashing this way and that, clamping your thighs shut and tugging on his hand to stave off the rush of endorphins. Too much. Too soon. You don’t wanna cum. Not yet. Not—

Sylus kicks your legs further apart, snaking his calf around yours to keep you nice and open for him. And it’s cute how you think you can fight back when he manacles your hands over your head using one of his. He could easily use his Evol to restrain you, but where’s the fun in that? Likes it when you fight. When you act all sweet like you’re not slowly succumbing to the pleasure.

Your head thrashing on the pillow, Sylus eventually works another finger into the fray, and he presses and curls and pistons until your voice is broken and you’re leaking pretty, sticky pearls of white onto his hand.

Pleasure mushrooms in your stomach. Coils in your throat. Threatens to spill you over the edge. “Sy! Sy, please! I can-I can’t—”

“You can,” he counters, voice heavy with lust. Weighed by undertones of desperation, and his brows furrow as he pants through parted, wet lips. He needs this, needs to have his pretty princess spasming around his fingers. You always take such good care of him. Such good care of everyone. It’s about time someone places you on a plinth of your own. “I know you can take it, sweetie.”

His eyes are like liquid sin when they find yours, and you can’t look away. Can’t look away because he’s aching for you to cum. And somewhere between him begging you to…

Cum. Cum. Cum. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let it go. Want it so bad.

Somewhere between the third finger he’d worked inside, and somewhere between his thumb smearing your sticky nectar onto your clit, and his grip tightening upon your wrists to keep you in place...

You cum.

God, you cum, and it’s like stars shooting across an inky nebula. You don’t think you’ve ever cum harder, painting his hand with your essence with a scream corked in your throat.

He works you through it. Coddles and strokes you until you’re pulsing and shaking from the aftermath, and he releases a weighted sigh, panting alongside you as you come down, down from the stratosphere, floating back into your skin.

You’re boneless and loose-limbed. A sheen of dewy sweat paints your body, but it doesn’t deter him. A doting chuckle in his throat, he leans down to kiss your forehead before rolling off the mattress, leaving you cold and bereft of the warmth of his body.

Still, you curl up with the sheets balled into your fists, and the goofiest grin is plastered on your face. Somewhere far off, you hear the pipes of your bathroom hissing to life.

You’re halfway dozing when Sylus pads back into your bedroom. And then, there is the sensation of you being tenderly lifted, his arms sturdy at your back and the crooks of your knees. You nuzzle into the heat his muscles exude, too exhausted to open your eyes or ask where he’s taking you. Just register the feeling of wet steam wading over you and his laugh, warm milk and honey, vibrating your body.

“You can’t fall asleep before I bathe you, kitten.”

“Watch me,” you challenge on a whisper, a catlike smile spreading cross your lips as you fade into inky bliss.

hair down | masterlist | international

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus romance #sylus fic #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you #l&ds smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus imagine #sylus love and deepspace

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ramp-it-up · 1 month ago

Text

FMK

Summary: Bucky takes you for a ride, extending the game you introduced him to.

Word count: 2.8 K

Pairing: Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Even though I've done Congressman Bucky, I feel like this is my first Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes. I think I love him. Give me all the feedback, good, bad, or ugly! Reblog, comment, and like.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Thunderbolts* Bucky, Bucky on his bike (Y'all know that's a warning), man out of time, Bucky and his staring problem, picnic, semi-public sex, sloppy oral (m receiving) grinding, woman on top, raw p in v, praise kink, SIZE KINK, Doll as a nickname. This is basically porn with plot.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

Bucky stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the collar of his worn leather jacket for the third time. But it wasn’t the fabric bothering him; it was the twitch in his fingers.

Combat never rattled him like this.

Underneath the black leather and tousled hair, beneath the facade of calm and control, was a man barely holding it together. He was chaos underneath the restraint on the outside.

Because this wasn’t just any day.

He’d been planning this for weeks. Quietly tucking away ideas and perfect details. Not to impress you, not exactly. But because you deserved perfect.

And because for the first time in his life, he wanted to be perfect. For someone.

For you.

Two months. That’s all it took. Two months since he asked you out, and you’d already rewired him. Threaded yourself through his bloodstream. Burned through walls he didn’t even know he’d built.

You saw past the metal, past the missions, past the wreckage of who he used to be. When he was with you, the blood stopped screaming in his ears. You weren’t just his safe place. You were his secret.

The one thing he didn’t report back to Valentina, or anyone.

Even though some of the first words out of your mouth to him were, “.... fuck... me?” you were surprisingly sweet. And good.

He didn’t want to get you dirty.

But lately, when you kissed him, it wasn’t sweet anymore.

It was desperate.

Your sweet mouth had turned to molten honey. Your hands held on to him like you were afraid he’d vanish, the kind of touches that said, I need you. The kind that made him ache to give in.

And every time, he restrained himself. You were worth waiting for. But God, he was unraveling. One touch, one look from you, and he was on fire.

He grabbed the helmet he bought for you, ran a hand through his hair, and said to himself, “You’ve got this, Barnes.”

Then he tried, and failed, to ignore how your needy little sounds haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

The night before was just supposed to be an innocent movie night. But you ended up in his lap, grinding that hot little pussy on his thigh, your jeans soaked through while he sat there hard as a rock, hands clenched around your thighs, jaw tight to keep from begging for mercy. He’d almost snapped.

Almost.

But you deserved more than almost. And today, he was going to take you somewhere no one else could find you. Feed you, hold you, maybe fuck you until you forgot your own name.

—

The low, thunderous purr of his bike echoed down your street, and your pulse picked up before you even saw him. The sound of Bucky on his bike always sent a rush straight between your thighs.

You’d barely made it to the door before he was pulling up, black leather, sinful jeans, and sunglasses hiding those sky-blue eyes made you want to get undressed before a word left your mouth.

You first saw him on that bike two months ago. He pulled up to your neighborhood gas station while you were filling up. You lived quite a ways from the city, and you imagined that he had ridden until he ran out of gas.

You’d imagined quite a few things about Bucky Barnes, as hot as he was, but you never thought you’d actually be in the same space as him.

You tried not to stare. But when you looked up, he was staring at you. His eyes were locked on you, steady and unblinking. And it wasn’t a passing glance. It was full on distracted, intense staring.

Truth was, Bucky was already gone for you. You just didn’t know it yet.

You swallowed your nervousness and decided to shoot your shot. You tilted your head playfully.

“Should I be worried? You look like you’re trying to decide whether to fuck, marry, or kill me.”

It short-circuited him. He blinked and stammered as his cheeks flushed.

“Uh… definitely not kill,” he managed, voice rough.

“Maybe marry… one day.”

He’d looked away like he’d said too much.

You grinned. “So that leaves fuck.”

His throat bobbed.

“Yeah. Probably that too. But I’m gonna need to work for it.”

You’d liked that answer. Liked it too much. You laughed, shaking your head.

“Glad to hear it.”

Bucky looked cool on the surface, but inside he was raw as hell. He was acutely aware of how little he really knew, how much he wanted to catch up, to be able to be with you in every sense.

It was insane, he just met you, but inside, he thought: I want you to fuck me, marry me, and kill me with your love. He wondered if you would agree to that, one day.

He wondered if you knew who you were talking to.

Bucky opened his mouth like he wanted to say more but settled for a shy smile instead.

Then, lowering his voice just enough, he murmured, “You know who I am, right?”

You shrugged, not scared of him. “Who doesn’t?”

His smile softened.

“Still. Thanks for talking to the guy who stared at you for a full minute like a dumbass at a Shell station.”

You leaned against your car, sipping your coffee.

“Well, dumbass or not... I like the view.”

Bucky chuckled, summoned pre-war James Barnes, then pulled out his phone.

“Can I have your number, Doll?”

You grinned and took another sip, his sudden panty-dropping look doing something to you.

“Aren’t you a super hero or something with unlimited resources?”

Bucky’s eyes scanned your form, then back up to your face.

“You know what…?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, went around your car and typed in your license plate. Within a minute, his phone buzzed and then turned it to you to show your contact information on his screen.

“Impressive.”

“Yeah. Guess I don’t need to kill or marry you to get your number.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Wait. What about fuck? You just left that one out.”

Bucky blinked.

“Uh... yeah. Forgot that one.”

No he didn't. Not by a longshot.

You grinned and got into your car, rolling down the window before you drove off.

“If you use that number, maybe I’ll remind you of it one day.”

—--

After a week of texting, and two months of dating, along with a night of will he? or won’t he?, Bucky showed up at your front door. The question of if last night affected him was suddenly answered.

Bucky Barnes was your wet dream. The actual wet dream you had last night after he pulled away yet again. And now, he was leaning against his bike like he owned the world and all your future orgasms.

“Hey, Doll,” he rumbled, voice deep and sexy.

Your smile grew.

“Hey yourself. What’s the occasion?”

He stepped close, like he couldn’t not touch you.

“Thought I’d steal you for a bit. Got a spot. No one around. Pretty view.”

He lifted a saddlebag.

“Packed us a picnic.”

Your brow rose.

“A picnic? A ride on your bike? You trying to kill me?”

He gave you that rare laugh that he told you only you could pull from him.

“No, ma’am. Got you a helmet. You’re safe with me.”

The look he gave you made you think otherwise.

“I just thought maybe we could use some sunshine, some food, and some time alone.”

The way he said that last word nearly made your knees buckle.

You swallowed.

“I’d like that a lot.”

Bucky’s smile turned soft, but the heat behind his eyes said otherwise. Then he pulled out the helmet.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, stepping close enough to buckle it for you himself.

“Let me take you somewhere I don’t gotta share you with the rest of the world.”

—

You clung to Bucky like you'd been riding with him for years, your thighs pressed flush against his hips, your chest pressed to his back. Every bump in the road made your clit pulse. Every lean into a curve made you press tighter, grinding down just enough to feel it where you needed it.

The growl of the bike between your legs had you aching and needy. He wasn’t even touching you, but you were already soaked. When he finally turned off-road into a secluded clearing overlooking a still lake, you were seconds from begging.

The engine cut. Silence fell. He turned to you, voice husky.

“Still with me?”

You nodded, breathless.

“Definitely.”

He helped you off the bike, hands dragging a little longer over your hips. You felt the heat in his touch, the restraint in his muscles. Then he grabbed the basket and blanket, heading toward the overlook.

“Promise it’s worth it,” he said over his shoulder, but his eyes were already locked on you, not the view.

You sat close. Too close. His thigh against yours. His fingers brushing yours as he handed over a drink. His knuckles grazed your knee. Every contact was a tease and a promise.

“This really is perfect,” you murmured. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Was saving it for you.”

Your heart flipped. The air thickened.

“So what now? You charm me with snacks and sunlight? Then kill me?”

“Why do you keep going with that option?” he asked with another low laugh.

His eyes dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“What about the other two?”

You had thoroughly explained the game to Bucky using him, Walker, and Bob, and Bucky hadn’t seemed to like those examples. You’d said Fuck Walker, Marry Bob and kill Bucky, just so you could say you defeated the Winter Soldier. You were teasing, but Bucky hadn’t thought it was funny.

Especially the part about Walker. You had to kiss him for a half hour before he forgave you.

But now you smiled at him angelically.

“You wanna marry me, Bucky?”

Bucky got serious.

“Yeah, but that’s beside the point.”

He reached for you and pulled you onto his lap and kissed you as your mouth dropped open in surprise. He didn’t let you dwell on his statement for long.

“Let’s stop pretendin’ we haven’t been thinkin’ the same damn thing for weeks, Doll.”

And what’s that?” you whispered, already knowing.

His hand came up to trace your jaw and draw you even closer.

“You. Me.”

His lips brushed your throat.

“The way you sound when I touch you…”

A kiss, lower now.

“...the way you taste when I get my tongue in your mouth...”

Another kiss, higher.

“...and the way you ride my thigh like you’re tryin’ to make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You whimpered and rolled your hips instinctively against the solid ridge under you. He felt massive.

“Bucky…”

The way you said his name broke him.

When he laid back, you climbed over him, his cock thick and hard beneath his jeans, throbbing under you. You ground against it, chasing friction, and Bucky growled.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You feel that, Doll? That’s what you do to me.”

His hands found your waist, sliding under your shirt. When he cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, you arched into him with a broken gasp.

“All those nights,” he rasped, “I went home and fucked my fist thinking about the way you sound.”

You whimpered.

“I did worse.”

He stopped moving, your words were getting him close and he didn’t want to cum in his pants like a schoolboy.

“I touched myself the second the door closed. Couldn’t wait. I was dripping for you, Bucky.”

He groaned like it hurt. “Jesus, Doll.

Your fingers shook as you freed him, thick and leaking, the head flushed. You lowered your head, kissed the thick, hot tip, and licked slowly up his shaft.

He cursed, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck. You're gonna kill me.”

You took him deeper, sucked harder and watched him lose composure with every flick of your tongue.

Bucky watched you with hooded eyes.

“Been a long time, Doll. ‘M sensitive. If you dont want- fuckkkk!”

When you gagged just a little, he growled and came hard, jerking in your mouth, spilling super soldier cum on your tongue, your lips, and down your chin.

His body trembled beneath you and his chest heaved. He looked up at you, eyes glassy.

“Oh, you’re so getting fucked.”

He pulled you up, wiped your chin, and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. Then he slid his hand into your leggings and cupped your soaked pussy.

“You’re fuckin’ drenched, Doll,” he rasped. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky,” you gasped. “Please.”

His fingers played, skating in your warm, slick folds. Bucky groaned, his cock waking up again. He looked down at you and chuckled.

“Apparently, there’s no down time with you. You’re gonna be the death of me, Doll.”

You got each other naked, not rushing now.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered.

He flushed, but his hands found your waist again.

Golden hour spilled across the clearing as he lay back and pulled you over him.

And when you started to move, he murmured, “Ride me, sweetheart. Don’t hold back.”

You started writhing softly, teasing your slick folds over the hard line of him, letting your arousal coat him as your hips rolled. It wasn't exactly where he wanted to be, which was buried deep inside you, but just feeling your wet pussy lips slide over his cock caused Bucky’s breath to leave him. His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, like he might float away if he didn’t hold you tight.

Bucky was so close, so soon. He could so easily position you to slide his hot cock right on into that juicy nirvana that was your cunt and which was leaking deliciously all over him.

“Doll,” he warned, voice hoarse, barely tethered. “You keep that up, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirked down at him and leaned in to whisper against his mouth, “That’s the point.”

Then you shifted, one slow, aching glide down, taking him inside inch by thick inch. His jaw locked. His eyes rolled back. And then they snapped open to watch you, stunned.

“Fuck me,” he gasped, hands sliding to your hips, desperate now.

“You feel…Christ…you feel like heaven.”

You rocked your hips, just enough to test the stretch, which was glorious, and Bucky groaned, head dropping back as his metal hand flexed, then clutched your hip with bruising pressure. The veins in his neck stood out. His thighs trembled under you.

He was gorgeous.

You moved slowly at first, watching him come undone beneath you, every stuttered breath, every low, broken sound, your reward. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, and the friction was maddening. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him, grinding down until your clit brushed the coarse hair at the base of him, until the pressure coiled sharp and tight in your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasped, and when you met his eyes, wild and so blue and so wrecked, something inside you shattered.

Because it wasn’t just lust. It was everything. Want and need and wonder mixed with a little desperation.

And something like love.

His voice dropped to a whisper, “Been dreamin’ about this. Every night. You on top of me, takin’ what you want. Drippin’ all over me.”

You whimpered, angling your hips to take him deeper, and when he felt it, he grunted like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Just like that, baby. That’s it.”

The praise made you clench around him. You moved faster, chasing it, and Bucky met your rhythm, fucking up into you, hard and deep. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet clearing and neither of you cared if anyone heard.

Your orgasm hit fast and hard, curling your spine as your cunt fluttered around him, and Bucky cursed, holding you through it, grounding you with one hand on the small of your back and the other tangled in your hair as he sat up, mouth crashing to yours in a bruising kiss.

“Mine,” he growled against your lips. “You hear me, Doll? Mine.”

Then he flipped you, laying you gently on the blanket as he drove into you again with slow, brutal thrusts, dragging every ounce of pleasure from your oversensitive body.

You were still panting when he buried his face in your neck, groaning as he pulsed inside you. His release was fierce and deep, hips grinding into yours like he didn’t want to leave your body, like he wanted to stay buried in you forever.

After a long moment, Bucky kissed your temple.

“Well, sweetheart,” he rasped, “you killed me.”

You laughed, breathless. “You fucked me.”

He looked up at you, utterly ruined, utterly yours.

“There’s only one thing left, Doll.”

His smile blinded you as your heart leapt.

---

Let me know how you feel! :)

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blood-smiles · 9 days ago

Text

𝐈’𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . gore . blood brought up very often. sexual assault attempt towards reader (not by yandere) . wounds

જ⁀➴ Your legs burned, limbs clearly unprepared as you sprinted out into the field like a wild gazelle. You hadn’t even begun to work, all you could feel was the sting in your chest, your heart brimming with adrenaline.

Your heart thundered in your ears, you could feel the vibrations of the organ in the right of your chest. Sweat dribbled down your back, mixing with the rain sprinkling from above, bullets zipped past your form just narrowly missing you by a silk thread.

You didn’t know where you were running to, you just were. You were quick and lithe, not a single bullet or stray piece of debris grazed you.

You slid to a stop, the muddy ground underneath your combat boots squelching under your weight. A man, clearly a soldier, judging by his camo uniform and badge, clutched his side while crying out in pain, he kicked his feet on the ground in a way to try and release some of the pain.

He got mud and rainwater all over you but that wasn’t important, you had to help this man, somehow. You studied his wound with the focus of a scholar, features taut with anxiety and the slightest hint of foreboding.

This was the hardest part of your job. Not the blood and bodily fluids, not the close monitoring of wounds, not the procedure but this— Knowing that the decision of letting this man live was in your hands, that a single mistake could send this man to his early grave.

You applied pressure with a cloth you had in tucked in your cargo pockets, your palm firmly pressing against the gaping hole in his side.

You watched how the once white fabric turned a murky scarlet color, warmth seeped underneath your palm and soaked your hands.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe, you’re going to be okay.” You reassured the injured fellow, making sure to keep a calm, even tone of voice.

You seemed sure and collected on the outside, like you had everything coldly calculated, almost as if you had already saved this man.

But the truth was far from it. You were a nervous wreck inside, tears pricked your vision, your throat burned and closed in with the need to weep for this man. Your knees were shaking even though you weren’t the one in pain, you allowed him to softly place his hand on your forearm.

“Please stay awake, I need you to stay awake.” You implored, your mind working like a tiny machine, an encyclopedia of methods and practices you had done in the past opening inside your brain.

You carefully planned your next action, his hand tightened on your arm, his dirty nails digging into your skin as he gave a weak cry, you pinched your eyebrows together in deep confusion.

“Sir. Sir? What’s happening?” You asked frantically, finally, panic seeping into your tone. He mouthed something, his whole body shuddering as he tried to muster the last of his strength to point at something behind you.

You read his bloody lips.

‘BEHIND YOU.’

You didn’t even have time to blink, because as soon as you opened your mouth to speak to the soldier, he was already dead.

BANG!

A bullet was planted between his brows, from

how loud the gun sounded it was like someone had shot him almost face to face.

Warm blood sprayed across your face, someone was behind you. Someone was behind you. Someone was behind you.

You breathed in, but you couldn’t move. There was nowhere to go anymore. You were stuck between the sword and the wall. Cornered like a lamb at the mercy of a vicious wolf.

The tears you had been battling against drained out your eyes, and as soon as the first salty droplet could hit the ground a boisterous sound filled your ears.

Before you could formulate your last words pain ripped through you endlessly, with no warning or hesitation. It shot you in the side, you could feel the foreign capsule burying itself in your guts.

The metal felt hot, god. It felt so hot. It felt like you were forced to touch boiling iron, but you weren’t allowed to pull away. There was nowhere way to escape the scalding heat of the bullet because it was inside you.

You had never screamed so loudly in your life, you hit the ground with an ear splitting wail, you curled in on yourself next to the deceased soldier.

IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts

You let out a choked sob, something between a cry of pain and a scream.

A grand man chuckled at your pain, you could see the vague outline of his body out of the corner of your eye. He was large, built like a ravenous wolf, his teeth were bared, sharp and crooked like daggers as he bent down beside you.

His cold hands took a careless grip on your ankles, a new feeling arose, fear. Raw, primal fear.

His grip was so tight and hurtful that he might have shattered your bones without even noticing— But it wasn’t like he even cared.

What was he going to do to you? You screamed and kicked in desperation, his hands creeped higher up to your knees.

Were you going to die like this? Why? What did you do wrong? You did everything they told you to.

Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?

Tears didn’t stop, the dam behind your eyes broke. The walls of the well had ruptured, it held years upon years of hate and suffering, and now that it had burst a tidal wave, one with the height of a tsunami had left nothing in its wake.

Your throat felt stuffed with rocks, your vocal cords strained inside you, clawing at the ground, soil settling underneath your nails.

You had tried to fight, you really did but blood was starting to settle in a pool underneath you. Your hair had chunks of dirt and blood, your skin had small cuts and was debauched by debris and flesh that wasn’t yours.

The clouds had parted, a single beam of light pushing through the skies and falling on the burly figure of a soldier with hair as golden as the sun.

Was that an angel? Was he here for you?

Peace at last, why did you feel peace? As soon as you caught a glimpse of those cold, steel blue eyes you felt.. free.

The fight inside had left you.

Like you could rest, maybe it was the blood loss getting to you. The ground underneath suddenly felt warm and comfortable, like the dreamiest of beds, the ones filled with swan feathers that only royals had the luxury of using.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a soft exhale leaving your lips. Blood and rainwater soaked your clothing, you lost consciousness with a small smile.

It was a blessing that you had closed your eyes, because at the least that had protected you from the carnage and absolute inhumane cruelty that would exhibited in front of your unconscious body.

The so called angel was no divine being, but the infamous lieutenant who had his sights set on you, perhaps too closely.

He didn’t hesitate to take the other man from his throat, his thick fingers wrapped around the rugged man’s neck, his nails dug into the thick muscles like the teeth of a bear trap.

The separation of meat from muscle was quick and brutal, Marcelle’s hand ripped the man’s throat out like tearing fat from a chicken leg. It was a disgusting show of force and power, and it was all done for some girl.

Marcelle’s chest heaved, pure rage ran through his veins like adrenaline, his nose was scrunched up like a rabid bear’s would. Someone had hurt you, the light to his darkness, the moon among so many stars.

They tried to tear you from his arms, tried to take advantage of your weak build and gentle heart.

Hate wasn’t an adequate word for what he really felt, it was an understatement of what was going through his twisted head.

The wolf-like man’s larynx dropped on the floor with a wet splat, blood rushed out of the exposed maw that once used to be his throat.

Marcelle was nowhere done with him though.

A tactical knife strapped on his thigh was dislodged, then driven into the wolf’s stomach, the blonde pressed the blade so tight against his flesh that the peritoneum had been torn apart like a bag of candy on the hallow’s eve.

Guts spilled everywhere, slimy sausage shaped innards were the first to go, unfurling from his stomach like climbing rope.

Everything dropped down at his feet, contaminated filth mixed with blood and mud. Marcelle scoffed at how easy it was to kill this one, it wasn’t a big show of strength to pull this guy apart like tender teriyaki.

The mangled one lost his balance, falling onto his knees while choking on carmine, it sprayed everywhere along with chunks of meat, or what was left of it.

The blonde bear grabbed the disfigured man by his hair, then pressed a dirty boot onto the small of his back. He yanked with vigor at the other’s scalp while maintaining hard pressure on his back.

Then a sick crack came from the crumpled’s spine, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, swollen with blood and severed capillaries.

His spine had been severed in two, cleanly snapped like a toothpick.

The man bent backwards in the fashion of an arc, the cadaver looked like it was doing gymnastics, but really his body was so greatly damaged that his spine couldn’t maintain his weight, he was bent at such an unnatural extent it hurt just by looking at him.

Marcelle kicked away the body and its innards, sending what was of a man into a puddle, leaving his organs and blood to mingle with the water.

He saw you, curled up like a kitten. But blood streamed out your side like a river, it wouldn’t stop, he panicked.

He dropped beside you, picking you up with the gentleness of what could only be compared to picking up an injured baby bird. He touched your face with the delicate touch of a feather, your face was dirty, streaked with dirt and crimson.

He pressed his ear against your chest, the soft thump of your heart whispering that you had limited time.

His breath caught in his throat.

He was taught to never cry. That a man should never cry in the presence of anyone, but in this moment, this miserable and unfortunate situation he could do no less than weep.

All he could see was the tiny smile on your lips, your precious visage ruined by destruction of war. You didn’t stop bleeding, you can’t stop. His eyes watered, for the first time in decades he allowed himself to shed a tear.

“No.. No— You can’t.. You won’t leave me!” He yelled to your unconscious form, his dirtied hand grasping your limp one. He squeezed tightly, hoping that if he gripped hard enough you would react, that those pretty (e/c) eyes would look up at him one last time.

His distress was heard, a group of young soldiers trotted over to him, finding their great lieutenant distraught over the soon to be corpse of a nurse.

He hugged the body close to his chest, trying to share warmth to the wounded girl, his chin rested over her head, his thick fingers smoothing over her filthy hair, they weren’t sure if he was trying to soothe the injured woman or himself.

They came up to him, touching his shoulder and trying to reach the nurse in his arms. He didn’t take well to that.

He snapped at them, snarling like a furious bear protecting his young. He clawed at them, finding a discarded gun somewhere, it shook in his hands as he aimed at them. His finger looped into the trigger, only to hear a click.

Blank.

The gun was empty of bullets, so he took the next alternative, the only thing he knew to do, fight with his fists.

There was no one that could go up against him, they knew that Marcelle could divorce their head from their shoulders clean.

“You are not going to take her.” He rasped, putting himself between you and the men. Now they all looked like enemies, like big red training targets with white swirls.

The cadets glanced at each other, just barely noticing the lifeless bodies surrounding the blonde and the wounded girl in his arms.

“Holy shit..” one of them murmured as he looked around, Marcelle had gone berserk, especially on this man at his feet, completely disemboweled— Where was his throat?

He stared at the human remains on the floor, feeling the urge to vomit his stomach out right here and there.

A new voice pushed through, the head nurse shouldered men away as she jogged towards the pair of bloodied lovers.

“Look. I don’t care who you are or what your rank is—“ she began, walking towards Marcelle with no fear whatsoever.

“But that girl is going to die if you keep hoarding her like an aggressive mutt!” She yelled, beads of sweat collecting on her brow, she plowed through the mud and dirt just to make it to you.

Marcelle stared at her with a vacant look in his eyes, he didn’t have it in him to touch a woman with intent of harm.

His grip tightened as she approached, water dripped now his face, sweat and rain soaked his uniform. He wasn’t about to let her tug you away, over his dead body.

She tried to pull you away, her hands gripping your forearms as hard as she could but Marcelle’s hold was unrelenting and soon she would have to call herself defeated in the strength game.

“Fine. You can carry her.” She said with an edge to her voice, she took the collar of her uniform in her hands and pulled him up how a dog would pick up a puppy by its scruff.

“But she is going to to live and you are going to take her back now.” She demanded it like his first drill sergeant, he listened to that one order, he slowly ascended from the ground and followed the nurse.

He stared at your face the whole way he walked, his finger curved gently, his pad brushing away your hair behind your ear.

You’re going to be okay, you’re going to live.

His jaw tensed as a new wave of emotions ran over him, he couldn’t break down, not yet. He had to be strong for you.

He gently pressed his forehead against yours, his palm gently residing over your chest, feeling the soft thump of your heart under his hand.

He didn’t remember clearly when but he got ushered out of a room, he woke up in a sterile area surrounded by other people in what seemed to be a waiting room.

He vaguely recalled that he had to be restrained by four men, he got stabbed with a tranquilizer and that’s when everything went dark.

Where were you? His heart picked up in his chest, what had happened? Were you alive?

With a sudden movement he got up from his seat, a clipboard fell from his lap onto the ground. It held only a blank paper, with a single room number in it written in blue ink.

Marcelle had never ran faster in his life, he didn’t know or care how many people he knocked down as he sprinted through the halls. Nurses and doctors turned their heads at breakneck speeds as he zipped past them like a wild animal.

He opened your room door with a bang, sweat gathered on his forehead and his body burned, there you rested.

You, covered in bandages, body clean of dirt and blood, your hair looking soft like nothing had ever touched it. Soft morning light entered through the window, you glowed under the sun like a white dove.

You were hooked up to a monitor, constant beeping telling him you were still alive, it seemed you were breathing on your own, judging by the way your chest slowly rose and fell.

He was filthy with grime and sweat, he could never touch you, afraid he would taint you he stood back. He wanted nothing more than to touch your face, to see your smile again.

It wasn’t long until he was unceremoniously kicked out your room by your main caregiver.

Marcelle came back the day after, and the day after and the days following that. He kneeled beside your bed like a puppy nudging his owner’s hand with its muzzle.

His hand gently held yours, he placed it over his head, on his cheek, just to feel your touch again. Just to feel the way your fingers would run through his hair again, to feel your fingers curing his wounds again.

He weeped more in that hospital than he had cried in his whole life. He was sure that he would drown in his own tears if he kept it up, he missed you so much, he wouldn’t leave your side for a moment.

There were times he would refuse to leave your room at all, security was forced to tranquilize him and at one point threatened to place a restraining order if he didn’t abide by their rules.

Then that day came, he sat by your bed, holding your hand to his heart, praying to whatever was up there to bring his baby back to him.

He had never been a faithful man, but if that’s what it took to make you wake up, he would pray all day, everyday no matter the hour or situation.

The slightest twitch from your fingers made him jump, a glimmer in his grey eyes showed that he had hope. He stared at your hand, waiting for that little movement to come back.

Your eyelids moved, your facial muscles twitched, Marcelle stood from his chair abruptly, the furniture scratching the floor and making an unpleasant screech.

You opened your eyes, your beautiful (e/c) hues flitted around the room with confusion, the grogginess of consciousness filling you again.

You looked through your blurry memories, it felt like looking through frosted glass but you remembered a few things, the one that stood out to you most was the blonde angel.

There he was again.

Why was he crying? You wondered, trying to sit up only to give up when the pain was too unbearable, the man pushed you back down, scolding you and forcing you back into the bed.

You recognized him, your first patient ever. Marcelle.

Just when you were about to speak he basically pounced, he hugged you like you would disappear in that moment. He felt warm and comfortable, you could barely bring your hands to wrap around him.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs, he couldn’t stop crying again, but this time it wasn’t out of sorrow but happiness.

You were back. You were alive and in his arms.

He pulled away, looking you in the face as if this was all a dream, he touched your every feature, trying to re assure himself that this was no fantasy.

“I love you.” Were the first words he said when you woke up, that might have sent you to another coma in that moment.

The blood from your wound had rushed up to your cheeks, you searched his face for any trace of a joke but then remembered.

Marcelle doesn’t do jokes.

He kissed your hand softly, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t kiss you yet, you were healing and could catch sicknesses especially quickly.

So he would wait, wait until you were ready.

“I think.. I love you too.” You shyly smiled, fingers trembling with embarrassment.

To Marcelle, waiting would prove to be more difficult than he thought.

#Marcelleposting #yandere obsession #smilesyanderes #yandere x reader #yandere #male yandere #smilesanswers #male yandere x reader #fem reader #yandere male #yandere tendencies #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere x darling #yandere imagines #yanderecore

712 notes · View notes

syncaleb · 3 months ago

Text

-> daddy caleb taking care of his exhausted baby

You didn’t hear him come in.

You were curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in a blanket that didn’t quite reach the ache beneath your skin. Your head was pounding, body trembling from exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix. You felt frayed—like threads pulled too tight, about to snap.

Then… warmth. A hand on your ankle. Gentle pressure.

“There you are Pips,” Caleb murmurs, voice low and soothing like distant thunder on a rainy night. “Didn’t I tell you to call me when you feel like this?”

You open your mouth, but no words come. Just a little shake of your head. You don’t want to cry. You’re too tired to even cry.

He sighs, not annoyed—concerned. He kneels beside you and cups your face in one big hand, brushing his thumb across your cheek like you’re made of glass.

“You’re running yourself into the ground again, Angel. Always trying to be so strong.” You can’t help it. A little sob slips out—and he melts. Not into panic, not into pity—into purpose. In one swift motion, you’re in his arms. Picked up, held tight, carried like you weigh nothing but everything.

He sits down with you in his lap, blanket and all, wrapping you in his warmth. His chest is solid beneath your cheek. His heartbeat is steady, grounding. His hands roam—slow, reassuring, firm. One at your back, the other behind your head.

“You don’t have to hold it together with me,” he says quietly, breath brushing your temple. “You can fall apart, and I’ll still be right here. I’ll always be right here.”

You cling to him, and he lets you. Holds you tighter. Presses kisses to your hair, your forehead, your jaw. Soft, possessive, like he’s reminding you: you’re mine. You’re safe.

And then his voice—gravelly and low, close to your ear.

“Next time, you call me. You understand? I don’t care what time it is or what I’m doing—if my girl’s hurting, I drop everything. Because you come first. Always.”You nod, tears finally falling. Not out of pain—but relief.

Because with Caleb… you’re not alone.

You’re loved.

And most of all, you’re held.

He feels it—the way your body starts to soften, breath slowing against his chest. That quiet surrender. That precious unraveling. And he waits. Holds you steady in it.

“There she is,” he murmurs, voice lower now, darker. “My girl, finally letting go.”

You shiver—not from the cold this time, but from him. The way he speaks it like a promise and a claim all at once.

His hand slides up your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You give and give until you break, don’t you?” He tilts your face to meet his gaze—those eyes like storm clouds right before the downpour. “But that stops here.”

He leans in close. “You’re mine. And I don’t let what’s mine burn out.”

You try to speak, but he hushes you with a kiss—just at the corner of your lips. Not quite giving it all yet. Teasing. Controlling. Patient. “No more running on empty, Princess. No more pushing past your limits while pretending you’re fine.”

His hand moves again, sliding under the blanket, splaying against your bare waist. “Next time, I feel you slipping, I won’t wait for permission. I’ll take you. I’ll pull you into my lap, pin you down if I have to, and remind you whose you are.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles. That knowing, wicked little tilt of his lips that says: You’re mine to ruin gently. And I will. But then he kisses your forehead again, so soft it nearly breaks you.

“Not tonight, though.” His voice gentles again. “Tonight, I hold you until you fall asleep. But you remember this feeling—because tomorrow, when you’re stronger, I’m going to make sure you never forget who keeps you safe.”

And just like that, you’re wrapped in both fire and shelter.

His arms, his voice, his claim on you—

Home.

He feels the shift in you—the way your heartbeat begins to slow against his chest, your fingers loosening where they were curled into his shirt. Your body still pressed close, but no longer trembling. Just melting.

Caleb exhales softly, his breath brushing along your temple like a sigh of pride. His voice rumbles against your skin, low and tender. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. Let me take it from here.”

You hum something—a faint little sound, barely audible. Maybe a thank you. Maybe his name. You don’t even know anymore. You’re floating now, somewhere between sleep and him, the two starting to feel like the same thing.

He adjusts you in his lap just enough so he can lean back against the couch, one arm cradling your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist. And then his fingers start tracing soft patterns over your skin—up and down your spine, over your arm, along your side. Mindless, loving touches. The kind that say, “You don’t have to do anything. Just be.”

“I wish you could see yourself right now,” he whispers into your hair. “This soft. This calm. You were made to be held like this.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. One last bit of tension leaving your chest. His warmth, his voice, the strength of his arms—it’s everything you didn’t know you needed until now. And then, the final tether snaps. Sleep begins to pull you under—but this time, it’s not from exhaustion or desperation.

It’s safe. It’s soft. It’s him.

You shift once more, cheek nuzzling into the base of his throat, breath evening out. He feels it. Smiles to himself. “There she goes,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your forehead. “My good girl. Finally resting.”

He stays there, holding you long after your breathing settles. Still tracing those same slow circles. Still whispering, even though you’ve already drifted far away. “You sleep now, Princess. And when you wake… I’ll still be here.”

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads #caleb x reader #lads caleb #caleb fluff #caleb comfort #lads fluff #lads comfort #lads x reader comfort #caleb x reader comfort

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gracie-eilish · 1 month ago

Note

Babbbee. Can I request needy morning sex with Billie because sex before bed just wasn’t enough?

Forever in love with your writing 🩵

good f*****g morning

warnings: smut with an intro.

a soft clap of thunder awoke billie quietly. her eyes fluttered open as she took in a deep breath and stretched a bit before settling back in bed. she turned over onto her side to see you.

you were laid on your back, hair messy on the pillow like a halo, soft breasts on display as the sheet had moved down to your stomach. billie admired the pink and purple marks on your neck and chest with pride.. and love. watching your chest rise and fall with each breath you took, seeing your lashes flutter while you dream.

she couldn’t help herself anymore.

she leaned over and brushed the hair off your neck and out of your face, leaning down to kiss where you neck met your shoulder, then traveling up to your jaw and just below your ear. as she kissed, she held herself up with one arm, careful not to smother you while you slept.

she only pulled away from your skin when you started to stir, moaning lightly as you stretched the sleep away from your body.

“hi bils,” you sighed out, your hand finding the back of her head, threading your fingers through her messy, dark hair.

“hi mama,” she mumbled with a smirk, still kissing away at your skin, leaving new marks to match the old ones.

she scooted closer now that you were awake, her free hand coming to rest on your breast, fingers toying with your nipple, while her other arm propped her up a bit.

“bils,” you let out a dreamy sigh at the feeling of her hand on your breast. “honey, we just had sex last night.”

“shhhh, mama. let it happen,” she whispered kissing your cheek. “let me make you feel good, yeah? start the day off right.”

you didn’t object.

her lips finally found yours while she continued her assault on your nipples. pulling and tugging and massaging as you continued to make out. she moved her body to be straddling yours softly, your hands snaking around to rest on her bare ass, massaging the plush skin softly.

she started to rock her hips into yours making you cry out softly at the feeling. the pressure on your clit was delicious, you couldn’t help the wetness starting to form between your legs.

she swapped her hands for her lips on one of your breasts, sucking the rosy pink bud, leaving tiny kisses around it before going back in with her tongue. her other hand stayed firm, massaging and rolling your nipple between your fingers.

billie looked up for a moment, and she could have died right there. your head was softly laid back on the pillow, mouth open a bit, and eyes fluttered shut in pleasure. if it wasn’t 7:46 in the morning she’d get those pretty eyes of yours back open, but she kind of loved this half sleep drunk, half pleasure drunk, state you were in.

she shifted her weight so she could hover over you, your noses practically bumping. she trailed her fingers down your side watching goosebumps rise on your skin, and your hips twitching in need. she was mesmerized at the effect she had on your body.

“bils, please,” you whined, high pitched and needy.

“shhhhh,” she whispered, tracing shapes on your navel, smirking at your squirms.

her fingers moved down a bit more, before brushing your puffy clit softly.

“fuck,” you sighed under your breath.

she moved lower, swiping her fingers through your folds as you let out a dreamy moan at the feeling.

“you’re so wet and warm for me, princess,” she kissed your cheek softly. “gonna be good for me this morning?”

your eyes fluttered open a bit, hooded and seductive as you made eye contact with billie, and nodded. you couldn’t finish your nod, as billie pushed two fingers into your warm heat, making yours brows furrow and mouth open wide.

“there we go,” she chuckled sensually. “such a pretty baby. feeling so good, aren’t ya doll?” she laid her entire body weight onto you, pushing her fingers in deeper, making you whine out.

billie thrusted a bit faster but not too fast. sex first thing in the morning was one of billie’s favorites. slow, and quiet, and sensual, and romantic.. she didn’t want to rush this. all she wanted was your pleasure; to get you nice and dreamy and floaty.

“do you want more lovey? or stick with just fingers?” regular billie slipped back in for a second, always checking in to your needs.

“can we, fuck, can you get the strap?” she nodded with a smile, softly pulling her fingers out of you, but not without a teasing pinch to your clit.

quickly she went to the dresser to get an extra strap, your favorite one laid discarded on the floor from last nights adventures.

“this one’s a bit bigger than last night, is that okay mama?” she sat on the bed rubbing your side before even putting the harness on. your dreamy, happy nod was promise enough that you wanted it.

and the perfect O you made with your mouth, and borderline pornographic moan leaving your lips as she sunk into you, was a promise again that you needed it.

your arms snuck around to her back, holding and pulling her closer, needing her as deep as possible.

“deeper bils,” you sighed into her ear. she grabbed your thigh softly and pulled it around her hip, encouraging you to wrap your legs around her.

“there ya go mama. taking me so well,” she grunted out. the strap bumping her own clit perfectly, leaving you both in sleepy bliss.

“feels so fucking good bils,” you whined.

“yeah mama? you like when i make love to you? nice and slow and close?”

you moaned at her words. she shifted slightly, finding that magical little gummy spot inside you, smirking as you quietly squeaked out in pleasure.

“gonna fuck you like this forever, yeah? after i put a pretty ring on that finger, and while you’re wearing pretty white lace and a wedding band.” she sped up her movements a bit, your heavy breathing signaling you were getting close.

“gonna make you a mommy soon after that. pump a baby into you. maybe two.” you started to whimper at every thrust, billie could feel how tight you were getting. your warm walls sucking her right in.

“gonna have such a perfect family. such a good mama, such a good wife. love you so fucking much,” billie started to babble as her thrusts grew animalistic as you both neared your climaxes.

your whimpers sped up with her thrusts, the sound now matching the speed of the headboard creaking. your legs tightened around her, moaning in her ear.

“fuck you feel so good,” she finally let out a string of moans of her own as she tipped over the edge.

she didn’t slow down, tucking her fingers between you two to rub tight circles on your clit, leaving you seeing stars as you orgasmed.

“fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckkkk,” you let out, arms tightening around her shoulders.

“shh i’ve got you baby.” you felt billie pressing light kisses on your neck and cheek, her fingers rubbing your sides softly as you both came down from your highs.

“can i pull out baby?” you nodded, wincing slightly at the feeling. billie flopped right back down onto your chest, softly helping you lay your legs back down straight. she leaned up, puckering her lips a bit making you giggle. you kissed for a while, softly expressing your love for one another, feeling each other up delicately, just two souls intertwined in every way.

“good fucking morning,” you said making the both of you giggle before just looking into each others eyes.

“you’re so pretty” billie said, in her little voice, making you smile and blush.

“i’m serious! after sex, you always look fucking gorgeous,” she looked into your eyes, pushing the hair from your forehead. “you get all blushy, and your skin is flushed and glowy- YOU’RE flushed and glowing. and there’s like a new sparkle in your eye that only happens now. and i love it. mwah!” she pressed a wet kiss to your cheek. “and i love you even more.”

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missmadella · 20 days ago

Text

“How They React When You Get Kidnapped or Taken Hostage” // Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Wakasa, Kokonoi, Draken, Izana

Synopsis: You never thought your day would end like this — tied up, bruised, and praying they'd find you in time. You're hurt, barely hanging on, but then… he shows up. His footsteps echo like thunder, his voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and suddenly you’re not afraid anymore. Each one of them reacts differently — rage, panic, deadly silence — but they all have one thing in common: They'll burn the world down to get you back.

TW: idnapping, injury, emotional distress, violence (rescue scenes), blood. Reader is hurt but survives.

Mikey (Sano Manjiro):

The metal door groans open under Mikey’s boot.

Dust and darkness spill out. His footsteps echo in the silence, slow and deliberate — almost too calm. But his eyes are on fire. Focused. Unforgiving.

There’s blood on his hands already. He barely remembers the last five minutes. He just followed the trail of bodies like breadcrumbs — the men responsible already broken or dead.

And then he sees you.

Slumped in a chair, bound by rope, head hanging forward like a broken doll. Your legs are scraped, knees bruised from being dragged, and your face— Mikey’s heart stops.

Your lip is split. One eye is swollen shut. There’s blood trailing down your temple, drying into your hair. And worst of all — you’re not moving. Not even flinching at the sound of his entrance.

His breath catches in his throat.

“…Y/N?”

He whispers it, tentative, like saying your name might make you disappear. When you don’t react, panic surges through him — sharp and fast, like a punch to the gut.

“No. No, no—” He drops to his knees in front of you, trembling hands reaching to cup your face.

You’re cold.

Your skin is pale beneath the bruises. There’s a pulse, but it’s faint — fluttering like a dying flame. And for the first time in a long, long time, Mikey feels helpless. Like the world is crumbling beneath him again.

“I’m here. I found you,” he says, voice cracking as his thumb brushes the dried blood on your cheek. “Open your eyes. Please…”

Still nothing.

His voice lowers, breaking with each word. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t do this. Not you. Not after everything. I can’t—” He presses his forehead to yours. “I can’t lose you too.”

And then — the softest sound.

You whimper. A tiny groan slips from your lips as your eyelids flutter. Your head lolls slightly toward him. Your voice is barely a breath:

“…Mikey…?”

Time stops.

He pulls back just enough to see your eyes — barely open, dazed, but alive. Alive. And looking at him. You’re breathing. You’re here.

Relief slams into him like a tidal wave. His shoulders shake. He lets out a choked sound — not quite a sob, but something close — and wraps his arms around you, gently easing the ropes off your wrists.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your bloodied cheek. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You flinch at first, too sore to move, but then you relax. Your trembling hands cling to the front of his jacket.

“I thought…” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t find me.”

Mikey closes his eyes, his voice low and ragged. “I would’ve torn the whole city apart to find you. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

His hands stroke over your back, grounding you both. You lean into his chest, exhausted, your body finally giving in to the safety he offers.

“…Hurts,” you murmur against him.

“I know. I know.” His hand threads through your hair carefully, trying not to touch the wounds. “We’re gonna get you out of here. You’ll be okay. I swear.”

He pulls back just a little — enough to see your face again. Your eyes, glazed with pain but full of trust. And for a moment, everything slows.

You’re alive. You’re his. And he almost lost you.

“I thought I was too late,” he admits, voice barely audible. “I thought I’d walk in and find you—”

You cut him off with the barest shake of your head. “You came. That’s all that matters.”

His gaze lingers on your battered face. You’re still bleeding, still trembling. You shouldn’t be beautiful like this — but you are. Even broken, even bruised. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, feather-light.

And then, slowly, hesitantly — he leans in.

His lips brush yours with agonizing gentleness. A kiss that’s barely there, trembling with everything he can’t say. It tastes like blood and desperation and something dangerously close to love.

When he pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

“You’re never leaving my side again,” he whispers. “Not even for a second.”

And for the first time in days, you manage a faint smile.

“…Sounds good to me.”

_____________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

The blade is still warm in his hand when he kicks the final door open.

His boots splash through blood — none of it yours, not yet. His breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide, high on adrenaline and the kind of rage that never cools. The air is thick with metal, sweat, and rot.

He already killed them all. But it’s not enough. Not until he knows you're okay.

Then he sees you.

Tied to a rusty pipe, half-conscious, barely breathing. Your head is tipped sideways, your face unrecognizable beneath bruises and dried blood. Your shirt is torn, one shoe missing. You look…

Small.

For a second, he forgets how to breathe.

“…Oh,” he exhales, voice strangled. His sword clatters to the floor.

He drops to his knees beside you, fingers trembling as they hover just above your skin — afraid to touch. Afraid you’ll be cold.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” he murmurs. “C’mon, doll. Eyes open. You can’t be quiet on me now. You’re the only voice I hear right.”

No reaction.

He swallows hard, then reaches up and gently tilts your face toward him. Your skin is too pale. Your lip is split. The corner of your mouth has dried blood he can’t stop staring at.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, broken. “They ruined you.”

Something inside him fractures.

“They looked at you like you were nothing. Put their hands on you like they had the right.” His tone shifts — quiet and terrifying. “I should’ve made them beg longer.”

He reaches behind you, unfastening the chains with hands that shake more than they should.

You fall forward. Straight into him.

His arms catch you instantly, carefully pulling you into his lap. Your head falls against his shoulder, limp. A whimper escapes your lips — barely there, but real.

His chest seizes. “You’re still here,” he whispers. “You’re still with me. I thought—”

You blink. Slowly. Dazed.

“…Haru…?”

The sound of your voice undoes him.

His hand cups the back of your head, gently pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You didn’t think I’d let them take you, did you?” His voice wavers. “I don’t care what I have to burn down — I always find you.”

You shiver in his arms.

“I couldn’t scream,” you whisper, throat raw. “I tried. I thought maybe you wouldn’t come this time.”

His jaw clenches.

“Don’t say that,” he says tightly. “Don’t ever say that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — taking in every wound like he’s committing them to memory. His thumb brushes lightly under your eye.

“I would’ve torn the sky apart to find you. You don’t understand what you mean to me.”

Your eyes flutter half-shut. “I just wanted to go home…”

“I know, baby. I know. We will. We will.”

And then, like something inside him breaks loose, he leans down — and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not demanding. Just… reverent. Like he’s trying to kiss the bruises away. His lips ghost over yours, careful of your injuries. It’s soft. Painfully so. Like he’s holding something sacred.

“I’ve got you now,” he whispers against your lips. “No one touches you again. Not without losing something they’ll never get back.”

You sigh, half-conscious, head tucked into his chest. And as you drift off, he stays there — arms locked tight around you, blade still close by — whispering promises you might never hear.

But he means every one of them.

__________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

“You know, this rope is really uncomfortable,” you chirp, twisting your wrists a little. “Like, I know you're trying to be scary and all, but have you heard of padded cuffs? Or maybe, I don’t know — not kidnapping people?”

Your captor groans.

“Oh! And another thing — you seriously need to rethink your cologne. It smells like expired regret and cheap energy drinks. No offense.”

More groaning.

You smile sweetly. “Too much?”

He slams a fist into the wall beside you, just missing your face. You don’t flinch.

“That’s rude,” you mutter, tilting your head. “Ran never misses. Maybe ask him for tips when he gets here.”

“You really think your boyfriend is gonna find you?” he snaps, pacing. “You talk a lot for someone who’s tied up.”

“I talk a lot in general, but yeah. Especially when I’m nervous. Or bored. And right now? Buddy, I’m both.”

There’s a crack from the hallway.

The door bursts open.

And there he is.

______________________________________________________________

Dressed in black, hair tied back lazily, expression unreadable. His purple eyes sweep over the scene — the ropes on your wrists, the bruises on your cheek, the blood at your temple.

And for just one second, something feral flashes in his gaze.

He doesn't even look at the man who took you before striking. It’s over in seconds — a baton swing to the kneecap, a crack of ribs, a low, venomous, "You touched the wrong f*cking girl."

Then silence.

He turns back to you.

And for a moment, he doesn’t move. He just looks.

You're battered, but you're grinning at him like this is all just an inconvenience — like you didn’t just spend hours tied up, waiting.

“Hey, baby,” you beam. “You came! Took you long enough. I was just giving this guy a full breakdown of his bad life choices—”

He strides over in two steps, kneels down, and cups your face in both hands.

His voice is low, tight. “Are you hurt anywhere serious?”

“Mm, maybe a mild concussion, definitely bruised pride, but nothing broken! Also, that guy is super weak. I could’ve taken him with one arm, but I figured I’d save my strength for when you got—”

He kisses you.

Hard, fast, and too much all at once — like he needs to make sure you’re real. Like he’s been holding his breath since you disappeared.

You freeze for half a second, then melt into it, grinning against his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You never shut up, do you?” he mutters, breathless.

You giggle, eyes bright. “Nope.”

His thumb traces the bruised skin on your cheek. He frowns, visibly softening.

“I thought—” He swallows. “When I saw the blood on your shirt, I thought maybe… maybe I was too late.”

Your smile fades a little. “Hey. You weren’t. I knew you’d come. Told him that, too.”

Ran closes his eyes. Exhales shakily. Then opens them and smirks again, a little more like himself.

“Remind me to thank you properly later. After we get you out of this dump.”

“Oh! Can I request something sparkly? Or food? Or both?”

He starts untying your wrists, rolling his eyes with affection. “You’re unbelievable.”

You lean your weight into him the second your hands are free. “And you love it.”

He lifts you easily, arms under your legs and back. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”

You grin. “Aww, you’re such a softie. So what are you gonna do to the guy?”

Ran’s voice is smooth as silk. “You don’t want to know.”

“…Cool.”

____________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

The smell of stale smoke and cold concrete hits him the second he steps inside the rundown warehouse. The air feels thick — heavy with the remnants of violence. His heart pounds so loud he’s sure you’ll hear it if you’re still conscious.

Rindou’s eyes dart around the dim room, sharp and alert, searching for any sign of you. Every muscle in his body tightens, the usual loud bravado nowhere to be seen. This wasn’t a game or a fight to be won for glory. This was about you — and that thought burns hotter than any fight he’s ever been in.

And then, there you are.

Slumped in a metal chair, your wrists bound with coarse rope. Your clothes are torn and stained with dirt and blood, bruises mottling your skin like dark, ugly flowers. Your head tilts slightly as if your body is too tired to hold itself up fully. But the moment your eyes catch his, a flicker of your usual spirit shines through.

“Oi, Rindou,” you say, voice hoarse but unmistakably teasing, “You’re late.”

The corner of his mouth twitches — a mix of relief and frustration. Relief that you’re alive, and frustration that you were hurt at all. Without another word, he steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing sharply in the empty space. His hands are rough as he cuts through the ropes, but his touch is careful when he pulls you up into his arms.

“You idiot,” he growls low, voice thick with something he rarely shows: raw emotion. His hands shake just a little as they grip your waist, steadying you. “What the hell did they do to you?”

You lean your head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. “Nothing they didn’t get a lecture about,” you murmur with a weak smile, “And a few broken fingers.”

Rindou’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in his eyes like a wildfire. He wants to rip through whoever did this, make them regret ever laying a finger on you. But for now, his focus is on you — on making sure you’re still here, still breathing.

He presses his palms against your bruised cheek, thumbs tracing the tender skin as if he’s memorizing every mark. His voice drops to a low, fierce whisper, barely more than a breath.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

You reach up, fingers brushing over his scarred knuckles. “I’m stubborn,” you say softly, “Someone’s gotta be.”

His lips twitch into a brief, shaky smile, and he lets out a low laugh that’s almost a sigh.

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he repeats, pulling you closer. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Then, before you can say anything else, he leans down and presses a slow, tender kiss to your bruised forehead — gentle and full of everything he can’t say aloud. It’s a promise, a comfort, a fierce declaration that he’s here to protect you, no matter what.

For a moment, the harsh world outside fades away. There’s just you and him, tangled together in the cold silence. His arms tighten around you protectively, like if he lets go even for a second, you might disappear again.

You feel the tension in his body slowly ease, replaced by something gentler — something like hope. And as your eyes flutter closed, finally surrendering to exhaustion, you know that no matter what comes next, he’ll be there.

__________________________________________________________________

Hanma Shuji:

The moment Hanma steps into the grimy, flickering-light warehouse, his smirk is wide — cocky, amused, like he’s walking into a joke he’s about to win. The stale air smells of sweat and neglect, but that doesn’t slow him down. He moves with a lazy confidence, eyes scanning until they lock on you.

There you are — bruised, dirt-smudged, wrists bound with rough rope, but stubbornly blinking up at him with that spark that’s impossible to extinguish.

Hanma’s smirk deepens, amused but dangerous. “Well, well,” he drawls, stepping closer. “Look who got themselves into a real mess this time.”

You try to give him a playful grin, but the pain tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Hey, I’m multitasking — thought I’d spice up your day.”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little rough. “You always did like to push it, didn’t you?”

Hanma crouches beside you, eyes sharp as he takes in the bruises blooming across your skin, the cuts along your arms. His fingers hover near your face, hesitant for just a moment before brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

“Who the hell did this to you?” His voice drops from teasing to dangerous — the kind that sends shivers down your spine.

You shrug weakly, trying to keep the mood light despite the pain. “Just some idiots who clearly didn’t get the memo.”

His grin twists into something darker. Suddenly, his hands tighten on your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Don’t joke about it. Tell me every damn thing.”

You breathe out the story — every shove, every insult, every mark they left on you. Hanma listens, jaw clenched tighter and tighter, his wild eyes burning with barely contained rage.

When you finish, Hanma’s smile vanishes. His hands move swiftly, pulling out a knife and slicing through the ropes binding your wrists. The rope falls away, and immediately, he pulls you into his chest, almost fiercely.

“You’ve got a mouth on you — good,” he murmurs, voice rough but laced with relief. Then, without warning, he bends his head and captures your lips with his own.

It’s a fierce, possessive kiss — his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s never letting go. There’s no room for doubt in it; it’s raw, urgent, demanding.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “If you ever get caught like this again,” he warns lowly, “I won’t be so amused.”

You laugh, breathless, leaning into him. “I’m counting on you.”

Hanma’s grin returns — wild, but softer now. “Good. Because you’re mine, and I’m not losing you over some dumbass fools.”

His arms tighten around you protectively, and for the first time since he arrived, you feel the chaos inside him settle — replaced by a fierce, unbreakable promise.

___________________________________________________________________________

Wakasa Imaushi:

The warehouse was cold and empty except for the faint hum of a flickering overhead light. Wakasa’s footsteps echoed steadily as he approached, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp and focused. The news of your kidnapping had hit him hard, but he knew panic wouldn’t help. Instead, he relied on his quiet resolve, his calculated mind working through every possibility until he found you.

When he finally saw you — slumped in a metal chair, wrists bound with rough rope, bruises dark and angry across your skin — his heart clenched even though he kept his expression calm. You looked exhausted, your body trembling slightly with fatigue and pain. But despite everything, when your eyes met his, that stubborn spark he knew so well flickered through.

“Hey,” Wakasa said softly, his voice the gentlest thing in the harsh silence. “You held on.”

You gave a small, weary smile. “Had to… couldn’t wait forever.”

Without a word, he pulled out a small, precise blade from his pocket and knelt beside you. His hands moved with practiced care, cutting through the ropes slowly, as if he didn’t want to rush or startle you. When your wrists were finally free, he cradled your hands in his, rubbing gently to soothe the raw skin.

He pulled you into his arms carefully, supporting your weight as you leaned against him, the warmth of his body grounding you. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone anymore.

“Where does it hurt the most?” Wakasa asked quietly, his voice low and calm, not demanding but simply wanting to understand.

You touched a dark bruise along your ribs, wincing. “Here… and my side aches.”

His fingers traced the bruised skin, tender but firm. He brushed away dirt and grime with surprising gentleness, inspecting every cut and scrape like he was memorizing them—like every mark was a reminder of what you’d endured, and a promise he’d never let it happen again.

“I was scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Wakasa tightened his arms around you, the fierceness in his eyes breaking through his calm facade for just a moment. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m here now. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around.”

Leaning down, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple — a kiss that spoke volumes. It was a silent vow, a promise to protect you with everything he had, a grounding touch that made the world outside feel less threatening.

You closed your eyes against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his presence. For the first time since the nightmare began, you felt safe.

Wakasa’s voice was a quiet murmur against your hair, steady and sure. “We’ll get you out of this. And those who did this? They’ll regret it.”

You squeezed his arm weakly, finding strength in his unwavering calm. The battle wasn’t over, but with him here — calm, protective, unshakable — you knew you could face whatever came next.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kokonoi Hajime:

The cold, sterile silence of the warehouse was broken only by the sharp click of Kokonoi’s polished shoes as he strode inside. His eyes — sharp, calculating, unreadable — immediately found you, slumped and bruised, bound in rough rope. The harsh fluorescent light cast stark shadows, but Kokonoi’s gaze was unwavering, cold as ice but burning beneath the surface with quiet fury.

For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, the ruthless businessman facade cracked — a flicker of something raw and urgent flared behind his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by the calm, controlled demeanor he always wore like armor.

“Quite the mess,” he said smoothly, voice clipped and precise, as if you were a project that had been mishandled. He crouched down to your level, his gaze flickering over every bruise and cut with clinical precision. “You’ve been through hell.”

You tried to smile — a weak attempt to lighten the tension — but it faltered under his intense scrutiny.

Without hesitation, Kokonoi produced a sleek, razor-sharp knife from a hidden pocket. The blade gleamed in the cold light as he expertly sliced through the ropes binding your wrists. His movements were quick, efficient — no room for hesitation or sentimentality.

As soon as you were free, he pulled you into a steadying embrace, one arm firm around your waist, the other cradling your head. His touch was cool but deliberate, controlled — a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

“You’re not a victim,” he said firmly, voice low but commanding. “I won’t allow anyone to treat you like one. From now on, you’re under my protection. I will handle this… ruthlessly.”

His eyes bore into yours, the cold steel replaced by something more intense, more personal. “Focus on healing,” he instructed, “and leave everything else to me.”

You leaned into him, your body weak but desperate for the calm strength he radiated. Kokonoi’s hand moved to cup your cheek, fingers tracing the contours of your bruised skin with an unexpected gentleness.

Then, almost without warning, he bent his head and pressed a slow, possessive kiss to your forehead — a kiss full of unspoken promises and fierce protectiveness. It was brief but heavy with meaning.

When you looked up at him, his expression softened just slightly, and he brushed his thumb over your lips before capturing them in a deeper, more urgent kiss. His lips were firm and commanding, a silent declaration that you belonged to him now — and that he would stop at nothing to keep you safe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm and steady.

“No one will hurt you again,” Kokonoi whispered, voice rough with restrained emotion. “I swear it.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Ken "Draken" Ryuguji:

Draken’s steps pounded like thunder as he stormed through the grim alleyways leading to the warehouse. Every moment since hearing you were kidnapped had twisted into a raw ache in his chest, a raging fire he couldn’t douse with logic or patience. All he could think about was finding you — alive — and bringing you home.

When the heavy metal door creaked open under his furious shove, his breath hitched. There you were — bruised, battered, your wrists bound and your body trembling from exhaustion and pain. His heart clenched painfully, a wild mix of relief and rage crashing over him.

“Y/N!” His voice tore out, hoarse and desperate, filled with a raw urgency that shook the cold, silent room.

You looked up, blinking against the dim light, your usual strength faint but still burning within you. The sound of your name shattered Draken’s last shred of control. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened to a fierce storm.

Without a second thought, he lunged forward and ripped the ropes from your wrists, his hands trembling as he freed you. He didn’t care about the mess — the blood, the dirt, the pain. All that mattered was you. He swept you up into his arms, holding you close as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

His breath hitched as he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice cracking. “Thank God… you’re okay. You’re really okay.”

A desperate, shaky laugh escaped his lips, tears threatening to spill. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay? I nearly lost it.”

You whispered weakly, trying to calm him, “I’m here… I’m fine.”

But Draken wasn’t convinced. His hands gripped your shoulders, not roughly but with fierce determination. “No,” he said quietly but firmly. “You’re not fine. And I’m not letting you say that.”

His eyes searched yours — wild, desperate, but overflowing with relief. Then, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer, he crushed his lips to yours in a desperate, needy kiss. It was raw and unfiltered — a mix of relief, love, and all the pent-up emotion spilling out at once.

His arms tightened around you as he kissed you again, softer this time, almost pleading. “Please… don’t ever leave me like that.”

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. His wild eyes softened, the storm calming into an unbreakable promise.

“You’re mine,” he whispered fiercely. “And I’ll protect you no matter what.”

You felt the strength of his vow in every beat of his heart — a fierce, unyielding force that promised you’d never have to face darkness alone again.

_______________________________________________________________

Izana Kurokawa:

The abandoned hospital’s sterile corridors were silent except for the faint buzz of malfunctioning lights and the distant drip of water echoing through the hollow halls. Izana moved through the cold, peeling walls with a precision that betrayed none of the turmoil brewing beneath his calm surface. Every step was deliberate, each breath measured, but inside, his thoughts raced with the worst fears he had tried so desperately to suppress.

When he finally reached the dimly lit room where you were held, his sharp eyes immediately found you — bruised, dirty, wrists still marked from the cruel bindings, slumped against a rusted chair beside a broken window. The sight struck him like a physical blow, a cold rush of helplessness that he quickly buried under layers of cold calculation.

His face remained impassive, but his fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to snap, to lose control — but Izana didn’t let himself. Instead, he calmly pulled a small, sharp blade from inside his coat and cut through the ropes with swift efficiency, his hands trembling just slightly as they brushed against your sore skin.

As soon as your wrists were free, he gently cupped your face, his thumb trailing over a bruise near your temple. “Speak,” he ordered quietly, voice low but with a barely contained edge of desperation. “Are you alive?”

You nodded weakly, and that faint movement sent a flood of relief surging through him, almost breaking his mask of control. His eyes darkened, the usual icy calm replaced by something raw and fierce, but he forced himself to remain steady.

Kneeling down to your level, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch soft but possessive. Then, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, he leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple — a kiss full of unspoken promises and fierce protectiveness.

His breath was warm against your skin as he whispered, “You’re mine. No one will ever hurt you again. I swear it.”

Still holding your face, Izana closed the small gap between you, his lips brushing yours in a brief, firm kiss. It was an assertion, a grounding touch — a reminder that despite everything, you were here, with him, safe for the moment.

You shivered slightly, and he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm tightly around your waist, steadying you against the tremors of pain and exhaustion. His forehead rested against yours as he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, almost desperate — as if trying to convey everything his words could not.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, and the storm behind his eyes was barely contained. “I won’t let anyone take you from me,” he promised, voice low and unwavering. “No one.”

Izana’s arms held you protectively, the cold steel of his demeanor cracked by the fierce, burning need to keep you safe — and the quiet, vulnerable relief that you were still here.

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