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colouredbyd · 12 days ago

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'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

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

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

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

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

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

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She froze.

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

Silence trembled between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thank you.”

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

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

“There you are!”

James Potter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

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

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

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

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

“I should hex you.”

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

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

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

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

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

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

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

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

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

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

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

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

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

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

“Both, probably.”

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

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

It pisses you off.

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

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

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

You glance away.

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

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

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

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

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

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

You throw the other pillow at his back.

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

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

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

Then, you hear it.

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

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

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

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

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

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

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

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

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

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

Instead, you walk.

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

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

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

Only because you know you can't stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

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

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

The world goes on.

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

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

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

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

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

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

It guts you.

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

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

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

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

And now—he doesn’t need you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no winning in a house like that.

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

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

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

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

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

But then it comes.

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

The pain does not scream. It settles.

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

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

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

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

And still, you are breaking.

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

But it’s already too late.

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

And then you’re on the floor.

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

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

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

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

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

Like your bones always have.

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

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

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

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

It’s James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s strange.

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

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

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not in some dramatic way, not yet.

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

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

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

And yet here is James.

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

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

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

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

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

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

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

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

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

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

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A week passes.

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

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

James has not left you.

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

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

It makes you furious.

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

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

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

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

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

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

All of them.

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

Regulus used to crown him, once.

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

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

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

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

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

How much it feels like disappearing.

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

Your stomach turns at the scent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

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

You can’t do this.

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

Especially not James.

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

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

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

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

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

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

Except you know the storm is you.

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

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

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

And then you see it.

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

Still, you pick it up.

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

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

That’s it.

That’s all.

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

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

And then something inside you slips.

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

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

But nothing stops it.

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

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

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

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

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

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

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

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

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

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

So you go to the mirror.

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

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

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

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

Then you begin.

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

You need to. You have to.

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

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

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

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

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

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

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

You divide it into three sections.

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

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

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

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

Over. Under. Pull.

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

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

But at least now, you look fine.

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

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

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

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

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

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

And no one is looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

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

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

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

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

“Not today, James.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for once, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Sirius sees you.

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

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

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

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

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grip tightens on your books.

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

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

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

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

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

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

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

But something is different now.

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

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

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

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

Sirius.

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

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

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

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

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

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

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

You’re already turning away.

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

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

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

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his birthday.

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

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

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

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

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

You bring it to your lips.

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

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

And there — Sirius.

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

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

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

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

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

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

You were supposed to be gone by now.

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

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

Like he’s known all along.

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

And you can’t take it back.

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

And still. Even now.

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

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

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

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spatialwave · 7 months ago

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"my ambition" - part one

pairing: jayvik x fem!reader word count: 1k tags: mdni! semi-nsfw, fluffy, poly relationship, reader has a chronic illness, no use of y/n, not beta’d. notes:no summary bc it’s very short n sweet and mostly just some fluff!! will probably write a part 2 to this or use this fic as a base for future one shots hehe. reminder that my ask box is open! 🩵 credits: art by @/shuploc & divider by @/cafekitsune on tumblr!

part 2. ->

“No, no, this doesn’t make sense.”

The flickering flame of several candles lit up the darkened apartment as Jayce sat over a scattering of papers. His back hunched, eyes tired, stubble unshaved and fingers tracing over the writings on the parchments. Forever studying and analyzing ways to work with the hextech, to improve upon it and use it to help others. To help you, and Viktor.

“Sleep is good for the brain.” A tired voice spoke from behind him.

There was a quiet groan that erupted from deep within his chest, a reprieve from the chaos in his mind, as he rested back against the wooden chair that creaked beneath his weight. Your hand, a delicate touch, trailed over his bare shoulders as he worked late in only his nice pair of trousers that were gifted by the Kiramman family.

He hadn’t taken a single moment of rest since a meeting with Viktor and Heimerdinger earlier that day to go over progress of the hextech research. They had hit a roadblock, having advanced so far, yet still struggling to find ways for it to help the people, rather than just Piltover.

Hextech was more than a tool to better run the city and improve upon its trades within Runeterra. If only he could find a way to stabilize the crystal.

“You’re overworking yourself, Jayce,” you continued, arms now wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest pressed against the back of his head, hands palming against his muscled chest.

“I’m this close to a breakthrough,” the man sighed, finding comfort in your touch as he leaned back and let his eyes flutter closed, sleep heavy in his head, “Progress Day is three months away, and what do we have to show for it? An unstabilized crystal?”

Jayce was worked up like this more often than not, the work with hextech had taken the forefront for years now. Recently it had begun to consume him, but you were the recipe to keeping him sane.

You were his rock, as he said.

“Hexgates, airships, robots,” your posh accent chimed as your body moved and you’d managed to sneak your way onto Jayce’s lap — ultimately severing the line between him and his work.

Your chests pressed together, faces only a few inches apart as you stared into those honey-coloured eyes.

“Why do you always get so down on yourself?”

Jayce stared at you, strong calloused hands settling on your hips as you straddled him. He had no ambition to answer, knowing very well that he was his own worst critic and you were his biggest supporter.

“You’ll get there,” you continued, head ducking as your lips pressed to his jaw. The roughage of his stubble prickly against your lips as you kissed, trailing from under his chin to underneath his ear, “now, I haven’t had a chance to have you in over a week. I think I’m rather deserving.”

That roused a chuckle from him, a toothy grin on his lips as he allowed himself to relax under your touch.

“I want to do this for you,” he murmured, head lulling back as you kissed down his neck, “something to help.”

“I know,” you soothed, one hand palmed at his chest as you pulled back, a finger touching his chin and tilting his face back to you, “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Jayce’s eyes opened, and it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. Beautiful and glowing.

Your sickness was well-hidden, a struggle you dealt with behind closed doors. Pain that erupted through your veins, left your muscles weak and skin burning. It came in flares — aches so painful it left you bedridden for weeks.

Once an Academy all-star, now confined to your apartment. You were thankful for Jayce and Viktor, the two most important individuals in your life.

“Now come to bed. I can’t remember the last time you’d managed to stay up later than Viktor,” you smiled, shifting off of his lap. Two quick breaths blew out the candles, and you’d managed to pull Jayce along behind you like a lovesick puppy.

You dropped the robe that had covered your body, revealing your half-naked body save for the underwear that hugged the curves of your hips. The mattress dipped under your weight as you crawled in next to a sleeping Viktor, who had retired to bed with you a few hours earlier.

He rolled onto his side toward you, a slender arm wrapped over your waist and bony fingers pressing into the skin of your hip. You pressed yourself against his frail chest, face buried as you inhaled his scent and Jayce slipped under the blankets on the other side of him.

“Finally wrangled him?” Viktor hummed, half-asleep, as both yours and Jayce’s warmth kept him tired.

“You’ve let him beat you again. You’re losing your drive for all-nighters full of bright ideas,” you murmured, nuzzling against him.

“I’ve long lost that spark,” Viktor mumbled, burying his face in your hair and sighing as he felt Jayce’s hands slide along his bare skin, “I’m a tired old man now. I can live with that.”

Jayce snorted, “I do it for the both of us then,” he murmured into his lover’s ear, breath warm and tickling his skin. A shaky breath trembled out from Viktor’s lips, tensing his arms around you.

You were quick to join in on the fun, lips attached to the base of Viktor’s throat as you left a trail of feather light kisses along his skin. One hand reaching down between his legs and into the briefs he wore.

“Can’t a man get rest?” he breathed out, squirming between you two.

“No,” Jayce huffed, lips pressed to Viktor’s shoulders as he assaulted him with a flurry of open-mouthed kisses to his skin, teeth and lips dragging against him.

“Sorry, love,” you whispered, licking a line on his neck before suckling on the skin, “I may have riled him up in the kitchen.”

“How awful,” he sighed, though, there was nothing Viktor enjoyed more than having two lips and two pairs of hands traversing his body.

He melted into the touch as the three of you consumed each other. Hands traveling over skin, lips connected, tongues lapping at each other and clothes ripped from bodies.

The three of you were the embodiment of love. On the worst days, there were no thoughts of giving up. You were each other’s ambition.

#jayvik #jayvik x reader #jayce talis #viktor #arcane #arcane fanfic #jayce talis x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #wordsbyspatial

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cameronsbabydoll · 4 days ago

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BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — chronic illness, psychological distress, emotional neglect, power imbalance, themes of isolation, and blood

you wake to the taste of rust. it’s faint, like a penny left too long in your mouth, but it’s there when you swallow. your tongue probes the back of your teeth, searching for a cut, a reason. nothing. you roll over, and the pillowcase crinkles under your cheek. there’s a stain, it’s small and red, almost like a crushed petal. your breath catches. you tug the case off before rafe stirs, his arm heavy across the sheets, his face still slack with sleep. you ball the fabric in your fist and slip from the bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood.

the washing machine hums in the laundry room, a low drone that fills the glass mansion rafe built for you both. you toss the pillowcase in with the towels, pour too much detergent, and watch the water churn. it’s fine. it’s nothing. a nosebleed, maybe. you’ve been stressed, haven’t you? the city’s too loud, the air too dry. you press your knuckles to your lips and tell yourself it’s fine.

in the bathroom, you stand at the sink, the one with the gold faucet rafe insisted on because it looked “timeless.” you brush your teeth, the mint sharp enough to burn. when you spit, the foam is pink. your stomach lurches, but you lean closer to the mirror, inspecting your reflection. your hair’s still perfect, smoothed from last night’s blowout. your skin is dull, but it always is this early. you’re still pretty. you have to be. you rinse the sink until the porcelain gleams, until there’s no trace of red.

you google it on your phone, fingers trembling as you type “blood in spit causes.” the results load slowly, the wi-fi flickering in this high-rise cage. stress. allergies. dehydration. you skim the benign ones, the ones that let you breathe. you don’t click on the others, the ones with words like “chronic” or “terminal.” you close the tabs, delete the search history, and set the phone face-down on the counter. it’s nothing. you’re fine. right?

rafe’s gone by the time you return to the bedroom, his side of the bed already cooling. a note on the nightstand, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: late meeting. don’t wait up. you trace the letters with your fingertip, the paper crisp under your touch. you fold it neatly, tuck it into the drawer with the others. he’s always late now, always chasing something bigger—deals, status, a version of himself he hasn’t caught yet. you don’t mind. at least you tell yourself you don’t mind.

you spend the morning in the garden, the one you planted when you first moved in. it’s tucked against the glass walls of the mansion, a small rebellion against the sterile lines of rafe’s world. the forget-me-nots are wilting, their blue petals curling at the edges. you kneel in the dirt, your silk robe—the one he bought, still tagged—slipping off one shoulder. you water the flowers, your hands steady even as your chest aches. it’s just a cough, you think, when it comes again, sharp and wet. you cover your mouth with your sleeve, and when you pull it away, there’s a speck of red. you fold the fabric over, hide it in the folds of the robe. no one’s here to see. not anymore at least.

you shower after, the water is scalding, as if you your trying to burn the rust from your lungs. you scrub until your skin’s raw, until the mirror fogs and you can’t see yourself anymore. you wrap your hair in a towel, paint your nails coral—the shade rafe mentioned once, three years ago, when you were still new to each other. you sit on the edge of the tub, blowing on your fingertips, watching the polish dry. it’s chipped already, a tiny flaw at the edge of your thumb. you’ll fix it later. you always fix it.

the day stretches, empty and gleaming. you wander the mansion, your footsteps echoing on the marble. the rooms are too big, the furniture too sharp, everything chosen by a designer rafe hired because he wanted it “perfect.” you touch the back of a chair, the leather cool under your palm. you wonder if he’d notice if you moved it, just an inch. but you don’t try.

you cook dinner, something simple—herb-roasted chicken, rafe’s favorite. you set the table for two, the plates, the wine glasses catching the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. you light an old candle, the flame flickering through the light. you sit down and wait. the clock ticks past eight, then nine, and suddenly your stomach twists, but you don’t eat. you just sip on water, your throat tight, and tell yourself it’s fine. he’s busy. he’s always busy.

at ten, you cough again, harder this time. you stumble to the sink, gripping the counter as your body shakes. the blood’s thicker now, a clot that stains your palm. you stare at it, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears. you turn on the faucet, watch the red swirl down the drain. you scrub your hands until they’re pink, until the water runs clear. you dry them on a towel, fold it carefully, and tuck it into the laundry basket. no one will know.

you sit by the window, the city sprawling below, a glittering maze of lights and noise. you’re high above it all, untouchable, the wife everyone envies. your hair’s still perfect, your nails are done, your smile quiet when you practice it in the reflection. you’re still pretty, even when you bleed. you have to be.

rafe comes home at 11:47 pm. you hear the door, the jangle of his keys, the heavy tread of his shoes. you stand, smoothing your dress, the one you wore for him last month when he said you looked “nice.” he’s in the kitchen, loosening his tie, his jaw tight from whatever meeting kept him. you step into the light, your heart stuttering as he glances up.

“you’re still up,” he says, not a question. his eyes skim over you, quick, like he’s checking a box. “you look tired.”

you smile, the one you’ve practiced, the one that doesn’t waver. “just a long day,” you say, your voice soft, the way he likes it.

he kisses your cheek, quick, mechanical, like he’s clocking in. his lips are cold, and you smell the city on him—smoke, cologne, something sharper you can’t name. he moves past you, already pulling out his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “food’s cold,” he says, glancing at the table. he doesn’t sit.

“i can heat it,” you offer, but he’s already shaking his head, heading for the stairs.

“not hungry. long day.” he pauses, half-turns, his profile sharp against the city glow. “you should sleep. you don’t look good.”

you nod, your throat tight, your hands clasped to hide the tremor. “okay.”

he’s gone before you can say more, his footsteps fading up the stairs. you stand there, the candle still burning, the chicken untouched, the wine glasses empty. you blow out the flame, the smoke curling like a ghost. you clear the table, wrap the food, wipe the counter until it shines. you cough once, softly, and check your palm. it’s clean. for now.

you climb the stairs, the mansion too quiet, the air too heavy. you pass the bedroom door, rafe’s already asleep, his phone glowing on the nightstand. you slip into the bathroom, open your makeup drawer, and pull out the bottle of pills you hid last week. you don’t take one. you just hold it, the plastic cool against your skin. you’ll call the doctor tomorrow. or the day after. there’s time. there has to be.

you slide into bed, the sheets crisp and cold. you curl onto your side, away from rafe, your knees tucked to your chest. you think of the garden, the forget-me-nots, the way they droop under the weight of their own petals. you think of the silk robe, folded in the closet, waiting for a day he’ll notice. you think of the blood, hidden in sinks and sleeves and pillowcases.

you close your eyes, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. you’re still pretty, you tell yourself. you’re still the wife worth coming home to.

you dream of red petals, falling.

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myalgicencephalomyelitiscfstom · 1 year ago

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Press release for this Canadian study [Metabolomic and immune alterations in long COVID patients with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome]:

“We do not actually believe that long COVID is a separate new disease,” explains rheumatologist and clinical immunologist Jan Willem Cohen Tervaert, professor of medicine, who is an expert in fatigue associated with rheumatic illnesses.

“Some symptoms — such as the loss of taste and chest pain — are very specific for COVID, but we see a common pathway with ME/CFS, which leads to the same fatigue, brain fog, post-exertional malaise, widespread pain and non-refreshing sleep,” he says.

#long COVID #chronic fatigue syndrome #myalgic encephalomyelitis #mecfs #me/cfs

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blackenedsnow · 6 months ago

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Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow the hedgehog fanfic #shadow x reader #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic fanfiction #x reader #ask #fanfic #request #oneshot #movie shadow #sonic movie #movie shadow x reader #sonic movie 3

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oaksgrove · 2 months ago

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Hi! Can I request a Husband! John x Wife! Reader, in which he helps her wife who deals with migraines due to hormonal problems? Maybe John comforting her and being in domestic mode...

I love how you write!! Thank you! 🥰

Through Sickness and Health

Pairing: John Price x Reader

Synopsis: A brutal migraine leaves you bedridden, but John Price is nothing if not steadfast. Through gentle touches, quiet reassurances, and unwavering presence, he reminds you that you’ll never have to suffer alone.

Warnings: Chronic illness (migraine), descriptions of pain and discomfort, caretaking, extreme softness, John Price being The Husband™

Word Count: 1194

The pain had settled behind your eyes hours ago, a dull ache blooming into something sharp, relentless. You’d felt it coming—your body had warned you, the telltale pressure creeping in like a storm on the horizon. By the time the sun dipped below the trees outside, the migraine had swallowed you whole.

John had noticed immediately.

You tried to downplay it, as you always did. A tired smile, a quiet assurance of It’s not that bad. But John Price wasn’t a fool. He saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fingers curled ever so slightly against your temple, your breathing slower, more measured—like you were trying to will the pain away.

And now, here you were, curled up in bed, the room shrouded in darkness, curtains drawn tight to keep out the slivers of light that only made it worse. The sheets felt too heavy, the air too thick. Your stomach churned, nausea creeping in at the edges, but worst of all was the helplessness. The knowledge that no matter how much water you drank, how still you lay, how deep you breathed—it wouldn’t stop until your body decided it would.

John sat at the edge of the bed, his palm pressed against your lower back, rubbing gentle circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. You weren’t sure how long he’d been sitting there—maybe minutes, maybe hours. Time felt strange when pain took over.

“I hate this,” you whispered, voice raw, eyes shut tight.

John sighed, deep and low. “I know, love.” His voice was warm, grounding, but there was something else there too. Frustration. Not at you, never at you—but at the simple, infuriating fact that he couldn’t just fix this.

You felt him shift, leaning down, pressing his lips to your temple. “I wish I could take it away,” he murmured against your skin, like the words themselves might soothe you.

You exhaled shakily. “Not your fault.”

“Still.” Another kiss, softer this time. His beard tickled against your cheek. “Feels like I should be able to do something. Anything.”

You cracked one eye open, just enough to glimpse the furrow between his brows. He was frustrated, his lips pressed into a thin line. You reached out blindly, fingers brushing against his hand. He caught them immediately, intertwining them with his own.

“You’re already helping,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand weakly. “Just… being here.”

John didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. “I’ll always be here.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest.

Another wave of pain pulsed behind your eyes, and you winced. John noticed, of course. He was on his feet in an instant, disappearing for a moment before returning with something cool—he pressed a damp washcloth to your forehead, adjusting it carefully. His movements were steady, deliberate.

“You drink enough water today?” he asked quietly.

You made a vague sound in response. You had, but probably not enough.

John clicked his tongue, but didn’t push. “I’ll get you some tea in a bit. Something light.”

You hummed in approval, too tired to say much more.

John stayed. He ran his fingers through your hair, tracing slow, soothing patterns along your scalp. He adjusted the pillows behind you, making sure you were as comfortable as possible. He checked the time, keeping track of when you last took your medication. He whispered quiet reassurances, telling you about his day in a low, hushed tone, like maybe his voice alone could ease you into rest.

Eventually, the pain dulled, just enough for exhaustion to win out. You drifted, barely conscious, but you felt it—the press of John’s lips against your forehead, the warmth of his body beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And you knew, without a doubt, that no matter how bad it got, no matter how many nights like this you had to endure—John would always be here.

When you woke again, the pain had dulled to something bearable, a ghost of what it had been. The air in the room was cool, the scent of peppermint and chamomile lingering—John must have left a cup of tea on the nightstand. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, but the worst had passed.

The space beside you was empty, the sheets slightly rumpled, still holding the warmth of where John had been. He hadn’t left entirely—you could hear him in the kitchen, moving around with quiet efficiency. The sound of water filling a kettle, the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic.

You sighed, pushing yourself up slowly, cautiously, half-expecting the migraine to rear its ugly head again. It didn’t—not fully, at least. Just a lingering soreness in your skull, a reminder of the battle you’d fought.

Padding into the kitchen, you found John at the counter, stirring something in a bowl. He was still in his undershirt and sweatpants, hair slightly tousled, looking every bit the man who had stayed up all night worrying over you.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, eyes immediately scanning over you, assessing. “You shouldn’t be up yet,” he said, setting the bowl down.

You gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay. Better.”

John wasn’t convinced. He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands finding your arms, warm and steady. “You sure?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened, but there was still worry lingering beneath. “You barely ate anything yesterday,” he murmured, tilting his head toward the bowl. “Figured I’d make something light. Oatmeal.”

You huffed a small laugh. “John Price making oatmeal? I thought you were more of a full-English-breakfast kind of man.”

His lips twitched. “And I’d make you one if I thought you could stomach it.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Go sit. I’ll bring it over.”

You didn’t argue. The truth was, you were still exhausted, and standing too long made your legs feel like lead. You settled into the chair near the window, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

John set the bowl in front of you, along with a cup of tea. He sat beside you, watching as you took a tentative bite. The warmth settled in your stomach, soothing in a way you hadn’t expected.

You glanced at him, taking in the crease between his brows, the way he still looked at you like you might collapse at any second.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted quietly, eyes flickering down to his hands. “Hate not being able to do anything about it.”

You reached out, resting your hand over his. “You did more than enough, John.”

He exhaled, squeezing your fingers lightly. “Just wish I could take it away.”

You smiled, tired but grateful. “You already make it easier.”

John didn’t argue. Instead, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a moment.

And in that quiet, intimate morning, with the scent of tea in the air and his warmth surrounding you, you knew—you would never have to face this alone.

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cressidagrey · 7 months ago

Text

Holy Ground - Chapter 3

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

The library was supposed to be a safe space. The priestesses were supposed to be sheltered there.

A place far away from the terrors of the world. A place where they could study and learn far from the grasp of those who would harm them.

But clearly today that peace had been destroyed, Rhys reflected weakly.

Merrill was dead.

Neither Cassian or Rhys had let Gwyn see the…carnage of that, Nesta and Emerie bracketing her away from…her fellow priestesses’ corpse…and Irena…

Rhys had to keep repeating the words to himself, over and over again. Like a litany, a prayer, desperately trying to make them stick.

Irena was alive. Irena would be fine.

She would be alright, even though she looked so, so pale, deathly pale in Azriel's arms.

Irena.

Irena, who Azriel had saved around two centuries ago…

Not from the horrors of the war but from her husband.

The daughter of a merchant, married off young, to one of the richest men in the midlands…she had been raised to run an estate…had excelled at it in fact. And her husband had excelled in killing young girls.

The things he had put her through... The things he had done...

Azriel, who had found her and brought her to Velaris had been shocked that she'd stayed in one piece to be honest. Rhys had been shocked too.

And once she had been in the library…she had excelled once more.

Rhys had gotten long used to see her handwriting, not long suffering Clotho’s, fill out the sheets with expenditures and acquisitions.

She had cut the fat, made sure that the House of Wind was self sufficient, thanks to research requests being able to be submitted, thanks to patents and the gardens…

Irena had been a godssend. Literally.

Rhys wasn't quite sure how they had survived before her.

But the last fucking thing he had expected was that…her and Azriel were…mates.

Rhysand had not seen that coming in a million years

But there was no question about it.

If Irena's thoughts, an utter mess of shock and pain and grief and agony...with the only thing that ran through it the whole time was her thread to Azriel wouldn't have been a dead giveaway...then it would have been Azriel's behaviour.

Azriel who had gone on his knees next to the priestess, his hands slick with her blood and had simply clung to her. He had begged her, his voice broken.

Rhys would never forget the sound of his brother's voice, the pure desperation bleeding from every single letter. Please. We haven't had enough time. I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight. Don't you dare. Open your eyes. Look at me, love. You can't go. Fight.

That look on Azriel's face as he had held her close, refusing to let go as he tried to will her back from death's clutches. The words he had kept murmuring like a prayer. A desperate mantra to the Mother, the Cauldron, anyone who would listen.

Azriel was never the most expressive of them. He rarely even showed a flicker of emotion for most things. To see him lose so much control, to beg. To see tears in his eyes. None of them had ever seen him like that before, had ever even considered the possibility of him acting like that.

He was always composed. Always calm, collected, in control. To see him on his knees next to Irena, begging her not to leave as he pressed kisses to her forehead and kept telling her to stay with him…

For a moment, it had felt like he had forgotten the others even existed. That nothing had mattered except her pulse, the slight rise and fall of her chest. The only thing that had mattered to him in that moment was that she was still with him, still alive.

She was important to him. There was no question about it.

Sometime during the last few years, that Priestess had become the Shadowsinger’s whole focus.

Sometime in the past, Irena had become Azriel's whole world.

And Rhys hadn't known. Had known nothing about this.

He could feel the guilt clawing up inside him.

Rhys had had no fucking clue this was happening, right underneath his nose.

That he had never noticed that Azriel's eyes lingered on Irena…had never noticed that Azriel sought her company…hadn’t known that Azriel had spent time with her…

Rhys hadn't known. Hadn't...hadn't even thought about it.

Azriel had pulled back from them after that catastrophic solstice and Rhys had let him. Had thought that Azriel needed to lick his wounds...that maybe then he would see it Rhysand's way...but none of this happened.

Azriel had kept his anger tightly leashed, even though Rhys had gotten a taste of it every time he badgered him. But Azriel hadn’t exploded.

Instead, he had been vicious in throwing Rhysan’ own words back into his face.

There didn’t pass one day where Rhys didn’t regret that one sentence, because Azriel was clearly… furious about it.

Azriel had grown distant...cold...unfeeling. And Rhys had badgered him and got on his nerves and figured that if Azriel would just get it out of his system… but he didn't. Didn't get angry. Didn't fight. Didn't scream...Rhys would have preferred it if he did.

What wouldn't he give to have that old Azriel back, the one who actually got mad? Who didn't just accept everything with a nod and a word of acknowledgment. Who talked to Rhysand, who told him when he'd done something wrong. Who fought with him if he went too far, who made his opinion known. Who told him to his face when he was being an arrogant prick, who didn't just accept his commands with a quiet nod.

But now it made sense. Azriel hadn't fucking cared what Rhys did, what any of the did, because his priorities had been rearranged completely. As long as he could get home to his priestess...he hadn't cared.

He did all the missions Rhys had for him and then went home to the House of Wind and found one quiet corner or another to romance his mate, out of the view from everybody else.

And that was the worst part. That Rhys had been such a prick to Azriel, so wrapped up in his own worries, his own fears, that he hadn't even noticed that something had shifted so fundamentally in his brother. Had pushed him so far away.

Rhys had thought that they were simply…in a rought spot. That in a few years, Azriel would be over Elain and it would be done. But now Rhys realised that…that it wasn’t about Elain. Not really.

Rhys had never realized how deep this was, how close to the breaking point he'd taken his brother.

Deep enough that the fact that Azriel had found his mate...that was something that Azriel didn't share with any of them. Something that happy... Azriel had just kept silent.

Azriel hadn’t trusted them with the most treasured and precious thing in his life.

And that hurt. Hurt more than he could put into words.

That Azriel had found the one person who he was destined for, the only one who was perfect for him in the entire world. The one person who would love and cherish him, who would complete him, who would accept him as he was, who would understand him...and he hadn't told Rhys. Hadn't told any of them.

Azriel hadn't told anyone that he had found his mate.

Had kept that to himself for who knew how long. Just how long had it been? When had he figured out they were mated?

“Bring her to her room,” Madja said at the moment. And Rhys watched as seemingly some colour went back into Irena's cheeks, her eyes closed, her breathing still laboured…her mind filled with Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. and Safe, Safe, Safe.

“My room,” Azriel corrected, his voice fierce. The mating instincts must have gone completely haywire at that very moment, not soothed at all, even when he had pressed a kiss against her forehead moments before.

.“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply, staring at Azriel, then at still, quiet Irena. She seemed to be utterly shell-shocked, not that Rhys could fault her.

"Gwyn," Rhys said carefully. It was best if none of them...interfered right now. This was between Azriel and his mate.

"Az, how long have the two of you..." Cassian asked, clearly having come to the same conclusion, but Rhys interrupted him. *Leave him be,* he warned their brother.

*Leave him be?! I had no idea that he and Irena are...whatever the fuck they are!*

“Two years. She’s my mate,” Azriel answered, not even looking at any of them, completely concentrated on said mate.

"Mate," Irena agreed weakly. "Mine."

"Yours," Azriel agreed, his voice hoarse, as he picked her up carefully like his mate was made out of spun glass. "Let's tuck you into bed, Love," he told her softly.

And off his spymaster went carrying the priestess that was his mate.

Rhys could just stare after them.

"Did you know?" Cassian demanded sharply.

"I had absolutely no fucking clue," Rhys admitted weakly.

He felt the guilt swirling inside him, deep and bitter and vicious. He should have known. He should have realized and supported Azriel.

But it had been Rhys who had pushed him so far away that he hadn't told him. That he didn't even think that he could tell Rhys that he had found his mate.

And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. To know that Azriel had kept something that he should have been so happy about to himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with Rhys's bullshit.

Cassian started barking orders...About a stretcher and about Merrill's body...It would be taken away and prepared for the last rites.

It wasn't often that one of the priestesses died. It wasn't...They were safe here. They were supposed to be safe here...but whatever happened in this room…

“What even happened?” Rhys asked, as he turned around to surview the carnage.

It was bad. Really bad.

“Irena went to talk to Merill, because Merrill got…angry with one of the newer acolytes…” Gwyn said, her voice shaky. “Merrill was in a bad mood because Irena forbid her newest research project.”

Her newest research project? It was well known that Merrill was brilliant. So for Irena to…

"Why did she forbid it?" Rhys asked curiously.

"It involved some form of spell crafting. Irena wanted Merrill to have supervision from a spellcrafter, because it was a language that none of us actually understood and we didn’t eve know about what kind of spell it was…Merill didn't think that was needed," Gwyn said weakly, wiping away tears. "And now look where that got us. God, how could Merrill be this stupid?"

"It wasn't stupidity, it was probably arrogance," Cassian said with a sigh. "It's dumb luck that only...that only Irena got hurt.

Rhys couldn't but agree with Cassian's assessment. It was a miracle that Irena was alive. That she'd survived when Merrill’s body was…near unrecognisable….clearly it had been closer to whatever had blown up in their faces

Merrill had probably thought she knew what she was doing, but she didn't have the skill or training to work on advanced spell work. I

rena wasn’t the type of person who would deny research on a whim either. If she believed that Merrill needed supervision then Merrill had needed supervision.

Irena was clever. And cautious.

Azriel's mate was a damn good judge of character after all.

Gods, Azriel's mate. What a thought…

The spymaster and the priestess. Rhys’ near silent brother and…and gentle, caring Irena, the beating heart of the library.

Rhys would need to wrap his mind around that in private.

“I’ll seal…this room,” Rhys said quietly. So nobody could enter. And then he would probably turn Amren loose in it, to turn around every fucking stone, so that they figured out what that spell had been that had reacted like it. The last thing they needed was for the spell to have any sort of consequences that involved Irena.

"Clotho," he greeted the priestess as she arrived, inclining his head.

What happened? she demanded, holding out her usual piece of paper.

Rhys felt his stomach churn at that question.

How the hell were they supposed to tell Clotho that not only one of the priestesses had tragically died…but one of the others was currently holed up in an Illyrian warrior's room, recovering from injuries that should have killed her, and that said Illyrian warrior was said priestess's mate, so was probably not going to leave her alone anytime soon?

And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the absolute clusterfuck this whole situation was. There was nothing to do except to simply tell Clotho the truth and hope that she didn't have a breakdown.

"There was an...accident. Merrill is dead," he told her bluntly.

For a moment Clotho was just frozen in place. But he could tell that his words had hit her hard. That she was shocked, horrified, stunned beyond belief. HOW?!

And Rhys took a deep breath, trying to find a way to explain what had happened.

To explain how one of her charges had been killed in a room where she was supposed to be safe…How her own experimentation, her own research had killed her…

And how no one had even noticed that a priestess had been mated.

No...how the shadowsinger had mated to a Priestess and hadn't even thought to tell them because Rhys had acted like such as bastard to his brotherthat Azriel had actually thought it preferable to keep his mating bond a secret.

"Merill didn't listen when Irena turned down her research proposal," Gwyn said suddenly with a shaky voice. "Irena went to talk to her this afternoon, because Merill made Meera cry...It looks like the spell that she was taking apart went...haywire. Merill was killed in the backlash...Irena was hurt.”

Rhys just nodded. It was a reasonable explanation, even if it didn't cover everything that had gone on. At this point in time, he was almost more concerned about Clotho than anything else. The poor female looked ready to collapse.

I told Merill to keep away from that spellbook. We still don’t know what it even contained, Clotho agreed, even her handwriting looking shaky.

He could tell that she was in shock and grief. Could imagine how she must be feeling. Clotho protected the Priestesses with all she had. They were her flock. To lose one of her charges...There was no way that Clotho would not blame herself.

She was going to blame herself for something that wasn't her fault at all. And the thought made Rhys feel sick to his stomach.

Clotho had enough weight on her shoulders already, the last thing she needed was guilt over something that was not even her fault.

IRENA?! Clotho demanded sharply.

"Alive, if just barely," Rhys informed her, trying to push down his own guilt at the thought. "Madja is with her."

In the dormitory?

"No, in Azriel's room," Cassian said bluntly. "Apparently they have been mates for... two years.”

Clotho's head snapped around, facing Cassian, her eyes wide.

Nobody had seen that coming, not even one of Irena’s closest friends.

It seemed like both of them had kept it quiet. Azriel must have so badly wanted to protect his mate from…from him, that…

The thought made Rhys feel sick. Azriel would rather keep his mate a secret than reveal to Rhys that he had found her.

Than tell him that he had found his perfect match, that there was a female in this world that loved him above all others, who understood him, who supported him.

And it was all Rhys' own fault.

He didn't have any other thought. There was no other explanation. If a friend didn't trust him enough to confide in him that he had found his mate, it was because he had done something wrong. So wrong that Azriel hadn't felt like he could tell him.

She wanted to be with him? Clotho demanded.

"From the look of it, she was barely conscious, but still claimed him as hers. And Azriel certainly seemed to think that she would want to be with him," Rhys told Clotho.

And why wouldn't she? He was her mate. Her mate.

"He won't do anything to her," Cassian said fiercely. "She's his mate."

Rhys agreed with that. Of all the males in existence, Azriel was by far the least likely to do anything that Irena would not like. Hell, he wouldn't do anything that might make her even feel mildly uncomfortable. And if she told him to back off, he would give her as much space as she needed.

"Mor, whatever Clotho needs," he told his cousin, who had brought Madja there, who just inclined her head, seemingly shaken. "I'll seal of this room...we'll need to...figure out what to do with it," he said softly. "Clotho, whatever form of memorial you would like to hold...take all the time you need and then let me know."

Clotho looked at him sharply before nodding weakly. She probably wouldn't need his help when it came to something like this. She knew how to handle something like this. How to give her fallen a last farewell.

"I want to check on Irena," Gwyn said, her hands shaking as she crossed her arms.

Rhys nodded. That was fair. Of course Gwyn wanted to check on her friend. And at this point all anyone could really do was wait anyway. "Let me seal the room and then we can go," he said softly. "But I need to warn you, Azriel will be...overprotective," he told her. "Chances are, he won't let you get close to her at all."

"I don't have any doubt about that," Gwyn said dryly. "But she's my friend. I should at least be allowed to check on her."

***

He cleaned the blood of her skin...The shadows procured one of Irena's nightgowns. She didn't protest when he held her up and Madja pulled the soiled, ruined dress from her body...didn't even flinch away from his touch on her naked skin.

They had never gone further than some heated...kisses...further than his hands slipping under her nightgown and pressing against her soft skin. He had never wanted to push. Azriel had been willing to give her all the time in the world.

It had taken months until she had been ready for a hug…longer for a kiss. And he had waited. Gladly. He had gladly waited, because it was worth the wait. She was worth the wait.

Her marriage wasn't something that she was just going to get over, and Azriel was never ever going to push her for more than she willingly offered him.

He had never wanted to undress her under these circumstances. So he closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to her head, not looking at all.

Irena didn't make a sound, didn't even really respond...just stared into the distance. He wasn't even sure she really noticed what was happening to her. Wasn't sure she even noticed Madja cleaning the wounds…cleaning thin, silver lines, scars of her past, mostly hidden by her clothing, but still visible.

This was also when they saw the rest of the wounds...and the fact that her bad leg was broken.

Madja bandaged it carefully, stuffing pillows underneath it to keep it elevated, wrapped the rest of her bruises and scrapes with a tincture.

Still, once she was clean, no more debris in her hair, her skin as clean as he could get it...and the new nightgown was fitted over her skin, he tugged her underneath the thick goose feather stuffed duvet and then the furs.

There was no resistance on Irena’s part. She just let him do as he pleased, let herself be maneuvered and tucked in with the patience of a parent settling a little girl into bed. She didn't say anything. Didn't protest at all, even when he curled his own large body around her smaller frame, even when his wings came around her, shielding her from the outside world.

But she didn't move to snuggle up to him either. Didn't reach for him, didn't try to press her body into his. Just...allowed him to pull her close and hold her as tightly as he wanted. Her body was limp and unmoving, the only emotion on her face a sort of...emptiness. A blank expression that...it was terrifying.

He wrapped his arms around her with a sigh, running a gentle hand through her hair with a sigh. He knew that she was in shock. That she had just survived something terrible, something traumatic. So it wasn't surprising that she wasn't really responsive at the moment, that her skin felt like ice to him and that she was shaking slightly, trembling…

But the instinct to comfort her, to protect her from everything that might hurt her was roaring in his chest. He couldn't pull away from her, even though he knew he should. Even though he knew he should just be thankful that he had her, that she was here, in his hands, breathing.

She felt so thin in his hands. So fragile. Like she might break if he didn't hold her close. And that feeling, the knowledge of how vulnerable his mate was, it was almost too much for him to bear.

“I have pain potions and a sleeping draught,” Madja said quietly.

Azriel felt his jaw clench at the mention of a sleeping draught. He wanted Irena to rest, needed her to sleep away some of the horrors, but there was also some instinct in him that revolted at the idea of making her vulnerable like that. That revolted at the thought of knocking his mate out when she couldn't protect herself.

“Is that alright, love?” He asked her softly.

She didn't answer. Didn't even stir. The only sign that she had heard his question at all was the way her fingers clenched more tightly in his shirt. The only outward sign that she even understood that he was there at all. That she could even hear him. "Love?" He asked again, his voice a gentle murmur. "Do you want the sleeping draught, love?"

“Sleep?” She repeated weakly.

“Sleep.” He promised her.

She simply opened her mouth in response, letting him pour it down her throat and swallowed.

He ran gentle fingers through her hair as the potion began to take effect. As her eyelids drooped and her limbs went loose and he could almost watch the tension leaving her body. He couldn't help but press a soft, tender kiss to the crown of her head.

Azriel couldn't put into words how good it felt to have her in his arms like this. To have her safe and protected and healing.

Madja left with the promise to be back soon…and as soon as she left there was a knock at the door. He didn’t want to deal with his brothers.

*We could bar the door, master,* the shadows offered.

Azriel considered that for a long moment. It was tempting. Really, really tempting to just let the shadows seal the door and tell everyone to fuck off. That they could deal with the rest of the world later and he could just focus on Irena for now.

He knew that he couldn't though. Knew that he couldn't keep the world away from Irena. For all that he would like to protect her from all the harm in this world and lock her away into the safety of his arms, he knew that he couldn't do that. And that Rhys would throw a fit if he didn't let them in immediately.

He sighed softly, his arms tightening around his mate. He didn't want to deal with his brothers right now. Didn't want to deal with Rhys lecturing him about his decisions. Didn't want the pity and understanding in Cassian's eyes, his careful kindness. He didn't want to have to hold up the strong facade when his brother pushed and pushed and pushed.

“Come in,” he said flatly.

Azriel sighed softly as the door was opened and his brothers entered, both looking at him with concern. There was something else in Rhys' eyes, something that he wasn't sure how to name. The High Lord had an indecipherable look on his face as he moved to come stand next to the bed.

But it was Gwyn that shouldered both Rhys and Cassian out of the way, that immediately went to Irena’s bedside.

“She’s asleep,” he warned her softly. “Madja gave her a sleeping draught.”

The Valkyrie moved in silence, but Azriel could tell that she desperately wanted to reach out and touch her friend. Could tell that there was some instinct in her to touch Irena, to comfort her, that she was fighting against. He almost felt bad for her, knowing how hard it must have been to hold back that urge to offer comfort, knowing how desperately she had to want to soothe her friend's pain.

He knew that the two of them were close. That Irena was well liked by practically every priestess…That Roslin was her very best friend, but that she also got along with seemingly everybody else, including Gwyn.

And he wanted to let her get close to his mate. He really did. But the need to keep his mate safe was too strong. Was something that he couldn't fight against. So he just pulled Irena more firmly into his chest.

His only saving grace was that Gwyn seemed to understand. Didn't even try to argue with him or demand to get close to his mate. She just stayed at a respectable distance and didn't protest when he pulled Irena closer to his chest.

He could tell that she recognized his possessive nature for what it was. Just a desperate instinct to hold and protect his mate from further harm. And she didn't argue with him.

“You are the one who gets her the tea and the cookies, aren’t you?” She asked him suddenly. “I was wondering where she got them from. They were always good but the tea has definitely gotten better the last two years.”

*See, Master?!* the shadows cooed, seemingly heaving and then coming to blanket Irena in their very presence too. *We are getting her the best tea!*

They seemed very pleased with themselves.

Azriel knew that when he wasn’t in Velaris, some of the shadows even kept Irena company through the night, cuddling themselves beneath her blankets with her. He also knew that Irena loved it.

Knew better than anyone even his shadows that those moments of comfort, those little gestures, mattered more to his mate than any large gifts ever could. Irena had never cared about large gestures, about pricy gifts, didn’t care about gifts or public displays of affection.

But those little things…she loved those little things. Loved her shadows coming to spend time with her…loved it when he gave her a back rub to ease the pain in her back, or when the shadows brought her the tea that she liked or her favourite cookies.

And Azriel…he loved giving her that. He was happy to provide each and every one of them. He would do anything for her at this point. Would bring her anything that she asked for with enthusiasm. Because he loved it when her face lit up or when she smiled when he brought her something she didn't expect to get. That was something that he would never get tired of.

Azriel would never get tired of watching her face light up with happiness at the smallest of gifts that he gave her. Would never tire of feeling those little gestures bring her even a small moment of happiness. It brought him somuch joy to see her delighted by something so small. Made something inside of him fill with warmth.

“I’ll let her sleep,” Gwyn said softly. “Tell her when she’s awake that she owes us all the gossip. None of us had a clue that the two of you were seeing each other.”

Azriel inclined his head in response, a soft grin pulling at his lips despite everything. "I'll be sure to tell her." Not that he thought that there was anything to gossip about.

Gwyn left with another smile. Which left him with his brothers.

“Az.” Cassian said with a weary sigh. ”What the fuck.”

Azriel frowned sharply, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he looked at his brother. His arms tightened around Irena unconsciously, the protective instinct coming into play.

He knew Cassian, knew all too well that his brother liked to be a pain in his ass, liked to push him further than he wanted to be pushed. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, Cassian," he warned his brother in a low growl. "Say whatever it is that you feel the need to say, and then get out."

He knew that he probably looked completely insane. Knew that he looked like a madman clutching onto Irena with an iron grip and growling at anyone who dared get too close. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the instincts that seemed to be pulling at every muscle in his body, couldn't stop the tension that was coiling tight as a spring.

“How long has… this been going on?“ Rhys asked delicately.

“Two years at next Starfall,“ Azriel answered flatly.

Cassian whistled softly at that. "Two years?!" He asked incredulously. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

Azriel's jaw clenched automatically at the words.

He had thought to tell them. Numerous times.

He had just never wanted to.

First he had wanted to let things settle and solidify before announcing it to his family and letting them come swarming in to analyse their relationship…Later…later he just hadn’t wanted to.

They were completely happy when nobody knew. Why change it?

Azriel knew that he probably should have anticipated this reaction. Probably should have expected his brothers to be confused and annoyed, probably should have anticipated them wanting to know more. But he just hadn't wanted to deal with the questions and inquiries and curiosity and judgement.

So he had kept his relationship with Irena a secret.

“It was none of your business,” he said simply.

Cassian stared at him, dark eyes pained. “We are your brothers,” he said quietly.

“Quite frankly, I just didn’t want to deal with whatever opinion you cook up about us,” Azriel said flatly. His brothers were way too nosy and curious for their own good. Always had been. “We are happy. I didn’t want you to ruin that.”

They would have never respected his privacy or any boundary he had tried to set up.

He knew that Cassianwas probably annoyed that he hadn’t told him about his relationship with Irena. Knew that he was probably feeling left out and...excluded. That he was hurt that Azriel had kept this from him. But he just couldn’t find it within himself to feel any sympathy at the moment. Not when his patience was already wearing thin. Not when he could still feel the fear of almost losing Irena thrumming under his skin.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. Couldn’t handle whatever pity or lecturing his brother would give him. Just wanted to hold his mate and try to keep the fear of losing her at bay.

That fear was already too much, already consuming him and threatening to swallow him whole. The only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept him from falling apart was the knowledge that his mate, his Irena, was safe in his arms. And he needed to focus on that if he wanted to keep it together.

“Azriel.” Rhys’ choice was choked.

Azriel stiffened at the sound, his attention flicking to his brother automatically. There was something in Rhys’ voice, some emotion in his eyes that Azriel couldn’t quite discern right now.

He had heard his brother choked or emotional or desperate before, but this was something else. This was emotion in his brother that he had never seen before: raw, unfiltered, and painful.

The tone of Rhys’ voice, the almost anguished look in his eyes had Azriel holding his breath for a moment. Had his heartbeat picking up speed as he waited for his brother to speak.

The tension was heavy and thick as he waited, his muscles coiled tight as he waited for Rhys to speak. His whole body tense like a tightly wound spring.

“I am sorry,” Rhys whispered quietly.

Azriel stiffened slightly at that, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. His muscles were still tense, still ready for a fight, but the raw apology in Rhys' words, the emotion in his voice...it surprised him.

It was unexpected. He had expected the anger and the hurt and the bitterness, not the raw emotion in his brother’s voice. Not the apology.

He almost couldn’t believe his ears, almost wanted to ask his brother to repeat himself. But he just stayed quiet instead, just tensed and listened and waited for his brother to continue speaking.

He couldn't even blink as he waited, as he hung on every slight movement or small change in expression on his brothers face. The tension was so thick, so heavy he could almost taste it. But he still didn't move an inch. Just waited, every muscle still as a statue as he watched his brother with an almost desperate intensity.

“I am sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Rhys said quietly. “I…we would have been happy for you,” Rhys promised him fiercely.

Azriel felt his throat go dry at the words. The apology, the admission of his brother's intent to protect him, it was so unexpected that he almost couldn’t comprehend it. He felt some of the tension drain from his body, some of the tightness in his muscles loosening slightly.

Azriel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he almost couldn't hear anything else over the sound. The raw emotion in his brother's voice, the sincerity in those simple words...it was overwhelming.

“You were hurt,” Rhys said softly. “I understand. But you could have come to us any time over the last two years and told us and we would have been a happy for you,” he promised him fiercely.

"Would you have really?" Azriel asked softly. "Would you really have been happy for us and not made a problem out of nothing?"

He wanted to believe his brother, truly he did. But there was still a small part of him, the small part that had been hurt and mistreated and rejected so many times before, that was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part of him that was looking for a catch, looking for the sign that this was just another manipulation.

He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to look for the betrayal and rejection that had been written into his very soul. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the small part of him that was constantly looking for the next blow, bracing for rejection and hurt.

“We would have,” Cassian said fiercely. “You found your mate, Az.”

Azriel nodded slowly.

“How did you even hide it?” Cassian demanded, crossing his arms.

“I do know how to use a sound shield,” Azriel gave back flatly.

Cassian let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head as he grinned. "Well, you've always been more adept at keeping secrets than I am," he teased, a sly grin pulling at his lips. “ Since when do you sleep surrounded by furs by the way?” Cassian muttered.

“Irena gets cold,” he said simply.

“Wait, she spend the nights here with you?” Cassian suddenly realised.

"None of your business," Azriel replied flatly, not even trying to hide his annoyance with the nosy question. "Just focus on keeping your own mate happy, brother."

“How do you even sneak her up here?!”

"None of your business," Azriel repeated flatly. "My relationship with my mate is my own business, not yours."

He knew that he was being stubborn, that he was probably being unreasonable right now. But he couldn't help it. His emotions were too raw, too overwhelming for him to handle the intrusion into his personal life. He just wanted to focus on Irena and making sure she was okay, not on his brother's questions and prodding into the details of his relationship.

It was none of their business how he and Irena spent their time together, how they snuck around the house without being caught. That was something private, something sacred between them. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone, not even his own brothers.

He just wanted to protect that intimacy between him and his mate, wanted to keep it safely guarded from prying eyes that might not understand. He knew that his brothers cared about him, but he also knew that they could be too nosy for their own good sometimes.

“…is she aware what these furs mean?” Cassian asked him pointedly.

Was she aware that Azriel was laying claim to her with every single one of those furs that he hunted for her? Aware that he was following Illyrian tradition, regardless of how much…of how fucked up it was in many senses?

“Yes,” he said simply. Kinda. A little bit.

"So it's...serious?" Cassian asked him.

"She's my mate," he snapped back.

Cassian held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, a sheepish expression on his face.

Azriel let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just…leave it alone," he said tiredly. "Please. I'm not in the mood for any more questions right now."

He just wanted to be alone with Irena, wanted to hold her close and let the warmth of her body soothe his frayed nerves. He didn't want to deal with his brothers and their incessant questioning. Didn't want to talk about his relationship with Irena or how serious it was. He just wanted to be with her and that was it.

. His emotions were just too raw, too close to the surface for him to hold back. He just wanted a moment of peace, of quiet, with his mate.

He just wanted to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her skin, wanted to feel her warmth against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her protectively. He just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was still here with him. Was that really too much to ask?

He let out a long breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. He didn't want to be angry, didn't want to be frustrated. But he couldn't help it, couldn't help the surge of protective instincts that came over him every time he thought about how close he had come to losing his mate.

"If you need anything, let us know," Rhys said quietly.

Azriel stiffened at the words, his hands curling into fists at his sides automatically. He knew that Rhys was only trying to be supportive, that he was only trying to offer his help. But Azriel didn't want that. Didn't want his brother's help or sympathy. He just wanted to be left alone with his mate.

He wanted to protect her himself, to take care of her and keep her safe without his brothers' interference. He knew that Rhys only meant well, but that knowledge did nothing to calm his instincts. All he could think about was how close he had come to losing his mate, how close he had come to never seeing her again. And the thought terrified him.

It made his heart clench and his gut twist in fear and pain, his hands clenching tight as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. He didn't want to be vulnerable, didn't want to let his brothers see how much this had affected him. But he knew that it was pointless to try and hide it, that his brothers could probably see the rawness of his emotions written all over his face.

Azriel didn't try to argue with his brother, didn't try to explain himself. He just nodded.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #Holy Ground

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fourmoony · 1 year ago

Note

GOING TO SLEEP WITH A MARAUDER AND YOU'RE IN BED, HES SHIRTLESS AND READER AND HIM JUST TALK AND KISS AND ALL THAT FLUFFY STUFF THANKS LOVELY

this went a little angsty! thanks for requesting :)

cw: mentions of chronic pain, painkiller use, mentions of car crash, brief mention of post-car-crash-trauma, scars

remus lupin x f!reader, 1.5k

Remus is propped against your pillows, the room glowing with the light of the television, when you exit the bathroom. He turns the volume down when he hears the door click shut, turns his head until he’s looking at you with a tired smile. He looks so soft, buried in your nice, clean bed sheets; hair a mop of curls that’s starting to rest on his forehead the longer he avoids going to the hairdresser’s. His eyes bleed with exhaustion from a busy day.

You’d spent the morning in a cafe with Sirius, the afternoon at the park with Harry, and the evening having dinner with Hope and Lyall. It’d been nice, both in company and in weather, but the excessive walking and being on the go has taken it out of Remus. That much is obvious by the way he has a throw cushion tucked under his knee, poking out from under the blanket. He tries to throw the blanket over his leg, tries to hide the obvious admittance of pain.

You slide into bed next to him, a frown on your lips. “You’re in pain?” You ask, pulling the shoddy attempt at a cover up job back until his elevated leg is on full display.

Remus jolts with the blast of cold air, his stomach muscles flexing. The skin of his torso is on full display, the moonlight coming from the window showcasing his skin in a silvery light. There hasn’t been a day since you met Remus where you haven’t found his beauty astonishing. He is truly the most stunning person you’ve ever come across, even if he refuses to believe you when you tell him. The scar on his hip bone juts out from the band of his boxers, followed all the way up by a collection of raised scars that litter his skin like constellations.

Your fingers brush the particularly jagged scar across his rib cage as you lean in to look at Remus’ swollen knee. He huffs, clearly irritated that his plan of hiding the pain has been foiled. His knee is warm to the touch, the skin around it swollen. “I’m always in pain, dove.” Remus replies, flatly.

You hate that it’s true. Your boyfriend has good days and he most certainly has bad days, but he never has days where he’s not in some sort of pain. Remus’ illness has taken a lot from him; his childhood, at times, his social life, his freedom. You think maybe Remus thinks if he lets you know how bad it can truly be, it’ll cost him you, as well. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times you remind your boyfriend that it won’t scare you away, it never seems to stick.

“Okay, tough guy,” You scoff, finding that Remus often responds better to sarcasm and tough love than being babied or fussed over, especially when it gets bad, “fancy getting up to get me a glass of water?”

“Get it yourself, lazy girl.”

You can’t help the startled laugh that falls from your lips, eyes wide as you catch the sly grin on your boyfriend’s face. Remus laughs soon after, leans forward to press a loving kiss to the crown of your head. His own way of saying you know I’m kidding. You do know he’s kidding, so you kiss the underside of his jaw in return.

“Take some pain killers, baby. You know they’ll help, even if only enough to help you fall asleep.”

“Already have.” Remus chirps, pulls you by the shoulders until you’re resting across his chest.

Your boyfriend runs like a furnace at all times, the familiar feeling of warmth mixed with the signature scent of his shower gel has your muscles uncoiling as you relax into him. You’re cautious of putting all of your weight onto him until he shifts, further into the pillow mountain he’s created and pulls you along with him. He breathes deep at the relief he must feel from the new angle, reaches onto his bedside table for the television remote.

“Any requests?” He asks, words mumbled into your hair.

His arms are tight around you, thumbs brushing where they meet in the middle of their waist. You settle in, hook your leg over his good leg. One of his hands slips to the curve of your bum at the opportunity you’ve presented him, a gentle, nonsexual touch, but intimate nonetheless. “Not really. Just whatever you like.” You hum quietly.

He turns the volume back up a smidge on the sitcom you both like. His touch is soft and feather like, a comfort that pulls you fast stead towards sleep. The slow rise and fall of your boyfriend’s chest has your own breaths syncing up, lips turning every now and then to press kisses over his heart.

“Do you ever think about the crash?” You ask, eyes focussed on his raised knee.

Remus doesn’t startle. He might have, at the beginning of your relationship. He’d only told you in bits in pieces, back then, that he’d been in a terrible crash as a boy; the reason for his terrible joint and muscle pain.

You feel him shake his head, lips still firm against your hair. He presses a kiss there, then dips his head until he’s closer to your ear. His voice is quiet, tired, perhaps a little sad when he speaks; “Not as often, now. When I was a teenager, when I was in constant pain because I was growing all the time - yes. I thought about it every day and I thought about how unfair the world was, how unfair my life was.”

“What changed?” You ask, quietly.

He’s silent for a moment, only the sounds of his breathing and the quiet drone of the television can be heard. You can tell he’s thinking it over, a sense of unpleasant nostalgia somewhere in the way he audibly swallows and the slight twitch of his fingers against your skin. Eventually, he sighs, “A lot of things, really.”

"I changed doctors, for a start. They're much more understanding of my condition at the one down the road, much more patient and less skeptical of whether I'm faking it for the free codeine."

You laugh a little at the idea. Half the time, Remus refuses to take pain killers at all. "I like Doctor Frank, he's nice." You tell your boyfriend, who hums in agreement.

"He is," Remus agrees, "And then there was becoming an adult. Hard enough without carrying around so much anger. I was sort of forced to just let it go. Accept that this was my life and I was still capable of so much despite my illness."

You can't help but smile at that. Remus is the gentlest person you know. He's rough around the edges, a sarcastic, smart ass and a mean flirt, but he's gentle, all soft beige cardigans and old library books, gentle touches and even gentler kisses. Your boyfriend has never once dared to raise his voice at you, even in his moments of utter agony. He's kind and has a big heart and you can't imagine fifteen year old Remus, angry and hateful and mad at the world. It wouldn't have suited him.

So, you're proud of how far he's come. Even if he still deals with the trauma of the crash, the hatred he has for the scars it left him with and the pain he lives in. It's less. It's dialled down to one, maybe a two on his bad days. Your Remus looks at the world like a challenge, now. A challenge to overcome, to be the best he can be, to keep fighting. You love him so, so much, and you place a kiss to his heart as the feeling washes over you. Bright and light and floaty.

"And you, dove."

Your lips curl upward at his words, spoken so soft you're not really sure if you were supposed to hear them. Remus pulls you impossibly closer, holds you tighter as he ducks down to your ear, breath fanning across the skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"If there was ever something to live for, something to not be angry about. It's you. The way you love me, your patience, your laugh, your smile. I think you were the universe's apology for that crash." Remus presses a kiss to the side of your neck when he's done and it sends a shiver through you.

There's tears in your eyes. Blinding you until your boyfriend becomes a blurred cheeky grin amidst the blue light of the television. But you're happy. So happy and so in love.

But you can't fight the urge to tell Remus, "Your consolation prize."

His startled laugh is music to your ears, a softness breaking through the storm clouds of your heavy conversation. He tuts a moment later, kisses you for the millionth time, "I prefer God given solace."

You roll your eyes. The man doesn't believe in God, but you'll take the compliment, you decide, as you curl back into him.

"Thanks for opening up. I know it's hard."

You feel his shrug, "Anything for you, dovey."

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 1 month ago

Text

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐞

∿ 𝐚/𝐧 : This story was written in response to a deeply personal and important request—one that asked me to portray life with chronic pain not as a background detail, but as the center of the experience.

To the person who entrusted me with this: thank you. Your honesty shaped every word. I carried your story close while writing this—your flare days, your choices, your strength, your sarcasm, your exhaustion, and your quiet victories. I wanted to do more than depict pain; I wanted to honor what it means to live through it, and still be worthy of love that doesn’t flinch.

This is a story about tenderness without conditions. About the sacredness of being cared for, even when you feel broken. About being believed, chosen, and seen—not in spite of what hurts, but with it.

If you live with chronic pain, disability, or an invisible illness, I hope something in this story wraps gently around your heart. You are not alone. You are not too much. And you are not a burden.

∿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Some days, Sylus carries her. Some days, he simply holds her hand as she winces through the smallest movements, his presence an anchor against the ache. Pain reshapes the boundaries of their world, but never the shape of his devotion. In quiet moments and in touches measured for comfort, Sylus learns the language of her limits—and how to love her fiercely, gently, without ever asking her to be anything but herself.

∿ 𝐜𝐰 / 𝐭𝐰 : This story explores life with chronic pain and physical disability, and features gentle, adaptive intimacy within a supportive relationship.

∿ 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

∿ “To be loved in your suffering is to be seen naked by God.” ∿

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 again—an ordinary mircale that meant very little and everything at once.

Light filtered through the half-drawn curtains like judgment: merciless in its indifference, silken in its execution. There was cruelty in the way the sun entered on days like this, draping itself across the floorboards with obscene ease, while she remained motionless beneath the blanket—breath shallow, limbs drawn inward, bones folded like a prayer no god had the decency to answer.

Sylus stood in the doorway.

He didn't knck. He never knocked anymore. There was something indecent about ceremony when grief had already laid claim to the room. Pain made privacy irrelevant.

He watched her in silence, afraid any sound might deepen the wound. Her face was turned to the wall. A single lock of hair clung to the curve of her cheek, and her hand twitched once beneath the covers—an almost imperceptible movement, but to him, it might as well have been a scream.

She hadn't acknowledged him. Or perhaps she had, and pretended otherwise. There was a strange, quiet nobility in the pretense. He respected it.

But it didn't stop him from stepping closer.

His movements were silent—or perhaps the stillness had devoured all else, even time. The air felt too thick to breathe, weighted like the pause before a confession that could ruin everything sacred.

"Sylus," she said, without turning.

His eyes closed for a beat. Her voice—hoarse, sleep-wrecked, or scraped raw by pain—dragged across his chest like a chain. Again he felt the futility of his strenght. What use were weapons or willpower against a wound that couldn't be shot, bargained with, or bled out?

"You're early," she added.

Not an accusation. Just a fact. But he heard the subtext anyway: I didn't want you to see me like this.

He always saw her like this.

Every day, he thought he had teached the threshold of what it meant to witness her suffering—and every day, the threshold receded. It was an infinite hallway, an unlit corridor of quiet devastation, and he walked it alone.

He sat at the edge of the bed.

Her back stiffened. Even the gentlest motion was still a ripple, and his presence always made waves. He would regret it later—this nearness, this gravity. Even when he was careful, he was too much.

"I can make tea," he offered, though he didn't rise. His voice sounded alien in the room, like something smuggled in from another life.

She nodded, faintly. Her lips parted, then closed. The words—whatever they had been—were gone. He recognized that silence. She was holding something back. Whether it was a sob, a scream, or the urge to lie and say she was fine, he couldn't tell.

He didn't ask.

Some truths were too holy to force.

So he waited.

He always waited.

The minutes passed without sound—but they were far from quiet.

The hush between them was not peace. It was weight. The burden of everything unspoken—every I'm sorry she'd swallowed, every I'm here he never voiced aloud.

She shifted—barely. But of course he noticed. He noticed everything. Her breath stuttered, caught, then resumed with unnatural precision, each inhale measured like currenvy. As if existing cost something now.

He didn't reach for her.

He wouldn't. Not yet. Even kindness had teeth when poorly timed.

His gaze dropped to her hands.

Fists beneath the blanked. Knuckles strained, white with tension. There was rage in that stillness. Not at him. Never at him. At herself. At the betrayal of her own body. At the cruelty of mornings that arrived not as beginnings, but as verdicts.

He wanted to tell her—it's not weakness to be wounded. That sometimes, rising at all was an act of rebellion. That he saw her, saw the quiet war she fought just to stay. But words like that—however sincere—could wound more deeply than silence.

So he said nothing.

And turned inward instead.

He had grown accustomed to the ritual of helplessness. Not hers. His. The routine of watching her suffer and offering nothing but presence. Once, he believed endurance was born of action—that a man's worth was carved from the things he did. But here? Action meant nothing. Brute strenght had no currency in this kind of battle. What she needed was something he'd never been taught to give: gentleness.

The truth was—he feared touching her more than any weapon.

Not because he doubted his control, but because he understood what it meant to be the final fracture of something already fragile. He had held dying men in his arms. Had watched pain strip flesh from soul. But this—she—was different.

She didn't scream.

She endured.

Quietly. Hour by hour. Day after day.

She was stronger than he had ever been. And still, somehow, he was the one tasked with carrying her.

That irony did not escape him. It haunted him.

He had never prayed. Not properly. Not with conviction. But in moments like this—when he watched her sleep through pain, when he helped her rise with arms that trembled not from effort, but from reverence—something inside him folded. Bent.

A whisper. Let me be enough.Let me be what steadies her. Not her cure. Not her salvation. Just the ground beneath her feet when she could no longer stand.

She inhaled then—a sharp, pained sound that broke through his thoughts.

Her eyes were open. Barely. Her lashes clung together in the corners, and her gaze was unfocused. But it was on him.

She didn't speak. She didn't need to.

There was something in her eyes—a softness that didn't shatter him, but unmade him. Not because it hurt. But because it asked nothing of him.

And chose him anyway.

He reached not for her, but frot the blanket. Drew it higher over her shoulders with reverent care.

Still, he said nothing.

Because some silences were sacred.

And this one—this one felt like prayer.

For a long moment, they lingered in that liminal space between stillness and motion, as if even a breath in either direction might unravel something delicate suspended between them. The room bore silent witness: sunlight dulled by worn curtains, the air thick with stillness save for the faint murmur of morning traffic beyond the glass. The world turned, heedless.

But here, in this modest bed, time held its breath.

Then she spoke—voiced thinned by sleep, frayed by strain, yet laced with humor so dry it nearly cracked:

"You gonna keep staring, or are you going to help me not be a corpse today?"

He exhaled, half a laugh, though the sound snagged in his throat. There it was again—her edge. The one sharpened by defiance, brandished like a blade when the body gave no other weapons. Sarcasm as armor. A joke as her sword. She wore both like a second skin, even now, in her frailty.

He shifted closer without touching her. "Permission to approach?"

"You're stalling."

"I'm respecting protocol."

A faint smile tugged at her mouth, fractured at the edges. "You're impossible."

He leaned in then, hands slow and deliberate—held open, not like a man preparing to lift, but like one offering to catch. "Say the word."

Her breath came in steady, careful pulls. "Do it."

One arm slipped beneath her shoulders, the other braced at her hip, fingers splayed to avoid the tender joint. He felt the tension rise through her frame like a scream she refused to voice—not out of pride. She had long since stopped performing strenght. No, it was because that scream had already been spent in silence too many times, in rooms like this, with no one to hear.

She winced. Her hand clutched at the sheet, nails catching on the cotton, but she didn't cry out. She never did during this part.

His voice was low, meant for her alone. "Tell me where it hurts today."

"Everywhere," she murmured.

"Then we go slow."

He lifted her—not with force, but with intention. Each movement matched to the rhythm of her breath. She curled against him, her torso rising from the bed like her ribs had forgotten how to move without guidance. Her head dropped beneath his chin, the crown pressed into the hollow of his throat.

When she was upright, propped against a pillow he'd arranged behind her, her jaw trembled—not from pain, but from sheer effort.

He remained crouched at her side, hands resting lightly on the mattress. "How many sticks today?"

The question was gentle, the way one might ask about the weather.

She paused, then let out a breath. "Five."

"Out of?"

"Thirteen. If I'm reckless."

He nodded once. "Do I cost any?"

She turned her face toward him then. Her eyes half-lidded but piercing. "You don't count."

"I might argue I should."

"You always do." A tired smile curved her mouth. She leaned her head against the wall and blinked slowly. "Sitting up's already two. Bathroom's three. Tea's another half—maybe a whole—depending on how far the kettle decides to mock me."

He hummed softly. "And dignity?"

"Costs at least six." Her voice cracked on the final word, though her smile held—brave and brittle.

He didn't flinch. "Then we skip it. Tea can wait. Dignity's too expensive today."

Silence settled again, but not the sacred kind. Not the hush that preceded miracles or collapse. The silence was older—worn thin by repetition. It was the knowing between two people who had been here a thousand times, and would be again. The kind of intimacy born not from novelty, but from staying.

She lifted her hand slowly, trembling with the effort, and laid it on his wrist.

"You make it easier," she said.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just looked at her hand—so pale, so fragile, and yet impossibly strong for how much it had endured.

When he finally answered, his voice was low, rough with the weight of all the things he didn't know how to say. "No kitten. You make it possible."

She blinked slowly. There was something unspeakable in her gaze—something balanced precariously between apology and love, between gratitude and grief. He knew that look.

He wore it in the mirror.

"You still calling me that?" she whispered.

"Until you tell me to stop."

"I won't," she said.

"Then I won't stop."

He rose to his feet, rolled his shoulders back, and offered her his hand.

"Come one," he murmured. "Let's spent those five wisely."

She took his hand without hesitation.

It was not weakness. It was trust in its most distilled form—consent not only of body, but of pride. A surrender that had nothing to do with giving up, and everything to do with choosing him.

Her fingers were cold, but steady. He held them the way one might hold a bridge over black ice—firm enough to guide, gentle enough not to fracture what was already thin.

They walked slowly. Her steps were cautious, each one deliberate, as though drawn from a dwindling currency. He matched her pace without comment, without visible strain, though the part of him trained for war and precision bristled at how easily her body betrayed her.

The hallway to the kitchen was short. Today, it felt like a pilgrimage.

Inside, he helped her into the cushioned chair at the far end of the table—the one with the thick backrest, the one he had lined himself with folded towels after she'd once winced too sharply for words. She noticed the extra blanket draped over the seat. Neither of them mentioned it.

She sat. He knelt to adjust her feet against the floor. She let him.

Affection, for them, had always lived in the ordinary.

He moved to the stove with the quiet competence of a man who found peace in structure. There was no need to ask what she wanted. he already knew. Toasted oat bread. A soft egg, never fried. The kettle was already half-full from the night before. He began each task with a kind of reverent precision, as if preparing breakfast were less a routine than a ritual—an offering, not to her, but to the fragile mercy of peace.

He wasn't trying to fix her. He was simply trying to make the day kinder.

Behind him, she sighed. Not in pain. Not discomfort. Just the sould-deep weariness that had long since settled into her bones.

"What kind of tea?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Surprise me."

He didn't. He chose the ginger honey—the one that soothed her when nothing else could, the one she never requested because she knew it was expensive. She didn't know he bought it in bulk. That he'd trade his entire salary for it if it meant she could breathe easier.

He cracked the egg along the rim og the pan—perfect seam. The kettle whispered to life. Steam curled upward, thin and ghostlike, coiling in the still air like incense in a forgotten church.

No music. No distractions. Just the quiet choreography of devotion.

"You're too good to me," she said.

"No," he replied, not turning. "I'm exactly good enough."

"You'll spoil me."

"I intend to."

She laughed—quiet, but full. it startled him every time she laughed on a flare day. That she still could. That pain hadn't stolen that, too. It humbled him more than pity ever could.

He plated the toast and egg with the simplicity of someone who believed in quiet elegance. No garnish. No flourish. Just warmth, softness, and enough salt to remind her she was still here.

He set the plate before her. Then the tea—only after testing the temperature against the side of his thumb. She curled her fingers around the mug, a faint crease forming between her brows as the heat kissed her palms.

"Good?" he asked.

She nodded, eyes closed. "It helps."

He sat beside her, not across. That choice mattered. On days like this, her skin was a battlefield—there were moments when even kindness felt like an assault. But today, she leaned into him, just enough for her shoulder to rest against his arm.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just reamined—an anchor in a world that spun too fast.

"You don't flinch," she murmured after a while. "Not even when I'm... like this."

He looked at her then. Truly looked. The shadows beneath her eyes. The clenched line of her jaw. The fatigue carved into her skin like a second skeleton.

"I've seen you worse," he said softly.

She blinked. "Charming."

"I've also seen you better."

"And?"

"I love you in both directions."

The kettle whistled behind him. He made no move to silence it. She didn't flinch. Perhaps they were both learning to live beside the things that used to jolt them.

She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. Her thumb pressed lightly where his pulse beat steady and loyal beneath the skin.

"You're the only thing that doesn't hurt," she whispered.

His heart missed a step.

Then resumed—slower, deeper.

He didn't reply with words. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, reverent and unhurried.

Not out of romance.

Out of devotion.

Because to be chosen in pain is the holiest form of love.

She tried to take another bite of the toast. Tried to pretend the morning might unfold as planned. But he saw it—the way her grip on the fork faltered, how her spine tensed as though her very bones were ringing with pressure. Her breathing shortened—not in panic, but in that quiet, disciplined way she used when her body began to revolt without warning, without grace.

Her face remained composed. But he knew her tells.

She placed the fork down. Slowly. Precisely. As if sheer defiance could stave off what was already coming.

His voice came soft, careful. "Where is it?"

"Lower back," she murmured. "And left hit."

"Stabbing?"

"Dragging." Her fingers curled against the edge of the table. "Like something’s caught beneath the joint."

He nodded once. Rose without sound. Moved behind her.

When his palm met her back, it brought no pressure—only presence. His thumb traced slow, methodical circles through the fabric of her shirt. Not to ease the pain. To anchor her.

She leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, eyes closed. Her jaw locked. He could feel it—how her muscles clung to resistance like a last act of will, tension wound tight as coiled wire.

He bent low beside her. "Do you want to take something?"

She shook her head immediately. "No. Not today."

He didn’t ask why. He already knew.

The medication dulled her. Blurred the edges. And on days when she only had five sticks to spend, she didn’t want to spend them sleepwalking through the hours.

Still, her body wasn’t letting go. Her breath hitched—not in pain, but in dread. The kind of fear that came not from surprise, but from knowing exactly what was coming—and being helpless against it.

Sylus moved. Certain. Wordless. Without hesitation.

One arm slipped beneath her knees, the other supported her spine, and he lifted her against his chest like something weightless—though she was not. She carried gravity in every nerve. A gravity he never resented bearing.

Her arms wound slowly around his neck, fingers clutching at the collar of his shirt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. The shame in her voice hit like a bruise. "For being like this."

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He turned down the hall, each step measured. The decision had already been made. Not consciously, but in the marrow. In the place inside him that always knew what she needed before she asked.

The bathroom door opened with a push of his shoulder. He turned the tap, adjusting the heat until steam rose in soft, ghostly ribbons. The tub creaked as the water filled, but he didn’t wait.

He stepped in.

Shoes, jeans, shirt—everything on him soaked instantly. The warmth clung like a second skin, dragged heavy against his frame. He didn’t flinch.

She gasped, startled—not in protest, but disbelief. "Sylus—"

"Shh," he murmured against her temple. "I've got you."

He sank slowly into the water, her body wrapped in his, her cheek pressed to the side of his throat. The warmth rose around them in increments, curling between ribs and joints like a balm. He adjusted his grip—her lower back resting in the cradle of his lap, her ribs anchored gently in the shelter of his arms.

His heartbeat pulsed steady beneath her cheek. A rhythm she could lean into. A rhythm she didn’t have to control.

She clung tighter.

The flare didn’t vanish—these things never did—but it softened. Eased its grip enough for her to breathe again. Just a little. Just enough.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. Not for reassurance. Not for ceremony. Just because she was there. And so was he.

"You didn't have to get in," she said at last. Her voice was barely more than breath.

"I did."

Her fingers curled tighter around his collar. Her voice—broken glass in velvet—whispered his name.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I want to be normal."

"You're more than that."

"That's not a comfort."

"It's not meant to be," he said quietly. "It's the truth."

She didn’t speak again.

She simply buried her face against his neck and let herself be held.

He let the water rise. Let his clothes soak through. Let the ache of her body bleed into his own.

Because if she had to burn— Then he would burn with her.

Steam curled between their bodies, threading through the folds of his soaked shirt, winding along the curve of her spine. His breath aligned with hers—not by effort, but by instinct. As if his lungs had decided it was easier to follow her than to resist her.

Then—a sound. Faint, muffled. A dull vibration against his thigh.

She stirred. "Your phone."

He didn’t respond at first.

She lifted her head, just enough to glance downward. The water had climbed past his waist. Somewhere beneath the surface, the buzzing came once more. Then silence.

Her eyes found his, wide with disbelief. "Sylus... it was in your pocket?"

He nodded slowly. "Seems so,"

"You didn't take it out?"

"I didn't think of it."

She stared. "You always think of everything."

His gaze dropped to her hands, now resting lightly against his chest. When he spoke again, his voice had quieted. "Not when you're in pain."

Silence returned—but this time, it didn’t feel remote. It settled between them like a shared breath, a third presence. The water had reached the brim of the tub. His jeans were drenched, his shirt clinging like a second skin. Still, he didn’t move.

She reached down, tentative, as though to check the damage. Her fingers barely brushed the outline of the phone before he caught her wrist.

"Leave it," he said, folding his hand gently around hers. "It's done for."

"But your work—"

"I can replace the phone, kitten." He kissed the pad of her thumb, soft, final. "I can't replace this."

She went still.

He didn’t explain further. Just held her hand.

Then, slowly—almost as an afterthought—lifted it again to his lips.

This kiss lingered.

Not romantic. Not performative. As though her hand were something sacred—worn down by time, by need, and still infinitely worthy of reverence.

His mouth moved from the edge of her palm to the center, lips pressed to the skin like a monk listening for scripture. Another kiss to the base of her wrist, deliberate, hushed. The water shifted with their breaths, but neither of them noticed.

She did not pull away.

So he kept going, unhurried. As if the path from her fingers to her shoulder was holy terrain—every inch a journey worth taking, every touch a vow. His lips traced the places untouched by pain, unmarked by illness. Quiet devotion. Wordless prayer.

And when he reached the bend of her elbow, he spoke—not loud, not sudden. A breath caught on the edge of a sigh.

"Marry me."

The words hung there. Weightless. Irretrievable.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t repeat it.

As if saying it once had already cost him something he would never get back.

She didn’t answer.

Not because she hadn’t heard.

But because she didn’t believe he meant it.

And for now— he let her believe that.

The bathwater had cooled.

He felt it in the way her body began to shiver again—not violently, not from pain, but with that slow, creeping discomfort that followed the aftermath of a flare. The kind that made even familiar skin feel foreign. The kind that made strength feel borrowed. Fragile in new ways.

He shifted beneath her, careful not to disturb the weight she entrusted to him. She didn’t resist. She only pressed her forehead against the line of his collarbone one last time before letting him lift her again.

Her arms remained draped around his neck, loose, trusting. He rose from the water slowly, his soaked clothes clinging to him like a second skin, the fabric heavy with warmth turned cold. The air outside the tub struck them both like breath after grief—sharp and uninvited.

But he didn’t flinch.

His thoughts were elsewhere. Anchored to her.

He carried her the few steps to the towel rack, his hip bumping it open with practiced ease. The thick gray towel unfolded like something sacred, and he wrapped it around her not with haste, but with a precision born of ritual. An old choreography, polished by repetition.

He lowered her onto the closed lid of the toilet—an improvised altar to their unglamorous devotion—and kept one hand steady at her back while the other reached for the second towel, the one he always left on the radiator.

Steam clung to the mirror in soft breathmarks. Time pressed in quietly.

He crouched in front of her and began to blot the water from her skin—not rushed, not clinical. Present. Deeply, achingly present. Each touch quiet, purposeful. The kind of presence that made tenderness feel like a vow. He moved slowly—shoulders, collarbone, the delicate slope of her arms. Not to savor. Not to claim. Just to honor.

She trembled.

He saw it—the slight tremor in her hands as she kept the towel drawn around herself, the way her knees pressed together beneath the fabric, as if warding off the chill. But her face remained still. Always still. Like a lake beneath a stormless sky.

He rose again and reached for the final towel—smaller, thinned from use—and began blotting water from her hair. She winced once when his fingers caught a knot at the back of her head.

"Sorry," he murmured, voice low, close to her temple. "Almost done."

She hummed, a sound more breath than voice. Not quite agreement. Not quite protest.

He parted the damp strands with care, fluffing gently at the roots so it wouldn’t cling to her scalp. His hands slowed. Stilled.

And then, without lifting his gaze from the wet threads caught between his fingers, he said it.

"I'm serious, you know."

Her breath paused.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

"I didn't say it to distract you," he said, softer now. "Not to make you feel better. Not because the water was warm and you were in my arms and I forgot myself."

She didn’t move.

He drew the towel gently down the side of her head, smoothing the strands behind her ear with infinite care.

"I said it because I meant it."

Still no reply. Still no disbelief. Just silence—ripe, brimming, breathing between them like something sentient.

He let the towel slip into the sink, forgotten. His hands remained at her face, thumbs near the ridge of her jaw. Light. Steady.

"You think I'm joking," he whispered.

And finally—finally—she looked up.

Her gaze wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t startled.

It was tired. And terrified.

Not of him.

But of what it might mean to believe him.

He didn’t press. Didn’t move. Didn’t offer the words again, as if repetition might cheapen them.

Instead, he brushed a single drop of water from her cheekbone with his thumb.

And said, so softly it might have been mistaken for a thought—

"I don't know how to want a life that doesn't have you in it."

She looked at him for a long moment—long enough for the steam on the mirror to begin fading, long enough for the silence to gather weight, deepening into something heavier than hesitation.

Then, in a voice like torn paper—soft, raw—she asked:

"You're okay with this?"

Her eyes didn’t blink. They stayed fixed on his, unwavering. And yet she looked like someone bracing for impact. Not rejection. Not exactly. But the ache of being misunderstood.

"With me?" she added, quieter still. "Like this?"

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She shifted slightly on the closed lid of the toilet, the towel slipping from one shoulder. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she no longer cared.

"I mean... you see it," she said, gesturing toward her body, her breath, the crumpled towel in her lap. "There are days I can't move. Days I wake up and everything already hurts, and I have't even left the bed. And other days, I feel like I could run a marathon. It makes no sense. It never makes sense."

She swallowed. Her jaw clenched.

"I’m going to spend the rest of my life counting sticks. Bargaining with medicine. Taking it, skipping it, weighing what I lose either way. I’ll cancel plans. Miss things. I’ll forget who I am on the worst days and beg for normal on the best."

Her hand curled around the towel like she was clutching something far more fragile.

"I can’t promise consistency. Or stability. I can’t promise I’ll ever get better. This might just be it—this mess. This in-between."

Her voice frayed at the edges. But she didn’t cry.

"I’m asking if you really want this. Because I don’t get to stop living it. And I can’t let you in halfway just because you think I’m beautiful when I’m quiet."

He was still for a moment.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not indulgent.

But small. Steady. Certain.

Like a man who had been waiting for this question longer than he realized.

He reached up, brushing the side of her cheek with the back of his fingers. The touch was feather-light, but real—unshakably real. Like someone proving they still believed in gravity.

"I want you," he said, "not in spite of those things. With them. Not edited. Not airbrushed into something easier."

His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. There was no urgency in the gesture. Just presence. Just care.

"You talk about your body like it’s a battlefield," he murmured. "But all I’ve ever seen is someone surviving."

She opened her mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to explain—but he didn’t let her interrupt.

"I know it won’t be simple. I know I won’t always get it right. But I’ll never stop wanting to try. And that has to mean something."

He tilted his head slightly, his palm settling at the curve of her neck, thumb near her pulse.

"You're beautiful," he said, softer now—like the words might bruise if spoken too loudly. "Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you don’t feel like anyone at all."

She inhaled—but not to speak. Just to breathe.

And he saw it—the way something inside her unknotted. Not completely. But enough. Enough to soften the hardness she’d worn like armor.

He leaned in, brushing his lips to her forehead with barely any pressure at all.

"I’m not asking for perfection," he whispered against her skin.

"I'm asking for you."

She didn’t speak right away.

He felt the change in her breath first—shallow at the edges, then slowly deepening. Her hand, still cradled in his, turned. Not to retreat.

But to hold.

And then, with a sigh that felt less like surrender and more like release, she slid her arms around his neck and leaned into him fully.

Not just her weight.

Her trust.

Her warmth. Her silence. Her heartbeat—fast and real—thudding beneath the damp folds of her towel.

She tucked her face into the hollow of his neck, nose brushing the line of his jaw. He felt the wet strands of her hair against his collarbone, the honest weight of her against him, unapologetic now. Present.

Then, muffled against his skin—

"I think you just gave me ten more sticks."

He smiled before he could stop himself. A breath escaped him like a knot unwinding.

"Ten?" he murmured, arms gathering her closer. "That's a record."

She laughed—a small, whole sound. Breathy. Tenuous, but real.

Her fingers curled into the back of his damp shirt, not out of fear, not from need—but from safety. Because she could. Because here, she didn’t have to measure what she gave.

"Why are you so good to me?" she whispered.

He didn’t respond right away.

There were a thousand things he could have said—complicated truths about devotion, ruin, redemption. Words that could’ve filled a novel or broken her open.

But none of them would have been enough.

So he said the simplest thing he knew.

"Because you let me be."

She stilled in his arms, and then softened further, curling in, as if the answer had met her in a place even pain couldn’t reach.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Held by water. By breath. By something quieter and older than language—something so fragile it could never survive being named. To define it would diminish it.

Eventually, the mirrors cleared. The steam faded. The air cooled. Outside, the world resumed its slow, indifferent turning.

But here—in damp towels, skin against skin, her heartbeat steady against his—Sylus knew they had made something of the day.

Not something perfect.

But something theirs.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was everything.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝… — © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus fluff #sylus x reader #sylus x you #qin che #sylus lads #cronic pain

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lueurjun · 10 days ago

Text

poison candy challenge. b.chan.

est. relationship. reader x bang chan. in which chan indulges in a tiktok trend with you.

don’t ask where this idea came from, this trend has been all over my fyp and i just feel like chan would be so fun. this is also an in the spur of a moment post so… probably not the best lmao. everytime i do one of these i realize how chronically online i am- probably need to work on that 😬

bang certified simp chan.

the husband of all husbands.

the definition of i would quite literally walk on water if it meant getting to you faster.

he’s not the most tiktok savvy guy

so he’s not particularly up to date on the trends

he gives insta reels sending you a trend three years after it’s passed type of vibes.

which means it’s not a surprise that he has no idea what trend you’re talking about

“you wanna poison me?” followed by that endearing nervous laugh he does.

“no sit down ill explain in a second.”

you press down on his shoulder, guiding him to a seat and he’s more than willing to oblige.

this man would sit in fire if you asked him to.

so would i but you picked him 🙄 not salty. i get it 😒

he watches you wearily as you pour the skittles across the table, dotting the oak with colour.

“is that sanitary?”

you smile to yourself, offering no explanation as you prop up your phone, framing the two of you in its view.

you plop down beside him, barely settled before his arm slips around your waist, one hand finding its home on your thigh.

so happy for you! … ʜᴏᴇ

ignoring the tingling in your nerves that sparks whenever your boyfriend is within reach, you turn to face him.

“we each choose a sweet to be the ‘poison,’ then take turns eating the rest. whoever eats the poisoned one…dies.”

“okay… that sounds morbid hahaha. should i be monitoring what you’re watching?”

with a light tap to his chest, you turn away to start filming.

“i’ll pick first.”

you reach for a sweet, only to pause upon realizing he’s still watching.

“turn around, you cheater!”

you reach over, gently nudging his face to the side, laughing as he lets out an exaggerated sigh and turns away. still, with his back to the table, you cover his eyes as an extra precaution.

with your free hand, you lean toward the table, eyes scanning the scattered sweets before settling on a green one right in the centre. you point to it, making a mental note to circle it in editing.

“done!”

it’s Chan’s turn to pick, and your turn to face away. as you did, chan leans a hand back to cover your eyes, only he decides to be playful and clumsily rubs his palm all over your face.

“Chan!”

laughing, he brushes the hair out of your face, then delicately places a palm over your eyes, kissing your cheek as an apology.

con😭gratulat😭ions

chan picks a red one on the far left side of the scatter, giggling quietly to himself as if this is the most exciting game he has ever played.

you turn back around, his hand falling to your waist again and giving a light squeeze.

leaning down to the edge of the table, you narrow your eyes, scrutinising the spread before you.

a crease forms in chan’s forehead as he frowns, gaze bouncing between you, the sweets and the camera.

“what are you doing?”

the way i read that in his voice-

“trying to see if i can see any handprint residue on the skittles.”

chan’s mouth forms an ‘o’ shape before he bursts into loud laughter, curling into himself.

“are you a forensic? just pick one,”

“i don’t want to die, christopher.”

god forbid someone is thorough 🙄

abruptly sitting up straight, you pluck a yellow one from the right hand side and confidently pop it into your mouth.

chan watches you with a smile, his eyes dilated into the shapes of hearts.

when you turn to him, eyes big in expectation, his heart crumbles to dust and he can’t stop himself from grabbing your cheeks, plastering the biggest kiss to your nose

“you’re safe, my lovely forensic.”

throwing your hands up in victory, you cheer loudly.

chan is less thorough than you, deciding to just grab one and hope for the best.

he picks an orange one, the closest to you on the table and pops it into his mouth

you gasp, making him pause mid chew with wide eyes looking as if he’d just been caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t.

“am i dead?”

you relax with a grin. “no you’re safe.”

chan nudges you playfully. “why would you do that? i thought i was going to die.”

you remedy his hurt feelings with a sweet massage to his earlobe before leaning toward the table, steepling your fingers

the purple one draws your gaze, but you’re unsure so you glance back to try and gauge his reaction as you hand shifts over in that direction

realizing what you’re trying to do, chan cringes causing your hand to hover in mid air

“am i going to die?”

he quirks a brow. “i can’t tell you that’s cheating.”

“okay? don’t you love me enough to stop me from making a life threatening mistake?”

i do. 🙋‍♀️ I DO! take me instead.

“they’re skittles!”

frowning, you turn away from him with a humph causing a grin to spread across his face.

you decide to bite the bullet, fingers plucking the purple one and shoving it into your mouth.

chan stretches out the silence, prolonging the moment as you swallow the skittle.

now you might be dramatic but you swear it tastes bitter as the flavour coats your tongue.

“i’m going to die arent i?”

“no, you’re safe.”

you almost knock the chair over as you bounce in excitement, genuinely surprised.

“i am? i’m safe? really? i really thought that one was poison.”

chan laughs at your enthusiasm, suddenly overcome with cuteness aggression because there’s only you who could get this into a game revolving imaginary poison.

needing a release, chan squeezes your cheeks for a second before peppering several kisses to your chin before finally your lips.

“your turn!”

your cheeks are flushed, eyeing the camera sheepishly while Chan searches for a safe sweet, completely unfazed.

you’re not sure whether he’s forgotten about the camera or whether he just doesn’t care, either way, you’re very much aware of it and can’t help but pat your burning cheeks.

chan’s hand grazes the green one you chose, and your heart lurches

but it comes to a sudden stop, filling you with disappointment as he picks the yellow one next to it

you really thought you had that win the bag.

“safe.”

“try not to sound too thrilled about me living.”

his sarcasm earns him a tug of the ear, making him yelp.

confident that you will win the next round, you don’t really think too much into the one you choose, grabbing the red one on the far left side.

popping it into your mouth, you hum at the flavour failing to notice that chan has frozen beside you

“your go!”

when he doesn’t move to pick one, you turn to face him and see that he’s watching you with his mouth slightly hanging open

you know when bentley rubbed his eyes after touching onion and chan was just 😧 yeah that’s what he looks like.

“why are you looking at me like that?”

chan rolls his lips together, ridding himself of the victorious smile.

“you just died,” he whispered.

your jaw drops. “I JUST WHAT?”

“you ate the poison one…”

the two of you just stare at each other, though with vastly different expressions.

chan looks triumphant.

and you…

you look like someone just stole your first born.

“you almost ate the poison one! why didn’t you grab the green! your hand GRAZED it!”

chan looks toward the camera.

“it’s like they’re still here. i can still hear them talking.”

glaring, you lean back into the chair with your arms folded over your chest.

chan finds himself — and your reaction — utterly hilarious as he scoops up a handful of the skittles and pops them all into his mouth at once.

mouth full, he throws his hands up and cheers in victory at his win.

“glad to see you’re celebrating the death of your beloved.”

chan’s grin never falters as he scoops you up into his arms, peppering your face and neck in kisses.

“my favourite little sore loser.”

“i almost won! you literally touched the green one!”

221 notes · View notes

fairytaleendingss · 1 month ago

Note

Hello! I’m loving Room For One More, and you said you were taking requests?

This is kind of a general one, but could you do another chapter focusing on Remus’ chronic illness?

I struggle with severe chronic pain and chronic illness in general and haven’t had a relationship in 5 years bc of it (it’s hard to meet people and a lot of people see it as a burden, unfortunately) so seeing cute fluffy things with chronic illness representation gives me hope for the future 😅

Thanks for the consideration :))

- ✨💚

Room for One More?

Chapter 13

Summary: You and Remus have some time to bond.

CW: Depiction of chronic illness, alcohol consumption.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12

So I received this request a few months back and I feel really guilty that I haven't gotten to it sooner. I know how important representation is and I wanted to make sure I gave it a the proper time and thought it deserves. I also I wanted to include it somewhere that made sense to the plot of the story and I hadn't found a good spot previously.

I feel like I could've done better during this series in general with including Remus' illness and I'm going to try harder to make more reference to it in the remaining chapters. I feel that my representation of RA throughout this story hasn't been present enough since it was introduced and I'd like to try to capture a more accurate depiction of it going forward.

One again, I want to disclose that I myself do not suffer from any chronic illnesses, so I apologise for any inaccuracies that may be in here.

I hope this is what you were looking for, anon and sorry again that it took so long. Enjoy the chapter.

Mary was staring. Leaning up against the kitchen counter in her brand new apartment. It was her housewarming party. She and Lily had just moved in to a new place together and decided to throw a celebration. All of their friends were there, crowded around, drinking wine and listening to an eclectic shared Spotify playlist.

However, there was something not quite right about the picture she was looking at. She was watching from across the room as you and James danced together, laughing goofily as you pretended to know what you were doing. Beside you on the couch sat Remus and Sirius, snuggled up together, laughing at the display.

She narrowed her eyes as she watched. She was happy for you all, of course she was. She loved how happy you'd recently seemed, however, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was something... off about the new sets of couples that had recently emerged in the apartment.

"Is everything okay, love?"

"Huh?" she was snapped from her thoughts as Lily came to stand beside her, rubbing a gentle hand down her girlfriend's arm.

Lily chuckled. "I wanted to know if everything's okay. You look like you just bit down on a lemon."

Mary raised her brows. "Do you think something weird's going on with them?"

Lily glanced across the room. "No? I think they look happy."

"Hmm, maybe," Mary responded, unconvinced. "I just feel like there's something we're missing."

Lily just smirked, taking Mary's glass of White Wine from her hand. "I think you've had a few too many glasses of this tonight."

Mary rolled her eyes affectionately. "Nonsense. I don't know what you're talking about."

Lily leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her girlfriend's waiting lips.

---

The energy in the room was high as Mary's playlist gave soundtrack to the evening. You and James were dancing around the room, utterly embarrassing yourselves while Sirius and Remus sat curled up together, Sirius throwing his head back and groaning dramatically every time a Taylor Swift song came on.

"Come on, Sirius. You aren't fooling anyone!" James exclaimed towards his friend as he twirled you playfully. "I know you listen to 1989 while you work out."

"I do not," he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. "Back me up here?"

He looked up at the man his lap was played across, however, Remus only shrugged. "Sorry love, you hum in your sleep."

Sirius sighed thickly. "You all are the worst. How am I supposed to maintain my rockstar image with accusations like these!"

"I say own it," you chimed in.

"Come on, mate! You know you want to dance!" James exclaimed, doing that stupid lasso throwing move towards him, causing you to let out a loud groan at his silliness.

"I do not," Sirius huffed petulantly.

"Yes you do!"

Sirius paused for a moment, weighing his options before rolling his eyes and begrudgingly standing.

James cheered as Sirius began to join in, moving goofily around to the music. You couldn't help but chuckle as you watched the two dance together. They were always a chaotic duo.

You looked over at Remus who was watching on affectionately.

"You want to join us?" You asked, extending a hand to the man.

He chuckled but shook his head. "I'm alright here, thank you."

"Oh come on, Rem," Sirius exclaimed. "It'll be fun!"

"I'm alright," he stated once more.

"Are you sure?" you asked.

"Uh, yes," he muttered bashfully. "Truth be told, I'm not feeling the best this evening."

"Rem! Why didn't you say anything," James all but shouted, moving to take a closer examination of his friend.

"It's nothing, really. Just my usual symptoms," he tried to brush off but you could see the crease of pain between his brows.

"Well, this won't do," Sirius muttered. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Sirius moved to find the car keys but Remus stopped him with a tug of his wrist.

"Sirius wait. I'm fine, I promise. You were really looking forward to tonight. Besides, I'm designated driver, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah," Sirius hummed, deflating slightly.

"That's okay. I can take you. I've only had one drink," you intervened.

"A-are you sure?" Remus inquired, looking at you guiltily. "I don't want to pull you away from the party."

You smiled at him. "It's okay. There'll surely be others."

"Well thank you. I really appreciate that," he responded sincerely.

"It's no problem, Remus. Let's get going."

Up close, it became all too apparent that Remus really wasn't feeling well. His eyes were shut and he was resting his head against the passenger window the entire way home, his face pinched in pain.

You couldn't help but cringe in sympathy. You wanted to say something but you weren't sure what would be helpful right now, if anything at all. So instead, you drove in silence. You said an internal thank you to whatever higher power encouraged Mary and Lily to move only 20 minutes from where you lived.

Remus sat up slowly, blinking heavily as you pulled into the garage of your building. You looked over at him, biting the inside of your cheek.

"The stairs are going to be a pain," you muttered sympathetically.

Remus sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face. "'Just have to get it over with I suppose."

You exited the car before making your way around to the passenger side to assist Remus. Where he normally would have seemed uncomfortable with this kind of doting, today he just felt grateful.

His joints were so stiff that he could barely make it up the stairs at all but with your support and a lot of effort you managed to get to the front door.

Walking into the apartment, you deposited him on the couch. He groaned and lifted his heavy legs up so they were stretched out in front of him. You sighed deeply as you watched.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked gently. You couldn't help the pang of worry that was congealing in your stomach as you watched him. He was looking extremely pale and there were drops of sweat beading across his forehead, an indicator of the pain he was experiencing.

"My wheat bag would be nice if it's not too much trouble," he muttered stiffly.

"No of course not!" you were quick to respond. "I'll be right back."

You couldn't help but watch him over the kitchen bench as the bag went around in the microwave. You bit your lip nervously. You weren't quite sure what to do to make him feel better. In the time you'd lived with the boys, you'd seen him go through a few flare ups here and there but nothing nearly as bad as this one, and you'd never been here with him on your own either. You'd always had one of the other boys to help out.

You thought for a moment about calling James or Sirius for help but you quickly dismissed that idea. You were being silly. You and Remus had on good terms as of late, you would even go so far as to call him a friend. And he'd taken such good care of you when you'd been unwell all those weeks back, the least you could do was repay the favour.

You straightened up as the microwave began to beep and hurried to deliver the bag to Remus.

He looked up slowly through tired eyes when you returned, smiling appreciatively.

"Where do you want this?"

"My right knee," he muttered and began to carefully lift up his pant leg.

Your eyes widened as he revealed the red, swollen joint.

"Remus! This looks awful!"

You gently placed the wheat bag on the appendage and he let out a gentle sigh of relief.

"Thank you. It's really not that bad."

You gave him a look that told him you could tell he was lying.

"You don't have to pretend to be okay, you know? I'm here to help. I want to know what's really going on."

He let out a breath and ran a shaky hand down his face. You watched as his front receded ever so slightly. In all honesty, he was too tired to put it on anymore.

"Do you mind grabbing the pills from beside my bed?"

You smiled at him gently. "Of course."

You spent the next while doting on Remus. You got him everything he needed, completed his usual chores around the house and even ordered food from his favourite Chinese place for dinner.

All the while, Remus thanked you profusely and you could see the guilt that lingered behind his eyes, despite your continuous reassurance that you were happy to help.

It was about 11pm when you found yourself sitting in the arm chair beside the couch where Remus was situated, watching Netflix together. Every now and then your gaze would flicker towards him, eyes flitting over his features in an attempt to assess how he was feeling. You couldn't help but take notice the way his lips pursed in concentration as his gaze stayed glued to the TV, or the way his hair, in need of a cut, was slightly disheveled and began to curl around the base of his neck. There was something endearing about him, you observed. He was handsome in a sort of tender and understated way. Where James was strong and buff and had a boyish charm, and Sirius' look was bold and unique, Remus' attractiveness was more subtle. He had gentle features and dark, kind eyes that you couldn't help but become lost in. There was something so intriguing and mysterious about him that made you curious to learn more, even during the times where you hadn't been friendly. He was unlike anyone you'd known before.

"You can stop worrying, you know?" He drawled lowly, not turning his gaze away from the TV.

You sat back in your seat, being broken from your thoughts. "I'm not."

"Yes you are. I can feel you looking at me."

"Oh well, excuse me for being concerned about you."

He sighed thickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Remus," your voice was small as you replied. There was so much on your mind, especially when it came to him. So much about him you didn't understand.

You bit your lip as you turned back to the TV, watching the colours flicker and flash through the screen, casting light in the otherwise dark room.

After a moment you heard a shuffling begin beside you. Your eyes widened as you turned to look at Remus, who was attempting to swing his legs over the side of the sofa.

"Remus, what on earth are you doing? You're in no position to be walking around right now."

"I'm not! I promise. I was just trying to make some room."

"Oh." Your brows furrowed as he scooted over on the couch. You weren't quite sure what he was trying to do until he patted the spot beside him, glancing up at you with hopeful eyes.

"Will you sit?"

It seemed a peace offering of sorts.

Hesitantly, you got up from your chair and moved to sit beside Remus. Once he was sure you were comfortable, he carefully placed the blanket he was previously using over both your laps.

You looked at him skeptically, unable to gather what was going on in his head. Remus was just like that. Completely unreadable. An enigma.

He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm sorry if I've been a little short with you."

"Remus, it's okay," you responded sincerely. "You're in pain. It isn't your fault."

He sighed. "I don't just mean today."

He turned to look at you, guilt clouding his chocolate eyes.

"I've behaved poorly towards you ever since you moved in. I know it's no excuse but if I'm being honest, I was scared," he didn't know entirely why he felt the need to say it. Maybe it was the medicine or the pain or a combination of both but you'd been so undeservingly kind to him this evening. And all these feeling had been swirling around inside of him for so long, they were ready to burst out of him.

"Things weren't easy for me growing up with... all this." he gestured absently to his leg that was now propped up on the coffee table. "People weren't always understanding about it. Especially when I was younger. It took me a long time to find a place where I felt accepted and not like I was an outcast or a burden. I suppose that means I don't take too kindly to change."

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling his walls slowly but surely begin to lower, as you watched him sympathetically.

"But that was no reason for me to be cruel to you when you've been nothing but kind in return. So for that I'm sorry."

You smiled gently. "Remus, that's okay. I understand."

You shuffled closer to him. "And I'll have you know that no one thinks of you as a burden. You have amazing friends who care about you so much. And as scary as it is to be vulnerable around new people, I promise I would never judge you. I'm always happy to help whenever you need me."

He let out a breath of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He smiled at you kindly, appreciation pooling in his eyes.

"You're wonderful. You know that?"

His words sunk in to your skin and you felt heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly exposed under his gaze. Your eyes fell to your lap as a nervous chuckle escaped you.

Remus reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was unbearably tender. You looked back up at him. His eyes flickered with vulnerability as a heavy tension settled between you, completely unlike the kind that has encompassed you before. Your heart began to race.

It was at that moment, the door burst open and James and Sirius stumbled into the flat.

"Honey, I'm homeeee!" you heard James call out, followed by a excessive amount of snickering from Sirius.

You pulled away from Remus suddenly, scooting back on the couch as if you'd been burned.

"You two are back early," you remarked in surprise.

"We just missed you guys too much!" James exclaimed as he came around the back of the couch and pressed a sloppy kiss to your cheek. His breath smelt like wine.

"How are you feeling, my love? Did Y/n take good care of you?" Sirius cooed, coming to sit beside Remus on the arm of the sofa and running a hand through the mans hair.

"She did a lovely job. I might have her replace you next time."

You chuckled and watched as Sirius pressed a hand to his chest and gasped dramatically in mock offence.

"I can't believe this! My own lover is replacing me. How ever will I go on?"

You giggled once more as Remus rolled his eyes fondly.

"On that note, I think it's time for bed, love." Remus turned his attention to you. "Thank you again for all your help tonight."

You smiled gently. "Don't mention it."

As you laid in bed with James' arms curled around you, sleep refused to come.

There was a heavy lump of guilt in your stomach and you didn't fully understand why. It wasn't like you'd done anything wrong. Nothing had even happened. You and Remus had just been talking, that's all. However, the feeling hung over you like a raincloud over your head.

You rolled over to face the boy beside you. The sweet boy who you truly cared for so deeply and you snuggled into his chest.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to rid your mind of the thought. But as you began to drift off, it was Remus' eyes you saw.

You wondered as you fell asleep, if it was possible to have feelings for more than one person at the same time.

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#marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #marauders au

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colouredbyd · 8 days ago

Text

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.

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