#handprinted patches | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marauroon · 1 month ago

Note

I’m in desperate—I mean desperate—need of a Sirius x Reader soulmate AU series written by you. Because oh my God, the idea is just so sweet!

To think that, despite everything—even in the darkest moments of his life—since he was just a little boy, the thought of his one true person waiting for him somewhere out there has been what pushed him through it all. Especially knowing that his parents weren’t soulmates, Sirius has always been absolutely certain that he has to end up with his soulmate. It’s that… or nothing for him so when he starts his Hogwarts journey he’s already on a mission.

── .✦ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 9.8k angst masterlist.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, antagonistic relationship between lily and james, peter gets some love, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective

They say the mark fades the moment your soulmate touches you.

A simple, skin-deep magic with depth beyond comprehension. One moment, you carry a patch of ink—some obscure splotch, a fingerprint, a handprint, a streak. The next, it’s gone. Just... gone. The skin is smooth and unblemished where once magic lingered.

The mark doesn’t tell you who, only where—where on your body your soulmate will first touch you. And once they do, once your souls collide in that first, fated contact, the mark disappears. Like you’re whole again. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you were missing.

No one really remembers a time before their mark. It's always been there—like birthmarks only fate-born. A quiet promise that someday, somewhere, someone will reach for you and the world will shift.

Some people search for their whole lives. Others stumble into it by accident—brushing hands in a corridor, bumping shoulders in a crowd, one drunken kiss on a dare that changes everything. And then there are those who never find it at all.

Or worse—those who refuse to.

Sirius had spent his entire childhood watching the mark on his mother’s right hand.

It was a violent thing. An ink-black smear that twisted over the bones of her knuckles and bled toward her wrist like a bruise. It was always stark against her pale skin—more visible when her voice rose, when her wand lifted, when Regulus flinched and Sirius refused to cower.

Walburga Black was a woman of ancient lineage and granite values. The House of Black didn’t marry for love. They married for blood. For power. For family name. Soulmates were a fairytale whispered by Halfbloods and Muggleborns, a sentimental excuse for weakness.

And so the smear on her hand never faded.

“She should’ve found him,” Sirius had once whispered to Regulus, who was eight and still soft in the face. “Her soulmate,”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “She doesn’t believe in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius muttered. “She still has one.”

That was what made it worse, really. That somewhere in the world, the one person who might’ve made her less like herself was walking around unaware. That she’d never tried. That none of them did.

He had a mark, too. A broad, dark patch on the front of his shoulder, curling slightly round to the outside of his arm. It looked more like a smudge than anything. Not delicate, not shaped like fingers or palms. Just… mess. Like someone had leaned against him with soot on their hands.

His mother had tried to scrub it off, once.

“It’s barbaric,” she’d hissed, dragging a cloth over his skin with vinegar and spells. “Sentimental nonsense.”

It hadn’t worked. The skin there had stayed marked, warm, stubborn with fate.

And Sirius had made a promise to himself that day. He would find the person who belonged to that mark. He would.

Because he was not going to turn into his mother.

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled like dust and pumpkin, and Sirius was trying very hard not to look as excited as he felt.

He had left. He had left that house, that woman, that family. He was on the train to a castle full of magic and secrets, and he was going to make friends and break rules and maybe even find the person with soot-stained fingers who would touch his arm and make the mark vanish.

He had only just dumped his trunk into the nearest half-empty compartment when a gangly, bespectacled boy stuck his head in and grinned.

“Oi—this seat taken?”

Sirius shrugged. “It is now.”

James Potter flopped down beside him without asking again, closely followed by two other boys: a round-faced, cheerful one who introduced himself as Peter, and a quiet, bookish one with scars hidden behind long sleeves who offered only a nod and the name Remus.

They were only halfway into the journey when the topic—inevitably—arose.

“Soulmarks,” Sirius said, dropping the word into the conversation like a dare.

The carriage fell into a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but loaded — the way quiet feels just before lightning hits. James perked up first, eyes narrowing with interest, then grinned.

“Oh, we’re doing that already, are we?” he said, spinning slightly on the bench so he was facing the rest of them properly. “Right then. Let’s see the lot of yours. Starting with you, Mr Mysterious.”

He pointed at Sirius with an impish grin. Peter gave a small, nervous laugh, and Remus — who had been quietly reading the front page of a Daily Prophet someone had left behind — lowered it slowly.

Sirius hesitated for a second, not because he was shy, but because his mark had always felt like something far too personal to show off, especially under the weight of the Black name. But here, with these boys, he felt the kind of safety he didn’t yet have the words for.

With a shrug, he tugged up the sleeve of his jumper and peeled it back past his bicep. Across the curve of his shoulder — wrapping from the edge of his chest to just past the blade of his back — was a dark smear, like someone had dragged a piece of charcoal across his skin and tried to rub it off before it dried. It was heavy-looking, almost like soot or ash, thick and indelible. Not a handprint. Not a brush of fingers. Just... contact. Weight. Pressure.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered, leaning forward. “Did your soulmate fall on you?”

Sirius laughed — an unexpected, genuine sound. “Haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they shoulder-barged me. Maybe they crashed into me mid-duel. Maybe it’s a hug. Who knows? Could’ve been anything.”

James hummed, clearly intrigued. “I mean... I suppose you’d know immediately, yeah? The second it happened.”

��Mark fades when it happens,” Sirius replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “Gone. Just like that. You’re ‘whole’ or whatever it is.”

“Romantic, that,” Peter said. “In a weird, sort of terrifying way.”

“Don’t even have to ask about yours,” Sirius said, nodding at James.

James didn’t hesitate. He swept his unruly hair back from his face and tilted his head to the side, revealing the left side of his face — and more importantly, the soft, unmistakable shape of a milky white handprint cradling his cheek. It looked like someone had cupped his face gently, thumb grazing his cheek. It was... tender. Oddly intimate.

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, look at you,” Sirius drawled. “That’s not a soulmark. That’s the prelude to a snog.”

James grinned unabashedly. “Reckon it is, yeah. Imagine, though— first time I meet them, they’re gonna touch my face like I’m some kind of Greek tragedy,”

“Probably to make out with me,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the entire group groaned.

“Godric help them,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Peter looked slightly self-conscious now that the attention was drifting his way, but when Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed and turned slightly, pointing at the side of his nose. A small brown splotch marked the bridge, barely the size of a Knut.

“That’s it?” Sirius said.

Peter flushed. “Yes? I don’t know what it means either,”

James leaned in with mock seriousness, licking his thumb and making a show of reaching over. “Sure it’s not just dirt, Peter? Let me—”

Peter yelped and batted his hand away, laughing. “Get off, you tosser!”

Even Remus snorted.

Sirius eyed him then. “What about you, then? Don’t think you’re getting out of this,”

Remus looked suddenly awkward—more awkward than Sirius had ever seen him—and shook his head. “I haven’t got one.”

James looked genuinely surprised. “You... haven’t?”

Remus shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever found,” Not that he’d ever made the effort to check.

“Bollocks,” Sirius said, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Everyone’s got one. It's the whole point, isn’t it?”

James nodded eagerly. “Yeah— we’ll find it. Take your shirt off,”

Peter choked on his own spit.

“Hold your horses, woah—” Remus muttered, clearly flustered.

“Come on, just let us look!” James said. “We’ll be quick about it.”

After several minutes of grumbling and reluctant sighs, Remus finally rolled his eyes and let them have a look—within reason. They checked his forearms, shoulders, collarbones, back, even his calves. Nothing.

“I told you—” Remus started, but Sirius, now unrelenting in his curiosity, stepped closer and squinted at the hairline near Remus’ right temple.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low with interest.

He reached out—gently, and with an uncharacteristic kind of caution—and swept a lock of Remus’ hair back.

There, just along the edge of his hairline, half-hidden by curls, was a thin, chocolate brown mark. Like a thumbprint, just brushing the edge of his temple.

The room went quiet.

“Found it!” Sirius said, triumphantly.

Remus blinked, although, surprisingly, didn’t look all that relieved. “Alright,”

“Told you,” James said smugly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “Everyone’s got one.”

Remus said nothing, but Sirius caught the way his fingers brushed the edge of his fringe, as if somehow wanting to feel it—to acknowledge it now that it was real.

They were quiet for a few minutes after that. Just sitting with it.

And Sirius found himself thinking, strangely, about his mother again—the way her own soulmark had never faded. How it had sat like an accusation across the back of her hand, inky and unmoving, every time she raised it. He’d seen it when she tugged harshly on Regulus’ hair. When she yanked Sirius by the collar. Always there. A reminder of what she could have had.

She had told him once, sneering, “Soulmates are for commoners. Fairytales. Blood comes first. Blood is eternal.”

And Sirius had known, even then, that he wanted something else. Something more.

These boys—these three ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant boys—might not have known it, but they were the first promise he’d ever been given that he might not end up like her. That the mark on his arm meant something real. That someone out there might touch him one day, and the mark would vanish, and the emptiness he’d carried since childhood might finally ease.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to spend years hoping for that moment.

And dreading it in equal measure.

—

You’ll never forget the first time James Potter laid eyes on Lily Evans.

It’s early in your first year—just a few days in—and you’re walking with her and Mary down one of the endless, winding corridors of Hogwarts, heading to Charms. Lily’s still got that Muggle-born wonder gleaming in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it behind a proper sense of logic and practicality. She’s talking about the theory behind wand movement, hands gesturing enthusiastically, when it happens.

James Potter, all wild hair and taller-than-he-should-be confidence, rounds the corner with his entourage, Sirius, Remus, and Peter flanking him like a self-appointed court. He spots her, freezes mid-step, and goes oddly quiet.

You notice. You always notice when boys look at Lily. But this one feels different.

Then, James grins. “That’s her,” he says, loud enough for all of the corridor to hear. “That’s my soulmate.”

Lily stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

He strides up, not missing a beat. “Your hand, it matches my face,”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s the most common soul mark in the world.”

“Just humour me,”

She rolls her eyes—but shows him anyway. A dark mark covering her palm like she’d dipped it in black paint, visible for a fraction of a second before she tucks it behind her again like it’s private. Sacred.

James, however, looks like he’s been handed a prophecy.

“See,” he says, tapping the side of his own face, just under the curve of his left cheekbone. “Perfect fit. You held my face. Or you will. That’s what the universe wants,”

“Or you’re delusional,” she says sweetly. “Ever thought of that?”

You laugh. So does Mary. But James—he just smiles, full of charm and stupid certainty.

From that moment on, James is relentless.

He doesn’t declare it once and then let it lie. No—he tells everyone who’ll listen. Tells Peter, tells Sirius, tells Remus (who already knows but still rolls his eyes every time). Tells older students. Tells a professor, once, though you think he was joking that time.

At first, it’s annoying. Then it becomes unbearable.

Because the Marauders, they don’t just say they believe in soulmates. They act like it means they’re entitled to you.

You and Lily and Marlene and Dorcas and Mary had started off giving them the benefit of the doubt. They seemed harmless enough: loud, yes, but not cruel. But then James began following Lily everywhere— always appearing outside your common room, in the corridors between classes, in the library. And Sirius and the others followed along too, trailing after you girls like a bad smell.

They’d show up outside Potions just to “bump into” you. Or drop casual comments in the Great Hall about how Remus got the highest score on the Defence essay, as if anyone asked. Or make loud boasts about Quidditch tactics, like they were auditioning for a future career in bragging.

You never understood what they wanted. It was clear enough that James was obsessed with Lily, but what about the rest of them?

Remus always seemed more amused than anything, like he was watching a tragic play unfold, one he knew the ending to but couldn’t stop. Peter was just... there. Laughing too hard at every joke James made, like he thought that was the price of staying in the group.

And Sirius— Sirius was different.

He didn’t really flirt. Didn’t boast as much. He mostly watched. With those storm-grey eyes that felt like they were always seeing more than they should. He’d smirk sometimes, or throw in a sarcastic comment, but he was quieter than you expected. There was something behind it, like he wasn’t entirely present. Like his mind was elsewhere, chasing shadows.

You noticed that too. How he’d go still when someone mentioned soulmarks in passing. How he looked at couples in the corridors—the ones laughing with linked hands, whose marks had already faded—with a kind of distant longing that felt too raw for someone so young.

It was almost sad, in a kind of pathetic way.

But none of that excused their behaviour.

The truth was: you didn’t like them. Not really. None of you did.

They were loud and reckless and juvenile. They’d hex Slytherins in the corridor and act like they were defending the moral high ground. They’d shout across classrooms, make up chants, prank students for fun. Once they transfigured all the cauldrons in Potions into frogs, and Professor Slughorn found it hilarious. You didn’t.

You didn’t like being followed. You didn’t like the way they laughed when you were trying to work, or how James seemed to think Lily owed him something just because he’d decided the universe wanted them together.

You’d tried confronting them, all of you.

“I’m not interested,” Lily had told James flat-out one day outside Charms. “No matter what your cheek tells you.”

“But you will be,” he’d replied, infuriatingly smug. “Eventually,”

You’d wanted to hex him on her behalf.

The worst part was how consistent they were. They just didn’t get bored. Most boys would move on after the first rejection—bruised ego, muttered grumbling. But not James Potter. He treated it like a game he was determined to win. Like every protest was just another obstacle the fates had set up to test his resolve.

It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

And the more it went on, the more it began to change the dynamic between the two groups. The Marauders kept orbiting around you, even when it was obvious they weren’t welcome. Even Remus, who you thought might’ve had some basic common sense, proved to be just as bad.

You started changing your routes to class. Started choosing study corners furthest away from their usual haunts. You stopped walking the long way to Herbology because they’d wait for you by the greenhouse and pretend it was coincidence. But no matter what you did, they always found you.

It wasn’t even that they were mean. That might have been easier. They were just... there. Always.

And when they weren’t there, you caught yourself noticing.

It was a strange thing, realising how used you’d grown to their presence. How you’d memorised their stupid voices. How, occasionally, when Sirius didn’t say something clever and cutting in class, you’d feel the absence of it.

You don’t notice it at first—not really. Sirius Black is a lot of things: loud, charming, irritating, surprisingly clever when he wants to be. But what he is most of all is consistent. A constant thorn in your side. An ever-present source of chaos orbiting James Potter’s ego.

So when he starts acting strangely, it takes a while to catch your attention. At first, you chalk it up to more Marauder nonsense. Another prank brewing. Another hare-brained scheme. But then the weeks pass, and the silence stretches, and you begin to realise something is off.

He starts dating. A lot.

It begins in fourth year, the way most ridiculous boy behaviour begins—with no explanation, no warning, no respect for peace. One week it’s Emilia Montague, who has hair like spun gold and a voice that drips honey. Then it’s Jules Macmillan, who calls him “Black” and slaps his arm when he makes her laugh. A week later, he’s holding hands with Evan Rosier’s cousin at the Quidditch pitch.

It becomes a bit of a game, watching the trail of would-be soulmates.

You and the girls make a tally chart in the margins of your notes—Sirius' Heartbreak Count, complete with doodles. Lily calls it “tragic.” Dorcas calls it “desperate.” You’re inclined to agree with both.

He doesn’t seem happy with any of them.

There’s always a flicker of disappointment in his eyes after each kiss. Each failed attempt at connection. Like he’s waiting for something to spark and it never does. You don’t know why it bothers you—maybe it’s just strange, seeing Sirius Black not get what he wants.

What you don’t know, what none of the girls know, is that Sirius is searching.

Frantically, recklessly, hopelessly.

He tries everything. Girls, boys, dates by the lake, snogging in empty classrooms, brushing against strangers in Hogsmeade with his sleeves rolled up, just in case. Every time someone new touches his soulmark—just barely brushing the dark smear on his shoulder—he closes his eyes, waiting for the heat, the light, the magic.

It never comes.

He acts like he doesn’t care. Laughs about it. Brags. But the truth is: it’s killing him. Slowly. Quietly.

Because every time someone skims over that mark and nothing happens, a tiny piece of him breaks off. And he’s terrified there won’t be anything left by the time he finds the right person—if he ever does.

And then Peter finds his soulmate.

It happens at the beginning of fifth year. Quietly, almost accidentally. A Ravenclaw girl named Sybill, who spills an entire bottle of ink across Peter’s lap in the library while reaching for a Divination book. Their hands collide. Her fingers press against the side of his nose to wipe off a splotch of ink—and just like that, the brown mark on Peter’s skin disappears.

The Marauders explode with excitement.

James shouts. Remus claps Peter on the back. Even Sirius manages a grin, saying something like, “About bloody time,” and ruffling his hair.

But it’s forced. All of it.

Later that night, Sirius doesn’t join the celebration in the common room. He doesn’t toast with Butterbeer or tease Peter about marrying her. He disappears without a word. No one sees him until morning.

Peter can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Not really. Not when he knows the truth.

Because they all know how much Sirius wants it. How much he needs it.

He’s never said it out loud, not fully, but they know. They’ve seen the way he looks at the mark on his arm. The way he flinches when someone mentions his family.

Sirius was born into a house that doesn’t believe in love.

That he used to stare at the stain on his own shoulder and imagine what kind of person would leave a mark like that. He’d lie awake at night thinking of how it would feel when the right hand met his skin and the darkness vanished. He promised himself he’d find them, whoever they were. That he wouldn’t settle for anything less than fate.

But now it’s fifth year, and everyone’s starting to find theirs.

Peter. A seventh-year Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuff girls from their year.

And Sirius still wakes up every morning with the same mark on his arm. Still hears the echo of his mother’s voice every time he thinks he might be falling for someone who isn’t right.

“You’re a Black. You don’t need love. You need a legacy.”

Remus tries to comfort him, in that quiet, practical way of his.

“Maybe they’re not here,” he says one night as the two of them sit on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. “Maybe they’re a Muggle. Someone you’ll meet after school,”

Sirius scoffs. “And what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m forty to stop being miserable?”

James, bless his heart, tries to be optimistic.

“Maybe they’re in a different year. Or got expelled. Maybe you’ve walked past them and just didn’t notice!”

“I would’ve noticed,” Sirius says. “I always notice.”

And that’s the problem, really.

He notices everything. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch. Every time someone’s hand drifts too close to his shoulder, his breath catches. And every time it’s a false alarm, it hurts just that little bit more.

He stops dating after a while.

Stops pretending it’s fun. Stops trying to turn every crush into a cosmic sign. He goes quiet instead. Withdraws into himself in a way that startles the rest of the Marauders.

You notice too.

At first, you’re suspicious. Sirius Black, not flirting? Not loitering around with James and causing chaos in the corridors? Clearly something’s afoot. You and the girls watch him warily, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever stupid, elaborate prank he’s been cooking up in the shadows.

But it never comes.

He just... stops.

He shows up to class. He does the work (mostly). He still laughs at James’ jokes and joins in on late-night games of Exploding Snap. But something about him feels dimmed. Like someone turned the brightness down and forgot to turn it back up again.

You catch him in the library once. Alone. Reading.

Not just pretending to read while scouting for mischief—actually reading. You don’t even realise it’s him at first, not until he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs, that heavy, exhausted kind of sigh you only let out when you’re tired of your own thoughts.

It’s strange, seeing him like that. Almost... human.

You don’t say anything. But you wonder.

You wonder what it would take to make a boy like Sirius Black lose his fire.

The others don’t know how to help.

James keeps trying to set him up at parties—“You’ve got to give Marlene a go, mate, you haven’t lived!”—but Sirius just shakes his head and makes excuses. Peter walks on eggshells around him now, too guilty to mention Sybill’s name. Even Remus has started watching Sirius like he’s waiting for him to fall apart.

And maybe he is.

Because Sirius is still staring at his soulmark every morning. Still pressing his fingers against the edge of it in the mirror, hoping for something to change. Still half-convinced that the universe has made some horrible mistake and left him behind.

And deep down, he’s terrified that one day he’ll stop believing entirely.

Terrified that he’ll become like his parents after all—loveless, cold, bound to someone he doesn’t care about out of duty or desperation. That he’ll wake up one day with a ring on his finger and still feel empty.

The Marauders try to reassure him, but there’s only so much comfort logic can offer when your heart is breaking.

“Maybe your soulmate’s just late,” Remus says.

Sirius smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

And the worst part is—he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve to.

—

It starts with one of James’ bright ideas—those three words guaranteed to end in absolute catastrophe.

You’d almost forgotten what they were like at full volume, the four of them together. Sirius has been quiet. James has been distracted by Quidditch. Peter’s been off somewhere playing the role of besotted boyfriend. Only Remus still walks with that same watchful calm, as though he’s just waiting for them all to detonate.

But now, spring has finally settled over the grounds, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to start acting like menaces again. Warm sun. Open skies. Exams far enough away to ignore. The perfect ingredients for trouble.

They pick a Saturday afternoon—when the courtyard is packed. Blankets spread across the grass, books open in sunbeams, students from all four houses lounging about, soaking up the rare spell of warm weather.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

You don’t even see the beginning of it. One moment you’re mid-conversation with Lily and Mary, trying to decipher the reading Professor Vector assigned, and the next you hear it—a low, slow rumble that can only mean one thing: a spell misfiring, or worse, succeeding exactly as planned.

A bang. A crack. A distant cackling.

Then—chaos.

Water explodes from the central fountain like a geyser. But it’s not just water. It’s pink. And sticky. And foaming. Thick bubbles rain down in hot, fizzy clumps that stain robes and cling to hair.

Someone screams. Then someone else. People scramble, books flying, cloaks drenched.

The spell races outwards, triggering a domino effect. More fountains erupt. Flowerbeds launch their contents skyward. A tree nearby begins to moo like a cow. First-years scatter. You spot one poor Slytherin girl get absolutely bodied by a rogue jet of foam, which sends her skidding across the wet stone with a shriek.

And you?

You’re drenched. Covered in what smells distinctly like cherry-flavoured soap and glitter. Your scrolls are ruined. Your hair sticks to your forehead. A glob of pink bubbles drips from your left eyebrow into your eye, and it stings.

Mary coughs violently. Dorcas is doubled over, wiping foam out of her mouth. Lily looks like she might start setting people on fire.

And just when you think it couldn’t get worse—someone bursts into tears.

A whole group of first-years huddle near the corridor entrance, some of them crying, others shaking and soaked through. One boy is trying to wring out his bag, which is frothing like a cauldron gone wrong.

That’s when you see them.

James, Sirius, Peter and Remus, standing at the top of the courtyard steps like the gods of mischief themselves, admiring their handiwork. James is laughing. Doubling over with it. Sirius grins behind his hand, not quite as loud but no less smug. Even Remus has a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though he looks slightly apologetic when his gaze lands on the crying first-years.

But James? He lives for this.

He catches sight of you all below and grins wider, leaning on the bannister like a conquering hero. “You’re welcome!” he shouts, arms wide, as though he’s done the school a bloody favour.

And that’s Lily’s last straw.

You don’t even get the chance to stop her. One second she’s storming forward, and the next she’s standing toe-to-toe with James Potter, fire in her eyes, her wet robes whipping around her ankles like war banners.

“You complete, arrogant, idiotic—”

James’ smirk falters.

“Oh come on, Evans, it was funny! Just a bit of spring chaos. We’re making memories!”

“Memories? You’re lucky you didn’t traumatise those poor first-years! Do you have any idea how many people you’ve covered in Merlin-knows-what? Or if someone sprains an ankle from slipping on your ridiculous glitter spell?!”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at his friends, then back at Lily. And tries again with a laugh.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

The slap echoes.

You swear the whole courtyard goes silent.

It’s not violent, exactly. But it’s loud. Sharp. Final. James recoils more from shock than pain, hand flying to his cheek where the skin is rapidly turning red. He stares at Lily, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen something completely impossible.

Lily doesn’t wait for a reaction. She turns on her heel and marches away, spine stiff with rage.

You and the girls scramble after her, slipping and squelching through the aftermath. Marlene grabs your wrist before you can get too far.

“Wait.”

“What? We have to catch Lily—”

“No, look,” she hisses, pulling you back a few steps. “James.”

You turn.

James is still standing in place, dazed, fingers grazing his cheek.

But that’s not what Marlene’s pointing at.

You follow her gaze to the spot just beneath his eye. The place you and everyone else at Hogwarts has seen marked for years. The pale, milky-white handprint that always curved over his cheek like a ghost of affection, a sign from the universe that someone, somewhere, would one day hold his face with love.

It’s gone.

Completely.

Not faded. Not lightened. Just—vanished.

Your heart stops. Marlene inhales sharply.

“Oh no.”

Your mouth goes dry. You glance past her, back at the boys.

James is still frozen, his hand touching the cheek Lily slapped. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, like he’s been thrown out of orbit. Sirius is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smile dying on his lips.

You feel a chill settle in your spine.

Because if Marlene’s right—if James’ soulmate mark has vanished—then that means...

“Bloody hell,” you breathe. “He was right.”

Marlene nods grimly. “We can’t let her find out like this.”

But it’s too late. Lily’s already disappeared into the castle, trailed by Dorcas and Mary, soaked and furious. And now you have to run after her. You have to get there before the realisation does.

You shove past Sirius’ shoulder as you go.

Deliberate. Sharp.

It’s not just anger. It’s disgust. You don’t even give him a word. Just that one hard nudge as you pass, an unspoken “You’ve crossed the line.”

He flinches.

Not because of the shove—Sirius Black isn’t afraid of a little contact—but because he feels it. The judgement. The disappointment. The thing he’s been trying to outrun since he realised he might not be better than the people who raised him.

You don’t look back.

You sprint through the castle corridors, foam drying on your skin, your clothes damp and clinging. The halls are still buzzing with the aftermath of the prank—students yelling, teachers trying to regain order, enchanted trees mooing somewhere in the distance.

You find Lily inside the girls’ bathroom, gripping the edge of a sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Her shoulders shake.

You slow to a walk.

Mary’s rubbing her back. Dorcas is pacing. No one knows what to say.

“She slapped him,” Dorcas says under her breath, half in awe.

“She bloody well should have,” you snap.

Lily looks up.

“Was it too far?” she asks. Her voice is fragile in a way you rarely hear. Like she’s trying to justify herself to the universe.

“No,” you say gently. “He deserved it.”

And it’s true.

You believe in soulmates. You believe in the magic of it—the wonder. But even magic doesn’t excuse cruelty. James Potter can be charming, and brave, and infuriatingly loyal, but today? Today he crossed a line. And you’re not going to let Lily think she was wrong for calling him out.

She nods, swiping a hand under her eyes.

“I just—I’m so tired of him thinking the world revolves around him. Like we’re all just extras in the James Potter show. And I know he thinks I’m his soulmate, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that. Especially not you lot.”

You hesitate.

You glance at Marlene. She gives you a grim little nod.

“Lil...” you start.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she says.

You flinch. “Lily—”

“Don’t,” she says again, firmer this time. “Don’t say it.”

You fall silent.

Because she knows. Of course she knows. The way James looked at her after the slap, like he’d just had something knocked out of him. The stark paleness of her palm.

She knows.

And you know what that means for her.

Lily Evans has spent the last five years being hunted by the boy who swears she’s destined for him. She’s spent every term, every class, every common room hour pushing back. Standing her ground. And now... the universe is laughing in her face.

She clutches the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

“No,” she says. “I won’t let it be true.”

Mary reaches for her. “Lily—”

“No. I don’t care if the mark’s gone. I don’t care if he’s supposed to be my other half. He’s selfish, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t listen. That isn’t what I want in a soulmate. That isn’t what I deserve.”

None of you argue.

Because she’s right.

James Potter may be her soulmate. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be.

—

The dormitory is quiet, in that awful way that happens when something big has happened—something wrong. James lies curled on his bed, the heavy velvet hangings pulled back for once, as if no one quite has the heart to close him off from the rest of them. His shirt is wrinkled, glasses abandoned on his dresser, and he hasn’t said anything in over an hour. Not since he’d stammered his way through the story, not since he showed them the now-unmarked skin of his cheek and murmured, “It’s gone.”

And it is. Gone.

There’s nothing left on his face. Not even a faint outline or shadow. Just smooth skin, still red from Lily’s slap. There’s no magic glow, no dramatic fanfare—just absence. That was the moment, and it’s over.

James stares at the ceiling as though he can find answers in the wooden beams above.

Remus sits nearby, his Transfiguration book forgotten in his lap, watching him with silent worry. Peter’s perched awkwardly at the edge of his own bed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his pyjama top. Sirius hasn’t even changed yet, which is strange in itself. He’s still in his robes, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost like he’s afraid if he sits down it’ll make the whole thing too real.

“She slapped me,” James says at last, his voice hollow.

No one replies. What could they possibly say?

“I thought—I always thought it would be different. Like... I thought she’d kiss me, maybe. Or—bloody hell, even hug me. I’ve imagined it so many times. My soulmate mark disappearing while she’s holding my face—like in the books, yeah? All romantic. She’d look at me and know.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But no. She slapped me. She hated me in that moment. That’s what the mark was all along. A physical reminder that my soulmate despises my existence.”

Sirius shifts his weight, looking down at the floor.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says gently. “She was angry. There’s a difference.”

James doesn’t answer. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shaky breath, but it comes out wrong—hitching, like he’s holding something back and failing.

“I was right,” he says, voice cracking. “All this time. Everyone told me I was wrong, that I was being delusional, but I was right. She’s my soulmate.”

“And now you’re miserable about it,” Peter mutters.

James lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. “Because she didn’t want to be. Not like that. She touched me for the first time because she was furious. That’s not... that’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

Sirius finally sits. Slowly. Quietly.

He wants to say something. But what? That he understands? That he’s sorry? He doesn’t know what comfort would even look like in a moment like this. He’s spent so long chasing the idea of soulmates, of finding someone who would make everything else make sense, and now that it’s actually happened to James—look at him.

He’s shattered.

Remus slides closer to James and places a hand on his shoulder. “Just because that was the first touch, doesn’t mean it’s the one that defines you both forever,”

James looks at him like he wants to believe that. Like he’s desperate to hold onto something, anything, but the shock is still too fresh.

“I need to lie down,” he mutters, and he does—curling onto his side, facing the wall, his breath uneven. The boys don’t speak after that. The air is heavy, like someone’s cast a silencing charm that chokes instead of quiets.

He cries. Quietly, at first. Then with broken little sounds he tries to smother with his pillow. Until eventually, there’s nothing left in him. He just wilts, tension draining out of his limbs, and within half an hour, he’s asleep—face still blotchy, fists still clenched.

They don’t close his bed curtains.

Remus takes the book off his lap and folds it closed with a sigh. “This is all... bloody grim,” he mutters.

Peter nods. “I didn’t think it would hurt when someone found their soulmate,”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “It shouldn’t,”

He stands slowly. Pulls his wand and begins to unfasten the enchanted buttons on his robes, too tired for anything else.

Peter looks up, and the moment Sirius pulls his shirt off, there’s a gasp.

Loud. Audible. Shocked.

Sirius freezes.

Remus sits bolt upright. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are wide. “It’s gone,” he says. “Sirius—your mark. It’s gone.”

Sirius turns to the mirror near his bed so fast it rattles.

And... it is.

The smear that had haunted his shoulder for his entire life—like ink spilled across parchment—is gone. Completely. Clean skin where for seventeen years there had been a swirling mess of fate.

His mouth goes dry.

“No—no, no, no—”

He twists, trying to see if maybe it’s an illusion, or if the mark’s somehow moved, but it hasn’t. It’s not there. Not anymore.

He met them. His soulmate. And he didn’t even know.

He stumbles back from the mirror, breathing fast. “Who—who—?”

But even as he says it, the memory flashes. Hard and hot.

Your shoulder hitting his as you shoved past him on your way to follow Lily. The disgust in your eyes. The sharp tension in your jaw. You hadn’t said a word. But you’d touched him.

And now the mark is gone.

Sirius stumbles backward and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Peter is watching him with wide eyes. “You never touched her before?”

“I didn’t know!” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t even realise it was you! I mean—her. You know who I mean. I am stressed.”

Remus is still sitting stiff-backed on James’ bed, but his attention has fully shifted. “You’re sure it was her?”

“She shoved me,” Sirius mutters, staring at his shoulder like he could magic the mark back into existence through sheer willpower. “Right after Lily slapped James. Just... barged past me like I was nothing. But she touched me.”

“And you didn’t feel anything?”

“Not at the time.”

“...Do you now?”

Sirius goes quiet. Slowly, he places a hand over his shoulder—over the empty spot where the mark used to be.

It’s warm. But not from contact. From within. A lingering hum of magic, like the echo of something once powerful now stilled. Or maybe it’s just his internal body temperature. He really doesn’t know right now.

“No*,*” he murmurs. “Maybe? I don’t know—”

Peter clears his throat. “Well... you found your soulmate. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

Sirius laughs��short and bitter. “She hates me.”

Peter winces. “Oh.”

“I mean, she doesn’t slap me in public, but she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me and the rest of us.”

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe it’s not what you think,”

“She shoved me, Moony. Deliberately. It wasn’t a stumble, it was on purpose. And she looked at me like I was filth.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it.

The dorm is quiet again. Only the soft rhythm of James’ breathing breaks the silence.

Sirius rests his head in his hands.

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for this,” he whispers. “All the rubbish my family taught me, all the coldness and cruelty—I thought if I could just find my soulmate, it would all be worth it. That I’d finally get to have something real.”

Remus moves to sit beside him.

“But it’s not like I imagined,” Sirius says. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even like me. And I didn’t even know it was her. How could I not know? Isn’t that the whole point of soulmates? That you just... feel it?”

Remus is quiet for a long moment.

“I think,” he says eventually, “soulmates aren’t about one moment. They’re about choosing. About what you do with the bond once it’s formed. Fate puts you in each other’s paths. It doesn’t promise it’ll be easy,”

“I wanted it to be easy,” Sirius admits. “I needed it to be,”

Peter lies back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. “So did James,”

Sirius glances over at James’ sleeping form—his face slack, the traces of dried tears still visible in the soft light from the window. And suddenly, Sirius feels sick.

They’d both spent so long believing that soulmates would fix everything.

But what if they don’t?

What if the person you’re meant for doesn’t want you back? What if you’re not who they want?

Sirius doesn’t sleep that night. None of them really do.

The dormitory stays dim and heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

—

You don’t realise anything’s changed until you peel off your shirt in the showers that night.

The steam clouds the mirror, thick and cloying, but your reflection is still visible through the condensation. You’re barely paying attention—too wrapped up in the tangle of emotion and disaster that had been the day. You’d barely managed to get Lily back to the dormitory before she’d started crying, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once, like she couldn’t figure out where the anger ended and the betrayal began.

You’d held her hand. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Said all the right things, and meant them.

You’re still thinking about her—about the look on her face when she’d slapped James, the silence that followed—when you glance in the mirror and see it.

Or rather, you don’t see it.

You freeze.

Your towel drops slightly, caught on your elbow as your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. Your breath hitches.

Because the mark is gone.

You stare. For a full five seconds, you try to convince yourself that maybe the steam’s playing tricks, that maybe it’s still there and you just can’t see it clearly, but no—your fingers sweep across smooth, warm skin. Nothing. No trace of the strange, smudged mark that’s been with you for as long as you can remember.

Gone. Just like that.

The only thing different today—the only moment it could have been—was in the courtyard, when you’d shoved past Sirius Black with all the venom you could muster and didn’t even look back.

You’d touched him.

Your stomach lurches.

No. No, no, no.

You grip the sink, knuckles whitening.

It can’t be.

Except, it clearly is.

You stand there for a long moment, half-naked and shaking slightly, trying not to spiral. Because if Sirius Black is your soulmate—Sirius Black, who’s been a menace since year one, who charms and pranks and flirts and smirks and acts like the world should kiss the ground he walks on—then what does that say about you?

Nothing. Not yet. This doesn't have to mean anything, not right now.

You inhale through your nose. Count slowly to four.

Then exhale. Focus.

This isn’t the time.

Lily needs you. Lily, who’s just had her own horrible soulmate revelation, whose best moment turned out to be her worst, who is currently lying on her bed pretending not to cry, refusing to talk to anyone but you.

You straighten up. Wipe the mirror with the corner of your towel. Look yourself in the eye.

Whatever’s happening with Sirius—whatever the universe just decided to dump on your lap—it can wait.

You have more important things to deal with.

—

When you return to the dorm, your hair still damp and sticking slightly to your cheeks, Lily’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Marlene and Mary have gone quiet, sitting together on the far bed, shooting you looks that speak volumes.

No one says it. No one has to.

They know too.

You can see it in the way Marlene’s gaze flicks to your shoulder, then back to your eyes. The way Mary’s lips purse like she’s holding something in.

You nod, barely perceptible. They understand. They don’t press.

You cross the room and settle on Lily’s bed without needing to ask. Her duvet rustles as she shifts slightly, and when you place a gentle hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t shrug you off.

That’s something, at least.

You sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Loaded.

Then she says, voice muffled and raw, “He laughed.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I slapped him,” she murmurs, turning slightly to glance at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, lashes stuck together. “He laughed. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. Like it was funny. Like I was... like he didn’t even get it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t think it was that.”

“Well, then what was it?” Her voice wobbles. “He’s always made it a joke, hasn’t he? Me. Us. His soulmate thing. Like I’m something he’s already won, just because some stupid magic says so.”

You squeeze her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,”

“I feel like he’s stolen something from me.”

You press your lips together. “He didn’t mean to,”

“That doesn’t change it.”

You don’t argue.

She sniffles, and you pass her the tissue you’d pocketed from the bathroom on instinct. She wipes her nose, then stares at the ceiling.

“What if this is it?” she asks. “What if this is who I’m meant to end up with?”

Your chest tightens.

“Then the universe has a really shit sense of humour,”

That earns a small laugh—barely there, but enough. Enough to let you breathe again.

“I don’t want to be bound to someone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Who thinks everything’s a game. I’m not just a puzzle to be solved.”

“I know,” you say again. “You’re allowed to be angry,”

Lily turns to you fully now, tucking her legs up under the blanket.

“Do you think soulmates are... inevitable?”

It takes a second before you answer.

“No. I think they’re possible. Not guaranteed. You still have to choose each other. Every day. Some people don’t. Some people can’t.”

She nods. “What would you do?”

You hesitate.

And she sees it. Sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You’re not—?”

You swallow.

“I found out in the shower,”

“Who?”

You don’t answer immediately.

She sits up straighter, frowning. “Who?”

“Sirius.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

She flops back against the pillows. “You’re joking,”

“I wish,”

She groans into the duvet, hands over her face. “This is cursed. This whole week is cursed.”

“I know,”

“And you touched him?”

“I didn’t know, I shoved him—”

“Still counts,” she mutters.

You sigh, tipping your head back to stare at the canopy above. “This is my nightmare.”

Lily peeks through her fingers. “Does he know?”

“Probably. If his mark disappeared,”

“Bloody hell.”

You nod. “Yeah,”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Do you think he’ll say something?”

You snort. “It’s Sirius. He’ll probably write a speech,”

Lily doesn’t laugh. Not quite. But her mouth quirks in a way that feels close.

She lies back beside you and you both stare at the ceiling for a while.

The air between you settles. Still heavy, but softer somehow. Shared.

You don’t talk about the future. Or what comes next. Or what you’re supposed to do now that your entire understanding of the world has shifted in a single day.

You just are. Together. Grounded in the now.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

—

It’s weeks.

Weeks of sidelong glances and awkward tension, of group projects rearranged so the Marauders don’t have to work with you lot, of meals taken at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and corridors that somehow feel colder when you pass Sirius Black without a word.

You don’t speak. Neither of you does.

But you look.

More often than you mean to, probably. He’s always there—hovering in your periphery, just beyond the safe reach of indifference. And sometimes, when you do catch his eye across the classroom, across the courtyard, across the common room—your heart stutters. Not romantically. Not even longingly.

Just... confusedly.

Like your body knows something you haven’t given your mind permission to explore.

You haven’t let yourself dwell on it. Not properly. Every time your thoughts edge toward him—toward what it means, toward what it could mean—you feel like you might actually be sick. The whole situation knots your stomach. So you shut it out. Bury it beneath essays and exam prep and Lily’s slow process of healing. You focus on her. On your friends. On anything else.

But Sirius?

He thinks about it.

Constantly.

He obsesses, really.

At first, he doesn’t know why you haven’t said anything. He waits for a confrontation. An insult. A blow-up. Something. But it never comes. You just look through him like he’s a smudge on glass—visible but irrelevant.

So he convinces himself you’re disappointed. Of course you are. He’s a bloody wreck of a person. What kind of soulmate is he supposed to be? The one who hexed half the school for fun and made first years cry in the courtyard? The one who chased flirtation like it was a sport and never stuck around for anything real?

He’s not soulmate material. Not the kind you’d want, anyway.

So he watches you. Quietly. Miserably.

You, meanwhile, do a spectacular job of pretending none of this is happening.

Until, finally—finally—he cracks.

—

You’re walking alone to the library after dinner—quill case tucked under one arm, satchel banging against your hip—and Sirius intercepts you at the stairwell.

He doesn’t say anything straight away. Just blocks the path with one foot planted on the top step, the other resting two steps below.

You eye him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?”

He swallows. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s messier than usual. Less styled.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You glance past him. “I don’t have time—”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he interrupts. “I swear. Just—listen for a second. Please.”

You fold your arms. “Fine. Talk.”

Sirius exhales. “I know you know,”

Your stomach clenches. But your face remains carefully blank.

“I know your mark’s gone,” he continues. “Mine is too. I saw it the night James’ disappeared. And you... you shoved me that day. I felt it.”

You stare at him. Unmoving. Silent.

“So,” he says. “We should probably have a conversation about what comes next,”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can help it.

“What comes next?” you repeat.

“Yes. I mean—if we’re soulmates—”

“If?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “I meant... since.”

You shake your head. “No. See, this is exactly the problem. You think just because we’ve got some magical cosmic tattoo situation that suddenly we’re meant to be.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you snap. “That’s what you’ve always believed, isn’t it? That it would be this grand, perfect thing. That you’d meet your soulmate and everything would just fall into place.”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You press on.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” you say. “Because just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they’re right for you. It doesn’t mean they deserve you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them.”

Sirius flinches.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “And I don’t like you, Sirius.”

The words hang in the air between you. Thicker than fog. Sharper than broken glass.

He stares at you.

You expect him to be angry. To scoff or sneer or shrug you off.

But he just... looks hurt.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just gutted.

It’s the quiet that does it. The way his shoulders fold in slightly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Like something’s come loose inside his chest.

He drops his gaze. “Right,” he says, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

You hate how your chest aches at the sight of him. Hate the part of you that wants to apologise, to take the edge off your words, to explain that it’s not really about him, but more about what he represents—the expectations, the fate, the lack of choice.

But you don’t.

Because it is about him. At least partly.

You step around him. “There’s nothing else to say.”

And you leave him standing there, alone on the stairs.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake in the dormitory, staring at the canopy, James’ soft snores filling the space between the beds.

He replays your words over and over, like a record stuck in a skip.

I don’t like you, Sirius.

He’d spent years searching. Desperate. Starved for the connection his family denied. He thought finding his soulmate would fix him. Would make it all make sense.

But you want nothing to do with him.

And maybe that’s fair.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But for the first time in a long time, Sirius doesn’t wallow in that thought. He doesn’t spiral, or storm out, or pick a fight with someone just to feel something.

He makes a decision.

He’s going to prove himself.

If you don’t like him, he’ll become someone worth liking.

Not for the mark. Not because fate says so.

But because he wants to.

Because you’re brilliant. Because you didn’t fall over yourself at the thought of being soul-bound to him. Because you called him out. Because you see him, even when you wish you didn’t.

And because something in his chest—something ancient and aching—still hopes.

He’s going to show you he can be better.

He’s going to earn it.

— part two.

#marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black fluff #sirius black angst

769 notes · View notes

hiiie · 5 months ago

Text

!! MDNI —

warnings: light spanking, edging, making out

imagine sitting on CALEB’s lap when he just came home still dressed in his sleek black uniform. How could he deny such a request from his most precious? With those innocent doe eyes, little did he knew you were anything but that. Grinding on his lap as you indulge in a heated make out session with caleb, you had nowhere to run caged in his tight embrace.

Tongues tangled with each others’ his hands wondered down to your skirt, noticing you had been wearing a thin thong, he decided to tease you. As you pulled away to take a breath, a string of saliva connected your mouths but he wasted no time finding your lips again.

Caleb’s left hand held you in place, keeping you from squirming away, the other one groping your ass, nails carefully tracing patterns around your skin, his hands wandering awfully near to your soaked clit but never touching it. A dark patch of your juices soaked his pants.

Occasionally slapping your ass to leave red handprints if you move too much then rubbing over them. Why is he so mean, you only wanted to reward him after a tiring day of work right? :(

“Patience pipsqueak, I’m all yours for tonight”

TWITTER LINK REFERENCE HERE ugh im going insane

#≡ !! works #caleb x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lnd smut #love and deepspace #lnd x reader #minors dni

624 notes · View notes

sturnsflirt · 1 month ago

Text

006 ────── CAN'T WAIT . ₊ ⊹ . ݁༉ ‧₊ A LIVE ACTION OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THIS INSTAGRAM DUMP

WARNINGS: 18+ CONTENT, SMUT, swearing, unprotected sex (don't do this!), car sex, rough!chris, fingering, oral (f receiving)

you fiddled with your red, gingham bikini top, sighing heavily, watching the loose strap fall down your shoulders again, almost flashing everyone in the van. "candy can you help me tie this tighter?" you say, poking your manicured finger into her shoulder, gesturing to your loose bikini strap, as she jolts from the sharp nail poking into her plush shoulder, smiling nonetheless "sure, did you really need to impale me with your nail? jeesh." candy teases, giggling as she fumbles around, toying with the strap, tying it into a large bow.

"chris y'have a license, and m'still the designated driver for everybody." matt says in the drivers seat, as chris scoffed lightly in the passenger seat.

"get my back, dude," nate says, shoving the bottle of sunscreen onto chris' chest, as chris grumbles, running a hand through his brunette locks, before reluctantly thumbing the bottle open, dousing a generous amount onto his hand, before slapping it onto nate's back, sunscreen splattering onto his chest and onto the white sand. "ow, fuck you, dude!" nate exclaims, giggling gleefully, making chris crack a small, lopsided smile.

you smile softly seeing the wholesome interaction, your feet planted into the sand, adjusting your denim jean shorts and squinting, the scorching sunlight beaming into your eyes, making you wince quietly.

"fawn!" candy squeals, smiling, dragging you by your hand and leading you to the seashore, seaweed nestled into the wet sand, you squeal lightly, bursts of giggles rushing through you. "let's look for cute seashells," you say softly, already crouching down, rummaging through the sand, perking up as you pick up a small, muted pink to off-white seashell, it was shaped in a wobbly, flat circle. "that ones cute," candy observes quietly, giggling.

"chris!" you chirp, smiling as you cup your hands, showing the various seashells you picked out with candy, he looked down at them, clearly looking less enthusiastic than you. "aren't they cute? they had no sand dollars." you say quietly, frowning, your flip flops clacking towards the van as chris walked beside you.

"get in the backseat." chris says casually, making you choke in surprise. "sorry?" you spoke softly, fiddling with your necklace, looking up bashfully.

"what, y'deaf? get in the backseat." he repeats, opening up the car door, you couldn't help but feel the wet patch pool in your bikini bottoms, you step into the backseat, seeing chris follow inside, shutting the car door.

you whine quietly, feeling his hands fiddle around with the button of your denim shorts, unzipping them swiftly, tossing them onto the passenger car seat, nestling his face in between your thighs, chuckling faintly against your clothed pussy, seeing the wet patch against your bikini. "eager, aren't you?" he croons quietly, gently moving the clothing article aside before licking a long, slow stripe against your folds, eliciting a whimper from you. "can't wait any longer, fawn," he pressed a soft kiss to your clit, before flattening his tongue against your pussy, using his thumb to spread open your folds, choked moans falling past your lips, feeling his tongue delve into your hole, thrusting the wet muscle in and out. "chriiss," you drawl, whining as you shakily lace your hand through his brunette, curly locks, feeling his tongue lap you up like a madman. "g-gonna cuuummm," you hiccup, whining, the car windows fogging due to the heat of the moment. airy moans fill the tight space of the car, your free hand planted against the foggy glass window of the car, leaving a handprint, while your other hand was tangled in his hair.

"that's it, fawn," chris croons, letting you come down from your high, your chest heaving, quiet whimpers leaving your mouth. you yelp quietly, feeling two of his fingers plunge into your seeping hole, the squelching noise humiliatingly loud, pumping his digits in and out of your pussy.

chris wrapped his hand the base of his cock, lining himself up against your entrance, his mushroom tip nudging against your folds, before he slides himself inside slowly, making you arch more, biting into the plush leather of the car seat. "this lil' pussy was made f'me, fawn," he grunts, slowly rocking his hips, one of his hands pressing down on your back, arching for him more, while his other free hand travels down to your clit, thumbing at it swiftly, making you squirm.

"chr-chrisss, o-ohhh," you babble, whining into the car seat, his hips plapping against your plush ass, as he landed a harsh smack to both your cheeks, the two globes being adorned with a muted shade of pink. "cum, cu-cumm, i'm-" you cry out, trying to grip onto the foggy car window, smearing your handprint onto the glass as he grunts quietly, seeing you smear a ring of white around the base of his cock, before he buries himself inside of you, hot spurts of warm cum spilling into your abused hole.

he pulled out, wiping his sweaty forehead, gently patting your quivering folds, making you jolt.

SWEETHEARTS: @oopsiedaisydeer @xoxochrissgf @ariieeesworld @courta13 @divinesturn @victorious8 @angeliolo

281 notes · View notes

itneverendshere · 8 months ago

Text

INVISIBLE STRING - r.c series (six)

pairing: pogue!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of domestic violence; unhealthy relationships;

He blinks and rubs his eyes, thinking maybe the heat is messing with his head, but no. There you are, standing a few feet away, looking like you’ve been through hell and back. His heart starts pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. He can’t think, can’t even breathe right.

You look different. Way different.

Long sleeves in this heat? And your face—there’s no mistaking the bruises, and purple and yellow patches on your cheek, jaw, even your neck. His eyes track the faintest shadow of a handprint there.

What the hell happened to you? How did you end up here?

He left the Outer Banks years ago to disappear, to put distance between you two. And now, after all that time, you just show up, beaten and in front of his garage?

The way you look at him like you’re shocked, almost terrified—it snaps him back to reality. But before he can take a step toward you, before he can get any words out, your eyes roll back.

“Shit!” He’s moving fast, catching you right before you hit the ground. He’s at your side in a second, kneeling, his hands hovering over you like he’s afraid to touch you, unsure what’ll hurt. “Hey, hey, c’mon, wake up—don’t do this.”

His voice is shaky, panicked. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be over you, supposed to forget all about you.

“Jerry!” he yells over his shoulder, “Call an ambulance!”

The old man sticks his head out from under the car, frowning.

“What’s goin’ on out there?”

Rafe doesn’t even look back, his focus on you, gently pressing his fingers to your neck to check for a pulse. You’re breathing, thank God, but you’re out cold. He’s torn between getting you help and the urge to just… hold you, and protect you from whatever did this to you. He cradles you in his arms.

“I said call!” he snaps, and Jerry curses under his breath, shuffling toward the phone.

Rafe doesn’t care. He’s too busy staring at you, brushing the hair out of your face, his thumb ghosting over the bruise on your cheek. What the fuck happened? Who laid their hands on you?

He holds you tighter, rocking just a little, “What the hell happened, darlin’?”

He leans closer, feeling the heat radiate off your skin. God, you look so fragile. He can’t shake the thought that he should��ve been there for you. He should’ve protected you from whatever led you here, from the bruises painting your skin.

Jerry returns, phone in hand, a frantic look on his face. “They’re on their way, kid. Just stay calm. They’ll be here.”

He kneels next to Rafe, checking your pulse, and Rafe holds his breath, waiting.

“C’mon, don’t do this to me,” he brushes your hair back again, fingers trembling slightly, “You gotta wake up.”

A part of him feels like a fool, holding onto a ghost.

You were supposed to be gone from his life, a chapter closed. But here you are, back in the worst way possible, and it’s tearing him apart.

Your eyes flutter open, just a crack, and he leans closer, hopeful.

“Hey… can you hear me?” He feels that familiar stretch in his chest like his heart is expanding in every direction possible.

You manage a little nod, but it’s shaky, and your breathing is still uneven. You blink up at him, confusion swimming in your eyes.

Your lip’s part, but nothing comes out, just a weak, ragged breath. Rafe’s heart twists. He can see the pain all over your face, doesn’t know if it’s more physical or emotional, and it’s killing him either way.

“Don’t try to talk,” he murmurs, his drawl softer now, coaxing. “Help’s comin’, just hang on.”

His thumb still traces the bruise, like he can smooth away the hurt if he just keeps touching you. Except, somehow, he knows this goes way beyond bruises.

Whatever you’ve been through, it’s bad. Worse than bad.

It’s a nightmare written in the way you look at him, like you can’t quite believe he’s real. He feels you tremble a little, and his gut knots up. He should say something more, something to ground you, but all he can think is that he failed you.

He ran. He left you behind. Now you’re back, but you’re broken

The ambulance sirens wail in the distance, getting louder, but to Rafe, it feels like everything's slowing down. He’s hyper-focused on you—your eyes, the bruises, your uneven breaths. He’s still holding you, rocking a little, like he can comfort you that way. It’s instinct.

Jerry’s back on his feet, shuffling out to meet the paramedics, but he doesn’t move. He can’t let go. The questions he wants to ask, the anger, the worry—it’s all eating him from the inside out.

When the paramedics rush over, he’s finally forced to step back, but not too far. He stays close, eyes never leaving you. They’re asking him questions—what happened, how long you’ve been out—he just wants to see you back on your feet.

All he knows is that he’s not letting you out of his sight.

They lift you onto the stretcher, strapping you in.

He should go with you, right? Shouldn’t he?

Or is that crossing a line? His mind’s racing, second-guessing every little thing. But when one of the paramedics glances his way, giving him that “Are you coming?” look, he’s already moving, climbing into the back of the ambulance without a second thought.

He’s by your side again, his knee bouncing as the doors close and the sirens blare to life. Leaning forward, he takes your hand—slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll break under his touch. “I’m right here."

And he means it. No matter what it takes, he’s staying this time.

The ambulance jerks to life, and Rafe grips the edge of the bench. Your hand in his feels too cold, limp, and that does something to him. His knee bounces faster as the paramedic starts rattling off medical stuff, checking your vitals, and asking him questions he can barely answer.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, voice tight. “She just showed up like that. Passed out before I could even talk to her.”

He keeps replaying the way you looked at him, the way your eyes rolled back before he could even say a damn thing. He swallows hard, staring at you, hoping you’ll just... open your eyes again, give him something.

The paramedic pulls out a flashlight, and shines it in your eyes, saying something about your pupils being responsive. Rafe clings to that word—responsive. That’s good, right? He doesn’t know much about this stuff, but responsive must mean you’re still fighting.

Somebody did this to you, he’s not sure what scares him more—the fact that he wasn’t there to stop it, or the fact that he might not be able to do anything about it now. “She gonna be okay?”

“Too early to tell,” the guy says without looking up, focused on the equipment strapped to you. “She’s stable for now, but we need to get her to the hospital. They’ll know more once we get her checked out.”

Stable. That’s not enough. Stable feels like a bandaid on a bullet wound.

Rafe squeezes your hand again, just needing to feel some kind of connection.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he’s trying to convince himself still, trying to will it into existence. “You hear me?” His voice cracks on the last bit, but he doesn’t care. You stir a little, just the faintest movement, and he straightens up. “That’s it. Just hang in there. We’re almost there.”

He sits back, trying to breathe, trying to keep his shit together, but it’s hard. It’s real hard. Everything’s too loud—the sirens, the paramedic moving around, the thoughts screaming in his head. He never should’ve left.

The ambulance slows down, and just like that you’re at the hospital. You’re almost there, almost safe.

The doors fly open, and the paramedics start moving fast, pulling the stretcher out with you strapped in, tubes and wires everywhere. Rafe’s out of the ambulance before he even realizes it, jogging to keep up as they wheel you inside. He doesn’t see anything but you as they push you through the double doors into the ER.

They stop him at the entrance.

“You can’t go in,” a nurse warns him, putting a hand on his chest to stop him from following you.

“What? No, I’m goin’ with her,” Rafe snaps, but the nurse shakes her head.

“You have to wait here. We’ll come get you when we know more.”

His hands flex into fists, but he knows he’s got to stand down.

“Fine,” he mutters, stepping back, watching helplessly as they wheel you away, disappearing behind the doors.

He stands there for a second, heart pounding, staring at the doors.

You’re gone. For now.

Rafe pulls out his phone, staring at it for a long minute, thinking about calling somebody, but who the hell’s he supposed to call? It’s not like he’s got anyone left in that town. Just you.

Sinking into a plastic chair, he drops his head into his hands, elbows propped on his knees again. But all he sees is you. All he hears is the quietness between you, everything unsaid. He leans back in the stiff plastic chair, then leans forward again, fingers running through his hair, pulling just enough to ground himself.

He hates it. Hates the helplessness, hates that all he can do is sit here while you’re in some back room, hooked up to God knows what. He looks around, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes. Felt like an hour.

What the hell’s takin’ so long? Rafe’s got an enormous space in his head right now, and every dark thought is creeping in—What if you don’t wake up? What if this is it? What if he loses you before he even has a chance to make things right?

He rubs his hands over his face, groaning low in his throat, trying to push all that out. You’re gonna be fine. You’ve always been tough, tougher than him most days, and you’d probably kick his ass for thinkin’ otherwise.

He thinks about it—some coward who thought they could lay hands on you, who thought they’d get away with it. No. Not if Rafe’s got anything to say about it.

The door to the ER swings open, and a nurse steps out, scanning the room. He’s on his feet in an instant, heart jackhammering in his chest.

“Hey—uh, is she—?”

The nurse glances down at her clipboard, nodding. “You’re here for her, right? She’s stable.”

He doesn’t even let her finish, relief hitting him so fast it almost knocks him over. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders sagging just a little.

“Stable?” he repeats, needing to hear it again.

“Yeah, she’s stable. The doctors are still running a few more tests, but she’s conscious now.”

Conscious.

“Can I see her?” he blurts, practically vibrating with the need to get to you.

The nurse hesitates, looking down at her clipboard again. “She’s still pretty out of it. I don’t think—”

“Please.”

She sighs, nodding toward the hallway. “Fine. But just for a few minutes.”

That’s all he needs. He follows her down the hallway, his pulse pounds in his ears as they stop outside your room. The nurse gestures for him to go in, and Rafe takes a deep breath.

You’re lying there, hooked up to machines, an IV in your arm, and though the bruises are still stark against your skin, you look… better.

Breathing easier. More color in your cheeks.

His heart? That’s still a mess.

He approaches slowly like he’s afraid to wake you, but when he gets close enough, he sees your eyes open.

Your gaze finds him. It’s just you and him, like before.

“Rafe?” Your voice is hoarse.

He never thought he’d hear you say his name again.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pulling up a chair next to your bed. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He watches your lips move, and it feels like someone’s driving a knife straight through his chest.

“Am… am I dreaming?” you ask, and the sound of it—so fragile, so full of disbelief—almost makes him break right there. His throat tightens, and he has to blink hard to keep himself from losing it.

He damn near sobs on the spot.

“No,” he reassures you, automatically reaching for you, “You’re not dreamin’. I’m here. I’m right here.”

His fingers wrap around yours, and for the first time in years, something inside him settles. He’s got you. You’re alive.

It’s not much, but it’s enough for now.

You look at him, eyes clouded with confusion, and pain. He watches the tears start to well up. He’s not sure what to do with any of it.

Everything feels so wrong and right at the same time.

He leans forward, his forehead pressing against the side of the bed, still holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He should’ve been there.

“You showed up,” he recalls what happened just hours ago, “Just collapsed right in front of me.” He pauses, tracing the marks on your face, your neck. His blood boils just thinking about it. “What the hell happened to you?” He’s not mad at you—God, no. He’s mad at himself. Mad at whoever did this. Mad at the whole fucking world for letting it happen. “Who did this?”

You flinch, and immediately he regrets probing, his heart breaking all over again at the sight of your tears. You look so small, so broken, and it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. This isn't you.

“I—I don’t…” Your voice breaks. He wants to wrap you up in his arms, pull you close, tell you that it’s okay, that he’s here now. But he doesn’t know if it is okay.

You close your eyes again, like just keeping them open is too hard, and Rafe leans back, running a shaky hand through his hair.

His mind’s spinning, trying to piece it all together. He keeps seeing the way you looked at him before you passed out, the way your body just gave up, and it’s driving him crazy.

Just thirty minutes later, he still sits there, watching you sleep again, his mind in a thousand different places. He keeps asking himself the same question, over and over.

If he hadn’t left, if he’d stayed close, maybe you wouldn’t be lying here with bruises in every shade of misery painted across your skin.

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together so hard it makes his head hurt. He’s furious—furious with himself, with whoever did this to you, and with the world for letting it happen. He’s realizing just how much damage he’s done by leaving.

He stares down at your hand in his, thumb absently brushing the back of it. There’s this constant torture inside him, like he’s gonna be sick if he doesn’t figure out who’s responsible.

A sudden knock on the door snaps him out of his thoughts. The doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under his arm, wearing that same calm look they all seem to have.

Rafe straightens up in the chair, not letting go of your hand. "How is she?"

The doctor looks at you, then back at him, sighing softly.

“Well, there’s no internal bleeding, which is good. We’re keeping her here for the night, just to check. A couple of the bruises are deep, though, and...” He trails off, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. “Some of the bruising looks... older. Different stages of healing.”

He blinks, hard, not sure if he heard that right. "Different stages? What’re you sayin'?"

"I’m saying it looks like this wasn’t a one-time incident."

His stomach drops. Suddenly it feels like he’s choking. He grips the arm of the chair. Different stages? What the hell does that mean?

Someone’s been putting their hands on you for a while?

“You’re tellin’ me this not the first time?” He’s on the verge of snapping. The doctor nods, just a small, grim acknowledgment, and Rafe fights the need to punch something. Or someone.

“She's lucky nothing’s broken,” the doctor continues, his tone too matter-of-fact for Rafe’s liking. “But she’s fragile. Exhausted. The best thing for her now is rest.”

Fragile.

He looks back at you, lying there, looking like you could disintegrate with just a touch. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, as if everything he thought he knew about you—about himself—is wrong.

And then, the doctor says it. "I think it would be best if we called the authorities, got a police report filed. This is clearly abuse, and—"

“No.” Your voice cracks through the air. You’re barely awake, but your eyes are wide now, desperate, “Please. Don’t.”

You look so fucking scared. He wants to hold you to his chest, to tell you it’s alright, but he can’t understand what the hell’s goin' on.

“No police,” you insist, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. “Please.”

"What—Why the hell not? You need help, you need—” His voice rises before he can stop it, “Somebody did this to you.”

You shrink back, eyes running away from him. Rafe’s heart twists in his chest. He didn’t mean to scare you, but he’s losing his mind here.

“I can’t,” you mumble, voice trembling. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

Rafe leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the bed now.

"Complicated? What the hell’s complicated about getting the bastard who did this? We gotta do somethin’ about it!"

But you’re not looking at him.

You’re staring at the wall, eyes glazed over like you’re not even really here. His hand twitches at his side.

The doctor clears his throat, awkwardly, like he knows this is something way above his pay grade.

“I’ll give you two some space.” He turns to leave, and Rafe barely acknowledges him, too focused on you.

He lets out a long breath, "You don’t gotta be scared, alright? I’ll handle it. You know I will." His voice coaxing. “But you gotta let me. Just let me help you.”

You still don’t answer. Just keep staring at the wall like it’s easier than facing him.

That kills him more than anything else.

All he wants to do is pull you close and tell you that he’ll take care of everything, but the look on your face—the fear, the hesitation—tells him there’s a lot more going on.

He runs his thumb over the back of your hand again.

“I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you again,” he promises, “You hear me? No one.”

“You’ve never been good at keeping promises, have you?”

His breath hitches.

He stares at you, stunned. He doesn’t know what to say. You’re right.

You’re not still not looking at him—your eyes are stuck on the wall, your voice distant, almost like you’re talking to yourself.

He swallows hard, his hand slipping from yours as he sits back. Fuck.

He knows you’re right. You don’t have to say it, but you just did. He wasn’t there for you before, wasn’t there when it mattered. He ran.

“I…” He clears his throat as he looks down at his hands. “I know.”

Your eyes meet his for a second, and it feels like a lifetime worth of longing is trapped in there.

He swears he can feel every broken promise between you two and for once in his life, he doesn’t know if trying is enough.

The next day, you’re finally properly awake, and though you’re not saying much, you look better.

Less pale. More alive. The bruises are still there, but at least you’re moving.

Breathing.

Rafe's been thinking about what you said—about him not keeping promises. He's not gonna make the same mistake again.

When the nurse tells him you’ll be discharged soon, his first thought is your clothes—the ones you were wearing when you collapsed.

They’re ripped, dirty, and stained with too many bad memories.

There’s no way in hell you’re walking out of here in those. Without saying a word, he heads out. He doesn’t have to explain it to you, doesn’t even wait for you to ask where he’s going.

A little while later, he comes back with a bag of clothes in hand.

He didn’t waste time trying to pick something fancy or anything; just grabbed whatever looked comfortable. A pair of soft sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. It’s warm outside, but he knows you—you like to cover up, especially now. He doesn’t say anything when he hands them to you, just sets them on the chair by your bed like it’s no big deal.

But the way you look at the clothes, then back at him—it’s like you can’t believe he thought of it. Like you don’t know him anymore.

You don’t say anything, either, just take the bag with a quiet “thanks.”

He nods once, stuffing his hands into his pockets, watching you for a moment before looking away.

When the doctor finally comes back, he rattles off a list of things you’ll need to do once you’re discharged.

“You need to rest. Take it easy. And most importantly, you shouldn’t be alone. Someone should stay with you, just in case there are any sudden complications—dizziness, headaches, anything like that.”

Before you can even open your mouth, Rafe speaks up. “She’s stayin’ with me.”

You whip your head toward him so fast, it’s like you’re about to snap your neck.

“What?” Your voice is incredulous like the idea is completely absurd.

“She’s stayin’ with me.”

The doctor just nods like it’s no big deal.

“Good. She needs to be with someone who can watch her closely for the next couple of days. Make sure she’s not exerting herself.”

You’re still staring at Rafe like he’s lost his damn mind.

“Rafe, I—” you start, but he cuts you off, not even turning to face you.

“You’re not going back,” he mutters, his tone final. “You’re coming with me, end of story.”

You sit there, lips pursed, stunned, unsure what to say or do.

He stands up, grabbing your things, already moving toward the door like it’s a done deal.

“C’mon,” he calls over his shoulder, “Let’s get outta here.”

The house is modest. Small kitchen, worn-out couch, and the faint smell of motor oil drifting in from the garage. It’s clear he doesn’t spend much time here—there’s hardly anything personal, just the basics. He drops the bag on the table and turns to you.

“You can take the bed,” he nods toward the back room. “I’ll crash on the couch.”

“I don’t need—”

“I’m not arguin’ about this. You’re takin’ the bed. End of story.”

You swallow the protest, nodding . Maybe it’s the exhaustion on your bones, or maybe it’s the realization that you don’t have the energy to fight him right now. Either way, you head toward the bedroom without a word, slipping out of sight.

Later, as you sit on the bed, your mind recalls the way Rafe didn’t even hesitate to help you, the way he’s been since you showed up at his doorstep looking like death itself.

He stills acts like Rafe you used to know, your Rafe.

And it’s messing with your head.

You hear him in the kitchen, the clink of dishes, the creak of the old floorboards under his boots. You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are. He appears in the doorway a few minutes later, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

“You’re feeling better?”

You nod, though it feels like a lie. “Yeah.”

“Look,” he says, his drawl a little softer, less harsh than it was earlier, “You don’t gotta stay forever. Just ‘til you’re feeling better."

You glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of what’s going on in that head of his. But he’s hard to read.

You no longer have that kind of intimacy.

“You’ve been here this whole time?”

You’re not talking about the hospital.

You can’t believe that after everything, after all these years, you ended up here—in his house, in this random town that’s miles away from home, from where your lives used to be. It feels like some twisted, cruel joke. Fate playing games with you both.

“This place is eight hours from home,” you continue, more to yourself than to him. “And somehow, I end up here.” You look up at him, your eyes wide with disbelief. “With you.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “Hell of a coincidence, huh?”

But it doesn’t feel like just a coincidence to you.

It feels bigger than that—like some bigger force, you can’t comprehend, pulled you back into each other’s lives when you least expected it.

After everything that happened, after he disappeared and you were left behind to pick up the pieces of your life, you thought you’d never see him again. But here he is. Here you are.

You can’t stop staring at him.

t’s like every time you blink, he looks different—familiar but new in all the ways that make you speechless. He’s shaved but you still spot his shaving shadow. His hair is longer, almost slicked back from how many times he’s run his hands through it.

The way it falls, messy but somehow perfect, makes you want to reach out and touch it just to see if it feels like you remember.

And then there’s the rest of him.

He’s filled out, broader in the shoulders, his arms stronger, more defined. You can see it all through the worn wifebeater he’s wearing. It hugs him just right, showing off muscles that weren’t there before.

It’s like he’s grown into himself like he finally became the man you always knew he could be.

You can’t believe it’s him—the love of your life. The boy you lost is standing right in front of you, but he’s not just a boy anymore. He’s a man, and it hits you so hard, you almost feel dizzy.

Rafe sits down next to you, close enough that your knees almost touch. His blue eyes peek to your face, then away, then back again, like he’s trying to figure you out. He exhales, jaw tensing as he looks down at his hands before glancing back up at you.

“You gotta tell me what happened.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, and drop your gaze to your lap. How are you supposed to reveal any of this? How do you even start?

“I have a fiancé.”

His brows furrow together as he processes what you just said.

“A fiancé?” he repeats like he’s testing the word, trying to see if it’s as real as it sounds.

You nod, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. It feels wrong to bring this up now, amid everything, but it’s the truth, and he deserves to know it.

“Yeah.”

“He did this?” His voice is weak, almost like he’s afraid to ask, but his eyes narrow into slits.

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s not like that. He didn’t—” You pause, the words dying in your tongue. You don’t want to defend him, not when Rafe’s just looking for someone to blame, but you can’t help it. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” he echoes his voice rising a notch. “You’ve got bruises on your skin. Complicated’s not the word for it.”

You wince at his tone, “It’s just… it’s not all his fault. I thought I could handle it. I thought—”

“You thought what?” Rafe interrupts, with frustration. “You thought you could handle gettin’ tossed around like this? What the hell are you even sayin’?”

You close your eyes, wishing for just a moment of peace, something to stop the mess that your life turned into.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you confessed, barely loud enough for him to hear.

His head snaps back like you’ve slapped him. “What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? There’s always a choice.”

You shake your head, feeling the tears building. You’ve cried enough over this—over him, over everything you lost, and everything you thought you wanted. “Not for me, not back then.”

He blinks at you, confused. You can see him trying to piece it together, but it’s like the more you talk, the less he understands.

“My parents,” you explain, “They gave me an ultimatum—either stop looking for you or lose everything. My place in college, my future. They weren’t gonna let me keep chasing after you.”

This isn’t the way you thought this conversation would go, but now that you're here, with Rafe sitting right next to you, there’s no running from it.

He doesn’t say anything, just sits there in silence, staring at you, brows knitted together like he’s trying to piece the puzzle all together.

“You looked for me?”

It’s not an accusation, not exactly, but there’s this hint of doubt in his tone, like he can’t even wrap his head around the idea. His blue eyes search yours, and the intensity in them makes your chest hurt in that good way you missed. The only one you craved.

God, you don’t even know how to answer that. It’s like your brain’s screaming to hold back, to not let him in again, but your heart—it’s already crumbling at the way he’s looking at you.

You take a shaky breath, nodding once, “Of course I did.”

Rafe’s eyes shine with something restless, like he can’t decide if he should keep looking at you or anywhere but. His jaw tightens, and he bites the inside of his cheek, that familiar flash of frustration you’ve seen too many times. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

Then, he laughs, but it’s bitter and choked, barely more than a scoff. He’s looking at the ground now, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, knuckles white from the pressure.

“You looked for me?” he mutters again, like he’s grappling with the idea. His head snaps back to you, eyes wide, bewildered. “And I—I fuckin' left you.” He drags a hand down his face, fingers digging into his skin, exhaling hard. You can practically see the guilt attached to his entire being. His gaze darts around the room, his leg bouncing with that anxious energy. “I thought you’d hate me.”

“I never hated you. Not for that.”

At that, he flinches, eyes widening slightly before they narrow, like he doesn’t know if he should trust what he just heard. His lips part, then close, as if he’s trying to fathom that one simple truth. He runs his hand over his mouth, and he stares at you with that intense, almost unnerving gaze of his.

“W-What did they do to you?”

There’s fear in his voice—a desperate kind of fear, like he’s terrified of the answer.

“Rafe…” You sigh, your voice cracking on his name.

He lets out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated. His hand drags through his hair for the millionth time since you stumbled back into his life, tugging at the strands.

“Make me understand,” he says, his voice strained. “Because I’m tryin’ real hard here, all I see is you hurt—bruised—and tellin’ me I’m not supposed to be angry about it.”

You look away, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

You don’t want to cry in front of him, not now. But the truth sits your chest, and you know there’s no avoiding it any longer.

“It wasn’t just him,” you finally admit, “It’s everything—my parents, the pressure, the expectations. I thought if I did what they wanted, if I played by their rules, I could fix it. I could fix me. But I was wrong. So wrong.”

Rafe watches you carefully, his leg still bouncing, his eyes searching your face trying to figure out why you ever thought you had to do it all alone.

“You didn’t think I’d be there for you?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head.

“You weren’t even there for yourself. You left. You ran. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know how.”

He winces, but you see it—the regret. “I didn’t know,” he tells you, “I didn’t know you were lookin’. I thought…” He trails off, his hand gripping the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard into his skin. “I thought you moved on. That you didn’t want me anymore.”

You can see it now—the broken pieces of the boy you used to love, the boy you never really stopped loving, sitting right in front of you.

“I could never hate you,” you confess, “Not after everything we went through. I was hurt, yes. Angry. But I never hated you.”

You don’t know why it feels so hard to say this out loud, but there’s something about being here with him, after everything that happened, that makes it feel even more impossible.

“My parents were really done with me by the time I hit my third year in college. They’d already threatened to cut me off a hundred times—made me choose between them or… or you.” You pause, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The memories flood back so vividly—their constant disapproval, the harsh words, the relentless pressure to forget about Rafe and focus on your “real future,” as they called it.

“They gave me an ultimatum—again,” you continue, the hostility creeping into your voice. “I was still trying to find you, still chasing every lead, every rumor, anything I could get my hands on. And they were fed up. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just let it go, why I couldn’t just move on with my life.”

He’s letting you speak, letting you lay it all out in the open.

“There was this guy. His family had just moved to Figure Eight right after you left. He was nice, at first. He was everything my parents wanted—a good family, a stable future, perfect on paper. They practically forced me to start dating him.”

You feel Rafe stiffen beside you, but you can’t stop now. The words are coming out, faster than you can control them.

“At first, it was just to keep the peace, to get them off my back. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But then, as the years went on, I don’t know. I was tired. Tired of fighting them, tired of searching for you and coming up empty every time. Tired of the pressure, of being the disappointment.”

You pause, your throat tightening as you remember the way your parents had pushed you, how they’d insisted that dating this guy was the only way to secure a “respectable future.” You’d been so worn down by then, so lost, that it seemed like the only choice.

“They convinced me it was the right thing to do. That this was my chance to finally move on, to stop chasing after something that wasn’t there anymore. They made it sound like it was the only way to get my life back on track.”

Rafe moves beside you, restless, “And you believed them?”

You wish you could stop here, leave it unsaid, but you can’t.

“It got worse.”

He turns to face you, a silent question in his eyes. He knows you’re about to tell him something bad—something he won’t want to hear—but he waits, giving you space to speak.

“I tried to make it work with him. I really did,” you almost let the tears drop right there and then, “But it was never right. He found a picture of us. From years ago. A photo I’d printed before you left. I don’t even know why I kept it, but I did. I kept it in my wallet, hidden away. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but when he found it…” You pause, the memory replaying in your mind. “He changed.”

His entire body goes still.

“He didn’t trust me after that,” you whispered the shame burning you alive, “He started questioning everything. If I talked to another guy, even just for a second, he’d lose it. I couldn’t leave the house alone anymore, not without him watching me. I couldn’t have a girls’ night or even go to the grocery store without him making some comment about who I might be looking at or who might be looking at me.”

You drop your gaze to your hands, gripping them tightly in your lap to stop them from shaking.

“I tried to tell myself it was nothing, that he was just jealous because he cared. But it got worse. He started getting angry, accusing me of things that weren’t even happening. And then he got violent.”

“What do you mean ‘violent’?”

You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to admit how bad it got, how trapped you felt. But the truth is there, in the bruises that are still fading from your skin, in the way your body recoils at the thought of him.

You can’t hide it anymore.

“He hit me. Every week, kept saying I was still in love with you, that I never got over you. He’d accuse me of cheating, of thinking about you. He didn’t trust me around anyone. And whenever he got worked up, he’d… he’d take it out on me.”

Rafe is breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling at a fast pace. He’s trying to control it, but you can see it, the way his hands are shaking, the way his jaw clenches so hard it looks painful.

“How long?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. “How long has this been happening?”

You swallow hard, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall.

“Almost three years. Ever since he found that picture.”

Rafe curses under his breath, turning away from you, his hands gripping the comforter so tightly you think he might rip it apart.

“You couldn’t leave?” His voice is strained, like he’s trying to understand how things got this bad.

You shake your head slowly.

“I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. He controls everything. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without him. He’d keep tabs on me constantly. Make it ten times worse every single time. My parents think I’m doing this to myself to get away.”

He’s not just angry, he’s furious.

“I should’ve been there,” he scolds himself, “I should’ve been there.”

“You couldn’t have known,” You don’t want him to blame himself, not for this. “You left for a reason. I get that.”

But Rafe doesn’t seem to hear you. He’s pacing back and forth now, each step more agitated than the last.

“He hit you." He says it almost to himself, like he can’t fully comprehend it. He’s shaking his head now, breathing hard. “And your parents—they think you’re doin’ this to yourself?” His voice rises, disbelief dripping from every word. “What the hell kind of—” He stops himself, pacing faster. He looks like he wants to punch something, like he’s one second away from collapsing.

You wince at his anger, though it’s not directed at you, “Rafe—”

He turns abruptly, cutting you off, his eyes wild.

“No. Don’t ‘Rafe’ me, alright? You—” He gestures at you, his hand shaking as he points to the fading bruises. “This? This is bullshit. What, they think it’s your fault? They don’t get to do that to you. None of this is your fault, and you should never have had to deal with that piece of shit."

His words are not meant to hurt you, but hearing them shatters your heart in half, at least, what's left of it anyway.

Rafe seems to sense it, the way your body tenses, the way your eyes are avoiding his now. He stops pacing and moves closer, crouching down in front of you.

His movements are slower, like he doesn’t want you to ever feel scared around him.

“Look at me,” he almost begs you, “Just… look at me.”

Reluctantly, you meet his eyes and it’s like you’re seventeen all over again.

“I’m sorry. ’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should’ve been. I should’ve…” His voice cracks, and he quickly looks away, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were still lookin’ for me.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“You’re not going back. You’re not goin’ back to him. Not after this.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you almost whimper in pain. It’s the truth, though. You’re trapped, and no matter how much he wants to help, there’s no easy solution to this mess.

“You do now,” he takes your hands into his, wondering if he’s still worth your touch. “You’re stayin’ with me. I don’t care what it takes. You’re not goin’ back there. Not to him, not to your parents. I’ll figure it out.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s making a promise—one he won’t break.

“I can’t just—”

“You’re safe now. I swear.”

You’re sobbing. It’s not the delicate, quiet kind of crying either—you can’t breathe, your chest heaving with every inhale, the sound coming out somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

You cover your face with your hands, trying to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t work. The tears just keep pouring out, endless, soaking your palms, dripping down your wrists. You’re shaking, your whole body trembling as years of pent-up hurt, exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out between sobs, even though you’re not sure what you’re apologizing for. It’s like you can’t stop apologizing, like everything that's happened is somehow your fault. “I’m sorry—I—”

The sobs tear through you and Rafe moves without hesitation, just slides down next to you, pulling you gently into his lap. His strong arms wrap around you, cautious but firm. He’s mindful of the bruises he knows are there, his hand running up and down your back in the softest, most delicate way, almost like he’s scared to cause you any more pain.

You cling to him instinctively, burying your face into his chest as you cry harder, your fingers gripping onto his shirt. His scent is familiar—comforting—and it only makes you cry more.

“Shhh. It’s okay. I got you, baby. I got you.” His lips brush against your temple in the lightest kiss, over and over again, like he’s trying to kiss away the tears, the fear, the pain. “You’re okay now,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

You’re shaking in his arms, but he holds you tighter, rocking you while his hand continues its slow, careful path up and down your back.

“I’m here,” he reminds you against your hair, his lips pressing another kiss to your forehead. “No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here. I swear.”

Even if just for this moment, you believe him.

514 notes · View notes

manriah · 1 year ago

Text

Clowncore Patches!

40 notes · View notes

vapekingg · 8 months ago

Text

Muse

Eddie x Fem!Reader TW: P in V, feminine pet names

There's nothing Eddie loves more than catching you at your most vulnerable — permanently — on film. He's an amazing photographer. That instant camera stays on his nightstand with the evidence of his skills tucked away inside the bottom drawer.

"Tongue out, baby. Just like that," he cooes while thumbing your lips apart, cradling your spit-soaked chin in his large palm.

In his other hand sits that fucking camera. Face half obscured by it, but you can still see the pleasure on his face. The tip of your tongue meets the dripping head of his cock, and then there's a flash.

You see him for just a second, Eddie in his entirety. The flex of his biceps kept lean by rigorous guitar practice. The small patch of hair on his chest that leads down into a happy trail beneath his waist. The grit of his teeth, the flex of his jaw.

The mechanical whirring of the camera cuts through labored breaths and rustling sheets, and then a square photograph is spat out. Eddie holds it up to the light while it develops, smile widening with each passing moment.

"Arch that back for me." He says later, "Good girl."

Your wrists are fixed behind your back, pinned together with his one hand while his other is preoccupied.

"Yeah, that's my girl. Keep still for me."

Another flash of light in the dark brings to life the crimson handprint that glows on your ass. Oh, Eddie's happy to see how well that photograph develops.

And hours later, with photographs scattered around you, sweat drying to your skin and midnight air blowing in through the open window, Eddie pulls your wobbly leg over his shoulder.

"Play with it, angel. One more good shot." He begs, knowing you love this just as much as he does.

You move your hand between your thighs, fingers trailing against your slick folds, fluttering over your clit and spreading yourself open. A gush of warmth follows after and you catch it on your fingertips, dragging Eddie's cum up over your clit and fingering it back into your hole.

Another flash of light. Perfectly timed. Perfectly angled. Eddie is the perfect photographer, and you are his perfect muse.

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things fic

430 notes · View notes

bird-song-studio · 2 years ago

Text

100% linen hand printed sew on patches

28 notes · View notes

butterli5 · 2 months ago

Text

It starts one lazy Sunday afternoon.

Teddy, barefoot and smudged with jam from breakfast, wanders into the sun-drenched room Regulus has claimed as his studio. He stops in the doorway, watching with wide, fascinated eyes as Regulus, sleeves pushed to his elbows, sketches something quick and loose onto a stretched canvas.

“You’re making colors,” Teddy says, in that solemn, serious voice only toddlers can manage.

Regulus glances over, caught mid-line, and smiles, something slow and genuine. “I am.”

Teddy inches closer, craning his neck. His whole face lights up like a little sun.

By the next morning, Regulus has already decided. He bundles Teddy into his car seat and drives them both to the best art supply store in London, where they proceed to wreak gentle, creative havoc.

Remus, who had only agreed under strict assurances that they would be reasonable, watches helplessly as Regulus fills the cart with the finest (and most expensive) children’s crayons, non-toxic watercolors, professional-grade brushes in tiny sizes for tiny hands, miniature sketchbooks made from Italian paper, easels small enough for a three-year-old, and a selection of paints in every color imaginable. He also buys a pair of tiny denim overalls with little rainbow patches on the knees.

Teddy beams up at him the entire time, babbling excitedly about making “rainbow cows” and “purple rain.”

When Remus groans and runs a hand over his face, Regulus just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “He’s an artist,” he says smoothly, brushing Teddy’s hair back from his forehead. “He deserves the good tools.”

Back home, they set everything up in the studio.

Regulus doesn’t correct Teddy when he paints the sky green and the trees blue. He doesn’t lecture him about shading or proportions or proper brush technique, he lets him enjoy his art because no child has to have that joy stolen from them, no child should be punished for not being a painting prodigy. He encourages Teddy to dip his hands into the pots of paint, laughing when bright yellow handprints end up all over the canvas, and Teddy’s cheeks.

“That’s beautiful, Teddy,” Regulus murmurs, crouching beside him. “Make it just how you see it.”

Teddy grins, showing all his tiny teeth.

From the doorway, Remus watches them both, leaning against the frame with a crooked, unbearably fond smile.

And when Teddy turns around proudly, cheeks and overalls splattered in a mess of colors, Regulus just smiles wider and says, without a trace of irony: it's a masterpiece.

One year later, that same painting will be showed at the center of Regulus' latest exhibition, a small golden plaque next to it with the name of Teddy Lupin Black, the boy in question standing with his tiny hand clasped in Regulus', wearing a tiny suit with a bright yellow bow tie and a toothy grin as they greet their friends and guests.

"Thank you,” Remus will say, voice thick.

“For what?” Regulus murmurs, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“For giving him what you never had.”

Regulus just smiles, soft and private, and links their pinkies together, like a promise.

This was low-key inspired by this one tiktok I saw of a family hosting an at home gallery for their toddler's paintings, and I thought that's such a moonwater thing

#moonwater #remus lupin #romantic moonwater #regulus black #teddy lupin black #teddy lupin

302 notes · View notes

fayesia · 10 months ago

Text

The Kings Seat

Aemond Targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, switch!aemond, jealous!aegon, incest (obviously it's house Targaryen), fingering, creampie, tit worship?, breeding kink, fem!oral, p in v

You moved gracefully around the circumference of the small councils table, wine in hand, dutifully filling the lords cup if need be. You paused by the Kings side, pouring his glass full, aware of his habits as his sister, you witnessed first hand your brothers fall into the clutches of the finest wines and jewels from the streets of silk.

You yourself were taken to the tucked away pleasure houses just a few months ago at the age of 8 and 10. Your brother keeping you close, for he knew well the wrath that would face him if your mother had known he was the cause of your ruined maidenhood.

~flashback~

Instead, he steered you around by your shoulders whispering into your ear about what you saw. Both women and men walked around bare as the day they were but babes, their body's slithered amongst one another like that of a performance, one you couldn't take your eyes off of. A man's hand came up caressing the well endowed woman's breasts, she keened against him arching her back while another feasted between her legs, her hands gripping onto their hair like a salvation she craved.

Your body seemed pleased by the glorious sights of pleasure, shifting your thighs against one another where you felt the stickiness of your need. Aegons whispers by your ear were followed by gentle kisses against your neck, exhaling softly as your breath got stuck by a moan fighting it's way from your throat. His hand wrapped around your hip while another around your neck, gently rolling your head to rest upon his shoulder as he continued to worship your soft unmarked skin that lay bare to him.

He provided you with a dark cloak on the way out to your secret endeavour but it was just your thin white nightgown that lay beneath. His fingers came up to your neck, clumsily he attempted to untie the knot, failing due to his drunken state after having indulged in three full cups of wine. You reached up and he felt your soft fingers against his rough ones, calloused from his training days with Ser Criston.

Your eyes locked and it was like the two of you were looking into a mirror, time stood still and the only thing heard was the shallow breaths between the two of you upon the realisation of your actions.

Gods, this was your sisters husband, your brother.

You could not let such rumours be heard by your mother, lest you were ready to feel her wrath against your face they way she had many times prior. Leaving behind red handprints and purple bruises that marred your white porcelain targarryan skin, her face scowling at you as your eyes brimmed with tears that you willed to never let fall in front of her, that witch who you call mother.

You were pulled roughly from your trance, shocked to find a rather ruffled Prince Aemond. He was always so proper with not even a starnd of his perfectly white hair out of place, and yet here he stood eye patch in hand with his clothing in disarray, must have been in a rush to put them back on you assumed. It was no secret to you that Aegon visited the pleasure houses often, however you were yet to know that Aemond did too.

Still it did not come as a surprise, a boy was to find his needs somehow, if his mother could not give him the proper love required, it seemed fair for him to search for it elsewhere.

Grabbed out of Aegons embrace you were pulled against the tall stature of Aemond, his face reflecting the rage of a very angry dragon, akin to that of Vaghar. Repositioning his eye patch, his eye glared viciously into Aegons. "Skoros gaomagon ao pendagon ao sagon doing, ao mittys!?" Aegons mouth open and shut at the unexpected outbursts. "Bringing īlva mandia naejot iā dīnagon hae bisa! Gods is there ever anything going on in that tiny little head of yours you insolent fuck. skoros gaomagon ao pendagon muña kessa gaomagon, skori ziry hears hen rumours." (what do you think you're doing you fool?! Bringing our sister to a place like this! What do you think mother will do, when she hears of the rumours)

The two of you walk silently back to the castle gates, your eyes briefly flickering over Aemonds face, trying to read what he's thinking, but he offers none of his thoughts in his expression. It remains stoic and unwavering, just like his grip on your forearm until you finally reach the doors to your apartments. Pushing the shocked guard aside, he opens the door shoving you in and leaving without another word.

~end of flashback~

The loud noise of the knights armour clashing together brings you back to your senses. The council rooms doors open and the lords make their way out of the room making way for the king before taking their leave. Placing down the empty jug of wine you let out a deep breath staring down at the table.

"Does something bother you sister"

Whipping your head quickly you meet the pointed gaze of Aemond as he stands next to the Kings seat, hands clasped behind his back as he faces you.

"No, actually, I was just about to leave"

"Ah, not so quickly. Come sit"

It's not your role to take a seat at the small councils table but Aemond stands waiting expectantly next to the dragged out chair. So you walk over and sit on the edge of the seat, clasping your hands together in an effort to hide your nervousness. Ever since that night you and Aegon snuck out of the castle Aemond did not pay much attention and cared little for making conversation. It was only he who knew he kept his distance in hopes to keep his desires at bay.

The desires that rose after seeing you in that sinful place, dressed so innocently with eyes full of desire and lust. A look he would never forget after many a nights spent alone with just his hands on himself and you in his mind. The shame after the first time stopped him from looking into your eyes but the next few times he could barely handle being around you, only the gods know what he might end up doing to you.

"You wish to sit here, do you not sister? Must be difficult being perceived as a simple cup bearer"

You stay silent.

He places his hands on your shoulder, leaning to whisper into your ear as though there are still people in the room, but it is just the two of you and the guards outside.

"You know you have all the knowledge to aid in this talk of war, yet you are forced to hold your tongue, like a kind innocent little girl"

Little girl. The way he says it reminds you of when he shoved you into your room after your late night trip.

"Go to sleep now, little girl"

"But you are not so innocent, sister"

His hands rub against your shoulders sliding up and down your arms, but as he speaks they slide lower, brief touches of his fingertips against the skin exposed by the low cut of your dress.

"For there is only three who know of that night and the lust you sought after, from your own brother"

You try to speak but the words are caught in your throat, only short breaths coming out. His hands lower down your back, delicately untying the laces to your gown in an almost polar opposite way to his brothers clumsy drunken fumbles.

Resting your head against the back of the chair you're left in the perfect position for Aemonds attack against your neck, his movements are fast but the kisses he lays are gentle. A soft nipping against your skin but he's careful to leave no marks for those to see and make rumours of. "Is this how it felt, to feel him against your skin, to feel your Kings lips on your neck?"

You shake your head in a daze, slowly side to side.

"No it feels better doesn't it."

Nodding your head, he unties the last knot of your dress and it slips down loosely, catching onto your forearms that grip the edge of the table. Your bare breasts are on display and his hands are quick to hold onto them. They comfortably fit into his palm, your nipples harden against the cold temperature of his hands. He grabs hold of you, lifting you up from the chair and placing you on top of the small councils table, crashing his mouth against yours faster than you can register his movements.

He tastes like the wine you had just been pouring, you felt like you were drunk off just his kisses alone. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. As your tongues battles for dominance, it was a losing battle on your part. Your hands grasps against aemonds arms but you scratch at his clothing, a sign for him to remove it which he gladly notices. Slipping out of the remaining gown on you, Aemond removes his clothing too until he is stood in front of you in nothing. Both of you bare as the day of your births.

All ideas of sensibility is gone, the thought of someone walking in is not even lingering in either of your minds.

Stepping forward Aemond guides you back onto the small council table except he now sits in the Kings seats with you in front of him, his prize. Leaning forward his hand is hard and pressing against your spine, his mouth wraps around the shape or your left breast while his other hand is busy massaging your right. He suckles at your nipple like a babe with its mother and you understand his needs, softly raking your nails through his straight hair, his moans lost in the flesh of your tit.

You grow more wet and impatient as he continues the treatment to your tits switching between the two.

"Are you feeling needy little girl, rather more like a little slut now"

Gently laying you back down on the table he lifts your thighs to rest in his arms. Whispering as he makes his way between your legs kissing against your inner thighs, the sweet taste of you on his tongue teasing him.

"But that's what you want to be now, my little slut, my own personal whore."

Letting out a sharp gasp followed by a moan your hands reach down to grasps Aemonds head, but as his tongue languidly traces every crevice of your cunt his large hand wraps around both your wrist tightly and pins them above your head. He's almost ferel losing control in a way you had never seen before. He moans into you and let's out growls that compete with that of a dragon. His lips wrap around your pearl and his tongue traces around your tight hole, trying to squeeze its way through the barrier of your maidenhood already broken from your days of dragonriding. Your moans grow louder as you almost reach your peak.

"That's right let the whole castle hear you, so they know you belong to me, Iksā ñuhon" (You are mine). Your back arches off the stone table, a sign that you are close. Yet Aemond stops leading you to whine out at the loss of pleasure.

"No I want to feel you cum with me inside this sweet cunt"

His lips meet yours once again taking the chance to slip his tongue inside when you let out a moan. His finger slips inside of you. "What a truly tight cunt you have sister" You can barely respond feeling yourself completely lost in the desires to pull Aemond as close to you as possible, to merge your bodies into one. A second finger prods against you to meet the first one, he slowly stretches you to fit his cock, the same one that has grown double in size since he first began worshipping you.

"Please Aemond-please I'm so close. Jus' let me cum please~" your words are lost amongst the moans that Aemond draws from you. He fears he will not last long with your responses heading straight to his cock, the tip a bright pink coated in his precum, that runs down the sides in a little stream.

Flipping you around, your front is not squashed onto the table adding further sensations to your already stimulated nipples, Aemonds hands hold tightly onto your hips. Spreading the soft flesh of your bottom he runs his cock against your dripping folds, his fluids mixing with yours making an even bigger mess of your cunt.

"Are you ready? Going to have you take my seed, carry my babe, let everyone know who you belong to, and strengthen the family line." His words come out breathy and needy and you expect to hear a whine by the end of it. But it is you who let's out the sweet noises as Aemonds cock enters your tight hole. He sheaths himself into you wating for you to adjust around him before pulling halfway out. Your mouth opens in a silent scream and your nails scratch marks into the stone beneath you that you know will be seen during the next small councils meeting.

"So good, feels so good my sweet thing, so tight, gods I will not last long, fill you with my babe soon"

Still inside of you Aemond carries you and sits back in the Kings seat, you're facing him and stare into his eye as he bottoms into you completely. Your eyes closing shut but he calls for you to keep them open. "I want you to see my face when I fill you with my seed, as I breed you to take my babe." Nodding your head you're too drunken on lust and pleasure to understand anything.

Wrapping your arms around his neck Aemonds mouth comes to suck and kiss at your breasts once again, a habit he hopes to keep when you began feeding your future babe, to taste the sweet liquid of life you will feed them and him. His thoughts and your tight walls squeezing around him draw him over the edge. As he climaxes he growls against your chest as you kiss his head, the two of you holding each other like each other lifelines. His cum pumps into you and he feels some of it leak down his cock and onto his balls as he pulls out of you.

Pushing two fingers into you he is sure that none of it will go to waste, curling and rubbing against your walls his thumbs rushes against your pearl. Whining out at the gods you cum onto Aemonds hand, the clear liquid mixed with his white cum dripping down from his wrist down to the veins on his arm. "Shhh sh my sweet so good for me." You let out small whimpers feeling his fingers leave you. Holding you close he places a gentle kiss to the side of your head but gets up to get dressed leaving you in the Kings seat, his cum dripping from your cunt.

"Come sister we must be quick before they come searching for us" holding out your dress he helps your stumbing body into it and ties the laces as your maids did this morning. He leaves the room first to not cause suspicion but he's sure to leave the guards with a handful of coins each and threats against their lives in return for their secrecy. You follow a while after, making the walk back to your apartments with your guards and the cum of Prince Aemond dripping down your thighs.

It is two days later when your mother request you to be a cup bearer at yet another one of the small councils meetings. You do so dutifully but as you stand by King Aegons side filling his goblet with wine you see the scratches on the stone tables surface. The very same ones you made when Aemonds cock was ramming deep inside of you and his thighs slapping against the back of your own while his hand rubbed against your pearl. The memory surfacing a deep blush upon your cheeks and neck as you make eye contact with Aemond, his lips curling into a small smirk. You turn and walk back to the wine table hiding your face from the council with acts of being busy refilling the jug but Aegon does not miss the shared look between his siblings. His eyes scanning the marks marred on the table as his shocked expression meets the smug one on Aemonds face.

a/n: wow. ok it has been so long since I've , I've just been very busy and stressed. Hopefully I can get back to writing regularly by October. I'm sure we all know what to look forward to during that month lol. I'm so excited though because it is the first Kinktober I will be participating in! Anyways as always thanks to everyone who appreciates my work and my request are open :D

#smut #hotd smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen

427 notes · View notes