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aetherraeys · 1 month ago

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different on you

for this request x

poly!wolfstar x reader ⊹ 6.7k

cw ⟢ angsty, insecure!reader, body image issues, hurt/comfort, reader has scars

summary: shame doesn't suit you, but its getting harder to be comfortable in your own skin knowing it needs to be seen by other—loved by others.

a/n: i feel like a victorian child waiting for the plague to finally take me...being sick 9 days before finals is devious behaviour

Comfortability is weird and finnicky thing—it comes easy for some, natural even, and incomprehensibly harder for other. A day struggle in some cases.

A day struggle in your case.

One you thought you’d moved past after years and years of turmoil. But it didn’t take so much as as a single intrusive thought—one of innocent origin, one of admiration—for you to feel almost back at square one.

Reigniting a flame that you thought was almost snuffed out.

To be comfortable in your own skin—accepting that this is what will house you until the day you die. And you told yourself you were grateful for it, it kept all your muscles and organs in place, allowed you to touch things—gave you access to all the sensations of the world. And you tried not be harsh with it, with yourself—treating it with kindest and a gentle hand.

Because really it wasn’t its fault, the blame didn’t reside with your skin—an innocent entity in the cruel and fiery game your mind played on you—and Gods did the fire hurt?

Burning low at first, small—unimportant. A matchstick. Then bigger. Hotter. All-consuming.

Spreading like wildfire, uncontrollable and bruttish in nature.

Trampling it’s way into everything you did, spilling like oil—staining, tainting, tarnishing, every thought in its wake.

Honestly, it’s just unfair. How sick you feel—ashamed of your own thoughts, ashamed of being in your body—the way your brain does all sorts of gymnastics, a mirage of hops, skips, leaps, and jumps to get you to conclude on one thing. You’re not enough.

Comparison kills happiness.

It was never your intention to compare, it was harmless admiration—adoration. And yet, in an instant, that invasive creeping thought slid into your brain, and suddenly you couldn’t take your eyes off of Sirius.

Bold, beautiful Sirius—craved by Aphrodite herself, licked by the goddess of all that is love and beauty and grace. So effortless in the way he captures your eye—even just his eyes—seemingly endless pools of silver and grey with specks of blue that you just wanted to drown in, lashes long and fluttering with every easy affectionate word on his lips.

And then there was Remus, you could speak at great length about how much you adored Remus. He was a sight to behold, skin sunkissed, warm and freckled—you’d spent hours tracing over them and his scars. Convinced that the inside of your skull was engraved with a map—a constellation of his skin.

His voice, soft and steady, had this devastating way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. He listened like the stars might stop shining if he didn’t.

And beside them—what were you?

A flickering candle. Wax melting too fast. Skin too tight. Thoughts too loud.

You hadn’t realised how long you were staring at Sirius—eyes locked on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach, the subtle ridges of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath. Water clung to him in beads, glinting in the low light like glass shards. You tracked a droplet as it slid from his chest, curved past the hollow of his waist, and disappeared beneath the towel slung lazily around his hips.

He was effortless. Unthinking. Just existing in his skin like it had never betrayed him. Like it had always belonged.

You didn’t notice the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Didn’t notice the way his eyes kept flicking over, catching you in the reflection of the mirror, until he spoke—words nearly lost beneath the hum of the blowdryer.

“If you keep staring at me like that, love, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”

You blinked at him, instantly averting your gaze as heat crept up the base of your neck—Remus snickered slightly under his breath at your reaction, peering over the top of his book from his lounged position beside you. Long limbs tangled with yours.

And your lips parted, to protest—shyly deny that you’d be staring, or more that you’d be caught. But they fell dead on your tongue, Sirius’ lips splitting into a wider grin at your poor attempt to be non-chalant.

Voice light and playful as it filled the room “No, no, don’t stop on my account—I love being a distraction,”

It had your lips quirking up slightly, mumbling begrudge under your breath, before turning back to your phone. You were helpless to it, using every braincell to not let your eyes travel back to Sirius’ sculpted form.

Fingers subconsciously picking at the skin around your thumb, bad habit. They always arose when your brain was full, allowing you to lose yourself in the endless sea of thoughts.

Sirius was touchy, generous with his affection—having been starved of it so long, he’d quickly become some sort of an addict. Constantly itching to close to one of you, usually—typically, Remus.

And he would revel in the contact, allow Sirius to curl up onto him like a cat seeking warmth at all times. Completely accustom to the way Sirius would all but try live in his skin with him—his hands, arms, thighs, head—something in constant contact with Remus.

Not to say you didn’t like touch, didn’t want to bask in his attention and generous comfort. But right now?

Right now your skin was already crawling, feeling prickly and too much. So when Sirius came to the bed, slotting himself between your legs, head resting over your belly button—automatically sighing into your warmth, you fought the urge to freeze. His smell drifting up to you, vivid and bright post—shower, a mix of a warm sandalwood and the light freshness of the shampoo you shared.

Really you wanted to tangle your fingers into his hair, let them be engulfed by soft mass of curls—but something was stopping you. Keeping your hands trapped by your sides.

Sirius had already started a conversation with Remus, effectively distracting him from the book he’d been reading. And you heard it plop by the pillow you rested on—you wanted to turn your head, engage in the small chatter but you couldn’t.

Couldn’t focus on anything other than the mindless way Sirius’ fingertips trailed up and down the sides of your thighs—dragging against the seam of your bottoms—up and down and up again. It was a completely innocent, ordinary touch. But today it was too much, too taxing, too dangerous.

You were all but petrified in place, lying still beneath him, breathing almost shallow—trying to act normal, trying to act like your mind wasn’t spiralling with each skim of his fingers.

Finally cracking when Sirius reached under the hem of your shirt—he hadn’t made direct contact with your skin just yet—still fiddling with your pockets and belt loops, trailing his hands over the curves of your hips.

Until he almost brushed against your skin—shirt hitching up to expose you. His voice rumbling and vibrating lowly against your body when you moved.

The urgency in your movement was noticeable—eyes wide and shaking slightly as you grabbed his hands. The touch was thankfully light. Sirius looked away from Remus, who also silenced along with your action.

The quiet barely hung for a moment before you forced your lips to curve into a sheepish smile—eyes still stuck on Sirius’. You were quick to interlace your fingers with his, letting them rest on the fabric of your stomach above his head—and his brows were quirked up in mild curiousity. The words slipped out easy with a small huffed laugh, “I’m ticklish, Siri,”

Maybe that wasn’t the best excuse.

Because the glimmer in Sirius’ eyes as the final syllable left your lips was undeniably mischief—lips splitting into a small grin as he raised his head, chin pressing into your stomach.

“…Ticklish, eh?”

Your lips dropped immediately—expression shockingly grave as you felt his hands try to tug out of your interlinked hold. It was obvious what he wanted them for—and there was no way you could let that happen—let his hands wander and travel, even if it was in the name of harmless mischief.

Couldn’t let his fingers feel the rough outline of the scars that smeared themselves across your skin.

Thankfully, Remus came to your rescue as your struggled to keep Sirius’ hands in yours and away from your stomach in your vulnerable position—squirming coming to a stop when his voice sounds beside you.

“Stop torturing her with the threat of tickling, Pads”

Your pulse was ringing in your ears as he relented—casually winking at you before he rested his head back on your stomach, thumbs rubbing over skin of your palm as he picked up his conversation with Remus like normal.

And though it took a short while for your heart to settle, the itching pressure clearly had no intention of dissipating—the longer you spent connected with Sirius, each shift on his face against the fabric that covered your stomach had it churning.

Because what if he could feel them, what if the texture was clear even through your shirt, what if he recoiled away from you at the discover, the exposure of what you likely wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer.

You’d narrowly escaped one instance, thanks to Remus, but what of next time—that’s a river you’ll have to cross when you’re in front of it. The longer you stay in your head, the more suspicious you’ll look, but you can’t help it—focusing all your energy on ignoring the way your hands want to shake in Sirius’.

When you turn your head, pushing the darker, insecure thoughts into the back of your mind—you find Remus’ gaze on you, watching you intently with a look you couldn’t quite read. It was likely nothing—just watching, and yet even as you forced your lips curled into a shy smile for him, you struggled to swallow as he looked away.

Another day.

Another hard one.

Harder than the last few, more distressing, more distracting and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself struggling to look in the mirror.

At least not without your hands instictively running over the roughened skin with a unkind, critical eye—frown etching itself onto your lips as your chest tightened. You’d been avoiding the bathroom mirror all day.

But it was that time now.

Time to shower, time to spend time with your body, time to wash and rub, to cleanse your skin.

Not a particularly difficult task—you’d done it thousands of times.

But right now, stripping bare was the hardest obstacle ever—because that would been you’d have to see them—have to touch them over and over and over, no barrier of fabric to disguise the texture.

And you felt sick, as your top hit the bathroom floor with a dull thud. Gaze locked onto the floor, stuggling to look at the skin, at the mirror, at yourself. So you didn’t.

Turning swiftly on your heel—focusing your mind on the sound of running water, using a loofah to rub over the skin to avoid physical contact with it. But after some time, you inevitably found your way back. Lathering soap over the area with vigour, scrubbing harder and harder—aggressively—as if to remove it entirely. Rid yourself of the unforgiving texture and darkened colour that dorned your skin in a way that made your insides revolt.

Of course it wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t release you from its tormenting shackles, it stayed. Relentless. A stubborn, inescapable, ugly reminder, and the surface of your skin burned under your excessive friction—itching and prickling as you continued to scrub away at it.

The water pressure suddenly wasn’t enough, wouldn’t clean you how you needed and you broke.

A choked sob built in your throat, clawing its way out when you hand dropped to your side. Head hanging low as your eyes stung, tears mixing with the water cascading over your bare form. You let out a shaky breath, lungs shuddering with the next inhale—clamping your hand over your mouth as another sob threatened to errupt into the bathroom.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed everything everything—turning and tipping your head back to rinse it away—the lathered soap, your thoughts, the scars. Even as your tears subsided, the aching pressure beneath your ribs was still going strong—now accompanied with a growing tension headache and a pair of dry, bloodshot eyes.

Stepping out of the shower, you kept your eyes shut as your dried—back to the mirror, just barely patting over the, now sore, expanse of skin. Padding your way into the bedroom as quietly as possible, tugging on extra layers.

A vest, a tshirt, a jumper.

You hung your towel over the heater to dry, and curled into the bed—curled into yourself, trying to sink into mattress. Distract yourself for the too loud thoughts that spun in your head.

It was maybe an hour of tossing and turning, skin stinging under the layers of fabric—when you finally relented, throat sore and dry—the duvet was thrown off haphazardly, and you exited the room. Making your way into the kitchen, trying to attract as little attention as possible as your poured a tall glass of water.

But to your misfortune, both Remus and Sirius padded into the kitchen at the minimal sound of your movement. Sirius automatically resting his head on the curve of your shoulder as you sipped quietly.

“Missed you, love. Have a good shower?”

You hummed, head still bowed as Sirius audibly breathed you in, planting a gentle kiss to the curve of your jaw when you murmured. “Mmhm, was very relaxing,”

It was a lie, a simple but necessary one you’d thought.

Though ultimately useless, because the second you turned around to press the kettle on and Remus caught a glimpse of your face, his brows furrowed and he leaned into you. On instinct you shied away slightly, keeping your eyes on the marble of the counter and avoiding his perceptive gaze.

He slid closer to you—pressing his back into the counter as you turned to open the cupboard, “You okay, dove?”

The mug hit connected to the marble with a small clink, and you held back the sigh the bubbled in your chest—pushed down the urge to shrug Sirius’ touch off of you when you hummed back in response.

Remus dipped his head down to get a closer look while you prepared your tea, skin around your eyes puffed, whites of your eyes still reddened. A frown worked it’s way onto Remus’ lips, but before he could ask what the matter was, your voice reached his ears, light and quiet—joining the low rumbling of water in the kettle.

“Would you like one?”

It was a simple and open question, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the empty cup before you, fingers circling the rim mindlessly.

They both ignored your question.

Remus had flashed a look to Sirius that said something’s wrong, and he lifted his away from its position, craning his neck to peak at you. And he noticed how your shoulders sagged, like they weighed tonnes more than they had before you disappeared.

Sirius let his hand drag down the curve of your spine, and as much as you knew it was meant to be a comfort—it really did nothing of the sort—body stiffening under his touch.

His brows pinched on his forehead, matching the concerned curve of Remus’ as he spoke, “’S something wrong, love?”

The question had the lump in your throat grow impossibly larger and you felt suddenly much closer to breaking down than you’d care to admit. You couldn’t even disguise the sigh that left you as your hand reached for the kettle that had ticked over, trembling slightly.

“No, just tired—throat hurts.” Your voice was pinched and shaky as you spoke, and Remus could see how your eyes glossed upon their inquiring, reaching for the kettle instead and pouring the water for you. Sirius’ palm was still rubbing small circles into your back, lips curving downwards at the sound of your voice. And he spoke softly, “Come rest on the sofa with me—Rem will make us the tea, yeah?”

Your lips pursed together, but there was no resistance when he took you hand—pulling you away from the counter and into the living room—tv still droning on in the back ground. His chest tugs a bit tighter at the exhuasted way you curl into yourself on the sofa. Taking up as little space a possible, putting too much distance between you.

He doesn’t question it though, allows you your extra slither of space and watches you for a few moments, how your hands are clenched into small fists, watching how your lip has been pulled into the endless assault of your teeth and how you blinked like your eyes were the heaviest thing in the room.

Sirius only brings his hand to rub gently over your head as he stood, walking to get a blanket before draping it over your lap, you barely moved—muttering a small thank you when he straightened and tucked it around you.

Remus eventually made his way into the room, tea in hand and look of concern on his face as he approached. Placing it beside you so gently, as if the sound alone would startle you.

“Put some honey in to help soothe your throat,”

You thanked him with a small smile that he could see was forced, watching both and you and Sirius from the single seater. Sirius’ hands twitched on his lap, restaining himself from reaching out and touching you—because you’d sat so far, frozen under his touch in the kitchen—clearly you wanted space.

Even if it burned him to give it too you.

The tea was only half finished when you dozed off—head slumping forward, your chest raising and dropping slower as you fell deeper into sleep.

Remus was careful to lift you—padding to the bedroom and settling you down and tucking you in. He sat perched on the edge of the bed beside you for a short while, fingers brushing gently over the surface of your cheekbones. Let his eyes wander over your peaceful expression—Remus knew it was more than a sore throat, more than just being tired.

But for now he’d let you sleep, let you enjoy the peace of a much needed slumber.

He’d ask again tomorrow.

And he did.

Subtly at first, just about how you slept, if you were feeling better—you only gave simple, vague answers and forced half-smiles. Sirius was fidgety and restless in his seat across from you—you’d opted to sit in the single chair away from them. Despite the larger sofa capacity for three, even four bodies.

Sirius was less subtle in the way he watched, eyes monitoring your figure, pennying each time you would frown unconsciously. He rose without ceremony from his place beside Remus—he’d noticed the excess layers—the way they bunched up and how you tried to carefully adjust them without too much fuss. But he noticed.

“You cold, love? Shall I turn on the heating?”

The worry in his voice was just as quiet and gentle as the one that swam behind his eyes—you shook your head quietly, lips pressing together in a strained smile and his heart all but sank in his chest. The way your hands wrapped around your middle almost protectively.

He didn’t push further, but you saw his eyes flicker over to Remus, saw the way his brows raised higher on his brows as he murmured something about taking a shower—padding down the corridor without another word.

You watched as he left—eyes stuck on the darkened hallway long after he’d gone, mind drifting as guilt burned in your chest. It was a double edge sword really, how you hated feeling so pathetic, trapped in your own skin—how you couldn’t help but retract under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And to top it all off, your mind wasn’t just damaging you, it was seeping out and spreading onto those around you. They didn’t deserve this, this weak, insecure version of you that loomed around the house, refusing help.

They didn’t deserve to be affected by your own inner turmoil. And they were still treating you so nicely, so careful and attentively—it all just translated to another reason you don’t deserve them.

You hadn’t noticed the shifting of fabric, or the movement from the sofa to your left—not until a dark mass all but spawned in front of you.

Remus.

He was looking down at you with that look. The one accompanied with a crooked smile and soft eyes that had you sinking into the sofa. When he reached out his hands, taking yours from the shielding position around you and dragging you to a stand—you couldn’t find the energy to resist.

Allowing him to walk you backwards across the room, until the back of his knees hit the sofa and you stood between his legs as he settled. Looking up at you as if you were the answer to everything, too tender, too fond and accepting and you wanted to run away from it.

Curl away from the affection that swam in his eyes and the honeyed tone of his voice, “Will you sit with me, dove?”

Remus had a way with his touches. His fingers gliding slowly up your wrists, ghostly and pressure-less, but still warm, inviting, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. Like water you wanted to drown in.

It took a mere moments more of anchoring touches before you found your way onto Remus’ lap.

He kept his hands in yours, just barely trailing up your forearms before coming back down, his warmth seeping in through all the layers of fabric separating you. Still holding your gaze, everything drifted away into the background, just you and him. And he held you with such delicacy, such reverence you almost didn’t notice the lump building in your throat.

Remus brought both your hands to rest on his chest—and his heart thumped beneath your palm, strong and confident and partially for you. “What’s the matter, my love?”

His hands were already by the sides of your face, thumbs grazing over the tops of your cheekbones and he simply held your gaze with that aching kind of tenderness he always seemed to reserve just for you, his thumbs smoothing away the wrinkles that were formed along with your frown.

You only shook your head, closing your eyes—willing the tremble of your hands to steady against his chest—curling them into his jumper, fists bunching in the soft wool, and you leaned forward until your forehead met his shoulder. It was second nature for his hands to slide down your sides, resting at the dip of your waist but then he felt it.

The way your breathe skipped and how you went ridgid in his hold.

It was obvious, undeniably something.

And his brows arched high on his forehead, creases of concern forming as he leaned back—hands frozen on the bunching fabric of your jumper. You still hadn’t moved, had barely breathed. Remus waited for the exhale, for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders but there was nothing and it made his throat feel unexpectedly dry.

Stomach twisting at the thought of you being uncomfortable because of him, because of his touch.

“Love?”

There was no response, your eyes were squeezed shut, pressed into the fabric of his clothes and you could feel the way his fingers twitched hesitantly at your sides—heat from his palms feeling that bit hotter even if you didn’t want it. Throat feeling tighter, skin all but burning beneath the layers of fabric.

“Are you—d’you want me to let go?” His voice was barely above a whisper, undercut with a concern that was palpable. You didn’t answer, couldn’t—it was already hard enough for you to stablise your pulse. Let alone bring your voice to travel out of your mouth.

And you didn’t know what you wanted—if it would be better for him to let go, or pull you in closer, allow you to sink into him—there were too many thoughts spinning around in your head.

It took everything in you to take a breath, shallow and shaky and not enough for your lungs.

Unfortunately, Remus took your silence as rejection—peeling his hands away from you, letting them drop by his side. His pulse had sped up, you could still feel it beneath your palms, thrumming through the fabric of his jumper. The task of raising your head from his shoulder was too much, instead, you let your hand travel up towards his neck.

The trembles were evident, fingertips just barely tracing over the scar that dorned the curve of his jaw in a small back and forth motion—soothing, lulling.

Remus hesitated only a moment before bringing his hands up, gentle and unsure, to cradle your face. His touch was featherlight—thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, as if he were afraid you'd flinch. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and soft, coaxing rather than commanding.

You didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see it—all the cracks, all the things you were barely holding in. But his touch was grounding, and you were so tired of carrying it alone. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes met his.

"Talk to me," he said. Not a demand, but a plea. “Please.”

It hurt to even think about it. To try and put it into words, to expose it all—so raw, so unhealed, so shameful. Your throat clenched tight with the effort it took not to speak, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

But your hand was still against his jaw, still resting there like it had been since the moment you'd reached for him. Remus glanced down, then slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his own hands over yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm and warm, as he guided them into his palm.

“You know you can tell me anything, love,” he said quietly.

He was only met with a nod, eyes falling down to your joined hands—his hand cradling yours like something sacred and fragile. Gaze lingering on the skin there, where old scars stretched and puckered, weaving across the back of his hand like faded threads. You watched the way they shifted as he held you, how they flexed and moved with each small twitch of his fingers.

It brought you back to the moments he’d got them, new ones—scars to add to the collection.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had waved off your and Sirius’ concern with a thin-lipped smile. But later, when it was just the two of you, you’d seen him sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt half-on, half-forgotten, staring down at the newest scar like it was a curse.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the bedsheets. And no matter how many times you or Sirius told him he was beautiful, that you loved every part of him—he never quite believed you.

Not really.

Deep down still hated them, those marks. Saw them as a reflection of the thing inside him he couldn’t escape. The monster he feared he was.

And now, staring down at those same hands holding yours, something inside you twisted.

How could you show him yours? If he could barely stand the sight of his own, how could you ask him to stomach yours? To love them?

Your vision blurred again, eyes stinging as the pressure built. Remus must have seen it—of course he did—because he ducked his head to try and meet your gaze again, voice breaking with quiet urgency.

“Love,” he said, “what’s this about?”

You tried—Gods, you tried—to stay still, to keep it all in. But the dam was already cracking. Your lip wobbled, a single tear slipping down your cheek, betraying you before you could stop it. And then it was too late.

You leaned forward and pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching, your body trembling with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. His jumper soaked up your tears, and your fingers fisted the fabric instinctively, like you were drowning and he was the only solid thing left.

Remus froze for half a second—uncertain, panicked—before wrapping his arms around you again. Tighter this time. Protective. Careful.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where it was okay to hold you anymore, didn’t know what he’d touched that had opened you up like this. But he held you anyway.

Held you like that for a long time—until the trembling in your shoulders slowed, until the tears had soaked a warm patch into his jumper, until your hands unclenched from their grip on his chest. You didn’t speak. He didn’t push.

The room felt still in that hushed, heavy way that always followed a storm, like the air itself was holding its breath around you.

And then the bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.

You heard it before you saw him—Sirius padding barefoot into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, towel slung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and joggers low on his hips, still drying his arms with the edge of the towel when he glanced over and paused.

His eyes caught on the two of you curled together on the sofa—your face buried in Remus’ chest, Remus’ arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

Sirius blinked, the smile he’d been wearing slipping off his face like someone had cut a string.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice gentle. He didn’t move closer just yet—just stood there, gauging, watching.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt Remus nod, “Think so,” he said, his voice still low from before. “We’re just…sitting.”

Sirius gave it a beat longer, then crossed the room and dropped down beside you, his leg pressing into yours where you were curled. One of his arms draped across the back of the sofa, not touching, but near enough to remind you he was there. A quiet sort of presence.

He didn’t press either. Didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again.

You sat like that for a while—Remus still cradling you close, Sirius quietly rubbing a thumb over the seam of the cushion. Someone had turned on the lamp earlier, casting the room in soft amber, and somewhere outside the wind was rattling the windowpanes.

Eventually, Remus shifted a little, enough to look at you again. He didn’t pull away, but his head tilted as he studied you, a slight furrow returning to his brow.

You didn't answer.

Remus had asked so softly—"Love, what’s with all the layers?"—but the question settled deep in your gut, heavy and aching. You stared down at your hands, still curled with his, fingers interlaced like a lifeline.

Silence stretched between you. Sirius shifted beside you on the couch, quiet and still now, the usual spark in his eyes dulled by something softer—something more watchful that edge of concern.

His thumb brushed the back of your hand again, gentle, grounding. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes flicked to him, startled—not because you didn’t understand, but because you did.

He didn’t mean it like that. He meant the layers. The reason you’d stayed swaddled in fabric even as the flat had grown warm and the fire crackled faintly in the hearth. He meant that.

You gave the smallest nod.

Remus shifted, careful and slow, lifting his hands from yours. He didn’t move toward you right away—just let you breathe, let you have the space to decide. And when you didn’t flinch, when your shoulders didn’t rise to curl away like they usually did—he reached out, palms finding your sides through the thick material, warm and trembling just slightly.

You let him.

And then, maybe out of instinct or guilt or something bitterer, you looked over at Sirius.

Perfect, scarless Sirius.

He was watching you both, eyes wide and dark in the low light, hair still damp from the shower. His skin caught the glow of the lamp and turned gold—soft, beautiful, untouched by the things that marred you. You didn’t think he meant to look so effortless. But he did.

And it made you want to curl into yourself.

You looked down again, chest tight with shame. It sat in your lungs like smoke, cloying and hot. How could you explain it to them—how your own body felt foreign and broken and ruined in ways they couldn’t see? How could you show them the jagged edges of what was left behind?

But then—

Then Remus’ hands, steady against your ribs, slid just slightly, not to expose you, not to see—just to be there. Just to hold. And you felt the faint, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against your ear, where your head still rested against his chest. A quiet, constant drum.

Strong. Steady. His.

He couldn’t feel them. The scars. But he knew you were hiding something, knew something was there.

You hadn’t said a word, and somehow he still knew.

And then his voice came again, quieter now, closer to your temple.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said, careful, measured, as though every word was something sacred. “But will you show me?”

For a moment, no one moved. Not even you. The weight of Remus' question hovered in the space between you, heavy and trembling like your own hands.

Then—Sirius.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came to rest at the curve of your neck, gentle, anchoring. His fingers were warm, just barely there, and you felt it for what it was: silent reassurance. Encouragement. A tether.

So you moved.

You leaned back slowly, your lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your layers—one, then two, then the third beneath—and they trembled, the fabric bunched and clumsy in your grip. Your head dipped down, shame pooling low in your chest as you began to lift.

The clothes gathered at your ribs, and you stilled, bracing yourself.

It was out now.

The skin that you had hidden for so long—marred and uneven, smeared with raised texture and darkened pigment, raw around the edges. Ugly, your mind supplied. Ugly, brutal, wrong.

You couldn’t look at them. Not Remus, not Sirius. You stared at your lap, blinking fast.

And then Remus breathed out, barely a sound, but you caught it.

“Dove…” he whispered.

Your body tensed up, wanting to recoil, wanting to pull the layers back down and disappear under them forever, hide the mess of what you were. Because surely—surely—they hated it. Thought it looked grotesque, ill-fitting, revolting.

Your voice came out small and shaking. “I know they’re hideous. I tried to hide them, but—”

“No,” Sirius cut in sharply, fiercely. “Absolutely not. They’re not hideous. Not at all.”

His voice didn’t waver.

Remus made a soft sound in agreement, and you felt his hands rise again, hesitating for the briefest moment before they brushed against the skin. You flinched at first—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t withdraw.

His palms were warm. Gentle. They moved over you with such unbearable care, and you could feel how his touch softened around the sore spots, the still-tender parts of you.

A silence fell, heavy and waiting, wrapped in the crackle of the fire and the quiet thud of your heart.

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do you…do you hate them?”

The words barely left your mouth, but they were enough. Remus’ head snapped up, and the expression on his face made your chest hurt. Offence. Pain. Worry. Love.

You reached down, trying to tug the layers back into place, trying to hide again, to close the space between your body and theirs. He let you. Let the fabric cover his hands that hadn’t moved, that still rested lightly on your skin like a promise he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He watched your eyes, wide and glossy, how your fingers twisted in the sleeve of your jumper, how your lip trembled and you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

His voice broke when he spoke.

“I—I could never hate it. Never, my love.” His breath hitched. “How could you think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not for a long moment.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly for the room—you said, “You hate yours…I just thought…”

You never finished the sentence.

Remus' hands slipped out from under the hem of your clothes and moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the delicate stretch of skin beneath your eyes. His touch was reverent, his gaze brimming with affection that was raw and aching. Twisting with unspoken apologies and guilt.

“No…no,” he whispered, eyes locking with yours. “Never on you. You’re perfect.”

Remus’ voice cracked at the end,

“There’s nothing I could hate on you. I promise, love.”

Your breath hitched at Remus’ words, chest tight beneath the weight of emotion pressing down on your ribs. He still held your face between his hands, gentle as ever, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when they held that much tenderness, not when your shame still clawed at your throat.

He spoke with such conviction, like your perfection was an indisputable truth.

Sirius shifted beside you. You felt the couch dip as he moved closer, hand still resting lightly at your nape, his thumb brushing back and forth in soft, grounding circles. He leaned in, forehead just brushing yours, voice low

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “if you only knew how beautiful you are to us. You could tear the stars out of the sky and I still wouldn’t look at anything else.”

You blinked and your cheeks were wet—the tears spilling over, silent and slow. Remus’ thumb brushed one away, and then another.

“They’re not something to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They’re a part of you. And we—” he glanced at Remus “—we love all of you. Even the bits you think are unlovable.”

Remus nodded, leaning his forehead to yours. “Especially those,” he whispered. “the ones you hate, the ones can’t love for yourself.”

You were quiet for a while after that, held between the two of them, your face tucked beneath Remus’ chin, Sirius’ lips occasionally brushing the back of your neck in a way that made you feel real again—held close, Remus smoothing the fabric over your skin with the same care someone might offer to silk.

Hands lingering just long enough to reassure, to ground, and then they slid back to your waist, wrapping around you in tandem with Sirius.

The scars were still there, and so were they—keeping you close, allowing you to bask in their warmth, their unending affection—safe and loved in the arms of the boys who never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are.

204 notes · View notes

aetherraeys · 1 month ago

Text

thrills

(a night to remember, pt2, pt3, pt4/this)

sirius black x reader ⊹ 8.2k

cw ⟢ swearing, injury, blood, mild hurt/comfort, new relationship, suggestive, biker!sirius, very domestic, fluff

summary: Sirius Black was far more domestic than you'd ever imagined, falling into his new role of boyfriend without a hitch.

a/n: the shame i feel for taking so long to start this...but its here at least, all be it lamost 5weeks later,,,thank you anon for giving me ideas on a final part MWAH! not proofread x

New is fun, new is good.

New is firsts.

And while some kinds of new—that confessional i love you, that leaves you breathless and dizzy and at a loss for words—is more welcomed than others, there is also the other kind.

The first (but most definitely not last) time you had to hold Marlene back from lunging at and attacking Sirius like some rabid animal. That sort of new is...well, new. And admittedly? A little entertaining.

It really was because of that blasted spare key.

Marlene had decided maybe it was best to let the dust settle before she forced her way into your space. To try and console you and make you realise that maybe it was better that Sirius was a right foul git and you deserved better—she had it all prepared, planned it out on the drive over.

Brought your favourite films and snacks in preperation for a long, quiet day of comforting, ice-cream, junk food and trash talking the older Black brother.

So you can just imagine the shock and horror when she pulled into your usually empty drive way, to see that same goddamn motorbike there—blocking her from parking. And though Marlene did eventually find a spot, just down the road—where she had to pay for the parking—it just added to her anger.

Barging into your building in a hurricane of fury.

Because how dare he, the absolute cheek—he’d gone and snogged Emmeline right in front of you—he’d shown up to torture you more, plead his case when that was the last thing you needed. Neither of you had time to compute the sound of the door slamming open, the hinges yelling under the pressure of Marlene’s swing. You’d been asleep, cuddled and scrunched up together on the too small sofa, face buried into the corner of Sirius’ neck.

And when your head shot up at the sound of knob crashing into the wall—hard—wincing at the impact and it surely left a dent. If the way the harsh bang echoed through the room didn’t awake Sirius, the way your forehead knocked against his chin definetly did. A pained groan sounding from him as your scrambled to a stand, hands pressing into his stomach to support your rise—forcing a low “Oof,” out of him.

The look on Marlene’s face had alarm bells ringing in your head—still fuzzy from sleep, the thud of the bags to the floor shook you out of it—allowing you to hone in on the way her face was getting redder by the second. Eyes franctically darting between you and Sirius’ disgruntled, winded figure.

“Are you fucking joking right now?!”

Sirius all but teleported to the other side of the room at the harsh sound of Marlene’s tone—arms mimicking yours in their raised to defense while yours were more to ward her off.

Voice still hoarse from sleep and the night’s shed tears, trying to calm the impending attack on your newly appointed boyfriend—”Marls…MARLENE! Just wait—let me explain—!” you started.

But she didn’t wait—all but vaulting over the couch surely in search of a way to get Sirius into her grasp and throttle him. Rant loud on her tongue, littered with profanity and every insult under the sun as he rounded the corner of your dining table.

Sirius had managed to evade her thus far—breathless on the other side of the dining table—but to his misfortune, he’d trapped himself.

It was only a few more tense moments of back and forth circling the table before you found your way into the mix. Edging Sirius into a safer corner, standing between them brows stretched into a distressed grimance—she took another step forwards—and Sirius mirrored her with a step back.

The whole situation was painfully laughable—sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, lips chapped and dribble stained. Sirius’ hair pushed up awkwardly on one side, matching the panic in his eyes as you shielded him.

Marlene wasn’t going to give up, threats slipping throught the cacophany of clattering furniture as she advanced.

“Black! When I get my hands on you, I swear to Merlin...” The frown on her face morphed into a scrowl when he responded.

“Not having the best morning? Are we Marls—Oi!” He just narrowly dodged the banana hurtled in his direction, and you hissed out his name in a chiding way that all but screamed not the time. Trying again to have her see some reason, or at least stop throwing objects around your kitchen—

”Marls, please. Just hold on a sec—Please, don’t throw—!”

It was a bit late for that. Another poor fruit from the bowl clattering against the counter—and satsuma this time.

“Why are you protecting that lump of shit, Y/N!”

You could only roll your eyes at the way Sirius muttered from behind you, “I can hear you, y’know,” Arms still outstretched in a rather pitiful attempt at shielding him, pleading with your eyes as much as you could, words urgent and rushed as they leave your mouth.

“He didn’t do it on purpose—it was a misunderstanding!” You step back hazardly, just barely missing Sirius’ sock-clad feet as you back him away from her, she resembled an angered bull more than anything. You could practically see the steam leaving her nose as she huffed out in disbelief—

“How does one snog another accidently?!” Marlene, undeterred, advanced again.

Okay, she had a fair point. But it really was just an unfortunate circumstance, you almost winced at her pitch—“If you gave me a second, maybe I’d be able to explain—”

“Black’s a slick git—you can’t trust a word out of his lying mouth!”

“You have such little faith in me, McKinnon!” Sirius gasped from behind you, like he’d been physically wounded by her words.

“Oh, shut it, Black—” Marlene snapped, advancing another step like she was genuinely weighing whether a cereal box could double as a weapon. “You’re lucky I left the bloody bat in the boot.”

You flinched at that one. Sirius did too.

“Marls, breathe, please,” you said, still firmly planted between them, arms stretched like a human barricade. “Just listen to me for one minute, okay? One. And if you’re still mad after, I’ll let you chuck the whole fruit bowl at him.”

“You say that like I wasn’t already planning to,” she growled, but her pace slowed—just a touch. The red in her cheeks hadn’t faded, but her eyes flicked to you, and some of the fury cracked around the edges.

You seized your chance.

It was rather finnicky to explain, how Emmeline had just grabbed the nearest person in a drunken flurry—all but dragging him into her by his collar—emphasising how it barely lasted not even five seconds.

How Sirius pushed her off in an instant, how it just happened to be him—how he’d never do anything like that to you—his hand coming down to rest on your waist lightly. Marlene looked between you both again. Sirius’ head poked out from behind your shoulder, expression genuinely apologetic now. “It really was just a misunderstanding—swear on my bike.”

“…That’s not very reassuring.”

“It is to me,” he muttered, then visibly winced when you elbowed him.

Marlene let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose, chiding thoughts interrupted by Sirius’ almost goading comment he murmured, “Can’t have a morning with my girlfriend without getting chased about the kitchen.”

Her eyes snapped up at that, and he knew well that she’d hear it—the room was all but silence, still edge with simmering tension as Marlene contempleted whether to let him live despite it all.

Narrowing her gaze like she’d just caught wind of something foul. "Girlfriend?" she repeated, voice climbing to a sharp pitch, eyes darting between you both like she was genuinely concerned for your well-being. "As in, officially? Now? As in overnight?!"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. But you could feel the burn start in your chest and crawl rapidly up your neck, setting your ears ablaze. Sirius, behind you, seemed completely unbothered by the sudden exposure of it all.

“Yep,” he said simply, rather chuffed with himself like he wasn’t outing something so fresh it was barely processed even by you. And you froze as he stuck his tongue out at Marlene over your shoulder and then pressed an obnoxiously loud, wet kiss to your cheek with a ridiculous mwah noise, hands still casually resting on your waist.

So startled by the contact and the very bold declaration that your body went completely stiff under the affection. Heat surged to your face in mortifying waves as Sirius just grinned, completely unapologetic.

Marlene recoiled with a grimace. “Oh bloody hell,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “You’re so lucky she’s soft.”

Sirius grinned wider. “She is. It’s why I like her.”

“You’re pushing it,” Marlene warned, still eyeballing you both with such profound disbelief it could've peeled wallpaper. “Good thing I found that out before I keyed his bloody bike.”

That got Sirius’ attention. His expression dropped like a stone. “You were going to key my bike?!” he gasped, scandalised.

Marlene only shrugged, turning on her heel like it was the most casual thing in the world, shopping bags swinging in her hands as she marched toward the living room.

Sirius was already following after her like a panicked puppy, tugging you along with one hand still clasped in his. “Marlene—I swear to Merlin—my bike! What did it ever do to you?!”

“Oh calm down,” she drawled over her shoulder. “Didn’t even have time to scratch it.” She let out a long, theatrical sigh as she dropped her bags on the coffee table. “Guess I won’t be slagging off Sirius Black today.”

“You can stay, you know!” you protested, finally finding your voice again, still trailing behind Sirius like your brain was lagging ten steps behind this whole morning. “At least stay for a cuppa—”

Marlene made a gagging noise so exaggerated it almost echoed. “No, no—I won’t intrude on your morning—” she checked her watch, “afternoon with your boyfriend.” She shot you a pointed look over her shoulder, fingers wiggling in a phone gesture as she mouthed we’ll talk later.

Sirius, meanwhile, was still stuck somewhere between relief and residual panic. “You almost keyed my bike,” he muttered, half to himself.

Marlene didn’t even grace him with a second glance as she slipped out the door. “I still might, Black.”

The door clicked shut.

And then it was just you and Sirius in the stillness of your flat, your face still hot, your limbs still awkward, and Sirius—as ever—completely unfazed.

He turned to you, that stupid smirk tugging at his lips, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You froze when I kissed you,” he teased, tilting his head as his hands slid back to your waist, fingertips pressing gently.

“Shut up,” you muttered, still burning, unable to look him in the eye.

But then he was walking you backwards, slow and deliberate, until your back met the cool wall and he caged you in with a certain smugness.

“You’re really cute when you’re all flustered, y’know that?” he murmured, eyes soft but playful, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “Think I might have to do that more often.”

You glared at him, or tried to, but it lacked conviction when your face was still hot and he was looking at you like that—eyes all lazy delight and intent amusement, lips quirking like he had you pinned in more ways than one.

“I will literally kill you,” you muttered, trying not to smile—failing—as you turned your face away, pulse ringing embrassingly loud in your ears, heart thumping rapid beneath your ribs. .

“Ooh,” he grinned, leaning in closer, his breath warm fanning over your cheek, “is that a threat from my girlfriend?” He exaggerated the word with a mock gasp, like it still thrilled him to say it aloud. Which, honestly, it probably did.

“You’re lucky I don’t set you on fire,” you muttered, voice tight with embarrassment.

“I’d let you,” he said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Burn me to ash, darling, but kiss me first.”

You let out a splutter of laughter that you tried to smother with your hand, but he caught your wrist, gently pinning it to the wall beside your head. The other hand skimmed your waist, touch maddeningly light, and he grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but it came out soft and breathy and baseless.

“Oh I know, sweetheart,” he whispered back with mock solemnity, brushing his nose against yours. “Tragic, really. Because I’m about to do something unforgivable.”

And before you could ask, what—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft, not exactly—it was all smugness and heat, lips pressing ato yours with that same teasing confidence he wore like a second skin. He kissed you like he was winning, like he’d caught you mid-swoon and was soaking it in. Letting his hand sliding up your back, keeping you close—his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your bed clothes, the wall behind you keeping you from melting into a puddle while your knees did their best impression of useless.

When he finally pulled back, his grin was obnoxiously wide.

“You froze again,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours now. “Gods, I’m good.”

“You’re insufferable,” you managed to say, breath shaky, though your hands had somehow wound into his shirt like you’d forgotten how to let go.

“Mm. And yet…” he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your collarbone, just barely grazing the skin with his teeth like he couldn’t help himself, earning him a quiet gasp. “Here you are. Still kissing me. Still blushing. Still all mine.”

New titles, new teases, new thrills.

Because Sirius really did bring a blood-pumping, head-spinning thrill into everything, every moment laces with and intertwined with the intoxicating feeling that was just him.

Even the mundane wasn’t just that with him—it was more, it was better—everything it had already been and everything you’d hope it to be.

He made his presence known in your little flat with purpose, claiming an entire shelf in your bathroom cabinet—and you welcomed it.

Watched it fill slowly, piece by piece, with his things: the woodsy-sweet aftershave that you fought the urge not to take a swig of some mornings, a crooked stack of faded hairbands, a few silver chains that clinked together gently, a worn tin of hair gel, cologne, a hard bristle brush. The toothbrush you’d given him “just in case” had somehow multiplied into three.

And you put his array of toileties to use—mainly helping him though.

You’d thought it nearly impossible for Sirius to be at yours more than he already was. Yet somehow, he proved you wrong, subtly phasing out of his shared flat with James and all but moving in with you.

His boots in the hallway. His coat thrown over your chair. His bike helmet permanently perched on top of your record player.

Although it wasn’t official—no formal conversation, no labelled drawers or declarations—it was becoming more and more apparent how well integrated Sirius was becoming into your daily routine.

It was most obvious in the mornings—and though you’d shared many before, it was different now somehow.

The alarm buzzed obnoxiously, sharp through the hush of your room, cutting through sleep like a blade and your hand shot out from under the covers, patting around blindly until you found the button and silenced it.

For now.

Sirius hummed softly from behind you, arm still looped lazily around your middle, you tried to sink deeper into his warmth, eyes squeezing shut, cheek pressing into him like the night had only just begun.

“You’ve got to get up now, love,” he whispered, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, lips curling into a smile when you shook your head defiantly and mumbled, “Absolutely not. I’m deceased.”

That earned a soft chuckle, and the vibrations rumbled through both your tangled forms. “You said that yesterday. Still here.”

“M’time was tragically short-lived.”

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice a warm rasp in the low light. “I’ll get up with you.”

Another unintelligible mutter left you, but your eyes cracked open—just barely—a reluctant olive branch. Then, before you could react, protest to his offer, he was shifting out from under you, gathering you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Curling into him you hummed, limp in his arms, arms clinging around his neck as he carried you to the bathroom, bare feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. Pushing the door open with his hip and deposited you gently in front of the sink, keeping his arms around you when your knees buckled slightly from the shock of standing. You slumped against him, eyelids heavy again, pout forming without thought.

“Merlin,” he breathed with a smile, brushing your hair gently out of your face, “you’re hopeless.”

All that left you was a sleepy sound of protest, trying to ignore the harshness of the bathroom light with closed eyes—“Open,” he prompted, his own voice till hoarse with sleep—toothbrush already ready in hand.

You obeyed, lips parting slowly. He brushed your teeth for you with practiced care, murmuring something about how spoiled you were. When he held the mug of water to your lips so you could rinse and gargle, he pulled your hair back with the other hand, moving through it all like a routine he’d rehearsed.

When you’d finished, he turned you around by the hips to face him again, your eyes puffy from sleep but a little more awake now. He grinned, leaned down, and pressed a firm kiss to your pout.

“Shower,” he said, rubbing slow circles on your back.

You nodded with a small hum, and he turned to set the water running—one hand testing the warmth before reaching for the hem of his shirt on you. He peeled it off carefully, knuckles grazing your skin like a whisper, and helped you step into the steam.

While you showered, he moved about the flat with habitual ease—setting out your clothes for the day, your work bag prepped with charger and laptop, tea steeping on the counter. He even warmed your towel in the dryer before coming back to swap places with you.

And when you were dressed, now far more alive than earlier but still yawning as you dried your hair, you returned to the bathroom to find Sirius half-ready, leaning into the mirror drying his face and opening the cabinet to reach for—

His brows furrowed at the clear empty space on the shelf that would usually housed his brush, running a hand thorugh his hair—eyes flitting around the bathroom before landing on you.

And you stifled a grin, holding it up smugly from behind him. “Looking for this?”

He turned around, eyeing you dramatically. “My saviour!”

“Hand me the gel,” you said, stepping up onto the little wooden stool you kept by the sink just for this reason. Sirius passed it to you obediently and stood still as you carefully slicked back his hair—your fingers threading through it with far more affection and attention to detail than necessary for simple grooming.

His motorbike helmet sat nearby, ready and waiting.

He watched you quietly as you fussed over his hair. He didn’t say it, but it was in his eyes, swimming gently behind his half-blown pupils—the affection, the comfort, the subtle contentment in the luck he had, that you were the one standing there, fussing over him.

When you finished, you gave his chin a gentle tap. He leaned in and kissed you again, longer this time—smiling against your lips.

“I’ll drive you,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “So maybe a jacket, hmm?”

Like usual, Sirius drove from your workplace to his garage, the familiar hum of the engine beneath him like second nature now. The ride was short, but it was always enough to clear his head and slip him into that comfortable rhythm—the one that only came with grease-stained hands, petrol in the air, and the familiar clangs and creaks of a place that felt more like home than anywhere else.

By the time he rolled the bike up the ramp and into the workshop, the garage was already humming with life.

Music blasted from the scuffed speaker perched haphazardly on a high shelf—something fast and loud, the kind of thing you’d call ‘chaotic’ and he’d call ‘motivational.’ He tossed his helmet onto the bench, ran a hand through his hair—now slightly undone from the ride—and tugged his shirt over his head, leaving him in the plain tank beneath.

Tools clanked as he got to work, fingers nimble as he tuned a few finicky components in the engine. Between adjustments, he took moments to add a few new stickers to the side of the bike’s fuel tank—some sent by friends, others collected at odd shops, and one he’d been waiting to arrive for weeks. Hands working on muscle memory, a towel tucked into the waistband of his faded jeans, ready for the inevitable grease and smudges.

He didn’t notice James arrive until the soft crunch of tires sounded on the gravel outside. The car door slammed, and a familiar voice rang out, slightly muffled beneath the music. Sirius looked up with a grin as James strolled in, carrying a brown paper bag and two takeaway drinks.

“Oi, Pads!” James called, already grinning. “Brought lunch. Figured you’d forget to eat again unless it walked in on its own legs.”

Sirius laughed, tugging the towel from his waistband to wipe the oil from his hands as he made his way over. “Speak for yourself. I’m just incredibly selective with my meals.”

“Selective, my arse,” James shot back, giving him a few hearty taps on the back as they met in the middle of the garage. “You’d eat three bags of crisps and call it gourmet if it came with a pint.”

Sirius snorted, already peeking into the bag. “And yet you bring me exactly what I didn’t know I was dying for.”

“You’re welcome.” James flopped onto the worn leather sofa tucked into the corner of the garage—its cushions permanently dented from years of lounging, gaming, and midday naps. Sirius washed his hands properly in the sink this time, swapping out his grease-smudged top for a clean black tee before joining James with a satisfied hum.

They ate casually, talking in that way they always did—overlapping thoughts, half-finished stories, laughing at things they didn’t even need to explain anymore. But not long into it, James leaned back and let out a dramatic sigh.

“You know, I rarely see you anymore,” he complained, gesturing lazily with a crisp. “We live together. Or at least, I thought we did.”

Sirius just laughed, brushing the crumbs from his lap as he pushed off the couch and wandered back to the bike. “You’re being dramatic. You see me all the time.”

“Hmm,” James muttered. “Funny. The ghost of you leaves mugs in the sink but doesn’t speak.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, grabbing a stool and plopping down onto it, new stickers in one hand and a blowdryer in the other. He leaned over the bike carefully, lining up the next addition with practiced precision.

The collar of his shirt hung low on his shoulder as he concentrated, exposing just a bit of skin.

And James caught it immediately.

He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with amusement. A very fresh, very obvious set of hickies peeked out from under the shirt, nestled high on Sirius’ collarbone and flushed faint pink, trailing down further than he could see.

And just like that, James was on his feet with a bounce in his step, sauntering over with all the mischief of a boy who’d just discovered the best secret.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, dragging out each word as he approached. “So that’s who’s been stealing you away then, Pads.”

Sirius didn’t even look up, brows furrowed in concentration as he forced an air bubble from under the letter. “What on earth are you on about now?”

James stopped just beside him, towering over the stool where Sirius was still focused on the bike’s curve, trying to smooth the sticker just right. His voice dipped into a hum.

“Hmm. Not sure. Could be the disappearing acts. Or maybe,” he said, dragging the moment out, “just maybe it’s the very telling bruises on your chest.” Putting a painful emphasis on the s, grinning at him like the cat that got the cream.

That got Sirius’ attention.

He blinked and turned his head sharply to look at James, realisation dawning almost instantly. “Fuck off,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and shifting on the stool, tugging his collar up without too much urgency—but the smirk that twitched at the corners of his lip gave him away.

And James just grinned wider. “Whoever she is, mate, she’s got a serious biting problem.”

“Oh, shove off, Prongs.”

“Does she know you get all flushed like a schoolboy when you’re caught?”

Sirius clicked the blowdryer on pointedly, drowning out James’ snickering. But even over the buzz, his grin was unmistakable, his ears tinged slightly pink.

James wasn’t going to let it go that easily—not when his best friend was clearly smitten. Not when Sirius was practically glowing with the kind of quiet joy that didn’t come from engines or speed or mischief—but from something, or more accurately someone, who’d managed to make even Sirius Black domesticated.

Or at least something very eerily close to it.

Sirius had been doing well to stay off James’ radar. He dodged the teasing with dramatic groans and artful deflections, buried any real details beneath smirks and shrugs and the occasional cryptic comment that meant nothing and everything all at once. You hadn’t talked about it explicitly—it wasn’t technically a secret—but Sirius hadn’t exactly broadcasted it either.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Hell, if it were up to him, he’d happily shout it from the rooftops. He’d staple flyers to lampposts. Spray paint your initials across the hood of his bike. But he also knew—without question—that James would wrestle him off said rooftop if he ever found out.

Not because James didn’t trust him. Not really.

But because James was just as, if not more protective over you than Marlene was. He always had been, you were one of his closest friends too. His sister in everything but blood. And from the very beginning, James had drawn the line so clearly it may as well have been carved in stone.

You were off limits. Non-negotiable.

And Sirius? Sirius understood. He got it. He respected it. Until you kissed him by the pool, your eyes glassy with drink and affection. Until you fell asleep in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Until he looked at you and saw something quiet and golden and terrifying.

And even then—especially then—James had still written it off. Dismissed it entirely.

Even after the way your eyes trailed after Sirius when you thought no one was watching. Even after Sirius had carried you to bed that night, careful and silent and far too gentle, while James followed with crossed arms and a tight jaw, muttering something about “no funny business.”

He’d made his stance perfectly clear. That night was the warning shot.

And Sirius?

Sirius had tried—really tried—not to fall over that line.

But lines get blurry in the dark. And when you invited him in for tea, slowed him down with soft eyes and an even softer voice—and he had no choice but to fall.

By some insane miracle, Marlene still remained the only one who knew.

And it’s not like you were being slick in the slightest—always together, practically attached at the hip, Sirius’ bike a permanent fixture outside your flat, his jacket thrown over the back of your couch, your shampoo smelling suspiciously like his cologne. Clothes folded together, mugs interchanged, playlists bleeding into one another like you’d been tangled up for years instead of months.

Realistically, all James needed to do to figure it out was open his eyes. Drive by your place, see Sirius’ bike parked out front. Stop by unannounced and spot his boots by the door, or worse—him, sprawled on your sofa like he paid rent.

But somehow, the world had yet to catch up with the two of you.

It was a random weekend when Sirius suggested driving you to his garage. “If you’re gonna keep nicking my shirts, might as well see where they end up covered in grease,” he’d said, flashing that easy grin, his hand already on the small of your back as you both headed out.

Placing a helmet on your head before riding out of your road.

It was your first time there—eyes wide with curiosity as you stepped into the wide, sunlit space that smelt like oil, metal, and faintly of something that was just...him.

Music booming from an old speaker tucked on a shelf, some grungy rock track you half-recognised, while Sirius pulled the garage door up with a heave and parked the bike inside.

He’d already shrugged off his jacket, wearing just a faded black tank that clung to his chest and arms like a second skin, muscles glistening slightly from the ride over. You’d been trying very hard not to oogle—failing miserably—as you wandered around, pretending to be interested in the shelves lined with tools you couldn’t name.

Watching from behind him on a rickety stool as his hands worked a wrench into a metal crevice with a whiny squeak.

But then you saw it.

A sticker on the side of his bike, your initials in bold—tucked into the design between a handful of other vinyl patches.

You blinked, scooting closer on the chair, hinges whining with each movement—eyes narrowing, head tilted. “...Is that...?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, lips twitching up into a smirk as he caught your stunned expression—following your eyes to the curve of his bike. “Took you long enough to notice,” he said, eyes glinting. “It’s been on there for weeks.”

You tried—really tried—to purse your lips and school your face into something unimpressed. But the smile tugging at your mouth was impossible to suppress. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, heart thudding against your ribs.

Sirius just wiped his hands on a rag and crouched down beside the engine again, voice light. “Could get you one of your own, y’know.”

“One of what?” You craned your neck to get a better look at him.

“A bike.”

You eyes all but pooped out of your head, jaw slacking. “Why the hell would I want my own personal death machine?”

He rolled his eyes, grinning, voice muffled by the hollow metal he spoke into. “Come on, you’ve been on mine loads of times. At this point you could probably drive me around.”

“Not the same,” you grumbled, arms crossing. “You know it’s not the same.”

But he was already straightening up, seriously considering it. “I could teach you.”

“No,” you said instantly—eyes closed as you shook your head.

“Yes,” he countered, and before you could even protest again, he had his hands at your waist and was lifting you, setting you down onto the leather seat of his bike like you weighed nothing. Voice was pinched and high as you squawked in his hold, “Sirius! I’m not qualified! This has to be illegal—”

“You’ve got a license, don’t you?”

“Not for this! I can barely drive a bloody Prius.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll stick a big ‘L’ plate on the back.” He winked. “That way everyone knows to stay the hell away.”

“Sirius, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s literally not that hard.” He hopped on behind you, guiding your hands to the handles, voice low and patient in your ear. “You’ll be fine.” Settling his hands on your hips as he whispered lowly, words clear with each demonstrative reve of the engine.

You made a few hesitant attempts with him helping from behind, feet planted, steering gently, fingers over yours like a guide. And honestly—it wasn’t that hard. Not with him purring instructions into your ear, chest warm against your back—not with the way he made everything feel stupidly safe.

Eventually, he stepped back and nodded toward the open space in the lot. “Alright. Go on. Try a little circle, hotshot.”

Your heart thumped in your chest. “You’re insane.”

“Mmhm. And yet you love me.”

You didn’t have time to deny it before you were inching forward, tires rolling with a gentle hum. Keeping it slow, circling once, then twice, wind brushing past your cheeks and Sirius watching from a distance with that annoyingly proud smile.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, the thrill, the rush—the undeniable adrenaline rushing through your veins, the feeling of invincibility going straight to your head.

Until the front wheel caught a thick stone on the ground just as you accidentally nudged the gear. The bike lurched forward, engine revving with unexpected speed. And panic crashed over you in an instant. Sirius was yelling—something about braking—but the sound was lost beneath the roar of the bike and the rush of blood in your ears.

Your hands fumbled—your balance tipped.

Catching sight of the brick wall in front of you, you swerved, narrowly avoiding it, but the motion threw you clean off the seat. And you hit the ground hard, a dull crack against your temple and your skin scraping viciously against concrete.

The pain was sharp, immediate, blooming hot across your arm and head.

You barely had time to process it before Sirius was there—running toward you, shouting your name—almost drowned out by the sound of the bike still revving a few meters away—shuffling against the gravel—dust kicking around the faintly turning wheel.

“Hey—hey, hey, I’ve got you—shit, love, stay still.” His hands were already on you, gentle but frantic, lifting you from the pavement as you winced, trying to blink away the spinning.

The whole underside of your arm stung, head throbbing as blood sticky and warm trickled from a gash above your brow. Sirius pressed the towel from his waistband to your forehead, muttering soft, soothing nonsense as he picked you up in his arms and carried you back into the garage.

“It’s okay, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, half-choked with guilt and panic—pulse still ringing in your ears. “The bike—I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what happened—”

“Shh, it’s okay.” He settled you on the edge of the workbench, your legs dangling as he stood between them, brushing hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“But I scraped it up—your bike’s probably all ruined—” you rambled, the words tumbling out in a breathless panic as you stared at the floor, the edges of your vision still fuzzy, the sting of your wounds flaring hotter with every second.

But Sirius was already in front of you, hands cupping your face with the kind of gentleness that shouldn’t have been possible from someone who’d just sprinted like his heart was on the line.

“Love.” His voice cut through your spiral like a balm. Steady. Low. Firm. “Right now, I don’t give a single shit about the bike.”

And then, with impossible tenderness, he leaned in—close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, smell the faint trace of leather and metal and the shampoo you both used. Soft, fleeting, just a brush of his lips against yours like he wasn’t sure how much pressure you could handle right now. Like he didn’t want to break the moment, holding you like you were made of the finest china.

When he pulled back, air caught in your throat, heat swirling in your chest as his voice reached your ears.

“Just stay still,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You nodded

He exhaled, watching your face for a beat longer, like he was making sure you were still in there with him, then turned slightly, tugging open a drawer beside the bench with one hand while the other still braced lightly against your knee.

The first aid kit clattered onto the surface beside you, and he opened it with quick, practiced motions. You watched, dazed, as he tugged on a pair of gloves, popped the cap off a bottle of antiseptic, and gently soaked a gauze pad.

You winced as he reached for your arm, the sting of your scraped skin reigniting the moment his fingers brushed near.

Sirius worked quietly, brows drawn together in concentration, the soft scrape of gauze against your skin the only sound between you. Deft fingers careful and precise, but even then the occasional sting had you wincing slightly, shifting on the bench—legs swinging slightly off the edge, watching the way he moved like he was doing something sacred.

He didn’t say much—just pressed a little harder here, smoothed tape there—and finally muttered, half to himself, "How on earth am I ever supposed to leave you alone?"

It was meant as a joke. A throwaway. But you latched onto it without thinking.

“You…you don’t have to,” you said softly. “You could just move in with me.”

There was a pause.

Not dramatic. Not crushing. Just…quiet. His hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t flinch or drop or freeze. Sirius just kept working, brows furrowed as he concentrated on the last of your scrapes. He hummed faintly in response, but it was dismissive—distant. Unreadable.

Your stomach twisted. Shame crept in, slow and thick, your body tensing in its wake.

Too soon. It’s too soon. You pushed it. He’s not there yet.

Quickly you averted you gaze, focusing on the dangle of you legs—each flick of your shoelaces, retreating into yourself. “Actually, um…I probably don’t need any more fixing up—I feel fine,”

You started to hop off the bench, your head still spinning slightly, one foot hitting the floor with a wobble. Pain flared through your arm and your side as you shifted your weight, making you stumble slightly.

Sirius straightened in alarm. “Whoa, hey—where are you going?”

“M’fine now,” words rushed and breathy, brushing at your shirt like it could distract from your spiraling, arm burning at the stretch of your skin. “Really, I’m okay.”

“You’re still bleeding,” he deadpanned, brows pinched in concern, reaching for your waist again to steady you. “Let me finish. We can go home, yeah?”

You didn’t reply. Just nodded, eyes locked on the floor while he coaxed you gently back onto the bench. He kept working, patching the final gash on your forearm—but now there was something different in the air.

A silence that wasn’t peaceful. Tension had crept in, curled around the space between you.

Even as he applied pressure to the scraps, spread cold ointment over your skin, you remained silent—lips pursed together. Just the occasional hiss, and then silence again. Staring at your shoes, at the concrete your feet swung above.

When Sirius finally finished, peeling off his gloves with a snap, watching you closely. His voice was gentler now, lower—and you could feel his breath fanning over the surface of your skin.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer, not looking at him.

So he stepped in closer, arms sliding around your waist, hands warm against your sides, caging you in. He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Talk to me. Does your head hurt?”

You glanced up, lips pursing again as you shake your head slightly. There was no accusation in your expression—just uncertainty. Vulnerability. Like you were already preparing for rejection. And it made him pause for a moment—eyes scanning your face before his lips twitched at the corners.

“I do want to move in with you, love,” he said softly, eyes warm as he looked down at you. “Of course I do.”

He held you gaze as you blinked, lips parting. “You don’t have to say that. I’m not upset. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to—really. I don’t know why I even said it—” Your voice sounded meeker than you’d wanted it too, not at all convincing.

“I’m not just saying it.” His voice dropped, edged with that dry Sirius Black sincerity that only ever showed itself when he needed you to believe him. “When do I ever just say things?”

Your brows arched upwards, giving him a long look. A very pointed one.

He huffed out a laugh, tipping his head like he was conceding the point. “Okay—fine, fair enough. But you asked me while I was trying to stop you bleeding out, trying to keep you from staining your lovely little outfit, by the way. I’m a simple man. Can’t focus on so many things at once.”

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped your lips, even through the lingering ache of embarrassment. He leaned in and kissed your cheek—soft, warm, forcing any shame away. His voice was quieter when he added—

“But I meant it. I want to move in. I want to be with you. Always.”

It had your breath stilling in your lungs, he felt so much closer now—too close, maybe. Body still radiating heat, arms still looped securely around your waist, thumbs idly tracing the edge of your shirt. You felt flushed again, but not from pain.

Flushed like the blood was torn on where to go—bouncing around your body, from the tips of your ears, base of your neck to the plastered cut by your brow—torn.

“Really?” you mumbled, dazed.

His smirk curved slow and easy against your skin as he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“Reaalllly,” he drawled, voice low and teasing—before capturing your mouth again, this time deeper. Certain. Like a promise. Like a yes.

And you melted into it, the sting of your wounds forgotten in the warmth of his hands, the slide of his mouth against yours—slow at first, like he was savouring the feel of your lips under his, but it didn’t stay slow for long.

The adrenaline hadn’t fully worn off; it simply shifted—into the warmth of his hands roaming under your shirt, the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the way your legs instinctively bracketed his hips when he stepped between them again. You were back on the counter, your fingertips tugging at the hem of his vest, pressing into the bare skin just beneath it, desperate to feel something real—him, all of him, grounding and warm and yours.

It was messy and breathless and a little bit frantic, Sirius always had that affect on you. Everything holding a bit more intensity than normal—his palms splayed across your hips, thumbs digging into the dip where your thighs met the curve of your body as his mouth trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw.

“’s good you said yes,” you murmured between kisses, breath hitching as his tongue flicked against your pulse, “because…I already cut you a key.”

He froze just slightly—only to chuckle lowly against your skin, lips brushing your throat. “I know,” voice rough with laughter. “Saw it in your bag last week.”

You pulled back, startled. “You what?”

Sirius grinned, impossibly smug, the kind of wolfish, pleased smile that could undo you far more than anything he’d just done with his hands. “Meant to be a surprise, was it?”

The glare you gave him was weak at best, completely undermined by the way your hands were still under his shirt, now dragging lightly against the curve of his ribs.

He laughed again—loud and delighted—before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear, hands sliding to the curve of your back, pushing you into him. “Darling, how did you plan on keeping it a secret when I pack your bag every morning?” he asked, his words broken up by soft bites down your neck, tongue soothing the marks he left behind.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

The kisses had gone from teasing to distracting, and you were already breathless again, head tipped back, clutching at his vest as your thighs pulled him even closer.

You didn’t hear the car pulling around the corner.

Didn’t hear the idle screech of tyres over gravel. Or the distant clunk of the garage door as it creaked open.

Not until your eyes flicked sideways—catching a figure in your peripheral vision. A tall silhouette. Familiar glasses. Wide eyes.

A scream caught in your throat—coming out more like a shocked gasp, a strangled noise as you jolted as your entire body tensed—squeezing Sirius into a startle—nearly losing his footing as he spun around—arms coming up defensively like he thought someone had come to attack you.

Instead, there stood James Potter.

Frozen in the open doorway of the garage.

A bottle of wine dangling uselessly from one hand, and the most horrified, scandalised, absolutely floored expression etched across his face. His jaw hung open. Eyebrows nearly in his hairline. He looked like he’d walked in on a crime scene.

Sirius blinked, chest heaving, hair disheveled. “Prongs?”

His eyes landed on you first: flushed cheeks, bruised lips, a fresh bandage on your forehead, sitting on the bloody workbench like you'd been carefully laid out and devoured. His jaw all but fell off its hinges—finger point at Sirius as his eyes darted between the two of you.

James’ mouth opened and closed. Then opened again—arms lifting as he pointed furiously at Sirius. “What have you—what did you do to her?!”

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, utterly unrepentant, but James was already in melt-down mode, voice pitching as the dots connected in his head.

“This—you’re, I—”A slow, disbelieving exhale escapes his lips. “No,” he says finally, softly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “No, nope. I’m not seeing this.”

You scramble a bit—pushing Sirius out from where he was slotted between your legs, hands tugging your shirt straight. “James, I—”

He cuts you off. “No.” He looks at you, expression unreadable—turning his sights on Sirius, who was rather unbothered considering how unbecoming the entire situation was.

“She’s injured, Sirius. Injured. And you’re—what—ravaging my friend in your greasy murder garage?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“I was being gentle,”

Sirius shrugged with a light tone, dodging the nudge of your elbow that he knew was coming—and James nostrils flared slightly, like he’s biting down a thousand words.

Maybe you should have stayed silent—let Sirius deal with him, but you didn’t—words muttered beneath your breath, “He’s—he was patching me up?”

Sirius looked like he was biting his cheek to keep from laughing.

James gaped at you, expression mixed between disbelief and confusion “Right. Is that what we’re calling it!?”

You and Sirius stand in silence for a moment, his hand sliding around your waist again. And James drags a hand down his face again, throwing his hands in the air as he spun on his heel, already walking out.

“I don’t even wanna know anymore. I—I need a drink.”

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