#sibling/reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 19 days ago

Text

he put me first — ka12 (part two)

smau + blurbs

kimi antonelli x !estranged leclerc sister reader

yn always fell on the back burner for her family, never truly seen. her father was the only one who ever made her feel like she mattered. when he passed, the distance between her and her siblings—charles, arthur, lorenzo—only grew wider. she felt more like a shadow than a sister. desperate to escape the weight of monaco and the name that never really felt like hers, she left for italy with nothing but a suitcase and a tearful phone call to her godparents. that was five years ago.

a year into her new life in bologna, she met a boy. kimi antonelli—soft-spoken, kind-eyed, and utterly unlike anyone she’d ever known. they were just kids when they met, but something about him felt like home. they’ve been inseparable ever since. now, five years later, both 18 years old, yn and kimi have been together for three years. he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen her. but everything changes when kimi is offered a spot in formula 1. because standing on that grid? is her brother. and kimi has no idea who she really is.

fc : darianka on ig

part one here

present day (IG public)

its_yn

575,090 likes.

its_yn : short little trip to celebrate this sweet angel getting an f1 seat. so proud of you my boy.

tagged : kimi.antonelli

user has limited comment access.

kimi.antonelli : we are here to celebrate you as well, amore mio. the prettiest girl in the world<3

liked by its_yn

veronica.antonelli : i miei bellissimi bambini. divertitevi tantissimo. (my beautiful kids. have so much fun)

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

antonelli_1807 : molto orgoglioso di voi due! (very proud of you both!)

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

arthur_leclerc liked a post from its_yn

26s ago

kimi.antonelli

liked by mercedesamgf1, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 1,1509,007 others.

kimi.antonelli : trip to celebrate my gf being so beautiful <3

its_yn : oml ur making me blushhhhh. love you to the moon and back.

liked by kimi.antonelli

kimi.antonelli : love you even more than that, pretty girl:)

username00 : idec that she is a leclerc- this is so fucking cute.

mercedesamgf1 : SO cute! Can't wait to see you both!

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

georgerussell63 : Soak up all the vacation time now while you can, kid! Welcome Aboard.

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

The late afternoon sun poured through the balcony doors, turning the whole room golden. The ocean breeze fluttered the gauzy curtains, and somewhere down on the beach, a kid was laughing. Kimi’s arm was draped around my waist, his skin warm from the sun, his breathing soft and steady beside me. It was quiet. Safe. One of those rare moments where the world felt like it had finally stopped spinning.

I had my phone in one hand, scrolling lazily through the comments on our latest posts — his vacation dump with me in it, my photo of the seashells he’d carefully lined along my thigh. It was the first time we hadn’t hidden. No cropping. No cryptic captions. Just… us. I smiled to myself, heat rising in my cheeks all over again when I reread his caption.

"Trip to celebrate my girlfriend being so beautiful."

And then everything stopped. Right beneath the hundreds of likes, just above a flurry of usernames I didn’t recognize, there it was. My stomach dropped. I refreshed the screen, heart pounding now.

charles_leclerc liked this.

I flipped to my post.

arthur_leclerc liked your post.

No. No, no, no. My chest tightened. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The soft, calm world we were wrapped in shattered in a second. I sat up too quickly, nearly kicking the blanket off the bed. My phone trembled in my hands.

“Woah,” Kimi said behind me, still half-draped across the bed. “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer. My mind was spinning, spiraling into panic.

He sat up slowly, reaching for my hand. “Babe?”

“They saw,” I whispered. “They know.”

Kimi frowned. “Who saw what?”

I shoved the phone into his hand, my heart in my throat. “Look. Look who liked them.”

He glanced down, blinking at the screen. “Charles Leclerc? And… Arthur? Wait—what’s the big deal?”

I stared at him. He blinked again. “Do you know them or something?”

A laugh — broken and tight — escaped my throat. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Kimi tilted his head, confused, concern starting to flicker in his eyes. “YN…”

I sat back on my heels, tugging the blanket over my legs like it could shield me from the weight of what I was about to say.

“They’re my brothers.”

He stilled.

“Arthur and Charles,” I continued, voice cracking. “They’re my brothers. I’m… I’m a Leclerc.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at me like I’d knocked the wind out of him. I rushed ahead, the words tumbling now. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want it to change things. Because when I left Monaco, I left them. I left the name. The life. All of it. I was just the kid no one really noticed, the youngest who never quite fit in, and after our dad died…” My voice faltered. “I couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. So I left. And I never told anyone where I went. Until you.”

Kimi was still staring. Not cold. Not angry. Just… absorbing.

I tried to pull away. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you earlier. You must think I’m—”

His arms were around me before I could finish. Firm. Steady. Safe. He pulled me right into his chest and held me like I wasn’t broken or selfish or anything I feared he might now see me as.

“I don’t care what your last name is,” he said quietly. “I care about you. The girl I met on that street in Bologna. The one who listened to my rants about karting and let me put seashells all over her and laughs at my stupid bucket hats.”

I laughed, watery and shaking.

“You’re YN to me. And if your brothers are only just realizing how incredible you are, that’s on them. You don’t owe them anything.”

“I was scared they’d take this away from me,” I whispered. “That I’d lose you too.”

He leaned back just enough to meet my eyes. “They don’t get to take you from me. Ever.”

The weight of five years lifted from my chest like a tide pulling back. And in the middle of it all — ocean breeze, golden light, and this boy who never once let me fall — I finally, finally let myself breathe.

random fluff (yn and kimi enjoying the rest of their time before the season starts)

Maggie had her tiny hand wrapped around mine and Kimi’s, dragging us through the gates with all the intensity.

“It’s the big blue slide first!” she declared. “No time for baby rides.”

Kimi groaned dramatically beside me. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because you love your sister,” I teased, “and because I promised you frozen mango slush.”

“Bribery,” he muttered.

“Highly effective bribery,” I replied with a grin.

We spent the afternoon soaked — racing Maggie down slides, clinging to inner tubes in the wave pool, and drifting through the lazy river while she babbled about turtles and pop stars and the time Kimi cried because he lost his water wings at six.

“Maggie,” Kimi gasped, scandalized.

She beamed. “She’s practically family, she deserves to know!”

My heart ached — in the best, softest way. When she finally passed out in the backseat on the way home, her curls tangled against my shoulder, I felt Kimi’s eyes on me.

“You’re good with her,” he murmured.

I glanced over, brushing Maggie’s hair off her face. “I think for the first time in my life… I actually feel like I belong somewhere.”

He didn’t say anything. Just reached over and took my hand, like he already knew.

Everything hurt. The shoot was dragging, the sun was brutal, and someone kept trying to convince me a fur bolero was a summer staple. I was seconds away from breaking into tears when the photographer called for a break. I dropped into a chair like it owed me something, balancing a water bottle against my forehead, trying not to scream.

“Long day?”

My heart stuttered. I looked up — and there he was. Kimi. Wearing my favorite soft white tee, curls messy from the heat, and holding a massive bouquet of pink peonies. My favorite flowers.

“What—how—Kimi?”

He just smiled like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Thought you could use a break. Also brought snacks and these.”

He pulled my cloud-print fuzzy slides out of his bag. I could’ve cried.

“My heels—”

“Yeah, I could hear you cursing them from the parking lot,” he said with a grin, crouching down to take them off for me.

I stared at him as he worked — this beautiful, quiet boy who just… showed up for me.

“You’re unreal,” I whispered.

He looked up, his fingers brushing over my ankle. “Nah. Just yours.”

Dinner with Kimi’s family always felt like home.

His mom had made too much food again, his dad was yelling (lovingly) about god knows what, and Maggie was next to me rating the fashion choices of her classmates on a scale of “icon” to “absolutely not.”

“You’re coming to my school day, right?” she asked, poking my arm.

I smiled, nudging her gently. “Obviously. I need to judge everyone who tries to talk to you.”

She grinned like I’d just handed her the moon.

Kimi leaned in from the other side of the table, whispering, “I think she likes you better than me now.”

I smirked. “She has standards.”

Later, we drifted outside into the garden, where fairy lights tangled in the trees and crickets hummed in the distance. Kimi pulled me toward the corner where it was just us, quiet and warm and glowing under the stars.

“You fit here,” he murmured, his forehead resting against mine.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’ve never fit anywhere like this before.”

His hand found mine, our fingers lacing together in that way that always made me feel steady.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and something in me finally, finally settled.

I leaned up to kiss him, slow and sure, while the world kept spinning — and for once, I wasn’t trying to outrun it.

I barely made it through the front gate before Maggie came flying at me in a blur of pink and glitter.

“YOU CAME!” she shrieked, wrapping her arms around my waist so tightly I almost lost balance. “You actually came!”

I laughed, crouching down to hug her properly. “Of course I came. I wouldn’t miss your big day for anything.”

She looked me over with wide eyes and a proud little grin. “You look like you belong in a movie.”

Kimi arrived behind me just in time to catch that, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I told her she looked like a model this morning, but I guess it means more coming from you.”

Maggie shrugged and grabbed my hand immediately. “She is a model. And also my best friend. You’re just my brother.”

Kimi let out a very dramatic gasp, but I couldn’t stop giggling as she dragged me inside, clutching my hand like she was scared someone would try to take me away.

The classroom was filled with nervous parents, squeaky chairs, and chaotic projects made of pipe cleaners and too much glue. Maggie introduced me to every single classmate like I was her golden ticket to popularity.

“This is YN. She lives in Italy. She models for like... real brands. She helped me pick out this outfit too.”

When the teacher came by, smiling warmly, Maggie puffed out her chest. “This is my special guest, YN. And that’s my brother, but mostly YN.”

I glanced at Kimi, who just lifted his hands like, what can I say? I squeezed Maggie’s hand and let her lead me to her desk, where she proudly showed off a drawing of me, Kimi, and her — with hearts scribbled around us and a speech bubble over my head that said “best ever.”

Something about it made my chest ache. The kind of ache that came from feeling wanted in a way I hadn’t in a very long time. Later, during story time, Maggie curled into my side without hesitation, resting her head on my shoulder and humming softly while the teacher read out loud. Her small fingers stayed tangled in mine the whole time. She didn’t even look at Kimi when he waved from across the room. I was her person right now. And that meant something. Afterward, as we walked back to the car, Kimi gently reached up and tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear. His eyes were soft, serious.

“She really loves you,” he said.

“I really love her,” I whispered.

“You’re… really good to her, you know?”

I looked down, smiling to myself. “She makes me feel like I’m someone worth being around. That’s kind of rare.”

Kimi stopped walking, pulling me in by the hand. “You are so worth being around, YN. You’re… it’s not just Maggie. It’s all of us.”

I blinked up at him, heart doing that messy, fluttery thing.

“I’m glad she has you,” he added. “But I’m really glad I do too.”

It was just after dinner when Maggie slipped onto the couch beside me, fresh from her bath and wrapped in a towel that was slightly too big, her damp curls still dripping against her shoulders. She leaned her head on my arm like she always did when she was working up to something.

“Mags?” I asked, smiling.

She looked up at me with those big eyes and whispered, “Can you sleep over tonight?”

I blinked. “Tonight?”

She nodded, fiddling with the edge of her towel. “I just feel better when you’re here. And it was the best day ever and I want it to keep going.”

I felt something stir in my chest — that soft ache again, the one I always got when she did things like this. It never failed to knock the air out of me that someone could need me this much. That I could be someone’s safe place.

“I’d love to sleep over,” I whispered back.

She squealed, launching herself at me with damp arms and the sweetest giggle, shouting, “Kimi! She said yes!”

He called back from the kitchen, “If she takes the good side of the bed again, I’m filing a complaint!”

“Too bad!” she shouted, already running down the hallway to get her stuffed animals ready.

I stood up, still smiling to myself when I heard footsteps behind me. Kimi’s mom. She gave me that soft, familiar smile and walked over, drying her hands on a tea towel.

“She’s so attached to you,” she said gently, nodding toward the hall where Maggie had disappeared. “Honestly, we all are.”

I looked down, a little flustered. “She’s… she means the world to me. All of you do.”

She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear — something my own mother hadn’t done in years.

“You know,” she said softly, “I always wondered what it would be like if we had another daughter.”

I swallowed hard.

“And now I don’t wonder anymore.”

That did it — my eyes stung, throat tight with emotion I hadn’t expected.

“I never really felt like I had a family before,” I admitted quietly. “Not one that saw me. Not like this.”

She pulled me into a hug that felt like everything I had been missing since I was a little girl.

“Well,” she whispered, “then I hope you know we see you. We love you. And you’ve always got a home here, YN.”

I buried my face in her shoulder, trying not to cry like a baby. And later, when Maggie tucked herself into my side in her tiny twin bed, whispering sleepover secrets and asking if we could do this every Friday forever, I just held her close and whispered, “Yeah, baby. Every Friday. Forever if you want.”

Because I finally had something I never thought I’d have again. A family. One that chose me. One I chose right back.

I was sitting on the couch, half-listening to Maggie and Kimi playing quietly nearby. Maggie was building a tower with blocks, and Kimi was patiently helping her, his smile soft and warm.

Suddenly, Maggie looked up at Kimi with those big, serious eyes and asked, “Kimiiiii?”

He turned to her, smiling. “Yes, Maggie?”

“Will YN be my sister someday?”

Before he could answer, she tilted her head and added, “And will you marry her?”

My heart stopped. I froze, pretending to be engrossed in the magazine on my lap, but I was listening.

Kimi chuckled softly, brushing a stray curl from Maggie’s forehead. “Well, YN is already like a sister to you, isn’t she?”

Maggie nodded quickly, her eyes shining. “Yeah!”

“And marrying YN?” Kimi said with a grin, “That’s a pretty big question.”

Maggie smiled wide and looked at me. “I think you should! Because then we’d all be family forever.”

Kimi pulled her into a hug and laughed quietly. “I think that sounds like a perfect plan.”

He glanced over at me with that gentle smile that always made my heart flutter. Tears prickled my eyes.

Later, when Kimi caught my eye, he whispered, “Looks like Maggie’s already making plans for us.”

I smiled back, my heart full. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

its_yn

liked by carmenmmundt, kimi.antonelli, arthur_leclerc & 1,875,054 others.

its_yn : emptying out the ol camera roll

dior : we are in LOVE with you

liked by its_yn

its_yn : the feeling is mutual

mercedesamgf1 : photo dump game - ELITE

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

username00 : they r so in love it is adorable

carmenmmundt : So so cute, YN! Can't wait to see you again:)

liked by its_yn

its_yn : same here! maybe we can beat kimi and george in padel again??

georgerussell63 : this never happened - she is LYINGGGG

liked by its_yn and kimi.antonelli

its_yn : whatever helps you sleep at night georgieeee

kimi.antonelli : if you adore her

liked by its_yn

its_yn : dior her<3

username15 : god fuck they are too cute

kimi.antonelli : also maggie says thank you for including her in the photo dump

liked by its_yn

its_yn : tell her next time it'll be all maggie no kimi

liked by kimi.antonelli

kimi.antonelli : BOOOOOOOO

(enough fluff lets dive into drama shall we)

We were sitting together in the quiet of the evening, the soft hum of the city below barely reaching us. The mood had shifted — heavier now. Kimi looked at me with a weight in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.

“YN,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “there’s the F1 75 event coming up. It’s a big deal for me… for my career. And, well...I want you there."

My heart clenched. Just the thought of them made my throat tighten. The past I’d been trying to leave behind, the family I’d pushed away — all right there in front of me.

Kimi reached for my hand, his grip gentle but steady. “I want you to come with me. I want to be with you through this, but I know it’s going to be hard.”

I looked down, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s not just hard, Kimi. It’s… painful. Seeing them again, being around them when I’ve spent years trying to forget, trying to heal.”

He nodded, eyes soft with understanding. “I don’t want to push you. But I also don’t want to hide this part of my life from you. You’re important to me — I want you there, by my side.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “I’m scared. Scared they’ll see me and remember everything I wanted to escape. What if they don’t understand why I left?”

Kimi’s voice was steady, filled with quiet strength. “Then I’ll be there. We’ll face it together. You’re not alone.”

I took a shaky breath and met his gaze, the love and sincerity in his eyes steadying me.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll come. But only if you promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“That we take it slow. And if it gets too much, we walk away. Together.”

He smiled softly, brushing a tear from my cheek.

“Deal. We face it on our terms. Together.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt the courage to confront the past — because I wasn’t alone anymore.

mercedesamgf1

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, georgerussell63 and 890,005 others.

mercedesamgf1 : A few of our favorite faces at the F175 event tonight!

tagged : georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli, carmenmmundt and its_yn

username00 : WAIT— her and CHARLES are in the same room?????? this is not a drill.

username15 : not kimi looking like a lovesick golden retriever 😭 the way he’s holding her 😭😭😭

username20 : the way this was probably so hard for her but she showed up for kimi- they are endgame

username7 : okay but imagine being charles rn watching your estranged baby sister SERVE on your home turf

username18 : charles & arthur liked the post and they’re IN THE ROOM WITH HER??? can someone get me popcorn

username9 : someone film charles' reaction to seeing her. I just know his jaw dropped

username15 : it did. video on twitter

username9 : damn the cameras were messy tonight

third person pov

The night sparkled under the bright lights of the red carpet, filled with the hum of anticipation and flashes from cameras. YN stood beside Kimi, her hand securely in his, the two of them a striking image against the backdrop of the buzzing crowd.

She felt grounded — partly because of Kimi’s calm presence, but also because of familiar faces nearby. George Russell and his girlfriend Carmen were just a few steps away, friendly smiles and warm eyes offering a safe haven in the whirlwind of the event. YN had grown close to them over the past months, their easy kindness a balm to the unease that still lingered beneath the surface.

She gave George a bright smile when their eyes met. “Hey, you two,” she greeted, nodding at Carmen as well, who responded with a welcoming wave.

“It’s good to see you again, YN,” Carmen said softly, squeezing her hand gently.

Their presence settled some of the nerves curling in her stomach, but YN’s charm was far from quiet. As Kimi led her further into the crowd, she effortlessly shifted into conversation mode, engaging other members of the team with a warm, genuine energy that made them listen.

Toto Wolff offered a nod of approval when she approached, and YN met his gaze with steady confidence. “We’re glad to have you around, YN. You fit right in.”

She laughed lightly, glancing over at Lando Norris, who was teasing Kimi. YN wove effortlessly into the banter, her smile radiant, her laughter genuine. Drivers and team members alike were drawn to her warmth and quick wit. Yet, just beyond the glowing lights and the lively chatter, two shadows lingered.

Charles Leclerc and Arthur stood apart, eyes locked on YN’s confident figure. Charles’s voice was low, almost reluctant. “Look at her… she’s nothing like I remembered.”

Arthur’s gaze was sharp, calculating. “She’s grown into someone unrecognizable. Strong. Controlled. Far from the girl who left.”

Charles exhaled quietly, his eyes lingering on YN as she laughed with Kimi and their friends. “She’s so grown, so beautiful.” he muttered, almost to himself, a mixture of awe and something heavier in his tone.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “We need to be careful. She’s not just part of Kimi’s life now — she’s part of this world.”

Charles nodded, conflicted. “We thought we lost her. But now… she’s back. And she’s not the same.”

The buzz of the F175 event dimmed slightly as the ceremony broke for intermission. Waitstaff floated through the room with champagne flutes, soft jazz replacing the louder fanfare from earlier. Guests scattered into small pockets of conversation, the glow of chandeliers casting golden halos over them.

At the far side of the room, YN stood laughing gently with Carmen and a few designers from one of her recent shoots, her glass untouched in her hand, her dress catching the light like sea foam. She looked radiant—comfortable, even—but there was still a carefulness in her eyes. A subconscious vigilance she couldn’t quite shake. Across the room, Charles saw her.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Her back was turned, head tilted as she smiled softly at something George said. Her laughter carried just far enough to reach his ears, and it hit him like a punch to the gut. She sounded older. Lighter. Like someone who had learned how to live without them.

He didn’t move at first, unsure, torn between years of guilt and the fear that she’d look through him like he was a stranger. But then—his feet shifted. He started toward her. One step. Then another. He only made it halfway across the floor before a hand landed firmly on his chest.

Charles blinked, startled by the wall of quiet steel in front of him—Kimi Antonelli. The younger man wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t raising his voice. But the warning in his posture, the steady calm in his eyes, spoke louder than words ever could.

“Don’t,” Kimi said softly.

Charles frowned, trying to peer past him. “I just want to talk to her.”

“She’s not ready,” Kimi replied, voice quiet but firm. “And I won’t let you catch her off guard. Not like this. Not here.”

For a second, Charles said nothing. He looked over Kimi’s shoulder again, at his little sister—now grown into someone he barely recognized. She was smiling as she reached for Carmen’s hand, showing her something on her phone. Oblivious to the man who had tried, far too late, to walk back into her life.

Kimi stepped slightly to the side, his body still angled in front of Charles as if daring him to try again. “You’ll speak to her when she wants to. Not when it suits you.”

Charles met his gaze and realized something then—that this wasn’t a teenage crush. Kimi wasn’t some placeholder or passing phase. He loved her. Fiercely. Enough to protect her from ghosts she hadn’t yet chosen to face. After a long, taut pause, Charles nodded once and stepped back.

Kimi didn’t move until he had fully turned away. Only then did he glance back toward YN, checking to make sure she was still deep in conversation—safe, unaware, untouched by the storm just barely avoided.

He exhaled and headed back toward her, the tension in his shoulders softening the moment he reached her side. She smiled up at him, not knowing what he had just done for her. But Kimi didn’t mind. He’d wait until she was ready. And until then, he'd keep every shadow at bay.

f1gossipgirls

1,090,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, The Leclerc Family drama has officially made it to the paddock. Kimi Antonelli arrived to today's race with none other than his girlfriend, YN. (The Leclerc's estranged sister) The two were also accompanied to the track by Kimi's parents and his little sister. YN was seen walking Maggie around the paddock hand in hand when she was stopped by Charles Leclerc. We are unsure what happened at this time.

user has turned the comments off on this post.

your point of view

There’s a particular kind of hum in the paddock on race day—half electricity, half nerves. It starts low, building beneath your feet, curling in your stomach. I’d never felt it like this before. Not from the sidelines. Not as his person. The car door swung open and I blinked into the morning sun, blinded more by the flashing cameras than the light itself. I took a breath. Steady, practiced. This was part of it now.

Kimi was already out on the other side, waiting, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the way his entire posture softened when he looked at me. He circled around the car and held out his hand wordlessly. I didn’t even hesitate.

The moment our palms met, the world quieted just enough. Behind us, his mom, dad, and Maggie stepped out of the other car. Maggie immediately rushed toward me with a squeal, wrapping her arms around my arm like she always did when she was excited. I smiled, bending just enough to whisper, “Big day, huh?” and she nodded, wide-eyed. Kimi ruffled her hair before she darted back to their parents, full of energy.

We started walking together, the five of us, toward the entrance gates. His dad threw an arm casually around Kimi’s shoulder, and his mom slipped on her sunglasses and gave me a wink. It didn’t matter how many times I’d been around them—being with them like this, part of their rhythm, always made something in me ache with gratitude.

And then the noise really started. Cameras clicking. Voices shouting.

“YN! Is that Chanel?”

“Kimi, how are you feeling for your first race?!”

“Look here, just one photo!”

My hand instinctively tightened in his, and his thumb started tracing slow circles against my skin. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. He was here. We were here. And nothing else mattered. I smiled. Not for the cameras. For me.

Because Kimi was about to debut in Formula 1. His dream was becoming real. And I had the privilege of standing right beside him—grounded by love, protected by the family that had become mine, and stronger than I had ever been before.

The paddock was alive in that pre-race kind of way—buzzing, kinetic, almost too loud. But Maggie’s small hand wrapped in mine helped settle the static in my chest.

She tugged me toward every garage we passed, asking questions a mile a minute. “Is that George’s car? Do you think Toto remembers me?”

I laughed, heart lighter than it had been all morning. “One question at a time, Mags.”

Being with her made the chaos feel quieter. It reminded me of the good things. Of the family I’d built for myself. We had just turned the corner near the media pen, heading back toward the hospitality suite, when I heard it.

“YN?”

The sound of my name—his voice—made me stop cold.

I turned slowly, pulse spiking, already knowing who it was before I saw them. Charles and Arthur. They stood a few feet away in their Ferrari gear, both staring at me like I wasn’t real. Like I was a memory they hadn’t expected to walk out of the past and into this place. Arthur’s jaw tightened. Charles looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“You look…” Charles began, then trailed off. His eyes searched mine. “You look grown up.”

I held onto Maggie’s hand a little tighter, grounding myself. “It’s been a while,” I said, and I was proud of how steady I sounded. Detached, even.

Arthur stepped forward slightly. “YN—”

“Maggie,” I interrupted softly, crouching down to her level, keeping my tone light but urgent. “Can you do me a favor, sweet girl?”

She nodded instantly. “Of course!”

“Run back to hospitality and get Kimi, okay? Tell him I’m right here.”

Maggie’s eyes flicked to the two men behind me—her smile faltered, but she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, and then she took off, little legs moving fast.

I stood back up, spine straight. The silence between me and my brothers hung thick in the air.

Charles looked down at the ground before lifting his eyes again. “We didn’t know you were here. We didn’t know you were her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “No. You didn’t know anything, because you never asked.”

Arthur flinched. Charles looked like he wanted to close the distance between us but didn’t dare. “We… we saw the pictures. With Kimi. You’re happy?”

The question hit something soft in me, but I didn’t let it show. “Yes,” I said simply.

And just then—like he’d felt it—Kimi arrived. He barely glanced at them. His hand immediately found the small of my back, and he stepped in front of me, protective without saying a single word. Calm, steady, but unshakably firm.

“Everything okay?” he asked, eyes flicking between me and the two men.

I nodded. “Now it is.”

Choose your ending!

agreeing to try to mend things with your family- starts here

But even as I said it, I felt the weight of their presence in front of me—two ghosts I’d spent five years running from.

Charles stepped forward first, slower than I remembered him ever moving. As if the wrong step would make me disappear all over again.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough and low. “I didn’t know how bad it had gotten. If I had…”

“But you did,” I replied softly. “You just didn’t ask.”

Arthur was beside him, visibly uneasy. He looked older too. The same face that used to tease me for stealing his hoodies now looked...hollow. Tired.

“I don’t have excuses,” he said. “We were wrong. We didn’t see you.”

My throat tightened, but I didn’t let the silence crush me. Not this time.

“You made me feel invisible,” I whispered. “After Papa… it was like I disappeared and none of you noticed.”

Charles’s expression cracked. “We noticed. We just… didn’t know how to fix it. So we stayed quiet. And that was the worst thing we could’ve done.”

I blinked quickly, fighting the pressure behind my eyes. I wasn’t here to break down. I had Kimi. I had a new family. A new world. But that didn’t mean the old pain was gone.

Kimi’s hand moved gently to my waist, a quiet show of support, of presence. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel him beside me, steady as ever.

“We’re not here to force anything,” Arthur added, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “We just wanted to say we’re sorry. And if—if—you ever wanted to let us in again… we’ll be here.”

The moment sat there between us like glass—sharp, fragile.

I could feel the heat of Kimi’s body behind me. His thumb stroked a small, grounding circle at my hip. My silence wasn’t hesitation—it was deliberation. For the first time, I was in control of this story.

“I’m not saying I forgive you,” I said finally, slowly. “And I’m not ready to start over. I don’t know if I ever fully will be.”

They both nodded, eyes glassy, but not pushing.

“But I’m not thirteen anymore,” I continued. “And I’m tired of carrying it all by myself.”

Charles took a breath, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to anymore. Not if you let us try.”

There was something achingly childlike in the way he said it. I didn’t recognize him in that moment—but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe we all had changed.

Kimi looked at me, silently asking if I needed him to step in. But I shook my head.

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Maybe I’ll come to you. When I’m ready.”

Arthur’s face cracked into something that looked like hope. Charles nodded, biting the inside of his cheek, eyes shining with something close to tears.

“We’ll be here,” Charles said, voice thick. “Always.”

I gave a soft nod. And that was it. No dramatic hugs. No fairytale ending. Just an opening. An invitation to maybe, someday, walk through that door.

Kimi turned me gently, guiding me back toward the garage, his hand finding mine, fingers lacing together like always.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low in my ear.

I looked up at him, the boy who found me when I was broken and never once asked me to be whole. He just stayed. Loved. Waited.

“I think I will be,” I whispered.

And this time, I believed it.

you telling your brothers off like you always deserved to- starts here

But Charles didn’t move. Neither did Arthur.

He took one step forward, brows drawn. “YN, we—we need to talk. I know this is… complicated. But we didn’t know. And now that we do—”

“You did know,” I cut him off, voice quiet but sharp, slicing clean through the air between us. “You knew where I was. You knew how to find me. But none of you ever did.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“It was,” I said, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. “It was as simple as calling. As asking. As giving a damn.”

Kimi shifted beside me, eyes locked on them, no longer just observing. His voice was like steel wrapped in velvet when he spoke. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

They looked at him, startled—maybe surprised he had something to say. But he didn’t flinch. He stepped slightly in front of me, body angled just enough to make his stance clear.

“She found happiness without you,” Kimi continued, voice calm, but colder now. “She found family without you. And now that she’s no longer a scared kid you ignored, you think she owes you a seat at her table?”

“Kimi—” Charles began, but Kimi didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“You weren’t there when she cried herself to sleep. You didn’t hold her hand when she felt like she didn’t exist to the people who were supposed to love her. I was. My family was.”

My throat tightened.

He looked over his shoulder at me, making sure I was still okay to let him speak. I gave the smallest nod.

“So unless she asks you to be part of her life,” Kimi said, gaze back on them now, “you don’t show up at and ambush her in her new life that she built her peace in and act like you’re entitled to anything.”

Arthur said nothing. Charles looked like he was swallowing glass, but neither of them moved.

And then Kimi finished—quieter this time, but firmer than ever. “Walk away.”

There was a long, aching silence. Then, as if a switch had flipped, Arthur stepped back, wordless. Charles’s eyes flickered one last time to mine, and for a second—just a second—I saw it. Regret. But regret wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t enough.

They left. Slowly. Quietly. Like they finally understood they weren’t welcome in this chapter. I turned toward Kimi, my chest heaving slightly even though I hadn’t run a single step. He reached for me without hesitation, pulling me into him. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, his hand pressing protectively to the back of my head.

“You did good,” he whispered into my hair. “I’m proud of you.”

My eyes stung, but I didn’t cry. Not for them. Not anymore.

“Thank you,” I whispered back. “For being my home.”

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. “Always.”

And just like that, we walked back toward the pit lane. Toward our life. The one we built from the wreckage. Stronger. Better. And mine. All mine.

@strawberrylov-er @gxllumsriddles @coolpeanutchaos @nina481 @mbioooo0000 @yoihoshi-maki @honestlycasualarcade

1K notes · View notes

xpulchritudinousx · 12 days ago

Text

Hanging out with Katsuki in your room is more funny than you'd expect. With the most dramatic man on earth who complains about everything keeping his mouth shut and hugging one of your plushies to his chest as you rambled to him. It's because he loves you obviously, but him laying in your girly room in his usual casual clothes while you do your usual routine to get ready is more domestic than you'd expect. It's so peaceful between you both, with him being too scared to say the wrong thing most of the time. Then there's you who can't stop talking because you're worried things'll get awkward if you do. But then comes those sweet moments of silence, where he's helping you put on your socks or something trivial. The usual routine of quiet comments from you, feeling worried that you're coming off too helpless or that he feels like he needs to do these things. "I can do it myself." "I know." You get caught up in the moment, staring into his eyes, the relationship still fresh and filled with clumsiness. But right now it wasn't, you were both just inching into the water, leaning closer to each other. Until your bedroom door flew open and your brother just stares at you both in disgust. "Yeah, I'm telling. This has to get you in trouble for something." Then the moment's gone and you're busy running out to chase younger brother down as you cuss him out. When you're angry, the blissful feeling of love blooms in Katsuki's chest and all he can think is that he made a good choice. He was so corny.

#katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki fluff #bakugo x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #my headcanons #drabble #fluff #katsuki loves lame older sisters who get made fun of by their younger siblings #lame older sister reader #idk y but i see it as someone with specifically at least one younger brother #maybe bc he has older brother vibes with all the girls he hangs out with that could be y lmaooo #maybe bc most girls that have younger brothers that ik don't know how to treat their partners like their partner and not their brother lmao

1K notes · View notes

oddlylovingaddiction · 2 months ago

Text

; Coming Full Circle.

CLEARLY you all are desperate for an actual story on this blurb I quickly wrote up ♡

Part 1: (You are here!) , Part 2: Here! , Part 3: Here! , Part 4: Here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don’t have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this potential series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family. reader is somewhat introverted and is describe loosely as attractive. Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest. READER ALSO HAS NO IDEA THAT THE WAYNE FAMILY ARE SUPERHEROS (for now…)

TW: Abuse in the form of emotional neglect, Reader’s mom is dead, Pregnancy and rich people.

You weren’t a kid anymore. Part of you wonders if you ever got the chance to be one. Your mom died when you were pretty young, barely 6 at the time, you don’t remember much about her. She was pretty though, maybe that’s where you got your looks from?

You spent 4 years at an orphanage after her passing, until one day a car came and picked you up and took you to a big manor. Apparently Bruce Wayne was your father, but not just an adoptive one, your biological father. That was definitely shocking, You looked so much like your mother that you really couldn’t see the resemblance, maybe if you really focused you could see some aspects of the new father you suddenly gained.

You only met Bruce a handful of times, the first time was to greet you. He seemed particularly disinterested, you were only just a bit younger than Jason which he was currently focused on at the time. Bruce showed you to your room it was way bigger than your room in the orphanage then promptly disappeared, Alfred (who you came later to learn was the butler and NOT your new grandfather.) showed you around the rest of the Manor, claiming that Bruce had paperwork that needed more attention than his newly gained child, okay, he didn’t put it like that but that’s basically what he ment.

The Manor was big and rather empty, you wonder what the point of all this space was as a child. As you grew older you grew to understand and appreciate its big and emptiness, because then you couldn’t run into any of your other siblings. Whenever you meet them, it’s awkward, like you’re an outsider. Which you suppose you are, but it’s different because you later learn that all of your siblings were adopted, minus Damian but you only gained him as your sibling towards the end of your stay in the Manor. So why did they treat you like you were the odd when out, when they all should know perfectly how that feels since they were also outsiders at one point? To this day you have no clue.

You quickly grew adjusted to not being around your family. The first the phew years was difficult, you craved their attention like any normal child. You remember you used to cry at night as a kid wondering what you did wrong for them to barely even glance your way, to not even love you… but after the third birthday with the exact same gift you got on previous birthdays from Bruce, continually getting rejected by all your siblings on your offers to hang out and occasionally catching wholesome moments between your siblings and Bruce where they were chatting and laughing without you, You naturally gave up on trying.

You instead grew as a person without them, you made friends at school, developed your own personal fashion taste, you discovered your hobbies and your personality. You occasionally heard news about your family from Alfred (You never got used to only hearing news from him), like how Jason died, Tim was brought in, turns out Jason was alive and at some point Damian was also brought in. The timeline was messy. Honestly you didn’t think much about why Bruce adopted so many damn kids nor did you bother to concern yourself with their affairs.

Instead you discovered somethings more important. Number one is your huge allowance, you knew Bruce was a billionaire and filthy, disgustingly rich, but not to the point your allowance was in the MILLIONS. The second thing is nobody cares about you, to the point one time when you were around 17 you stayed at a friend’s house for two days without telling anyone, came back and apparently no one had any idea you even left when you asked Alfred.

Those two things got you to where you were now, a stunning and safe apartment with the most beautiful view in the whole of Gotham, a loving husband who would do practically anything for you, heavily pregnant in your 20s and currently surrounded by your shocked family.

You had a fight with your husband and you were livid at him deciding to spend some time at the Wayne Manor just to cool off (and to somewhat teach him a lesson), You honestly thought that nobody would care when you came waltzing back. Since nobody cared any other time.

However you were sorely mistaken. To the point you regret not just staying at a hotel or something. When you first walked through the door, Alfred greeted you. You were occasionally in contact with him, but you neglected to tell him about the pregnancy, let alone the fact you were married mainly because you knew he’d run and tell the entire family and you’d rather keep your life private from them. Which is probably why he stopped mid greeting to stare at your belly. It looked like he was buffering as he let you in and led you to the kitchen, you texted him on the ride there that you were a bit thirsty, so he prepared you some tea.

“My word, you’re really pregnant?” Alfred finally said once you sat down at one of the counters, which earned a chuckle from you as he slid your tea over to you.

“Last time I checked… which was in a mirror and when I felt the little gremlin kicking around in me on the drive here, I am.” You say with a smile before proceeding to chug your tea. “May I ask-” Alfred starts but before he can finish he’s interrupted by Damian, who entered the kitchen to grab some snacks at some point but instead noticed you.

“What on earth is that.” Damian hissed, he looked disturbed and disgusted as he pointed at your belly, like he just discovered a bug. Which ticked you off.

“An Alien, no use your head what does it look like?” You sarcastically reply. Normally Damian would’ve retorted however you quickly decide that you want to relax in the living room where you could continue your conversation with Alfred. As you and Alfred quickly leave, abandoning your empty tea cup, and finally settling in the living room. However you suddenly hear a STORM of footsteps from inside the house. You turn around and realize Damian followed you to the living room, phone in hand and clearly had texted the entire family about his new discovery.

“Fuck me…” you mutter softly, your peaceful days of being ignored were probably officially over. All thanks to your one dumb decision to come here. While you silently regretted your choices, almost the entire Wayne family had run into the living room, Tim was the first to run in shouting “WHO’S PREGNANT?”

You only really snap out of it when you notice the entire Wayne family staring at you, they got here faster than expected. Not all of them were here but most of them.

‘Maybe I really am carrying an Alien’ You ponder momentarily before you begin to speak, “Listen I’m only here momentarily because I had a small disagreement with my husband—” “HUSBAND?” Dick squeaks out his voice breaking in shock. “Yes— wait why are you all here anyways?” You say as it dawns on you how ridiculous this whole reaction was. Hell even BRUCE WAYNE, the supposed father you were under the care of, that you never saw for the majority of your life was even here.

“Well cause you know Bruce is always bringing home kids it’s the first time someone other than him is bringing home one, let alone an unborn one.” Cassandra pointed out, which you promptly agreed nodding your head. That explains it, to this damn family it must be pretty alien.

“Okay, well I’m pregnant. I get it shocking and stuff but there’s no need to—“ You say trying to calm down the situation when you are interrupted by Damian who’s pointing at your belly where your baby, as if sensing the crowd of spectators, decided to do its own acrobatic routine.

“Ew why is it moving….” Damian said, You’re starting to wonder why you even talk. “Don’t say ew. It’s just kicking, if you want you can touch my belly—” you regret those words instantly as around 20 hands immediately fly to touch your belly where the baby continues to kick. You’d almost find the whole situation adorable if it weren’t for the fact they were your family who previously didn’t give a flying fuck about you.

All of a sudden Bruce, noticing your uncomfort, clears his throat. When he does the 20 hands resend from touching your belly, “How far along are you?” He asks calmly but you can clearly hear his voice shake slightly. “7 months.” You reply calmly to which Damian opens his mouth again.

“Jesus when is it going to come out— wait how does it come out…” He still look horrified to which you suppressed a laugh. “Did no one teach you where babies come from?” You laugh and then pause when the room goes silent.

“Oh my god…” you mutter, no wonder he’s so disturbed. You hear Bruce quickly whisper to Selina “I thought you told him!” To which Selina fires back, “Me?! It’s your job!”

That’s your cue to leave before you have to witness a very uncomfortable conversation. “Okay, I’m going to go to my room, I’m tired.” To which everyone nods giving you space to leave.

Phew hours had gone by and you were relaxing in bed on your phone, when you heard a knock on your door.

“Come in!” You call, assuming it was Alfred but instead the one who came waltzing in was Damian. He looked awkward and you definitely felt that as well.

“Hello.” He said as he walked over to you staring at you where you were lying down.

“Uh… Hi Damian… how can I help you?” You ask praying he just going to briefly insult you and walk away like he did in the past. Instead he looks curious.

“I have been educated on where kids come from. It is very disturbing.” You chuckle at his statement and at his face full of regret while putting your phone away.

“It’s not too bad, at least you learned from your parents and not your friends half way into high school.” You say smiling reaching out and patting his small shoulder at your own memory of your shocked friends as they held your hand in the bathroom and slowly explained it to the poor naive you.

“Yes that sounds way worse.” He admits as you laugh at his sentiment, to which he scowls a bit before snapping out of it. “Anyways, like I said, I have been educated and although it’s very disturbing I commend your bravery for creating life.”

Damn it, he made it awkward again. You resend your hand awkwardly and place it back on your chest, Damian continues speaking though. “I also did some research and apparently the fetus can hear around the 5th month, and since you said it’s in the 7 month stage it can hear. Which means it heard me insulting it.”

You nod at his words, encouraging him to get whatever he’s planning on doing over with already. When he sees your nod, he removes his hands from behind his back, he’s holding a book.

“So to replace my negative words I have brought an educational book, normally I know perhaps the other parent my read so the baby gets used to both your voices, however since your a single parent—“

you give him an incredulous look “no… I have a husband.” To which he stares at you like your pants are on fire, that’s how much of a liar he thinks you are.

“Yes… right.. well since this supposed husband isn’t here to read to your child I shall.” He plops himself beside you, not accepting any protests from you about how you really do have a husband, he begins to read, you give in closing your eyes, clearly you’re going to be here awhile. “Law 1. Always make those above you feel comfortably superior…” you scrunch your face at his words as he reads. Half way into chapter one your eyes fly open and realize that he’s actually reading.

“Are you reading 48 laws of power right now?” You say staring at the book he’s holding as you prop yourself up on your elbows. He gives you a look like you just said the sky was blue.

“Yes of course? It needs to come out smart. Now please lie back down.” He says pushing you to lie back down. You give in once again, you’re too tired to protest against Damian anyways…

At some point both you and Damian passed out, the book could only hold both your interests long enough and the warmth of your room was just perfect for a nap. You stare down at the still sleeping Damian, whose head is currently resting on your belly, contemplatively. In someways you were jealous he fit in perfectly with the Wayne family and was actually treated like their sibling and child. However on the other hand you were honestly glad you were not loved like he was, because if you were you would’ve never met your husband (that you are now starting to miss…) and you also would’ve never been given the opportunity to create your own family, one that will love you truly.

You didn’t like the fact that Damian used to insult you occasionally in the past, but it’s not like you held it against him and you also don’t regret making fun of him back. Although he was a brat at times, he was still a child. A child in a huge messy family that just happened to be your little brother. Perhaps that was the gnawing feeling in your heart. The knowledge such a small kid like him will probably struggle in someways you used to is weighing heavy on you. He was earnest, and clearly tried his best from the fact alone he came to your room to read a book that he knew would help the baby… even if that book was the laws of power and was incredibly boring (in your opinion.)

He was just like you when you were smaller. That thought made you gently reach down and stroke his head. “I hope you’ll only make smart choices, but even if you don’t I’ll still love you, my dear. Just remember, don’t hold onto people who will never hold you gently and lovingly. After all, You are the most precious thing to me and you will be precious to so many others. You are worth your weight in gold.” You whisper to the sleeping boy, the same words your mother said at her passing. You feel yourself getting chocked up, after all this day was full of emotions for you. And you aren’t quite ready to face those emotions so you close your eyes.

After saying all those words and remembering the things you’d almost rather forget you find yourself pulled back into sleep. This time though, Damian had a small smile etched on his face as he slept..

2K notes · View notes

wingo5 · 11 months ago

Text

A doodle whilst at work lol

4K notes · View notes

yasministration · 3 months ago

Text

"Malfoy" "Weasley" - bill weasley x malfoy!reader

summary: when you watch the quidditch world cup with your family, the last thing you're expecting is to see an old friend. a weasley. wc: 1.2k+ cw: one tiny mention of abuse

The buzzing energy in the stadium felt as though it had suddenly been muffled as four figures entered the box. They walked with matching gait; confident, every pair of shoulders rolled back to walk with a perfect posture, a slow yet steady pace of footsteps that established power.

The Malfoys.

Harry swallowed thickly as he set his eyes on an unfamiliar figure. One he had never seen before, yet was so unmistakably Malfoy.

It was as though every sound in the stadium was muted, other than the seductive click of your heels on the floor. Harry took in your appearance from the floor upwards, watching the twinkle in your eyes in amazement. Despite the features you inevitably shared with the rest of your family, there was something different about you.

Something mischievous.

The boy who lived was snapped back to reality when Bill — who he had only met two days ago but already trusted with his life — spoke up.

“Malfoy.”

His statement wasn’t one filled with hatred, much to Harry’s surprise. No, it was amused, familiar, and it was targeted to you. As though you knew each other like two good friends. Whilst the rest of your family walked on with intimidating glares on their faces as they passed the Weasleys, you slowed your step down, keeping eye contact with Bill as your lips tugged up into an unbelievable smile, the wine red of your lipstick perfectly contained between their lines.

“Weasley.”

And you were gone.

Catching up to your family at a leisurely pace, you took a seat next to them, crossing one elegant leg over the other. Harry saw Draco turn to look at you judgementally, and his lips moved in a silent question.

You brushed him off. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, listening in to the conversation that started between the Weasley siblings. “What was that?” Asked Ron with an exasperated breath. “Just greeting an old friend.” The older brother replied.

It was like watching Ron lose respect for his oldest brother, looking at him as though he grew two extra heads. Harry pondered silently for a moment. If Ron had such a reaction to his brother being friends with a Malfoy, how would your parents have reacted when they found out? Why hadn’t they said anything?

“Was she with you in school?” Harry found himself asking, and Bill nodded, gaze finding you again. The boy knew he shouldn’t think about it too much. Perhaps mind his own business for once.

But when you stood up from your seat at half-time, walking towards the group and Bill rose from his place to meet you, Harry couldn’t help but think of the two of you together. At Hogwarts. It was nearly impossible to imagine the both of you as teenagers, smiling fondly at each other as you walked through the halls.

A forbidden romance.

Had you been in love, or were you just unlikely friends? Whatever it was, it had evidently developed, Harry thought, watching as Bill leaned down closer to you to hear whatever it was you had to say, both of you smiling like idiots in love. Your hand slid down to the railing that Bill was tightly clutching, boldly placing your hand over his. Bill glanced down at the feeling of your touch, and he turned his hand over so his palm was facing upwards and he could properly hold your hand, his larger, veiny one encasing yours.

Behind the pair of you, your parents had tuned around from their conversation to watch you and the so called blood-traitor. Narcissa had placed a hand on her husband’s arm, prompting him to look away from the treacherous acts occurring in front of them. “Your parents still not too fond of me, I’m guessing?” Bill teased, and you tilted your head to the side with an apologetic smile.

“You know how they are. But it didn’t stop me when we were students and it won’t stop me now.”

Bill reached up with his free hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyes were glued to his face, so kind, so handsome.

You sighed.

“I’m an adult now,” You started, cutting off your own train of thoughts. “They can’t do anything about it anymore.”

Anymore.

Because when you’d been at Hogwarts, your parents had sent you howler after howler. They’d even pulled you out of class one time to lecture you about loyalty. You remember what you told your father that day. “I am loyal! I’m loyal to my friends, I'm loyal to the people I care about. I’m loyal to Bill, and you can’t do anything about it.” He had hit you across the face.

It didn’t stop you from sneaking out of your dorm every night to meet him in the girls’ third floor bathroom, a room that had become your ultimate rendezvous spot. Romantic.

Bill cleared his throat softly, looking around to find his entire family staring at your interaction. “Would you like to go for a walk?” He asked as he tore his eyes from them. You glanced around, staring at the empty pitch for one long moment before you spun around to look at him again, nodding eagerly. “I’d like that, yeah.”

Harry tried not judging you as you walked down the stairs, hands linking as you disappeared from sight. People do crazy things for love, he decided, realising you’d decided to skip watching half of the quidditch world cup to rekindle your relationship.

But maybe your decision had been smart, because as Harry and the Weasleys returned to their tent, they had caught you leaving. Bill held the tent's flap open, letting you through. You straightened up, eyes widening as you came face to face with his entire family, knowing you must have looked a mess. Fred, George and Charlie all had matching grins on their faces as they took in your unusually messy hair, smudged lipstick, bruising hickeys on your neck and chest exposed by the low neckline of your dress.

Bill looked just about the same, except most of the lipstick marks on his skin were covered by the collar of his shirt, trailing underneath it. You ducked your head down in embarrassment, gasping when Mr. Weasley patted your shoulder, saying “It’s good to see you again, y/n.”

“You too, Mr. Weasley.” As Bill kept eye contact with his three most delinquent brothers, he knew he was in for insurmountable amounts of teasing when he would enter the tent once more. Bill closed the tent’s flap when his family went inside, pulling a face at you when he faced you once more.

Giggling, you took three steps towards him, clutching his collar tightly and forcing him closer to you. Bill’s hands settled on your hips, and he leaned down to press a long kiss to your lips. You sighed in satisfaction, trailing your hands up to settle on his shoulders. Your lips separated with a loud smooching sound that had your cheeks flushing hotly and you looked away, making steady eye contact with Draco, who had been watching your interaction from afar.

“Better get here before the parents do!” He called out, and you nodded, looking between him and Bill quickly. “Um, he has a point.” You mumbled, pushing yourself on your tippy toes to press one last peck on his lips.

“At least promise me a date?”

“I can promise you more than a date, Mr. Weasley.”

“Oh please, Mr. Weasley is my father.”

1K notes · View notes

ozzgin · 1 year ago

Note

Ozz think about this

Orc x reader ☺️

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, NSFW

Yandere! Orc Siblings who found you in the wild and almost hunted you down for food. You were ridiculously easy to catch. On the other hand, you don't look like the their usual prey. What exactly are you supposed to be?

You squirm helplessly under their intense scrutiny. Small, frail, yet with certain similarities. Cute. The brother is first to notice the latter aspect, groping around with newfound enthusiasm. You gasp at the rough handling, but the female orc comes to your aid with a swift blow. "We keep this one", she states with authority, as the male orc soothes his fresh wound.

Brains and brawn. Although just as strong, you can see the calculated gaze of the sister and the humble obedience of her brother whenever there's a decision to be made. She is the obvious leader of the family, and you do your best to stay in her good graces. Not that you'd need to; she has a soft spot for her little human. Shameful, but out of her control.

Despite the clear hierarchy, one matter can never be properly settled: you. It didn't take long for the orcs to want to...know you better. Foolish of you to give in to their demands, because defiling you has awoken a terrible, downright vile obsession for more. Being passed around by feral giants should be enough to exhaust anyone, but it's even worse when they don't like sharing. You're being fucked with the violent need to be claimed alone, the large hands pressed over your mouth to silence any whines that could compromise your secret fun.

And if you do get caught? Sometimes the discovery is made in high spirits. The sight of your blushing, drooling face is enough to get the other party to collaborate peacefully. Whether it's the best outcome for your battered body and overwhelmed holes is different question. But sometimes, lust alone doesn't quench their jealousy. You awkwardly stand back, bare and dripping, watching the siblings wrestle nearly to death over the sacrilege. You can only hope they won't kill each other.

Worry not, they're sturdy. They can handle it. You, however...You could use some training. One or two rounds is absolutely not enough for creatures like them. You only have yourself to blame for being such an addicting fucktoy.

4K notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 29 days ago

Text

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black , james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds.

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent.

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay.

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix.

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional.

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach.

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small.

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight—always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered.

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix.

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page.

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no.

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity.

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary.

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling.

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating.

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud.

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill.

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking.

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember.

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left.

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been.

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream.

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive.

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood.

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear.

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick.

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges.

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep.

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes.

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer.

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet.

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones.

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like.

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.”

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating.

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now.

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak.

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light.

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines.

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands.

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but.

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel.

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen.

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke.

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat.

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine.

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed.

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside.

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do.

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence.

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it’s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be.

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath.

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do.

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm.

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world.

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does.

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer.

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late.

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still. Even now.

Something uncoils in your chest. Not like hope but like release. Like exhale. Like gravity loosening its grip. The ache begins to lift, slow and smoke-soft, drifting out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where you’d kept it curled for so long.

And for the first time — the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

1K notes · View notes