#sirius black lemon

[upthehillnsfw]

First time at Lupin's cottage - Commission for anonymous🌤️

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[evanpeterswhoresblog]

The Trouble With Fantasies

Remus Lupin x f!reader

warnings: smut, dominate remus hehe, hair pulling, overall rough sex, voyeurism, perverts tbh, drinking, smoking, drunk sex but it’s all consensual ofc

summary: after the boys hear you and remus during certain activities they can’t help but wonder more and more…

word count: 4.5k

a/n: so this could technically b read as a stand alone but it pretty much follows the events of sleepless nights so do what you want with that (i think this is my best smut ever) cheers!

~~~

Something felt different, but you couldn’t exactly tell what it was.

It had been a few weeks since that night you’d gone to your boyfriend's room feeling restless and the boys were acting different. You’d noticed it even the next day, but you didn’t exactly connect the dots.

The morning after your night with him, you woke in Remus’s bed, your entire body sore from what had transpired the night before. He was soundly sleeping, one of his arms draped over your body as he slept on his stomach. You couldn’t help the smile that took over your lips as you gently brushed a piece of his hair out from his face. He was perfect, even as he slept.

Carefully, you removed his arm from your body and started to get up, not without leaving a quick kiss on Remus’s forehead before of course. The remanence of your night together was obvious. Your clothes were on the floor, your panties ripped to shreds. Quietly, you snatched up your shorts and tank top without leaving the secluded curtains of his bed and dressed yourself. You felt sticky with sweat, you desperately needed a long shower.

Just as you were about to leave his bed and head back to your room, you felt him shuffle beside you.

“Y/N? Love? Where are you going?”

You turned back and smiled at him as you ran a hand up and down his naked back. “Good morning Rem. I need to get back to my dorm for a shower.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll see you at breakfast though, right?”

“Of course, love, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You gave him a quick kiss before he passed out again and you began to make your way out of his bed.

The air in his dorm was cold, especially since you were only in your bedclothes. After making sure the curtains were closed behind you, you started to walk toward the door. What caught your attention though was how all the other boys' curtains were closed as well. Typically, they were always open. You didn’t really pay attention to it though, the thought of a nice warm shower consuming almost all of your thoughts.

So, you left the dorm without a second thought.

After your shower, you dressed and did your makeup. Despite the girls' teasing of your newfound hickeys, you still went down to breakfast feeling your typical amount of confidence. Remus and the other Marauders were already sitting at the table, laughing and joking as usual. It made you feel good to see them acting normal. When Remus caught your eye, he smiled widely and welcomed you with a quick kiss as you took the seat next to him.

“How you feeling love?” He asked as he started to help you build your plate.

At that point, it would be typical for the other Marauders, specifically Sirius and James to crack a joke about you and Remus’s shagging getting out of hand. But much to your surprise, the other boy’s faces sort of fell and they remained silent. You found it odd but didn’t focus on it.

“I’m all right,” you answered. “Not very excited about the assignment we have to do in Potions though. I swear Slughorn does it to punish us.”

“What? You don’t enjoy the hour-long brewing with members of the Slytherin house?” Remus joked.

You rolled your eyes and took a bite from your toast. “No, not particularly.”

“Yeah Remus, she’s too sore to be excited about anything,” Marlene snickered from across the table.

You couldn’t help but notice the looks Peter, James, and Sirius shared. Why were they acting so strange? Their faces were all tinted a slight shade of red as if they were embarrassed. What would they have to be embarrassed about though? You glanced at Remus and he didn’t seem concerned at all. So, you let it go.

“Shut it,” you replied to Marlene, a cheeky grin on your face. “You’re just jealous your blokes don’t leave you as satisfied.”

Marlene chuckled. “As if! I’ll let you know my blokes are wonderful.”

“Are they now?” You giggled.

“Yes! Just because I don’t get shagged on random Tuesday nights doesn’t mean I don’t get enough action. I’ll let you know the last time I was with Charlie from Ravenclaw he did this thing with his tongue that-”

“Okay, can we drop this? You lot are going to make me puke.” Sirius cut her off with a grimace.

Marlene looked at Sirius with a playful frown. “Aw is the player uncomfortable hearing about women's conquests instead of a man?”

“No, it’s just too early for this kind of talk,” James piped in.

“Since when? Do you know how many times you’ve come prancing in here going on and on about how hard you shagged girls? Seems a bit hypocritical to me,” Mary spoke up as she stirred her porridge.

Lily nodded. “I have to agree as well.”

Sirius huffed and stood up. “Come on lads let's just get to class early.”

Peter and James followed without question and they were gone, leaving you, Remus, and the girls sat in a strange silence.

You turned to your boyfriend, incapable of dropping their strange behavior. “What’s going on with them?”

Remus only shrugged. “No idea.”

You shrugged it off for as long as you could.

~~~

Later that day after classes had ended you and Remus were in his dorm once again only this time the two of you were sat on his bed comparing notes and homework assignments. Dating perhaps the smartest boy in the year came with its perks. Especially the ones having to do with free answers on schoolwork. After some time of Remus trying to explain to you more unnecessary information about the Giant Wars you groaned and fell back on the bed, your head hanging off.

“This is just too hard Rem,” you said with a sigh.

“It’s really not, you’re just making it hard,” he laughed, tapping his muggle pen on your thigh. “Come on, we need to keep going.”

“But I simply cannot!” You moaned dramatically and flung your arms in the air. “It’s too much.”

“Just a bit more then we can go and steal some sweets from the kitchens,” he replied.

You sat up again, a playful smirk on your face. “If you think bribing me with treats is going to work you are very correct. Can we go faster though? At this pace, we aren’t going to be done for hours.”

“We can go as fast as you like, but I don’t think you’re going to learn much if we rush.”

“I don’t need to learn all of this; I swear we’ve gone over it thousands if not millions of times before. This has got to be a form of torture.”

Remus only chuckled lightly and moved his textbook closer to you. “The more you complain the slower it’ll go by.”

You groaned again but picked up your quill. “Merlin, I swear Bins-”

Just then, the door to the dorm burst open and the other Marauders entered, sour expressions on their faces.

“Remus can you quit shagging your girlfriend for one day we also live in this dorm it’s not just yours,” Sirius spoke as he entered.

As their eyes fell over the two of you, however, their faces shifted from ones of aggravation to ones of confusion. You and Remus looked at each other confused before he spoke.

“What are you idiots on about?”

“Oh... we thought...” Peter stumbled over his words.

“We heard your conversation we thought you were doing some kinky shagging or something,” James said.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “So, you pervs were standing out there listening while you thought we were shagging?”

Peter looked down ashamed but James and Sirius kept their confidence. “Well yes, we were too afraid to come in.”

“But you did come in. What if we were shagging would you want to see your best mate naked? Would you want to see me naked?” You continued to laugh. But as you saw their faces turn red, you stopped. What was going on with them?

When you turned to look at Remus again, he had a strange expression on his face, one you couldn’t decode. He was looking at his friends almost with... jealousy. That didn’t make much sense to you though. What would he need to be jealous of? Without a word he placed his hand on your thigh, his eyes still locked on his friends.

“We’re just studying, something you idiots should be doing. Now get out, you’re distracting us.” Remus’s voice was hard, protective. It left you speechless and confused.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sirius mumbled before turning and rushing out of the dorm. The other boys followed, slamming the door behind them.

“What the hell was that about?” You couldn’t stop the question from leaving your lips.

Remus exhaled deeply and started scribbling his notes. “Nothing, let's just finish this so we can get out of here.”

You didn’t object this time and the two of you worked in silence for the next half hour. But as you worked you couldn’t stop your internal question that was far from the boring Giant War. What was going on with the other Marauders?

~~~

From that day on your dynamics with the other Marauders changed. Before it had been as if you were almost part of the group. You could run around in the dorm in your underwear as you play fought with Sirius, you could hug Peter as tight as you wanted when he was being his cute self, and you could feel completely normal when James would drape his arm over your shoulders as the two of you joke around. After that night, however, everything was different.

They didn’t act as your brothers anymore. They were distant and cold. Remus told you they were just ‘going through a change’ but you couldn’t understand what that change was. With their change came a few changes from Remus as well. He was more protective of you. Whenever everyone hung out, he made sure to always have an arm around you, or he made a show of kissing you in front of his friends. Almost as if he was showing them, you were his. None of it made sense.

It wasn’t like Remus was upset with his friends. Every time you caught him with the boys, he was acting the same as he always had before. It seemed the only time things were different was when you were around.

Quickly you became insecure. What had you done to upset them? You couldn’t think of anything you’d done that could’ve been perceived as offensive or rude. Sure, you made some comments that could’ve slightly been harsh, but that was just your sense of humor, especially with the boys. Without any answers you tried to push your sadness away, what else could you really do?

That was until the fateful night all the answers were revealed to you.

It was a normal Friday night. Like usual after dinner, you made your way up to the boys' dorm to see Remus. Before their strange behavior, you would also spend some time with the other Marauders but as of recently, that wasn’t really an option. So, when you knocked on their door you heard their laughter die down and eventually come to a complete end when Peter opened the door.

“Oh, um it’s Y/N,” Peter said nervously, glancing behind him at the other boys.

You put on a big smile. “Hi Pete, can I come in?”

“Y-Yeah.” He opened the door wider and you entered.

The air in the room was thick and uncomfortable. Sirius and James looked at you with their newfound confusing faces. Remus however welcomed you with a smile and motioned for you to go to him. You made quick notice of the open half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey on one of their nightstands, and the overpowering smell of weed. You sat next to Remus on his bed awkwardly, the other boys' eyes making you nervous.

“How’s your night going love?” Remus asked after placing a quick kiss on your forehead. He was drunk, you could tell.

“Um good... Marls, Lily, and Mary were planning on going out to the Black Lake to some little party the Hufflepuffs are throwing.” You turned to look at the other boys. “I’m surprised you guys aren’t already there.”

“We were going to make an appearance,” Sirius said, not a hint of his usual playfulness in his voice.

“Yeah, they just wanted to get some alcohol in their systems before since whatever they have down there probably will be half gone,” Remus replied with a snort.

You nodded. “Right... makes sense.”

Remus nodded too and moved to grab their bottle. With a smirk, he offered it to you. “Have some darling, we’ve all had our share already.”

“I don’t know if that’s good for me you know how I get when I drink,” you said cautiously. The feeling of all their eyes on you made your face burn.

“Oh, but that’s exactly what I want tonight,” Remus countered, his words suggestive.

You blushed harder and took the bottle, taking a shot before you could stop yourself. The burn was familiar, but still left a sour expression on your face. Remus grinned and wrapped an arm around you, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me Lupin? Not a very good look on your part.” You laughed.

“I wouldn’t need alcohol to get you into bed with me, if anything those blokes would.”

You froze, your eyes darting around the room at his remark. The other boys, clearly drunk as well didn’t say anything. What was going on? You pushed away from Remus, a questioning expression on your face.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Remus only pulled you closer and ran one of his hands up and down your thigh. “Nothing sweetness, only that my best mates want to shag my girlfriend.”

Your eyes went wide. “W-What?”

“Moony!” James snapped.

“Don’t pretend it’s not true Prongs,” Remus mumbled, his lips on your neck. “You lot have been fantasizing about her these past few weeks. It’s all right, I would too if she wasn’t my girl already.”

You were too stunned to speak. Judging by the looks on all their faces, mixed with how casual your boyfriend was speaking about it, you knew it was true. It made you uncomfortable, you didn’t want to be in that room anymore. That’s why they’d been acting so off. They wanted to shag you.

“Fuck off Moony,” Sirius said.

“You fuck off Pads. What great mates do I have right Y/N? They all want to experience what it’s like to fuck you. I’ll let you in on a secret lads, it’s fucking amazing. I mean look at her.” Remus pulled back and ran his eyes up and down your body. Though you were wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, you suddenly felt exposed. “Perfect. She’s perfect. You should see her without the clothes.”

“Remus,” you said sternly. “Stop.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Tell them to stop Y/N, they’re the ones who’ve made everything weird.”

“I just...” You stood up. “Can we leave? Please?”

Remus only tisked and stood up beside you. He looked at all his friends, disappointment clear on his face. “Great going boys, you’ve made her uncomfortable.”

“We didn’t do anything!” Peter exclaimed.

“We’ve barely spoken to her since... well...” James added on.

“Since you decided to fuck her with your damn drapes open.” Sirius finished. He took a swig from the bottle. “What did you think was going to happen huh? We wouldn’t hear and imagine things?”

You could barely breathe. All you could do was walk through the dorm, your eyes burning with tears. You didn’t listen to their conversation or even the sound of Remus’s voice calling your name. You needed to get out of there, and you did. You ran down to the common room and out of the Gryffindor area completely.

The knowledge of what those boys were thinking made you sick to your stomach. How could they think such awful things? You’d thought your relationship with them was clear. They were like your brothers and you, their sister. Never had any dirty thoughts including a Marauder besides Remus crossed your mind. But as you ran outside in the chilly air, all you could think of was exactly that. It almost made you vomit.

Finding Lily, Marlene, and Mary helped slightly. The party was small but there were enough people to distract you from what had transpired only moments before. As did the vodka you drank.

“Wait so they’ve been acting like that all because they heard you and Remus shagging?” Marlene asked.

The four of you sat by the lake, discussing what had happened. Though you all had been drinking, you were clearly the most drunk. It was obvious by the way you were laid out on the grass, groaning continuously as you tried to forget everything.

“Yes,” you slurred. “And they’ve been... thinking of what I’m like when I.... oh Merlin, I can’t even say it.”

“You don’t have to it’s okay,” Lily spoke as she patted one of your shoulders.

“I just want to forget any of this ever happened.” You lifted your head to look around. “Where’s the alcohol?”

“Love you’ve had enough.” Mary laughed.

“But I’m still thinking! I want to never think again!” You groaned.

“Take a hit off my joint, it’ll probably help or at least get you high,” Marlene suggested as she blew out a cloud of smoke, offering the joint to you.

“Anything to get rid of these thoughts.”

It was unclear how much time passed when Remus suddenly appeared where you were lying with the girls. You were crossed and you felt amazing. Marlene was arguing with Mary about Quidditch while Lily softly spoke to you about a book she was reading. It was perfect and peaceful. So, when Remus appeared standing over you, you grinned.

“Hi, Remmy! I’ve missed you!” You exclaimed.

“How much has she taken?” His voice sent tingles throughout your body.

“I dunno maybe five shots? Then a few puffs of my weed which may I say is far better than yours,” Marlene answered.

“Oh, Rem take me!” You sprawled out on the cold grass. “Right here, ravage me. We haven’t shagged in ages. I need it.”

“Don’t think that’s smart love. Many more guys will be thinking of you if I do that.” Remus chuckled.

You rubbed your hands over your face. “Stop! Stop! I’ve forgotten and you’ve brought it back.”

“How many drinks have you had Remus?” Lily questioned. “You’re swaying.”

“That’s not important, my girlfriend needs me.”

Remus bent down and took your hands in his, without a struggle he lifted you to a standing position. You leaned on him, barely able to stand on your own. A giggle left your lips as you looked up at him, he was so tall, so handsome. Your drunken state made your normal thoughts so much worse. At that moment, he was magnetic. You absolutely needed to touch him, to be around him.

“Take me to your dorm, please,” you mumbled, your face buried in his sweater. The scent of his cologne alone could’ve killed you right then and there. It was perfect, he was perfect. Your perfect boyfriend.

“Let’s go, I saved you a fag,” he replied.

As the two of you began to stumble back toward the castle you heard Marlene’s voice saying something along the lines of, “You two are definitely going to do more than smoke a fag.”

Right, she was. The second the two of you miraculously got back into his dorm you were all over each other. Despite his slow warm kisses, you were a panting mess practically in the palm of his hand. You moved mindlessly, falling back onto his mattress as if it were a sixth sense. Your shirt was gone before you hit even the edge of the bed, as was Remus’s sweater. As you laid back, he stood in front of you removing your jeans clumsily.

“Fucking hell these are glued to you,” he said annoyed.

You giggled and lifted your hips to help. “I thought they made my ass look good.”

“Oh, they do. Still a pain to get them off though,” he replied.

“Hey! They make me like a treat you have to unwrap be grateful I’m letting you get a taste,” you countered.

When he finally pulled them off, he leaned over you and connected your lips in another deep kiss, making all the playful thoughts in your head disappear once again. His hands gripped your hips before slowly moving to slide your panties down your legs, with much more ease than with your jeans.

“Well, you definitely are sweet like a treat,” he whispered against your lips.

You moaned at his comment, pulling his belt undone as he trailed his kisses down your neck and collarbone. His lips were hot, practically stinging your skin each time they touched you. Getting his jeans off was much easier than your own and soon enough he was hovering over you on his bed, his fingers buried deep inside you.

To say you were wet would be an understatement. You were soaked. His fingers worked you magically as if he knew your body better than you did. Rubbing your clit just the way that drove you mad, hitting that exquisite spot inside you with his long fingers that made your toes curl. Though the two of you were a rushing drunken mess, he still took the time to please you, he always did. That only made you fall more and more in love with him each time.

Given how eager you were to feel him inside you, you eventually pulled his hand away from you and flipped the position. Sitting on top of him you kissed him, your lips wet and messy. Without another word, you relieved him of his boxers and stroked his painfully hard cock. The way he sucked in a sharp breath at your touch only made you yearn for him more. Quickly you lifted yourself and positioned his tip right where it needed to be.

You moved aimlessly, the feeling of him stretching you causing your breathing to quickly turn into soft pants. He held on to your hips, the feeling of his nails digging into your soft skin made you squirm. Despite the numerous times you’d done this before, feeling him guiding you only made it better. And when he sat up and wrapped his arms around you, clinging to you as if even an inch of space would cause him pain, you nearly whined.

“Oh Remus,” you breathed your lips by his ear. “Merlin, I love you.”

He trailed one of his hands up your back and pulled on your hair, causing your head to fall back and a whimper to leave your lips.

“I love you too,” he whispered between moans.

Your skin flushed; you felt as though you had a fever from just how hot the room was. Because you were so caught up in your desire, you couldn’t hear the shuffling around the room. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heart and Remus’s drunken mumbles. Your fingers traveled down his back, gripping him tightly as he matched your rhythm. His cock going so deep it hurt. You couldn’t get enough of it.

There was a noise, something was knocked over across the room. You didn’t care to look, too distracted by how good Remus was making you feel. He noticed, however, and you felt his lips curl up into a smirk on your shoulder.

“Love it seems we have an audience,” he mumbled.

You hummed, too drunk to care. “Don’t stop. Let them watch.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

Effortlessly he flipped your position once again. Your body was pressed into the mattress rough as Remus began to relentlessly pound into you. You almost screamed, your back arching as he took you hard. He licked up your neck, causing you to shudder and claw at his back. That position didn’t last long though.

Soon enough, he moved you again. Bringing you up onto all fours as he continued his fast pace. Your face pressed into his pillow, but even that couldn’t stifle the moans and whimpers that left you. His grip on your hips was even harder then, no doubt going to leave bruises tomorrow. The sound of his skin slapping against yours filled the room, as did your heaving, and his moaning.

It wasn’t long before you felt that familiar knot building deep in your core. You ached for a release and you knew Remus was going to give you that and more. The anticipation within you grew as you felt him slap your ass and pull your hair again.

“Fuck, fuck. Yes, Rem, I’m gonna cum don’t stop,” you whined.

Remus tugged harder on your hair; it made you practically scream from pleasure. “Cum for me Y/N, just me.”

“Just you fuck I’m yours I’m yours.” You babbled, drunk on more than just the alcohol at that point.

“All mine,” he said between pants.

You clenched around him as you came undone, his name the only coherent thing to leave your lips. His pace didn’t stutter for even a moment, even as he came too. It only made your orgasm better. When he was sure you were done, he was moving to pull out but you stopped him.

“Rem can we...” You paused to swallow hard, wiping the sweat from your forehead with a weak hand. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He chuckled lightly as he tried to catch his breath. “Yeah, yeah of course.”

Without pulling out, he shifted to lay beside you, pulling you on top of him. You laid your head on his chest as you calmed down, the sound of his heartbeat slowing down helping you even out your breathing. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight. You were both a sweaty mess but you didn’t care, everything felt perfect as it was.

After a few minutes when you came back to your senses, you asked him, “What did you mean by audience?”

“Oh,” Remus lifted his head to look over you. “We didn’t close the curtains. Are you boys going to say thank you for the performance?”

You turned to look in the same direction only to find James, Sirius, and Peter staring, the tents in their trousers quite noticeable. Your face turned red and you buried it in Remus’s chest, pulling his sheet over your body for protection.

“Uh, round of applause?” Sirius spoke weakly.

At least their fantasies were fulfilled you thought to yourself as Remus laughed.

[waxingrunes]

October 1981 — July 1993.

[peaches-plums-please]

Remus & Sirius.

So this is what brought me out of my smut drawing hiatus. And glorious fanfic writers!

[macabresque]

modern day trans!regulus would have such a soft spot for cavetown. i'm right ur wrong shut up

like you're telling me this guy didn't listen to juliet, sharpener, and lemon boy and absolutely sob his eyes out????

[motherfuckingmaneater]

Rank your favorite family members in order:

Walburga.

Cygnus.

Orion.

Narcissa.

Sirius.

Andromeda.

Regulus.

Druella.

[hello-lemons]

WHOLE SEIRES IS SO GOOD LOVE THIS THANK YOU💕✨️🤌💫

Thawing Out

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13

cw: modern au, smut mndi, chronic pain mention, I always feel like my confessions are awk so sorry if you think this one is too

note for minors: a lot of this chapter is smut, but you can read up until the red line without worrying about it. There's no summary this time because it really is just smut for smut's sake and all the character development happens before it starts, so you won't need it for the plot. There is one vague mention of boners before the red line (sorry it's just for a laugh), but that's it

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 3.2k words

You catch on quickly to what’s happened between Sirius and Remus. What you don’t understand is why they’ve interrupted it to come talk to you. And how you could be wrong twice—do they cancel out if you were truly right the first time? 

Clearly, the chemistry you’d felt between Remus and Sirius wasn’t imagined. You’d convinced yourself you must’ve gotten your wires crossed—otherwise why would Remus have kissed you?—but evidently they’ve come to some sort of agreement. Are they here to ask for your permission? Intra-team fornicating: approved. 

You’re not sure if you wish they’d waited until they were less hard to pop by. 

“Um.” You keep your eyes very intentionally on the boys’ faces. “What’s up?” 

Sirius looks almost nervous, skittish even, but Remus’ hand wraps around his to pull him closer to your doorway. Your heart does something funny in your chest. 

“Could we talk?” Sirius asks. 

“Er…yeah. Of course.” You step aside, letting them into your small room. Remus sits politely on the edge of your bed, giving you deja vu from the night before, while Sirius makes himself comfortable further back. He leans his side into your pillow where it’s propped up on the wall. 

“We were talking,” starts Remus, “and I told Sirius about what happened between us.” 

Your next breath seems to come slower. Unwillingly, your gaze flits to Sirius, but he looks impassive, only like he might be scrutinizing you in turn. You look back at Remus. “You did?” 

“I did,” he says gently. “But it wasn’t—” 

“Babe,” Sirius interrupts, “don’t look so freaked. What’s the matter? And why are you still standing there?” 

You realize you’re hugging yourself around your middle, standing awkwardly in front of the bed. “I’m not sure it’s meant to hold three people,” you say weakly. 

Sirius snorts, whatever nervousness he’d arrived with vanishing. Sirius has always been good this way; he can only ever panic when no one else is, but the second you’re panicking too he’s all ease. 

“Don’t be silly.” He pats the space between himself and Remus. It’s as ample as the bed allows, which isn’t saying much. “It’ll be fine. Anyway, it’s your bed.” 

You can’t think of a good reason to argue. Something in you calms as you settle in between them, Sirius’ hip touching yours and the warmth of Remus’ body on your other side. It’s familiar, safe. 

“Are you upset?” you ask Sirius. 

His brows pinch. “Why would I be?” 

“Because…” You cringe. “Aren’t you two…?”

“There’s been a lot of confusion, I think,” Remus says kindly. “But when we were talking, we both sort of came to the realization that we fancy each other…and you.” 

There’s a dense pause. 

“And me?” you echo. 

Remus’ lips tilt slightly. “Yes.” 

“As in…” You rub your eyes, dumbfounded. “Sorry, I did just wake up.” 

Sirius laughs. Remus too, reaching over to rub your knee like he can’t help himself. 

“For the record, I didn’t plan any of this,” says Sirius, “but if I had, I’d have done it exactly this way. It’s very gratifying to finally disturb your sleep schedules the way you pricks have been doing to me all these weeks.” 

“Oi,” Remus chides teasingly, reaching over you to push at Sirius’ thigh. You marvel at this new easiness between them, now given even newer context. “Anyway, we thought we’d come see if you might be interested.” 

“In…you.” You rub your lips together, looking between them and noticing Sirius’ gaze has fallen to your mouth. Unless you’re terribly mistaken and you’ve got it all wrong, this means he fancies you as well. Your partner, your best friend. 

The idea isn’t as upsetting as it ought to be. 

Do you fancy him too? You’ve never thought about Sirius in that way. You love him, of course, but you’ve never taken the time to parse out if it might be a different sort of love than the kind between friends. And as for the rest—well, who wouldn’t be attracted to Sirius? You’re only human. 

“In both of us, yes,” Remus confirms patiently. 

“Is that something you’d be into?” Sirius asks. 

Your answer leaves you on a breath, thoughtless but true. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” Sirius grins. 

You nod. You’re suddenly fixated by the way his cupid’s bow flattens out when he smiles like that. It’s something you’ve noticed a thousand times before, but now…

“Yeah,” you say again. “Um…what do we do?” 

Remus chuckles. “I don’t really know. I’ve not been with two people before.” 

“Believe it or not, this is a first for me as well,” Sirius says lightly. 

“Right,” you laugh. It breaks up some of the apprehension in your chest. 

“If you want to,” Remus’ voice softens, “I suppose you could start by kissing him.” 

You look at him, then at Sirius. For the first time, something like insecurity flashes across his face. 

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. No longer the brazen flirt, but the kind, considerate boy you know. “It’s okay.” 

“I know,” you reply. 

It’s like he’s afraid to touch you until you get to him. You steady yourself with a hand on his jaw, your other pressing into the mattress as you lean towards where he’s reclined against your pillow and bring your lips to his. 

You know all the ways that Sirius moves, and even this new, completely uncharted part of him is consistent. Sirius’ kisses start out slow, probing, feeling out what you like and what he can do, but then he gives himself over to it. His hands find first your hips, urging you closer to him before one slides to the small of your back. Greedy fingers curl in the fabric of your pajama top. 

You make a small, accidental sound in the back of your throat when his teeth tease your bottom lip, and Sirius pulls away. You’re both breathing hard. 

Sirius stares at you for a weighted moment before his eyes drift behind you and he huffs out a laugh. “Enjoyed that, did you?” 

You look over your shoulder, and Remus is watching you both with a low flame burning in his gaze. He flushes a tad at the question but his expression doesn’t change. He leans forward, kissing you, tasting Sirius on your lips. 

───────────────────────────────────────────

The three of you don’t need to speak much to communicate. Remus pulls you back into him, his length hardening against your ass, and Sirius follows. He kisses Remus over your shoulder with a relieved sort of sigh. All the while, his hands are roving your thighs, pushing up your pajama shorts until they crease and pinch at your crotch. 

You exhale and tilt your head to the side when Remus drops his lips to your neck. “We have a competition tomorrow,” you remind them both. “We ought to be resting up.” 

You feel Sirius’ grin as he brings his mouth to yours again. “Yup.” He nips your bottom lip. “I’m aware this is a bad idea.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t condone it,” Remus agrees, one hand covering your ribs while the other sneaks down to tease the waist of your pajama shorts.Your poor shorts are being attacked from both sides. “How far do you want to go?” 

Sirius pulls his lips from yours to watch you think. They still tingle, and you rub them together unconsciously. His eyes darken. 

“You drive me mad when you do that,” he says. 

“Do what?” 

Sirius’ mouth kicks up at the corner. He brings his thumb to your lower lip, pressing down on it gently. His own lips are swollen and gleaming prettily with spit, eyes nearly all pupil. Remus’ hand strokes lazily at your side. 

“I want to go as far as you guys want to,” you say without breaking Sirius’ gaze. 

His grin widens, and he looks at Remus, shrugging. “We could just go until somebody says stop.” 

“Alright,” says Remus. One of his hands leaves you, finger hooking in the waist of Sirius’ trousers. “Can we take these off, then?” 

Sirius isn’t shy, but you didn’t think he would be. He sits up on his knees and pulls them down, letting Remus help them over his ankles before they’re discarded in a heap on the floor. Remus gets rid of his too, and then you’re staring at the outlines of both boys through the far thinner material of their underwear. 

Remus ghosts a touch over Sirius’ cock, making the other boy’s expression pinch with want, before pulling down the waistband. Lithe, graceful muscles and hip bones curving inwards. Sirius curses as Remus’ long fingers wrap around him. 

Remus pumps slowly, his own arousal an insistent heat at your hip. You find your attention torn between the feeling of his body against your backside and the sultry droop of Sirius’ eyelids as he watches Remus work his cock. 

“Doesn’t he look pretty?” Remus murmurs. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s speaking to you. “Yeah.” Your mouth feels dry. You swallow, and watch as Sirius’ eyes flit up to the motion. “He always does.” 

Remus hums in agreement, pressing a light kiss to an exposed bit of skin beside the neckline of your top. “Do you want to try, lovely?” 

You turn your head to look at him. Remus’ eyes are glued to Sirius. “What about you?” 

A chuckle, and another soft kiss to your shoulder. “I’ll be alright.” 

Remus waits until your hand is around Sirius’ shaft, pumping a couple times against his own fist, before letting go. You choose a slightly less languid pace than Remus had. Sirius twitches in your grasp, taking your face in his hands and setting his lips to yours with a muffled groan. 

Behind you, Remus moves closer until his length is pressed against your ass. One of his hands steadies you by the hip while the other dips below the waistband of your shorts, palming you through your underwear. You shift, and he hisses when you move against him. 

You turn your head on instinct, Sirius’ lips smudging across your cheek. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” Remus’ voice is breathy, amused. “You just surprised me.” 

“What’d she do?” Sirius is never one to be left out of the loop. 

“Just backed into me.” 

“Oh. Gorgeous,” he smiles, turning you by the chin to capture your lips again, “who wouldn’t want that?” 

Their praise soon has you devolving into a thoughtless, sensory creature. Sirius’ hands caress your face and neck and Remus’ fingers brush your panties aside to toy with your cunt. Every movement of your hips makes him push more insistently against you. Your shirt comes off, Remus dotting your shoulders with sweet kisses. Your grip tightens on Sirius’ cock, and a low, needy sound tears out of him. 

“Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.” 

Your heart flutters at the endearment, but you don’t let your movements stall. Soon he’s pushing his hips into your hand, kisses turning messy and desperate, your own sounds harder to suppress as Remus bullies your clit with two fingers. You’re glad to know at least Sirius’ room is empty on your other side, because you’re beginning to wonder how thick these walls are. Remus pushes his length into the crease between your asscheeks through your shorts, Sirius’ cock beginning to twitch in your hand, and you press your lips together to contain a sound that promises to be both loud and mortifying—and the bed collapses. 

You fall backwards onto Remus as the cardboard on his end gives out, sending all three of you to the floor. Sirius’ teeth knock into yours and Remus catches you around the waist with both hands, keeping you from fully sitting on his hard cock. 

“Fuck.” Sirius brings a hand to his mouth. “What the fuck?” 

“Oh, shit.” You scramble away from Remus, onto the floor. Both boys look at you in alarm. You’re looking to where Remus’ leg is bent underneath him, not at a terribly cruel angle, but still— “Your hip. Is your hip okay?” 

“Oh.” Remus glances down as though he’s forgotten it himself, realization dawning over his features. 

“Fuck,” Sirius breaths, remembering as well. His hand moves toward Remus but lingers in the air, afraid of hurting him. 

“It’s…yeah, it’s okay,” says Remus. His eyes meet yours. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” 

Sirius’ brows pinch, but his hand makes it the rest of the way, rubbing tentatively over Remus’ hip joint. “Are you sure?” 

Remus shifts slowly, sitting up off his knees to move closer to Sirius. “I’m sure.” A little smile graces his lips. “You worried about me, Pads?” 

Sirius’ face splits in the sort of grin you can only ever surprise out of him. “Fuck off,” he laughs, pushing Remus away when he tries to kiss him. Remus catches Sirius’ hands, his own smile unfurling slowly, almost unwillingly. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“How sweet,” he hums, smug. 

You find yourself smiling at them both, your heart a balloon in your chest. 

“Okay.” You give the mattress a little tug. “In that case, could you guys get off?”

“What’re you doing?” Remus asks. Both he and Sirius move. 

“Having this on a slant doesn’t seem like a good idea, so I’m moving it.” 

It should be awkward, this break in the tension, but maybe it’s because you’re so used to working as a team that it isn’t. You all get the mattress situated on the floor, and then you’re dragging Remus’ underwear off, his hands moving kind and doting over the lengths of your arms. He inhales a small breath as Sirius takes his cock into his mouth. 

You watch Sirius’ lips move up and down his shaft, his eyes dark and growing shiny as he takes Remus as far as he can. You aren’t quite sure how to contribute, but when you rub the inside of Sirius’ thigh tentatively both boys moan. You take that to mean you’re on the right track. 

The muscles in Sirius’ back flex as he raises and lowers his head between Remus’ legs, mouth growing wet with spit and slick, and it’s not long before Remus’ fingers are curling in Sirius’ hair, curses spewing from between his lips in a Welsh accent you’ve not heard before. You can’t help but follow them back to the source, kissing Remus just before he cums down Sirius’ throat. He grips you by the arms with something like desperation. You’re happy to stay as the tension unwinds from his body, until his hands are moving down you, smoothing across the skin just above the waistband of your shorts. 

“Are you planning on keeping those on all night?” 

It’s Sirius who asks, his gaze sultry as he watches Remus’ finger skim just underneath the fabric covering your ass. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a thumb. 

“How’s this?” Remus suggests. He pulls you gently into his lap, situating you between his legs with your back against his chest. Again, you can feel the impression of him pressed against your backside. 

Your voice comes out weak. “This is good.” 

He chuckles, soothing a hand down your side while Sirius grins. Sirius’ fingers grasp the elastics of both your shorts and your underwear. “Okay?” he asks you. 

You nod. 

He takes his time working them down your legs and off your ankles, his eyes locking on your exposed cunt and the arousal Remus has coaxed out of you already. Remus, too, is watching over your shoulder. His fingers gravitate back to it, dragging slick up through your folds idly, almost worshipfully. He kisses behind your ear. 

“Fuck, you’re lovely,” says Sirius. 

Both boys’ gazes stay glued to your cunt as Sirius positions himself over you, pushing into your warmth. You bite down on a small sound. Remus tuts at you, his hand spreading reassuringly over your navel. 

“You can do better than that,” he chides. “Don’t think we don’t want to hear you.” 

Sirius holds your hips as he sinks into you. His fingers dent your flesh, and you marvel at the fact that you’ve wasted so much time not doing this. That you’ve ever been in a room with either Remus or Sirius and managed not to kiss them dizzy. You’re not sure you’ll be able to manage it again. 

Remus draws slow, tight circles around your clit with his finger. You arch your neck back onto his shoulder, and Sirius groans as you tighten on him. 

“God—you’re so perfect,” he says hoarsely. “You feel so good.” 

Your reply gets lost on a lewd sound as he drags his cock along your walls. Remus kisses you rewardingly in the soft skin underneath your ear. “There you are,” he says. “Good girl.” 

Warmth unfurls through your gut. 

Sirius grins whatever reaction must show up on your face, his hands migrating to your ass as he thrusts into you. As he gets rougher, so do Remus’ ministrations to your clit, his slow circles turning quick and jagged. You feel yourself tighten on Sirius in little flutters that have him gripping you tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises. 

“Fuck, like that, yeah. Just like that, baby.” 

Your lips part at the pet name and Sirius’ eyes flick up to yours like he’s surprised too, like he’s let slip something he didn’t mean to. But you say, “come here,” and he goes, leaning over you to let you take his face in your hands and kiss him until you can’t breathe. 

Remus feels your high approaching before you do. His free hand smooths over the inside of your twitching thigh. 

“Are you close?” he asks you. 

Sirius parts his lips from yours, looking down to see the confirmation on your face. You give it.

“Good,” he says, picking up his pace, “good, sweetheart, that’s it. Cum for me, yeah? I’ve got you.” 

You nearly bite your lip in half when you do, Remus tsking amusedly and kissing your neck while the tightening of your cunt threatens to send Sirius over the edge as well. He starts to pull out of you, but you grab his hand. 

“It’s okay,” you manage. “In me.” 

“Really?” he asks in a strangled voice. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I wanna feel it.” 

That’s all it takes. Sirius’ expression pinches like you’ve said something cruel as he thrusts into you one last time, a shock that reverberates through you as he warms you from the inside out. He’s rigid for a few seconds before tipping forward, his head to your shoulder and to Remus' chest, which you’ve slipped down without noticing. His breath fans softly over your skin. 

Remus rubs your thigh comfortingly and with his other hand pets down Sirius’ hair, cupping his flushed cheek. “Alright, love?” he asks. 

Sirius’ blush seems to worsen. “Yeah. You?” 

“More than.” Remus kisses his head. 

It’s only after a few seconds of silence that you realize Remus’ question was posed to the both of you. 

“That was…” you shake your head, at a loss “...fantastic.” 

“Yeah?” Sirius nudges his nose into your skin. “I thought so.” 

Remus’ chuckle rumbles through all three of you. “Cocky,” he says fondly. 

“And decent enough with it, by all reports.” 

It starts up a round of sweet, half teasing kisses Sirius pretends to want to escape despite making no real efforts to do so. You give and receive plenty of your own, until not just your lips and shoulders but many other parts of you are wet with spit and slick. You fall asleep all three on a twin mattress on the floor, your head on Remus’ chest and Sirius’ arms wound around your middle. It might be the best sleep you’ve ever had.

[smoke-and-plume]

🌖As the Hunters Moon Rises🌔

A “Hunter’s Moon” is the first full moon on or before Halloween, leading up to which Remus and Sirius get a little more… needy.

Hermione x Sirius x Remus

Wizarding Kinktober 2023

Full art versions:

Ao3

Twitter

[upthehillnsfw]

Commission for anonymous - a gift for Remus🤭

Click for full version / Alternative

[colouredbyd]

She Will Be Loved

james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (drabble)

synopsis: at Potter Manor in spring, even a Black can begin again—where healing stumbles, but sweetness lingers, and love, warm as frosting and softer than rain, finds its way home. ( i suck at summaries)

cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!

w/c: 6.5k

a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3

part one part two masterlist

“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”

Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command. 

She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer. 

The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.

She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest. 

You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.

You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.

You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”

A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.

“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”

Love. 

The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.

So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.

You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.

The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort. 

There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.

The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave. 

You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.

From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.

“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.

“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.

And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice. 

You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest. 

He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.

“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.

You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.

“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”

You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”

James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”

And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion. 

Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.

Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.

You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are) 

It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.

The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful. 

“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.

“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.

You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.

James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”

You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”

“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”

Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right. 

You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.

That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.

There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.

James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash. 

Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.

So instead, you learn to make frosting.

You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden. 

There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.

And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.

Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it. 

Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”

And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.

Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory. 

You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.

“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”

Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.

And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.

You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.

“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”

You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.

It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.

From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”

You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”

Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”

And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.

Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.

You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.

The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still. 

Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back. 

“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.

Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.

One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.

You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.

Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones. 

It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.

You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.

Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.

Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.

Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache. 

You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.

Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.

“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.

The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.

James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.

And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.

“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”

Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”

You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”

James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”

“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”

James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”

That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.

Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.

The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.

You hesitate. “The ugly one?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”

Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”

You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.

Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”

It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.

You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.

He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”

Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.

James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”

“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.

Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”

The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you. 

You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.

You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.

You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.

James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.

He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.

“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”

Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.

He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.

James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.

Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”

He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”

“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.

“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”

James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”

Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.

You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.

The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.

Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.

You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”

James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”

You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.

The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.

Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.

Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.

“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”

“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.

He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.

He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”

You blink. “What?”

“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”

Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”

You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.

“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.

“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”

“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”

James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.

And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.

Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.

The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs. 

You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.

He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.

Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.

Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”

And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.

Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest. 

When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.

For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.

Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.

You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.

—

The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss. 

You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.

You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.

But two days later, it’s harder to rise. 

The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth. 

The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.

 Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.

But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.

You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.

James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.

You won’t be the shadow in their light.

So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.

And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.

You breathe through it, quiet and constant.

Because what else can you do?

You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place. 

The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.

You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay. 

It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.

You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.

Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.

Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.

 And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.

Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.

Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.

But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.

Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.

And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.

They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open. 

You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe. 

You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.

Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers. 

You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore. 

You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.

And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.

Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you. 

You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin. 

She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence. 

You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.

You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one. 

And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded. 

Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.

You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream. 

You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.

Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.

And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.

Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.

It starts at your spine.

A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you. 

But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving. 

By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore. 

It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.

You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.

And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.

Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?

You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.

You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.

And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.

If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.

You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip. 

Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now. 

You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind. 

A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.

And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.

His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.

Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.

He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain. 

You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.

The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow.  And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden. 

You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.

His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”

Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.

James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.

And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”

“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”

Something in your chest gives in.

And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.

“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.

“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.

Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.

“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”

James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.

“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”

You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”

He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.

“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”

You swallow. He goes on.

“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”

You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.

“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”

You hate how seen that makes you feel.

“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”

You look down, heart a mess in your throat.

“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”

You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.

“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”

He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.

“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”

He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.

“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”

You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.

“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”

You want to look away, but he won’t let you.

“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”

“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”

His voice is almost a prayer now.

“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.

“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.

“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”

“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.

He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”

His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.

Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go. 

His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.

You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.

He leans in.

Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.

And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“I love you, Jamie.”

He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.

Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”

You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.

He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”

“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”

You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”

You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”

You don’t answer right away.

You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows. 

Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.

Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.

James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose. 

You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath. 

Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.

He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.

He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred. 

The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.

Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.

Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light. 

She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.

Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.

A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.

“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.

Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”

“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”

Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”

Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”

Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.

“He’d give her anything.”

“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”

There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,

“She’ll be loved.”

And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house. 

There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays. 

But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain. 

The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest. 

Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again. 

And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again. 

He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.

Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.

[hello-lemons]

Augh so good let me hurt for the comfort <3<3

the one with the absence

sirius black x reader ! - 2,647 words masterlist bags masterlist

Sirius noticed from the jump. You never wake up before him. So when he dragged himself to the kitchen just as the sun rose and saw his cup of coffee on the table with a sticky note on the handle, the way he does to you when he knows he won’t be there when you wake up, the curiosity gets the better of him at this moment, calling Lily to ask if maybe you were over there. She hung up on him after he asked his question. Too bloody early

He played with the sticky note, the back of it sticking softly against his pointer finger as he stared at it.

out on an errand xoxo

You hadn’t mentioned anything previously. Hell, you had gone to bed late with him watching the Muggle soap opera the two of you had gotten hung up on. Where on earth could you have gone this early? It makes him feel some sort of queasy, of course, you were allowed your own life, you didn't have to tell him where you were or what you were doing— you certainly didn't have to take him with you. But you always did. Except for now.

He dwells on it for hours, as he cleans the house, as he goes to get a bunch of pictures developed. He can't help but grumble about it even as he does laundry, yours mixed in with his and he tries not to stare too hard at, honestly, any of it. But he brushes it off when you arrive at four in the afternoon, a tired smile on your lips as you take your bag off your shoulder and drop it on the floor. With a wave of your wand, the bag makes its way into your room while you make your way toward Sirius, throwing yourself on the couch.

”Long day lovey?” 

“Extremely-“You crawl your way into a fetal position, your head on his lap as you bring your legs to your chest, your left arm thrown loosely over them.

”Did’ya get all your errands done?” He starts drawing circles on your shoulders, snaking his way down your arm with the pad of his finger. 

You simply hummed as he switched between channels, playing little mind at whatever he flickered through the telly. It was mostly news and a couple of shitty shows. you still had quite a few hours before you would have to tune into your soap. Sirius decided to ignore the nagging feeling that clawed its way up his throat at the vagueness of your answers. 

The second time it happens, Sirius starts getting antsy. Not the day after it first happens but, the day after that, you’re gone again. Your handwriting is quick and cute on the note,

More errands today, picking up some pastries on the way home xoxo

It's curious, and it makes Sirius's anxiety spike. After two years of living together, you had never done anything like this. Errands to do? Sirius tagged along with you, always. The shopping? He's there, carrying all your bags. Visiting your mum? He's there, fawning with your mother over your baby pictures while you have heated discussions with your father in the kitchen. Crying because of your father? He's there, rubbing your back and hugging you close, letting you know the man is wrong. Applying for jobs? He's there, sabotaging your attempts. Out with friends? You'd just tell him instead of being cryptic, or drag him along with you.

He blames himself really, the sort of codependency he had grown used to between the two of you was bound to be stretched. You were both widely independent people. He thinks he's lucky he's had you attached to the hip for this long, but he's sure. He is sure this will pass in a few days.

After the sixth time it happens, he starts feeling like he might rip his hair out. He's held out for an awfully long time. You had disappeared for hours, now four days in a row, so he decides to make the journey two floors down to Remus and Peter’s apartment. Remus swinging the door open at the first knock, regardless of it being an hour after the sun has risen.

“Moony she never disappears like this, especially not this early- it's impossible to drag her out of bed at this hour-“

”You’re giving it too much thought Pads-“

”I’m not! It’s strange, she comes home exhausted-“

”Mornin’ lads” Peter trudges into the kitchen, mousy hair skewed and sticking in every direction, eyes still sticky with sleep. “What are we talking about?" 

”Y/N’s been disappearing every morning-" Sirius glances over as he speaks, leaning back into the chair as he watches his smaller friend rummage through the freezer "Why are you-“

”I’m a free man now Padfoot,” Peter frowns, eyes still mostly closed, ice cream tub in hand. “if I feel like having ice cream for breakfast then I reckon I will, besides you got bigger fish to fry-"

"Oi, what d'you mean by that?"

"Lass yer in love with obviously has a boyfriend, lost yer chance there Padfoot" Peter talks lazily, spoon in hand as he shoves the caramel-swirled ice cream into his mouth. Remus and Sirius both roll their eyes, awful sweet tooth that one. But as much as he wants to ignore the tugging in his chest, and roll his eyes with a huff, Sirius knows the thought of you being with another man makes him nauseous "That or she got a job-"

Sirius freezes now, he feels so stupid. A job. It makes sense. you leave early at dawn, arrive around four in the afternoon. You’re exhausted and sometimes he swears he can see ink stains on your fingertips before you scrub them viciously with detergent when you think he’s not looking.

”I thought you were maintaining both of you-“ Remus finds it hard to not smile at Sirius's whirl of emotions. "I still don't know why you guys aren't married and popping out children yet- the two of you are as sickly in love as Prongs and Lils"

"I'm going to choose to ignore that- but I have been, supporting us I mean... but she keeps insisting I'm going to get married to some dumb French model and move away and she'll be homeless or some rubbish I don't know-" Sirius drops his head on his hands, elbows propping him up on the identical kitchen island as the one that came with your apartment. 

"Maybe she's the one with the dumb French model-"

"Wormtail- not helping mate-" Peter hums in response as he scrapes up the cardboard tub, rolling his eyes at the way Sirius digs the palm of his hands into his eyes. 

"Why don't you just ask her pads- also would it really be the worst thing if she got a job? All the two of you do is rot in your apartment and watch shitty soaps"

"Pobol y cwm is not a shitty soap Moony watch your mouth-"

"Isn't that Welsh?" Remus furrows his brows and yet- the corners of his lips curl upwards as he sips his tea "Great pronunciation by the way-"

Sirius huffs as if disgruntled by the idea that he wouldn't pronounce it properly "We are cultured people Moony- besides we have subtitles-"

"Which ones that one?" Peter is now mostly lying on the table, his head resting against his arm as he spoke.

"People of the Valley, the one that comes on at 8," Sirius says as he pushes the empty ice cream carton back towards Peter, the rolling tub making its way back across the table.

"Oh I reckon that one's quite good, mum always puts in on she never misses it" 

"Since when can any of you understand Welsh-"

"What? don't feel special anymore Moony? I'd appreciate it if we got back to my dilemma though, not your judgments about our telly habits yea?" 

Remus sighed now, amused at the stress Sirius seemed to put himself under. It wasn't often they saw the boy like this. His demeanor was always cool and suave, even in moments of deep panic. Even at their lowest, Sirius always sported a cool demeanor, small traces of tension slipping through his words if you knew where to catch them. But never more than that. At his worst, Sirius was stoic. Not whatever this spiral was.

"I reckon it's not that deep mate, if she needs a job who are you to stop her?"

"She doesn't need one- besides if she gets one it'll get in the way of us doing things"

"Possessive much? Let her live her life"

"I am no such thing Moony- and I do let her!"

"You should really just confess, it'll get everything taken care of-"

"I am not putting my friendship in jeopardy Moons, I'd rather rot away than have her walk out our door with her bags because I was stupid enough to try to confess-"

"She likes you too idiot-" Remus started to rub his temple and Peter made some sort of noise in agreement, head still down on the table. Sirius's stubbornness wearing both of them down.

"Nuh uh-" Remus felt as if he was talking to a seven-year-old. Or a wall.

Sirius sat on it for a bit longer. There were days you'd be home, and your schedule followed as normal, eat breakfast with Sirius, and do miscellaneous things around your apartment before eventually going out with him, to the market, or some small muggle museum he had found in some magazine. But then suddenly you'd be gone again three days in a row. He allowed this for two weeks, he wouldn’t say anything, or even ask.

Until he snapped.

When you arrived, you opened the door to Sirius pacing around your living room, his bare feet carrying him in circles around the room. The soft padding of his feet on the hardwood floors muted by the carpet when he got to a certain part of his loop, just to start again the second he was off it. 

"I didn't know the dog habits bled this bad into your behavior Sirius- should I start buying dog treats or are you going to stop chasing your own tail?" The amusement in your voice was shut down the second he turned to look at you. His hands on his hips as he spoke sternly.

"Where have you been disappearing off to?" 

"Oh-"

"Yeah- oh," You didn't think he'd notice- or care. Sure you lived together and were friends. Best friends. You did everything together, and yet you just assumed he'd do something with his time and not mind your absences. "I'm not stupid you know..." You both stood in silence for a beat, staring at each other as you tried to come up with some sort of explanation. 

You felt terrible for hiding it from him, you really did. You bit your lip, a nervous habit you had picked up in your teens. As much as you tried to fight it, it never went away, at your worst, you bit and pulled until they bled. "Are you looking for another place?"

"Godric Sirius- No!" You sighed as you threw your bag on the couch, rubbing your eyes with your fingertips. "I've just- I don't know how to tell you this-"

"Well spit it out- it's only me-" 

You felt like screaming at him, yes it's you, that's the problem. But you didn't, you sat on the arm of the couch and he moved closer to you, barely an arm away now. 

"I got a job, Sirius-”

“Oh-”

"Yeah- oh,” you sighed and tried to not look at the disappointed look on his face. “it's a stupid muggle office job- I’m a receptionist at a travel agency- it's not bad I just- I couldn't keep leeching off of you”

“You’re not leeching off-”

“I felt like I was- besides this will give you more time to yourself you know?” Sirius wanted to scream that he didn't want time for himself, he wanted time with you. He stayed quiet. “I just- I think it'll be good and I have vacation days so we can still do our trip in November for your birthday like we had talked about… I already boxed them in with my boss, even if it’s four months away so we don’t have to worry-”

“Okay”

You looked up now, Sirius’s face was void of any emotion. Blank and trying hard to give you a half-assed smile.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I wish you would've just told me but… okay- I’m not your boyfriend, nor your mum- I have no say in this, so- okay” He gave you a tight-lipped smile, and a small pat on the shoulder. It felt like heartbreak to you. “Congrats on the job” He retreated back into his room, you could only stare dumbly at his back as he closed the door behind him.

“Thanks-” 

You felt like you might throw up.

You had seen that face on Sirius before. The empty expression, without care, without feeling. But it had never been directed towards you. He had always been open, concerningly so according to Remus, with you, he always wore his heart on his sleeve and his expression free-flowing. But now as you stood alone in your living room, the thought that maybe you weren’t doing the right thing felt wrapped around your throat. 

It didn't make sense to you, even after all this time, why Sirius wasn’t pushing you to move on with your life. It had been two years of living with Sirius like nothing else mattered. Like bills didn’t have to be paid (he paid them), like you weren’t on your way to becoming real adults with real worries and responsibilities. You felt as if you had been living on borrowed time. A fantasy of fresh market outings and rides on the tube, one that enveloped you and comforted you. A life with Sirius was one straight out of a book. No worries besides what new food to try for dinner, no thoughts besides each other and what’d you do the following day.

You couldn't let it go on any longer.

No, you knew this was the best thing for the both of you. Even if Sirius was too foolish to see it now. He’d soon move on, with someone who deserved him, and they could live his daydream until they grow old. A life of pastries and soap opera nights. A soft life, a good life.

You needed to check in for reality, get your life on track. 

“Yes Dad, I’ve been working- yes I am sticking with it, no- no more outings I know” You sat on your kitchen counter, the morning after, the sun had come up a while ago and Sirius was nowhere to be seen. Exhaustion hung heavy on your shoulders as you spent the morning of your day off being lectured over the phone. 

“Yes Dad I know- I’m not bumming off of him- no,” you huffed as your dad cut you off again, going on about the same three things for what felt like the fortieth time. You couldn’t tell what you were doing wrong in his eyes anymore.

“I know, I know I need to live with my feet on the ground…” you curled the phone line’s cable around your finger. Sirius’s door opened. “Hey, Dad can I call you back- no just- hold on- hey Sirius” Your dad didn’t stop, but you left the phone discarded on the counter anyway, as you tried to approach your front door, to beat Sirius to it. 

“Sirius-” The door closed in your face, you could hear your dad’s, still angry, voice through the receiver, and through his open door— Sirius’s trunk no longer overflowing but closed and packed in his room.

[peaches-plums-please]

Kiss me, Moony.

[ghostedgwen]

inside her fantasy | s.black

notes : so, finally a very long 8.6k words fic for Sirius. I had scrapped this many many times, changed plots like 4 times and even tried to just eat my keyboard while writing this but FINALLY I finished!! Thank u for 900 followers, ily all!!! somuch!!!!!

warnings : reader has an ancient blood curse with no cure, based on sleeping beauty- loosely, LOTS and LOTS of angst, the first wizarding war plot line, character death(s), mention of war and grief and loss, marauders angst (yk the rest)

Sirius Black never thought he would ever stop playing and offer his heart to someone else until he met her, but how does a man out of time keep a girl awake and within his reach? In which a girl is cursed to fall asleep, never to wake, and Sirius is hopelessly in love with her.

. . . Trends change, rumors fly through new skies but I'm right where you left me.

It starts with a dare, like all good stories involving the Marauders do.

You swap a fellow Hufflepuff's pumpkin juice for firewhisky before breakfast, right under the nose of three Prefects and a hovering ghost. You flash your friends a triumphant grin, and the moment the poor bloke takes a gulp and splutters across the table, you let out a laugh that makes heads turn.

One of those heads belongs to Sirius Black.

He doesn't laugh like everyone else. No, he watches for a moment, assessing, then leans over to James with a smirk. "Think we got ourselves another pranskter."

You catch it. Of course you do. You raise an eyebrow across the table and say, loud enough for him to hear, "You say that like you own the rights for pranks, Black."

James snorts. Sirius pretends to be wounded. "And here I was, thinking I was being complimentary."

"Don’t strain yourself," you say. "You might pull a muscle patting yourself on the back."

Something flickers behind his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or the thrill of not being immediately adored - he was too deep in his and his friends' adventures to truly notice everyone else. Specially that you wore a yellow robe, too forgetable for him.

James grabs his arm. "We’ve got practice, mate. Come on."

He stands, but he throws one last glance over his shoulder before he leaves. Right at you, you give him a mocking wave and you get a shit-eating grin in return.

You were caught sneaking back in from the Owlery.

He was caught hexing Filch’s office door so it screamed every time someone knocked.

Now you’re side by side, polishing trophies that haven't seen the light of day since 1903. Your fingers are smudged with Brasso. The room smells like lemon and resentment and old.

"So," he says, halfway through a plaque commemorating a Gobstones champion, "what’s your best detention story?"

You grin. "I once convinced McGonagall that Peeves framed me. Drew a whole diagram and everything."

Sirius lets out a laugh that bounces off the marble. "That’s impressive. I usually just take the blame and try to look roguish while doing it."

"That explains the ego," you reply, smirking.

He narrows his eyes, mock offended. "You’re not as clever as you think you are."

You pause, toss him a sideways glance. "And you’re not as clever as you think you are."

There’s a beat.

Then he grins. Wide and wolfish. "Then I’ll have to try harder, won’t I?"

And just like that, the dynamic begins.

The pumpkins explode in perfect sequence: one after the other, like a line of golden-orange fireworks down the centre of the Great Hall.

Everyone cheers. The Marauders look vaguely shocked, for once caught off guard by a grand prank -

Because the original plan wasn't supposed to work that well. And definitely not with the added effect of floating bats that shriek "Boo!" in different languages.

You had overheard their plotting. Tweaked a few spell matrices. Subtle improvements. You're not a glory-hog, but thought to add your own flair.

Sirius corners you near the staircase hours later, after the chaos has started to die down - he looked like he had been hunting you since it all went off.

"You meddled."

You feign innocence. "I improved. There’s a difference."

"You should join us."

You raise your brow. "I work alone."

Nevermind the fact you just tinkered with their pranks, you decided against joining their little band of Marauders as you didn't fancy being the only girl in their little boys group.

You'd rather do your own thing.

Moments later, Filch comes stomping down the corridor, waving a list of suspects. You grab Sirius's hand without thinking.

"Hide."

He doesn’t question it. He lets you drag him to the small, tight place between walls where a statue was located, you squeezed yourselves behind it.

He whispers, "You really are a menace."

"Takes one to know one, Black."

Your breath fogs in the silence. His eyes catch yours. For a moment, the world shrinks. Just the sound of your heartbeat and the feel of his coat brushing your arm.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But he wants to.

He asks you like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke, and perhaps it was. He had insisted so, justifying it in his head.

"Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade? I hear Honeydukes has a new licorice wand."

You smirk. "Only if you’re paying. And I want a scone. With clotted cream."

He blinks, not expecting you to say yes. He half-expected you to make fun of him for it or perhaps hex him at his audacity.

He broke into a grin at that, unbelievably successful. "Done."

You go. It’s cold and overcast and perfect. Sirius has managed to shrug James off who whined non-stop about being left alone for yet another date.

James Potter ever the brat was complaining that, "Mates before dates!" but Sirius left him.

You tease each other the whole way there, and the whole way back.

Inside the tea shop, he stares at the way you scrape the jam across your plate and says, "You’re not like anyone else, you know."

You tilt your head. "That sounds suspiciously like a line - am I supposed to swoon now?"

He sighs, knowing you'd respond with a bite like always. He leans back. "It’s not. I just meant - "

"I’m not interested in being Sirius Black’s next conquest," you interrupt, quiet but firm.

For once, he has no retort.

For once, something cracks in his expression. Just for a second, that you barely caught it.

Then he masks it with a grin. "I’d never break your heart."

You don’t believe him. But you wish you could.

The tower is asleep - but as always, one Gryffindor is out of bed.

Sirius sits on the edge of his bed, candle flickering low beside him. His parchment is blotchy with crossed-out lines.

He thought about practising it first, writing down his thoughts and feelings and words he dared not say on parchment before he blurts them out to you.

In fear that he'd say it wrong - or you wouldn't take it too well. He resorted to writing his feelings down, it made him feel almost embarrassed. Almost.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about you.

Maybe it’s because you don’t make it easy.

Maybe it’s because when I’m around you, I’m not just ‘Sirius Black’ - I’m something I don’t hate.

He finishes the letter at that after many revisions, numerous lines crossed out and ink droplets staining the edges of the texts. He stares at it, blinks once -

Then he folded it, tucked into the bottom of his trunk. Probably not to be seen ever again by any other soul, specially not the person it was written for.

He went to bed with a heavy weight on his chest.

Your friends surprise you with a pile of sweets and a stack of cards. Someone charms the banner to say Happy Birthday, You Absolute Legend. There’s music, and dancing, and laughter that lights up the whole room.

You were against them throwing a whole party but they insisted. Your dormmates had birthdays outside of school, right during holidays and summer breaks so they insisted on celebrating yours.

You couldn't dodge out of it any longer and it soon turned into a big thing with other people from the other houses piling into your common room, all invited, to celebrate your coming-of-age.

Sirius gives you a wrapped package the size of a wand. Inside is a quill - you eye it with distrust as it couldn't be that simple with him.

"What does it do?" you ask, raising a brow with a coy grin.

He smirks. "Try it."

You scribble your name across a napkin. The quill shimmers, then begins writing compliments beneath it: Wittiest girl in the castle. Eyes like midnight mischief. Dangerous in the best way.

You laugh so hard at the words that you felt tears in your eyes.

During the festivites, you decided you have had enough and snuck out so effortlessly, you climb the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

Sirius follows, wordlessly, you didn't even mind him following you in there. Much too happy by everything that had happened to feel anything but pure happiness.

The stars are out, constellations drawn out to scatter across the night sky. You can feel the cold wind brushing past you, but you’re warm.

Must've been the Firewhiskey.

He stands beside you, watching how the moon illuminated your face. How the white light cast an almost blue hue across your features, like you were a painting come to life.

He leans in, despite himseld and you immediately caught it. Pressing a hand to his chest to stop him, your palms staying flat against his jacket. You give him a small smile.

"Not yet," you whisper.

He doesn’t push, he just slowly nods, accepting the rejection.

"Seventeen feels. . . big," you say, eyes on the sky, turning away from him before you could reject pushing him away before he could even close the distance.

"You’ve got time," he tells you.

You smile, soft. Sad, somehow.

"I know."

The library was unusually silent for a Thursday evening. You knew that most students had already left to their common rooms or gone to dinner, escaping the biting chill that had settled over the castle.

Even the ghosts, those eternal spirits who haunted the halls, seemed to have retreated into their own restless slumber, leaving the space in a fragile, almost sacred silence. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the shadows, their dark wood and brass fittings gleaming faintly in the low glow of the lanterns, like silent sentinels guarding ancient secrets.

You sat curled in one of the oversized armchairs near the far window, your legs tucked beneath you, a pile of books and loose parchment spread across your lap.

Your ink-stained fingers moved furiously, scribbling notes, ideas, or perhaps just trying to clear your mind. Your quill tapped rhythmically against your lips as you thought, lost in the world of your own making, unaware of anyone else’s presence.

The truth was, you weren’t supposed to be here. You hated the library on principle - so quiet, so organized, so full of reminders of work you’d rather avoid. But tonight, it was a refuge of sorts, a quiet space where you could escape the chaos of school and the pressure of exams.

Besides, you liked the solitude. It was easier to think when no one was around.

Until you felt that familiar, restless energy stir within you.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly - maybe boredom, maybe the need for distraction. Maybe a desire to defy the dull routine of school life. Whatever it was, it made you glance around and contemplate your options. Perhaps a little mischief. A quick prank to liven things up.

You shifted slightly in the chair, lifting your quill and preparing to scribble a note to yourself or perhaps an amused doodle. That’s when you noticed him.

Sirius Black.

He was leaning casually against one of the bookshelves, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a crooked grin curling on his lips. His eyes flicked over you with a teasing glint, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. You tried to ignore him, but you knew better.

He sauntered over, boots silent on the stone floor, a devilish smirk on his face. You could see the glint of mischief in his eyes, the way he always looked at you when he was about to do something he knew you’d hate.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice low and amused. "What do we have here? A little angel hiding in the library after hours?"

You rolled your eyes, pretending to ignore him. "Not your concern, Black."

He chuckled softly, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. "Come on, don’t be like that. I thought we were friends."

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at your lips. Sirius always knew how to push your buttons - in the worst and best ways.

He reached out, fingertips grazing the spine of a dusty, leather-bound tome on the table next to your chair. His eyes gleamed mischievously. "Thinking of a little prank, are we?"

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly looked away, trying to hide your grin. "Not this time, Black."

He leaned closer, voice lowering to a whisper. "Come on, I know you’re dying for some trouble. Just one little thing."

You hesitated. You knew he was right - your usual impulse was to stir up chaos, to shake things up. But tonight, you felt something different. A flicker of unease, maybe. Something about the way you were feeling - restless, distracted, almost jittery - made you pause.

Sirius, however, was relentless.

He reached for the nearest book on the table - an enormous, dusty volume - and grinned wider. "How about I give this a little shove? Bet it’d make a hell of a noise."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re hopeless."

He chuckled again. "You’re just afraid I’ll beat you to it."

You shook your head, trying to focus on your work again. But then, something caught your eye. You felt it before you saw it: the strange stillness in your body, the way your fingers suddenly refused to move, the sensation that your mind had gone quiet, almost as if you’d fallen into a trance.

You didn’t realize until a moment later that you’d gone completely still, your eyes fixed on a point far away.

Suddenly, Sirius’s voice broke through your concentration. "Oi, princess," he said softly, crouching down beside your chair. "You’re gonna fall asleep in the library like that? Not exactly the look you’re going for."

You didn’t respond. For a moment, you didn’t even blink. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

He nudged your shoulder gently. "Come on, wake up. Hey."

Nothing.

Your heart fluttered - an odd, sinking feeling you couldn’t quite place. You were alive, weren’t you? You felt your chest rise and fall. But something was wrong. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak.

Sirius’s brow furrowed. "Oi, what’s going on?" he asked softly, reaching out to shake you more firmly. "This isn’t funny."

Still, you remained frozen, eyes staring blankly ahead. Your head lolled slightly to the side, your body slack in the chair’s embrace. A shiver ran down your spine; a primal instinct told you that something was terribly wrong.

He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and gently shook your shoulders. "Come on, talk to me. Wake up."

No response.

His heart hammered in his chest. You weren’t responding. Your body was limp, unnaturally still.

"No, no, no," he whispered, voice cracking. Panic rising. His mind raced - what was happening?

He pressed his ear as close as he dared to your chest, listening desperately for a heartbeat. There it was, faint but steady - faint, slow, like a distant drum. You were alive, somehow, but not present. Not really.

His breath hitched as he stared at you, helpless.

"Please, no," he muttered, voice thick with emotion.

Without thinking, Sirius slid his arms under your body, lifting you carefully, cradling you against his chest as if afraid you’d shatter. Your head lolled against his collarbone, limp and unresponsive. His heart pounded harder now, pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

He sprinted through the rows of books, knocking over stacks in his haste, ignoring the startled shouts of Madam Pince, who hurried after him.

"Help! Somebody, I need help!" Sirius shouted, voice echoing down the corridor as he burst out into the hallway.

The hospital wing smelled like lavender and antiseptic, a familiar blend that didn’t bring comfort tonight. Madame Pomfrey was at her desk, meticulously organizing vials and bandages, when the doors swung open with a gust of wind and Sirius burst in, clutching you carefully.

Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of you, unconscious and limp in his arms. "What happened?"

"I don’t know," Sirius gasped, pounding his fist against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. "She was just sitting there. She wouldn’t wake up."

Pomfrey hurried forward, her hands deft and sure. "Bring her here," she ordered, taking you from Sirius’s trembling grip and laying you gently onto a bed.

"She’s alive," Pomfrey said, brow furrowing. "But she’s not sleeping. This is . . . different."

Sirius clenched his fists, helpless and desperate. "What do you mean? Is she hurt?"

Pomfrey shook her head slowly. "It’s not a physical injury. This is magical. Or perhaps. . . something darker."

He looked at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "A curse?"

She nodded grimly. "Most likely. A very old, very powerful one."

Sirius felt the ground shift beneath his feet. "A curse? How? Why? I - "

Before he could finish, the door swung open again, and Professor Dumbledore entered with his usual calm grace, his robes flowing behind him like a gentle wave. His blue eyes, however, were sharp with concern.

He moved swiftly to your bedside, examining you with quiet precision. His fingers hovered over your brow, then traced down to your wrist.

"Leave us for a moment, Sirius," Dumbledore said softly, voice calm but firm.

Sirius hesitated, his jaw tight. But he nodded, stepping back into the corner, watching helplessly as Dumbledore’s gaze flicked over your still form.

He could hear the whispering of Pomfrey’s concerned murmurs, see the way her brow furrowed as she studied you.

Finally, Dumbledore turned to Sirius, his expression grave. "This is no ordinary sleep," he announced.

"You said it’s a curse," Sirius pressed. "Can you fix it?"

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening as he folded his hands in front of him. “I wish I could. But some magic was forged not to be broken. This is a blood curse - ancient.”

Sirius stared at you. At the way your head lolled to the side, still tucked in close to your shoulder like you’d just drifted off mid-sentence. Your hand was still curled around your quill, ink smeared at the base of your palm. You looked so alive. Too alive to be cursed. Too alive to be gone.

But you weren’t breathing right. Not deeply, not the way you did when you fell asleep in the Common Room after a long patrol. He would’ve teased you for it, if this were different - how you snored just a little when you were really knackered, how your mouth always parted like you were in the middle of some secret dream. But there was none of that now.

Just stillness. Just silence.

“She was fine,” he said again, voice quieter this time. "She was laughing at McGonagall’s robes in Transfiguration. Making that bloody stupid joke about animagus hats. She was fine.”

Dumbledore looked at him, and there was no comfort in his eyes - only something impossibly old. “These curses often lie dormant until they are triggered. A moment of emotional intensity. Prolonged exhaustion. Sometimes even something as simple as turning seventeen. We don’t always know what wakes them.”

Sirius blinked hard. His throat was starting to close. “And now what? What do we do now?”

Dumbledore sighed. “We wait.”

“No,” Sirius snapped, too quickly, voice breaking on the edge of it. “That’s not- that’s not good enough.”

The air around him tightened, buzzing beneath his skin like he was about to explode. He’d lived his whole life under someone else’s control - his family, his bloody name, the rules of the castle, the limits of what magic could and couldn’t do - but this was different.

This was you. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep in a library and never wake up.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing like he might wear a hole through the stone. “She’s not some fairytale. She’s not some . . . cursed maiden locked in a tower. She’s her. She’s stubborn, and she hates studying, and she always steals the last bit of toast when she thinks I’m not looking - she’s real.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said, quiet as ever.

“She can’t just - ” Sirius’s voice cracked again. “She can’t just go.”

“She’s not gone.”

“But you don’t know when she’s coming back.” The words scraped out of his throat like they’d been broken inside him. “You don’t know if she ever will.”

Silence.

And then, Dumbledore spoke again - gently, but with the weight of someone who had seen too much. “This curse runs in her family. Passed through generations. Few survive it more than once.”

Sirius’s hands curled into fists. “She didn’t even know.”

“Perhaps not,” Dumbledore allowed. “Or perhaps she did. But she hoped, as many do, that it would skip her.”

Sirius stared down at you, at your fingers, still ink-stained and human. “So what now?”

“Now we care for her,” Dumbledore said. “We wait. And we love her, even if she doesn’t know we’re here.”

“No,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “No. That’s not enough. That’s not me. I’m not going to just sit and watch her fade. There has to be something. Anything.”

Dumbledore hesitated.

And that hesitation - that split second - was all Sirius needed.

“There is something, isn’t there?” he said, stepping closer. “You’re holding something back.”

“It’s not something that can be done,” Dumbledore said slowly. “Not the way you think. This curse. . . it only yields to love. Not infatuation. Not obsession. Something older. Something that holds its shape even when time doesn’t.”

Sirius’s chest burned. “Then I’ll do it.”

“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I don’t care.”

“You would have to remain, Sirius,” Dumbledore said. “Through months. Years. Decades, perhaps. And never know if she’ll wake. Or if she’ll remember. You’d have to love her in silence. Without promise. Without return.”

“I already do.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

The air felt different after that.

Dumbledore didn’t speak for a long time. Then he said, “If that is true, then you may be the only hope she has.”

Dumbledore sent word to your family within the hour.

Sirius wasn’t in the room when they arrived - Dumbledore had gently, firmly suggested he give them privacy - but he could hear the voices. Muffled through stone and spellwork. Raised. Bitter. Desperate.

They’d known. Not everything, but enough.

It had happened once before - a great-aunt, long dead, whose name had been scrubbed from the family tree out of shame or grief or maybe both. You were supposed to have been spared. A healer had sworn it dormant. A ritual had been done when you were a baby. There’d been no signs. You were bright, brilliant. Uncursed.

They’d believed in the lie because it was easier than preparing for the truth.

You woke up just after 4 days. Those 4 days were spent with Sirius visiting you in between classes, meals, Quidditch practices. His friends were growing worried for him as they also worried for you.

He looked changed in just a span of 4 days. 4 cruel days spent on your bedside begging you to wake up, begging you to come back to him.

Promising you grand pranks you could pull together, more alcoholic concoctions to throw up in the morning. He offered everything to see your eyes flutter open.

It wasn't fair. He was just beginning to know you, to love you - it all felt to fresh and raw and real - this cannot be happening to him.

When you woke up, it was so sudden.

Just a sharp inhale that jolted your whole body and the whisper of your name as Dumbledore caught your shoulder before you could fall out of the bed in shock.

You blinked at the light, slow and sluggish, as if waking from years instead of days. You reached for your wand first - you did not find it. Then your face. Then the necklace under your collarbone. None of it had changed. But everything had.

They cried - your parents. But not the way Sirius thought they would. Not relief, not love, not wild, stupid joy.

No, they cried like cowards. Quiet, ashamed, as if your waking made it worse. As if the confirmation of the curse meant the whole thing had been real all along. Like you were some buried secret they couldn’t keep hidden anymore.

Sirius watched it all from the hallway, fists clenched, pacing outside the Hospital Wing like he was about to be sick.

The door creaked open. Madam Pomfrey slipped out. “She’s awake.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t even think.

He was inside the room before anyone could stop him, blood still thrumming in his ears. You were sitting up in bed, hair a tangle, voice raw as you said his name - confused, hoarse, like you hadn’t said it in years. “Sirius?”

He didn’t answer. He crossed the room and pulled you into him like you were drowning and he didn’t care if he sank too.

You tried to push him away after that.

It started the moment you woke up, dry-mouthed and weak, in the Hospital Wing. Four days. You'd lost four days of your life to a sleep you hadn’t meant to enter, and everything had changed.

You saw it in your parents’ eyes first. The shame. The quiet devastation. You saw it in the way Pomfrey didn’t scold you for trying to stand, and in the way Dumbledore couldn’t quite meet your gaze.

But most of all, you saw it in Sirius.

When he ran to you and pulled you into a hug, like holding you meant that it was all real. He just breathed like he'd finally surfaced from drowning.

You couldn’t look at him too long. Because the guilt hit harder than the fear. You hadn’t meant to become a problem. A burden. A question mark in someone else’s future.

So you did what you always did. You joked.

"You should probably date someone with a better track record for staying conscious," you said over breakfast the next morning, stirring your porridge like it might give you answers.

He didn’t laugh.

You tried again in the corridor. "Seriously, Sirius, you don’t have to do this whole loyal boyfriend routine. I know it’s been a weird month. I give you full permission to run."

He didn’t even blink - not even when you finally addressed him by first name. A progress to your now, very complicated, relationship.

"You think I’m staying because I feel bad?" he asked one night, voice low and raw. "You think this is pity?"

You shrugged, but your fingers clenched around the edge of your sleeve. "I think I wouldn’t blame you if you left."

And that was the truth. The quiet, aching part of it. That you didn’t think you deserved someone who stayed. It was a burden you could never ask of anyone.

He stepped closer then, close enough that his words landed right against your ribs.

"Don’t you get it?" he said, voice shaking with something bigger than anger. "I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you wake."

It should’ve comforted you. It only made your chest ache harder.

Because you didn’t want him waiting around like some tragic romantic figure. You didn’t want to be the girl people wrote poems about after she vanished too soon. You wanted to be solid. Reliable. Here.

But you weren’t. And he's decided to stay anyway.

Even when you stopped meeting his eyes.

Even when you flinched in the middle of a sentence, panicked that a yawn might spiral into something worse.

Even when you stopped touching him entirely, afraid that if you reached for his hand, it might be the last thing you ever did.

Still, he stayed.

And he started leaving you things.

A tiny mirror charm on your nightstand, bewitched to show cartoon dog ears on your reflection when you frowned.

A chocolate frog with a note tucked inside the box that said, Still here. Always here.

A prank exploding parchment that poofed glitter in your face during a Charms study session and made you laugh until you nearly sobbed.

Sometimes it was just small things. A folded jacket over your chair when you forgot it was cold. A sugar quill tucked into your books.

It should have been too much. But it never was.

Because you missed him. Desperately.

You missed the ease. The banter. The feeling that you were someone he chose, not someone he pitied.

You missed before.

But there was no going back.

One afternoon, you found him outside the library, sitting on the floor with his head tipped back against the wall.

He wasn’t doing anything. No mischief, no plotting. Just staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to stay still. Like the world had moved on and he was trying to figure out how to follow it.

You hadn’t seen him all day.

And somewhere in your chest, the idea that he’d finally given up had lodged itself like a splinter. The relief that washed through you at the sight of him was nauseating.

He looked up when your footsteps stopped.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, finally: "I’m sorry."

Sirius blinked. His expression shifted from surprise to something softer.

"For what?" he asked, sitting up straighter.

"I don’t know," you said honestly. "Everything. Pushing you. Making you wait around for someone who can’t promise anything."

You hesitated.

"I wish you could love someone with less complications."

He stared at you for a moment, like you’d just said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. And then, suddenly, he laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh. Like it startled even him.

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden bark of laughter that escaped him out of nowhere. "What?"

"If this were easy," he said, still laughing, "I’d think it was some grand prank. I’d assume Moony and Prongs were hiding behind a tapestry ready to jump out."

You snorted despite yourself.

"Merlin, you’re so stupid."

And then you kissed him. Not planned. Not careful.

Just raw.

You kissed him like you were terrified and desperate and alive. Like if the curse took you tonight, you wanted this to be your last memory.

He didn’t pull away. Just froze for a breath. And then he was kissing you back with that same terrified urgency.

You pulled away after a second, just enough to murmur: "Just in case I don’t wake up tomorrow."

Sirius cupped your face with both hands then, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was trying to memorize them.

His voice was soft. So gentle it hurt.

"Don’t worry about tomorrow," he whispered. "You’re awake right now."

You nodded. But your lip trembled."I’m so scared of falling asleep."

There. You said it. Finally voicing out the thought that haunted you at night. Bags hung under your eyes from nights you desperately tried to stay awake.

Your dormmates have all tried their best to offer any help they could. The whole castle knew your predicament by now - nothing ever stays a secret at Hogwarts.

You appreciated them, but nothing helped.

And when you finally said it, he didn’t flinch.

He just pulled you in again. Wrapped his arms around you like he could protect you from the unknown. From the curse that ran through your veins, as old as your magic.

"I know," he said. "I’m scared too."

And then he kissed your temple. Your forehead. The corner of your mouth, he wished he could kiss every inch of you.

"Don’t worry, love," he murmured. "I’ll be here when you open those pretty eyes."

And the thing is, you believed him. Even if it still hurt.

Even if you still woke every morning unsure if you'd made it through the night or it was some dream you have landed into.

He was always there.

And slowly, you started reaching back.

They didn’t have forever - so they started pretending like they did.

By late February, your hand had found a permanent place in Sirius’s.

He joked that the skin might fuse together if you weren’t careful, and you’d laughed - really laughed - for the first time since you’d woken from that cursed sleep. He’d grinned like a fool then, pride blooming in his chest just for being the reason your shoulders weren’t tight with fear, just for chasing the shadow from your eyes, even for a moment.

You’d made it through March. Barely. Some days your legs dragged beneath you like your body already knew the sleep was coming. Some nights Sirius had to shake you awake from dozes you didn’t remember falling into. But you were still here. And so was he.

Hogsmeade in spring felt like a stolen miracle.

He took your hand outside Honeydukes, lifting it to his lips with a boyish smile. “So, what’ll it be, darling? Chocolate frogs or a full day of snogging behind the Shrieking Shack?”

You rolled your eyes. “If I die in the Shrieking Shack, Sirius Black, you better be ready to fight off some angry ghosts.”

He beamed. “Then it’s a date.”

You weren’t hiding anymore. He’d told everyone. James had fist-bumped you and said it was about time. Remus had congratulated you as well, making a sarcastic remark that "Pads can finally stop moaning about how much he wants you now that you can snog him into silence." Even Peter had hugged you with the kind of gentleness that meant he’d heard. That he understood.

And the pranks - oh, the pranks.

It started with your idea, actually. A tiny hex that made Filch’s boots click like tap shoes. The look on Sirius’s face when you suggested it - pure, lovesick awe.

“Marry me,” he said, half-joking.

You tilted your head. “Better wait until I survive the school year.”

The boys had welcomed you into their chaos without question. You were a natural. A little louder than James, a little sharper than Remus, and exactly Sirius’s brand of reckless.

When you came back one night covered in soot and giggling from a dungbomb gone wrong, Sirius tugged you close on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, kissed your temple, and whispered, “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

But he was the brilliant one. The constant. Every night, after curfew, he would draw the curtains of his four-poster and you would curl beside him. The other boys never said a word - not one complaint, not even a tease.

You were terrified to sleep alone. And they understood.

Some nights you fell asleep tangled together, his arms around your waist, your breath uneven against his neck.

Other nights, sleep wouldn’t come. You’d lie awake listening to his heartbeat and whisper nonsense into the dark. Sirius would hold you tighter, thumb brushing lazy circles into your spine.

And every single night, he would say, without fail:

“Tomorrow will come for you, love. For us. I’ll be here, handsome as ever when the sun rises.”

You pretended to believe it. Most nights, you even did.

April crept in like a thief. The scent of rain on stone, blossoms blooming beside the lake, the castle lit with gold and promise. Exams were approaching. So was the end.

So was the sleep.

And then - you didn’t wake up.

It was a Thursday.

You’d said goodnight. You’d kissed him. You’d whispered your usual lie: “See you in the morning.”

And then - nothing.

The Healers said it was the curse reasserting itself. That your body was fighting to stay, but the magic was older than any potion. There was no way to stop it. No one knew how long it would last.

Sirius didn’t move from the Hospital Wing for a week.

James brought food. Remus sat with him in the early mornings. Peter left chocolate frogs on the table beside your bed. But Sirius - he stayed. He barely slept. He wrote letters and folded them beneath your pillow. He spoke to you like you were just resting.

“You’re not gone,” he said one night, voice cracking. “You’re just late. You’ve always been late to things, remember? You’ll wake up and tell me I’m being dramatic.”

But you didn’t wake.

You missed the N.E.W.T.s. Missed the way Remus clutched his results in trembling hands. Missed James and Lily getting into a blazing row about the future and making up in the courtyard two hours later.

You missed the last Gryffindor breakfast, the daisy chain crowns, the class photo with everyone laughing too hard to stand still.

You missed graduation.

Sirius didn’t walk. He refused. Said he wouldn’t cross a finish line you hadn’t.

By July, he was different. Gaunt-eyed. Brittle-tempered. The war had begun - the real one - and he joined the Order like his blood was already boiling for vengeance.

But still, he wrote you letters.

He left them at St. Mungo’s when you were transferred there in August. Left chocolates, enchanted notes, silly doodles. He threatened the mediwitch who tried to call you a lost cause.

“She’s not gone,” he snapped. “She’s just waiting.”

And then - autumn came.

And you woke up.

The world smelled different. Crisper. More distant.

You were eighteen now. But the world had moved on without you.

Your body was slow to respond. Magic flickered in your hands but didn’t sing the way it used to. You blinked against the sterile light of St. Mungo’s, head pounding, heart aching.

And then the door opened.

Sirius stood in the frame.

Older. Sharper. Shadows under his eyes, jaw tighter, arms crossed like he’d forgotten how to relax. But still - him. Still yours. Always yours.

He stared at you for a moment like you were a ghost.

And then he was at your side, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.

“You missed a war,” he said, voice rough.

You tried to smile. “Did we win?”

He didn’t answer that. Just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.

“And I missed you,” he whispered. “Every damn day.”

You moved in together. Shared a flat with creaky floors and mismatched furniture, patched together like your hearts. You tried to build a life between sleep and fear - fleeting moments of normalcy suspended in the quiet before sirens, the hush before screams.

The flat became a fragile sanctuary. You lit candles during power outages and cooked dinner over the radio’s static updates. Some nights you danced in the kitchen just to remember joy. Other nights, you held each other in the dark, neither speaking, just listening to the wind press against the windows like a warning.

You kept a journal now - small and leather-bound, pages inked with memories of what you missed, what he told you, and what you dreamed when you were gone. You wrote down things like: his laugh this morning, like something untouched by war. Or: he said “stay safe” like he meant “stay alive.”

You lived like it might all vanish again. Because it would. Because war takes everything, even the things you think are untouchable.

You both tried to power through it, despite the raging war around you and the brewing danger that curled like smoke under your door. Each day was a risk. Each night, a relief.

You were worried for him - for the way his name appeared in whispered conversations, for the work he did in shadows. But you knew it was right. He was trying to change the story.

Sirius sometimes talked about stopping. Once, after a long silence over cold tea, he said quietly, almost ashamed, “I barely get enough moments with you, with all this happening - what if I just get less and less time?”

You reached across the table, grabbed his hand like it was the only steady thing in a world falling apart. You shook your head, firm. “No. You don’t get to give up. You’re fighting for a good cause. Let’s be on the good side of history when people look back on this time.”

His eyes searched yours - tired but still burning - and after a breath, he nodded. “You’re right. You always are.”

So you both joined the Order.

Not because you weren’t scared, but because you were. Because fear can hollow you or harden you - and you chose to fight.

Then one night, in a small and quiet gathering of Order members - tired, battle-worn, but still fighting to hold onto something human - Lily stood up.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled - truly smiled, not the brittle one she'd worn through grief and fear, but something bright and real, like the girl she used to be before the war.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

For a moment, the room was still - stunned into silence. And then it erupted like spring breaking through frost.

James laughed so loudly it startled the portraits on the walls. He beamed like the sun - the kind of joy that doesn’t ask permission. Remus stood and clapped him on the back, his eyes glassy with tears he wouldn’t let fall. Sirius made a strangled noise, like a laugh and a sob at once, and buried his face in his hands.

When he looked up, his grin was crooked and wild. Peter smiled too, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes - there was something distant in his expression, like he was somewhere else entirely. You noticed. But you hadn’t been around long enough to know what was normal for Peter anymore, so you let it slide.

The Marauders buzzed with pride, their joy loud and golden, filling every dark corner of that war-battered room. Your found family, in all its ragged glory, clung to joy wherever it bloomed - because joy was a form of resistance too.

Later that night, after the toasts and the storytelling and the laughter worn thin from overuse, the others drifted away. Candles burned low. The room emptied, settling into silence.

That’s when Sirius pulled you aside.

He looked different in the low light - softer somehow. His usual fire had banked into something slower, more careful. There was a tremble in his hand as he reached for yours, not from fear, but from urgency.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of bravado. “I don’t want to wait. Not with everything going on. Not with how time keeps. . . stealing you.”

Your heart caught. Because he was right. Every day was a borrowed page, every goodbye heavy with the question: will there be another? Will tomorrow really come?

He pulled something from his pocket - a ring, simple but quietly extraordinary. It shimmered like starlight, charmed with a magic that whispered permanence in a world that promised none.

“Marry me,” he said.

There was no speech, no preamble. Just those two words. And then more: “I know it’s selfish. I know you’re scared. But I don’t want anyone else. It’s you or nothing. It’s always been you.”

You opened your mouth, the beginnings of protest forming. You wanted to say he might regret it. That the war could tear you away, again. That love like this didn’t always get a happy ending, not with your curse anyway.

But he saw it all in your eyes and stopped you before the words could shape.

“All we have is now,” he whispered. “Say yes. Say yes while you’re here.”

And something in you - some quiet, aching truth - answered him before your lips did.

So you said yes.

You were so afraid but you said yes despite yourself and the clawing fear. Because love, in this world, wasn’t a promise. It was a defiance, and in some fairy tales, love is how you beat war.

Your wedding was held shortly after his proposal and it wasn't big at all.

There were no grand halls or gilded arches, no glittering lights or towering cakes. Just a windswept clearing in the woods near Godric’s Hollow, with wildflowers bowing in the breeze and magic humming softly through the air like it recognized something sacred.

Only friends were there - the people who mattered, who had bled and laughed and fought beside you. The ones who’d become family when bloodlines stopped meaning anything.

Remus officiated, because of course he did. He stood in worn robes, clutching a piece of parchment he barely needed to glance at, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands. He kept it simple, heartfelt. There were no flowery vows, no overly rehearsed speeches - just truth spoken between people who knew how precious time had become.

Lily cried, openly, beautifully - tears glinting in the sunlight as she clutched James’s hand. James looked at her like she hung the stars, then raised a glass and made a toast full of wit and warmth, ending with, “To love that fights, even when the world’s falling down.”

Sirius kissed you like a vow, like he could stitch you into the present with just his mouth on yours. There was no audience in that moment, no war, no future - just the weight of his hands on your face, the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your palms. A promise sealed in the kind of silence that means everything.

Afterward, when the sky began to burn gold and purple at the edges, and laughter floated over shared food and spiked cider, you pulled him aside. Looked him in the eyes.

“Don’t regret this,” you said.

He smiled at you - not the cocky grin he gave the world, but something gentler, quieter. A smile made just for you.

“Never,” he said. “Not in any lifetime.”

And for a while, things were good. The war kept brewing but you stayed awake, greeting him like it's the best surprise every morning. Only, he greeted you now as his Wife.

Then Harry was born - tiny, wrinkled, and loud enough to shake the walls of the cottage with his arrival. The kind of scream that said, I’m here. I survived.

You were there. In the still-soft hours after, Lily handed him to you, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something fierce and unbreakable.

She placed him in your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world - like she was giving you hope in human form.

He was beautiful. Small fists curled in sleep, a shock of black hair, his father’s stubborn chin already making itself known. And those eyes - not James’s, but hers. Green and bright and knowing.

For a moment, you all forgot there was a war. Just long enough to believe in a future.

You and the Marauders became the babysitters.

It wasn’t official, but it was understood. Harry would grow up surrounded by magic and mischief and unbreakable love - even if the world outside was falling apart. You rocked him to sleep in Lily’s favorite chair, humming lullabies that didn’t quite belong to you.

Remus read him stories in soft, calming tones, changing his voice for each character until the baby would babble back in delight. Peter would bring sweets and toys, always a little awkward, like he was trying to earn a place in a world that had started to drift just beyond his reach.

And Sirius - Sirius made him laugh. Real, belly-deep baby giggles, the kind that echoed through the house and made even the darkest thoughts scatter for a while. He barked like a dog, of course. Poked his tongue out. Pulled ridiculous faces that turned Harry red with laughter and left James wheezing from the couch. Harry adored him.

One night, after the baby had worn himself out and fallen asleep curled in James’ arms, the fire crackling low and quiet in the hearth, Sirius turned to you. His hair was mussed from Harry’s tiny fists, and his smile was soft - the kind that only came out in quiet moments like this.

“He’s so bloody cute,” he whispered, watching the baby’s chest rise and fall. “I think I want one of my own.”

Your breath hitched.

The air felt too still, too sharp. “Sirius - ”

You didn’t have to finish. He saw it instantly - the fear blooming behind your eyes. Fear of the future. Fear of hope. Fear of losing again.

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like he was anchoring you.

“It’s alright,” he said gently. “It’s just a thought. We don’t have to. I just. . . I love this. I love you. And I’d never let anything happen. You hear me?”

He touched your cheek then, eyes full of that same vow he’d made the day you married. “If you ever fell asleep again, I’d hold the world steady until you came back.”

You nodded, even as your heart clenched. Because that’s what Sirius Black did - he made impossible promises and meant every one.

And time passed. Quietly, quickly. Like a thief.

Then came the mission.

Just another assignment with the Order. Nothing you hadn’t done before. Nothing worth fearing, not really. But Sirius was tense. He lingered at the door, kissed your forehead too long. Held your hands like they were glass.

You kissed him that night, trying to lighten the mood, trying to be brave for both of you. “If I don’t wake for a while,” you whispered, smiling softly, “tell me you’ll wait again.”

He kissed you back like he was sealing a spell, like he could pour every ounce of magic he had into your skin.

“Always,” he said. “Tomorrow will come for you, love. For us. I’ll be here - handsome as ever - when the sun rises.”

It did not go well. You encountered a death eater and was severely hurt, still alive and fighting but through your fight to stay alive - you slipped into the darkness.

Tomorrow came, and you didn’t wake.

Not the next morning.

Not the next week.

Not when Lily and James were murdered in their home, his body in the hallway leading to the nursery, her body found crumpled over a crib that somehow still held a crying child.

Not when Sirius found them first. Not when he fell to his knees on the floor, screaming James’ name so loud it broke something inside him forever.

Not when Peter turned traitor and vanished in the smoke of his own destruction.

Not when Sirius was blamed - framed - and hunted like a beast. Not when they cornered him on that street and stripped him of everything.

Not even when they dragged him to Azkaban.

You didn’t stir.

He screamed your name in that prison cell. Whispered your promises to the cracks in the stone. Waited for the sunrise that never came.

And still, you didn’t wake.

Not until three years into his sentence, when the war was over, the dead buried, and the child orphaned.

You had promised to be there when the sun rose.

But this time, time didn’t keep its promise.

you left me no, you left me no choice but to stay here forever. . .

end. masterlist

[hrrtshape]

⠀⠀⠀⠀hogwarts sex ed 101 . . . there wasn't one ,

ok so. sex ed at hogwarts. 1977. marauders era. the year god said 'what if i put all the bisexuals in one school and didn't teach them a single thing about genitals, boundaries, or the consequences of dry humping in a cupboard.' he did. welcome to the british wizarding education system. funded by divorce, powered by unresolved tension. narrated by emma. you're welcome for this very necessary and useful piece of information.

so. no. there wasn't sex ed at hogwarts. like. not even the ghost of it. not even a euphemism. not even a pamphlet. there was one stained copy of magical maturity and you in the infirmary and it was locked in a drawer under madam pomfrey's shame. it had illustrations. they moved. someone cursed it in '62 so now it plays low moaning sounds when you turn the pages. sirius black used to check it out "for research" and then giggle in the common room like a french exchange student who just learned the word "thrust."

you've got to understand. this was a school that thought putting a werewolf in an abandoned manor once a month and praying no one opens it was a viable health plan. sex ed??? no. they had banshee management for beginners. they had magical menses: a guide to not hexing your classmates when you're bleeding. they had one seminar on unwanted transformations during puberty but it was mostly about not turning into a beetle when you get horny. which. relatable.

the only people who talked about sex were the portraits. and they were weird about it. sir cadogan once tried to explain contraception using a metaphor involving dragon intestines and a chastity spell invented by merlin's ex. it did not clear things up. students got all their info from older cousins, contraband witch weekly issues, and the backs of chocolate frog cards where someone had scribbled "you can't get pregnant if you're on top" in green ink. wrong. so wrong.

the boys' dorm smelled like socks, and something evil. every time someone mentioned "wand length," james potter made a joke and remus lupin visibly aged five years. lily evans read the female eunuch under her duvet with a stolen wandlight and had a moral crisis every thursday. mary macdonald was the only person in the entire school who knew what a clitoris was. so she became god. people asked her questions like she was the oracle of delphi but for genitals. "mary, can you get pregnant from a bubble-head charm?" "mary, what's foreplay?" "mary, why do my pants feel weird when snape talks about potions?" (and he talked a looooot about them. subtle foreshadowing). my girl was busy. marlene was up there too but she never spoke out so she never got her own hotline.

sex was happening. everywhere. god knows it, i know it, you now know it too. in greenhouses, in empty classrooms, in the astronomy tower. it was a budget rom-com with trauma. there was a rumour that if you made out under the whomping willow at the exact moment it smacked a bird out of the air, you'd lose your virginity by osmosis. again, wrong. someone tried it. got concussed.

teachers pretended none of it existed. mcgonagall's sex talk was "don't get caught." dumbledore's was just making intense eye contact with you over a lemon drop and saying "magic is a sacred bond." slughorn had absolutely hosted orgies in the '20s. sprout once gave a lecture on pollination that made half the class cry and the other half extremely confused about flowers.

if you asked filch where babies came from, he'd say "the ministry" and limp away. if you asked peeves, he'd mime something unspeakable and then chant "one-two buckle-my-shoe, syphilis is after you!" honestly not even the worst advice.

but. like. this wasn't unique to hogwarts. this was just. britain. the 70s. everyone was either having sex or terrified of it or convinced it could be cured with chamomile tea. sirius black had a whole phase where he thought wanking made you go blind. he wore sunglasses for three weeks. refused to explain.

anyways. do not confundus your girlfriend's uterus. do not confundus anything. read a book. read two books.

also let's talk shame. catholic levels of repression. protestant levels of awkwardness. dionysian levels of impulse control. no one knew what they were doing and everyone was pretending. people said stuff like "deflowering" and meant it. they thought it was romantic. they thought love looked like sneaking into the potions dungeon and dry-humping to the sound of dripping cauldrons. they thought "i want to feel your magic inside me" was a line. it was not. it was a red flag on fire.

⠀⠀⠀so. was there sex ed at hogwarts?

no. but there was sexual miseducation. there were bad metaphors. there were prefects giving unsolicited advice in the lav.

and if you're wondering where i was in all this . . . i was that girl. i saw everything. i judged everyone. i'm dating a slytherin boy and i'm never confessing anything, even if the lord shall taketh me away no. absolutely not. expelliarmus.

i'm not saying i saved hogwarts. but i did tape an illustrated anatomy chart to the wall of the girls' bathroom and label it in four languages. i did distribute cursed zines about safe sex that moaned when opened. i did hex someone's trousers off for saying "girls don't get horny." you're welcome, feminists.

sex ed at hogwarts was me. and mary. and trauma. and bad latin. and the slow, horrible realisation that magic doesn't replace literacy.

we learned. painfully. and now i'm sharing it.

⠀i do have a masterlist where you can catch all of my stories oh em gee.....

[daenysx]

hello <333 how about 8:37 pm x sirius black?

8.37 PM | SIRIUS BLACK

sirius cooks pasta with the creamiest lemon sauce for you this evening.

the first taste: heavenly.

"i never knew you were such a good cook." you say after taking another forkful of spagetti.

"me neither, gorgeous." he says. "you know what, i might be unstoppable right now. all these looks and brains, now what- being the greatest cook ever?"

he's being smug about it on purpose and you're too interested in eating your dinner so you let him entertain himself. sirius can't help but stare at you eating the food he made, you liked it and your praises warmed him a lot. he also thinks it's an amazing feeling to make sure you're full and happy, your lips are covered in sauce and your eyes close every time you bring your fork to your mouth.

"thank you for discovering your new talent." you say. "i'm so glad we had something other than take out."

normally you like cooking for both of you and sirius always helps in kitchen, but this week has been hectic and most days were spent with pizza and chicken menus. you're happy to eat something homemade.

"i hope you know that this means i'm gonna be cooking for us for the rest of our lives now." sirius says. "i can't stop if i'm this good."

"oh, i agree." you smile. "so, you're ambitious?"

"i'm so ambitious." he says with that low, flirty voice. he comes next to you. "i also find myself completely bewitched with the feeling of keeping my girl full, if you know what i mean."

you don't care how cheeky he can be, to be honest. his hand is wrapped around your waist as he takes the fork from you, he brings it to your mouth after getting some spagetti on it. you part your lips and let him press a kiss on your head after eating the pasta he was holding.

who knew sirius black could be this charming in the kitchen?

dreamer girl sleepover ♡

[mistyjessart]

my boys <333333

made for a class assignment where i wrote about all the young dudes and the marauders fandom, with tortured poets department lyrics in the background. what is my life

anyways…. i’ll make a coloured version when i have time btwn finals but in the meantime, i kin assigned them all moony toast condiments and taylor swift songs:

james is jam, because the pun was too good to pass up, but also he gives me sweet strawberry vibes. he also gets the prophecy for obvious reasons.

sirius is marmalade, like jam but fancier and more citrusy, less willing to put up with shit. also assigned the black dog.

remus is lemon curd, he gives me lemon boy by cavetown energy. he’s got a kinda harsh exterior with his scars but he’s actually really sweet and loves sweets. assigned tortured poets department for the “you smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate” line.

peter is butter, a staple to round out the group, can be overlooked but definitely deserves more appreciation. butter on toast is the best. assigned peter bc… well… it’s peter.