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fourmoony · 2 months ago

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐓: Chapter Three.

After breaking your ankle in the wake of a break up, you're determined to get through your senior year without any interference from James Potter. That is, until his loyalty to loose cannon Sirius Black lands him straight in your lap. Or, rather, your kiddie-skate group.

CW: language, abandonment, falling, mentions of broken bone and reconstructive metal work, cheating.

ITN Masterlist

You –

The ice is smooth, freshly pressed by the Zamboni. You should be nervous. Usually, you’d be nervous. But you’re tired. Exhausted, actually. If Pince knew how much you want to turn boot and skate off the other side of the ice, she’d probably have an aneurism. This is it: your chance to become a National Champion. The gateway to worlds, to the Olympics. And all you can think about is the gaping hole in your chest, the knot your stomach has wound its way into. The sound of James’ truck door slamming an echo in the back of your head.

The crowd is silent, and your programme music starts. Four minutes. You only need to make it four minutes. Four minutes until you can walk away and spend the summer wallowing. Four minutes that hang over you like a heavy weight.

You know this routine like the back of your hand. You’ve practiced it so much you could do it in your sleep. Spins, jumps, twists. Every one of them brings a different memory. James picking you up off of your ass, frustrated and angry, sending you back to try again with encouraging words and an even more encouraging kiss. He’d cheer when you landed and buy you chocolate cake on the way home.

The music is loud and overwhelming. It grates on your skin. Images of James, of your happiest moments, of everything you lost – they spin and jump along with you. Heavy as the rain that soaked you on the twenty-minute walk back to your apartment that night. It hurts too much, burns too hot.

Pince likes to say that careers can end in a split second. You know well that they can. All it takes is a bad jump, a distraction. You’ve seen it happen. Countless young athletes losing their careers over one bad move. One fracture, one broken bone, one chip on the ice. One second and it’s all gone.

One second and you’re on the ice.

One second and the resounding crack of bone slices through the crowd.

One second and the lights have gone up.

One second and your entire life leading up to this moment flashes before your eyes.

One second and the world stops.

One second before the shattered sob leaves your throat and it all goes black.

Your ankle clicks and crunches when you roll it. It’s uncomfortable, but not sore – and as much as you hate to admit it, Pomfrey is right; that’s progress. Your toe touches the ground, your calf burns, your ankle hits a breaking point. With a wince, you straighten it, repeat the motion. The stretch room off the back of the rink is empty this early in the morning. The hockey team doesn’t come in for practice for another two hours, the ice is fresh, and as soon as the feeling comes back to the ball of your ankle, you’re going to make use of the free time.

With a breath, you pull your leg up, run the edge of your nail along the skin of your scar. There’s no feeling against the skin, there. It comes and goes, the numbness. Your doctor’s say it’s a side effect of the surgery, the damage to the nerve endings, the pins, the screws. Your finger trails a pattern up your leg, back down, over the ragged ridges of the marred skin. It’s starting to feel normal, the ways you need to live your life. Stretches every day, physical rehabilitation, being barely able to wear heels, mobility, and flexibility issues. Lily likes to joke that you’re a walking-talking-live version of the Met Office. The change in weather is, admittedly, easier to assume with the metal work in your ankle.

It’s been hard – rehabilitating. It’s been sore and scary, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. Remus talks, often, about the limitations that his condition puts on his career. It’s nice, in a twisted sort of way, to have someone who knows your pain. In comparison, your pain is a nick on Remus’ radar. His pain is chronic, his bones brittle and damaged. His career will be short lived – but, you know without a doubt that his time in the NHL will be legendary, regardless.

The feeling comes back slowly, to the slow rhythm of your finger tracing up and down. You stand, after a while, and reach for your skate bag. You don’t bother with shoes, socked feet padding against the rubber flooring all the way down to the team box. To your surprise, the ice is populated when you get to the plastic door into the benched area. Sirius and Remus are skating laps around the ice, passing a puck back and forth. They don’t have their kit on, just joggers and their team sweatshirts. James is in the same attire, socked feet kicked up on the bottle shelf beneath the boards. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, hood over his hair. Stray, dark strands of chocolate brown curling out the sides. He looks tired. Exhausted, even.

His eyes follow Remus and Sirius around the rink, ever the dutiful, attentive captain. You know there’s millions of play ideas running through his head, critiques on players that aren’t even in James’ eyesight. It’s astounding, though you hate to admit it, how good of a leader James is.

“You’re all here early.” You say, setting your skate bag beside James on the metal bench.

Your ex startles, eyes wide behind his glasses when he looks over. It’s odd, to think over the Summer he’s somehow forgotten to remember your schedule. He used to know it off by heart. You skate every Saturday morning before the hockey team starts their practice. Realisation crosses his features, like the ghost of a past life passing through his eyes. “Shit, I’ll pull them off. Sorry.” James apologises, pulling his feet from the shelf and sitting forward like he’s getting ready to call Sirius and Remus in.

“No, it’s fine. I’m cool as long as they are.” You take a seat, unzipping your skate bag.

James nods, swallows. The silence is thick, almost suffocating. There’s no flirty conversation, no teasing, no kind words of encouragement. Things have changed. As much as James promised they wouldn’t – they have. It has a lot to do with how things ended, you suppose. As long as you were together, you’d always thought it’d be your careers, the distance, that split you up. Your ex-boyfriend places his feet on the rubber mats below the bench, bounces his legs. “They’ll stay out of your way, just watch out for stray pucks.”

“Got it. You okay?” You ask as you sit down to tie your skates. “You look exhausted.”

James’ hazel eyes follow Sirius and Remus around the rink. You don’t think they’ve noticed your presence, yet. Content in their own world. “Yeah. All good.”

It’s a lie. You both know it. But you’re not the person James is going to talk to about that, anymore. You don’t have a response for him, so you take your skate guards off and leave him to stew in the box. The air is cold against your face, a pleasant feeling. Sirius and Remus have scratched the ice a little with their skates and sticks, but it’ll be fine. They hear your blades scratching the closer you get, turn to you as you approach.

“Hey, I just want to run my routine a couple times before tomorrow. I’ll try stay out of your way.” You tell them.

Sirius’ eyes flick to James almost protectively, like he’s checking his captain, his best friend, is aware of your presence. Since you and James broke up, you haven’t heard much from Sirius. It’s not that he’s picking sides – though, you wouldn’t blame him for picking James. What they have is unique. They’re bonded. But it hurts a little. Stings, because there was a time where Sirius was one of your best friends. You’d all been close. It feels now, like Lily and Remus are the only ones who make an effort.

“You have practice tonight, your ankle going to be okay?” Remus asks, pushing the puck back and forth absentmindedly.

“How’s your knee?” You deflect.

Remus bites back a grin and scoffs good naturedly, but Sirius’ eyes fly down to Remus’ knee as though he’ll be able to see through layers of clothes and skin, right down to the muscle. He looks almost panicked. Then, he looks back up, icy blues lit with a fire you’ve never been on the receiving end of. “He’s fine.”

“Relax, Sirius. I know he is.” Your eyes burn, a little, “I’ll try stay out of your way.”

Remus mutters something to Sirius – likely chastising him. You’re on the other side of the rink, pretending not to care, so you don’t hear it.

They stay out of your way for the majority of your ice time. Only one stray puck gets in your way, and James calls out in a panic when you almost land on it. Instead, you miss a jump and shout a shaky thanks as you clamber back to your feet on the ice. He stays firmly in the box – making you wonder why he even bothered to come to the ice this morning, at all. Not that it’s any of your business. Remus and Sirius run drills on one half of the ice whilst you weave in and around them. It’s not until you’re on your last run through that your foot goes numb. It’s quick, instant. You land on your ankle, there’s no feeling there, your leg buckles.

You hit the ice with a nasty amount of noise. Skates scraping and clashing, a whoosh of pained air. Your hip hurts, a searing pain that you already know will need to be iced. It takes a minute to gather your surroundings, turning until you’re sitting up. “Jesus,” You mutter, angry. It feels like this will never end – the numbness, the frustration, falling. It’s been months of your ankle going numb mid practice. Months of falling on your ass. “Fuck!”

Remus is at your side in an instant, Sirius close behind him. “Okay, up. Up, C’mon.”

You know you can’t get up, but you refuse to admit why. No one knows. Not even Pomfrey, not even Pince. You can’t run the risk of needing a surgery to fix the nerve endings. Can’t risk having to sit this season out. “Remus, give me a minute.”

“No, the longer you sit there, the less likely you’re going to go again. Up. Now.” Your best friend holds his hand out.

He’s just trying to help. But there’s anger simmering in your chest. Hot and raw and you want to lash out. For the first time, you think you understand why Remus is the way he is. So, you look at him, really, truly look at him and you think he understands. James crouches in front of you, eyes brimming with concern. You hate how much relief the sight of him brings you. Remus turns and drags Sirius off. They go back to their own corner of the ice. Your eyes well with tears.

“What’s goin’ on?” James asks.

His hands rest on the skate covering your bad ankle. You can’t feel them. The thought panics you because what if? What if one day, the feeling never comes back and it’s too late? James notices the fear in your eyes, his finger reaches up to press into your calf and you flinch. A look of understanding passes across his features, brows scrunching and dipping in the middle. “No one knows?”

“No one can know.”

James looks like he disagrees, but he nods. “I’ll bare your weight to get you up. Feet flat or Remus will notice, but weight bare on your good ankle.”

He doesn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his role, anymore. But you nod, regardless. Even if the idea of him helping you lights a furious rage inside of you because how dare he act like he gives a shit now? You need to get off the ice, though. So you give him both of your hands, left blade flat on the ice as he pulls you up. Your hip screams at you, but you ignore it in favour of James’ socked feet. He’s run out onto the ice without shoes on.

“You’re going to get frost-bite.” You murmur, eyes flicking up to find his already on you.

He looks sad. Nostalgic, maybe. “Worth it.”

Your heart cracks open in your chest as you let James lead you off of the ice, all the while praying he doesn’t go full James and snitch on you to Pince, thinking he’s doing you some sort of favour. You have it under control. You’re dealing with it.

Maybe just not as well as you’d originally thought.

Regulus –

Barty is lying, rather annoyingly, half on Regulus’ legs and half on the bed. But he won’t ask Barty to move. As much as a distraction he’s made himself, Regulus finds he quite enjoys the idea that Barty wants to be this close to him. The sketch book on his lap stares up at him tauntingly. There’s half-finished scribbles of planets and stars; none of which Regulus has the energy to perfect. He does, however, have a strong notion to draw the way Barty’s body is curling around his legs. Regulus isn’t sure how to feel about that, so he ignores it; because if he thinks too much about it, he’ll start to push Barty away.

He’s aware that this isn’t going to last. Just like he’s aware that after his thesis paper is published, he’ll be returning to Grimmauld Place. Taking over Black Industries is probably at the bottom of the list of things Regulus wants to do with his life. But the thing about Barty Crouch is that he’s persuasive. He’s irresistible, as Regulus has come to realise. It’s more than just his regal looking cheek bones and sinful smile, his toned body, and tattoos that make Regulus more inspired to draw than he ever has; if only to one day see one of his drawings on Barty’s pale skin – it’s also his carefree attitude, his rebellious nature, and the big, bold, ‘fuck you’ middle finger he holds up to the world that makes Regulus want to get wrapped up in him and never get free.

He wishes he could keep Barty, but he can’t. So, he won’t draw him. For now, he’ll enjoy his rebellious streak brought about by the sarcastic, smart mouth, piece of shit guy he met in the art supply store in the spring and worry about the calendar counting down his return to Grimmauld place later.

Admitting defeat, Regulus places his sketchbook and pencil on his bedside table. Barty stirs at the movement, head straining to look at Regulus with a devious grin. He threads his fingers through the soft strands of Barty’s inky black hair and smiles softly. It’s obvious his smile isn’t believable, because Barty huffs, pushes himself up until he’s straddling Regulus’ hips. He’s not in the mood for whatever Barty is about to initiate, but Barty seems to notice that because his eyes soften. “What’s on your mind?”

Regulus studies Barty. He really is very beautiful. He’d be easy to draw. The itch is there. But he can’t. So, he won’t. “I was thinking that I can’t focus when you’re lounging over me like a stray cat.” It’s obvious in his voice that it’s a lie. But the good thing about Barty is that he doesn’t push Regulus to talk when he clearly doesn’t want to.

“We both know that you’re the cat, in this relationship, Regulus. You’re all claws and uptight attitude.” The boy on top of Regulus quips, a smile that tells Regulus he’s rather pleased with himself.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not all claws.” Because Regulus knows he’s uptight.

Barty grins. It’s charming and knowing, practically dripping with sin. He reaches for the neckline of his t-shirt; acts like he’s going to pull it upward. “Should we look at my back?”

Regulus holds the hem around Barty’s waist and tugs, scowling. “No, let’s not.”

Barty laughs, collapsing on top of Regulus. He enjoys the weight, presses his fingers into his shoulder blades because he knows he likes rough touches. Gentle touches make him jumpy. He listens to Barty laugh for a while, enjoys the sound of it vibrating against the skin of his neck. He stares at the ceiling and wonders if he should tell Barty that one of the reasons he’s struggling to draw is probably because his estranged brother has cropped his ugly head up.

Barty is good with advice. Mainly because the majority of his advice is to get high and ignore all of your problems. His mother would pitch a fit if she knew all the shit Regulus was getting up to, these days. She calls once a week, always short and curt. It’s more of a call to make sure Regulus is behaving, than to check in on how he’s actually doing. He’s not sure what he’s going to tell her when she asks who his student assistant ended up being. If she knew, she’d likely pull him out of university all together and ban him from leaving the house ever again. Not that he had any choice in who it was.

“Sirius is my student assistant.” He breathes out, the admittance bringing a hollow ache to his chest.

He doesn’t talk much about Sirius. Mainly because it hurts, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that as much as he tried, nothing was ever good enough for his older brother. Not enough to make him stay. And Regulus knows that expecting Sirius to stay was unfair – maybe it��s more to do with the idea that he left him there. Scared, alone. Baring the crown that Sirius found too heavy. Barty lifts his head until his eyes meet Regulus’. Reading, trying to gage how he should treat this. He’s not sure if he wants Barty to get him high and help him say fuck you to his problems, or if he wants him to offer to kick the shit out of Sirius.

“Okay. Go on.” Barty urges, fingers tracing Regulus’ collar bones.

The feeling grounds him as he huffs and closes his eyes. Thinking. Trying to sort through his emotions because, really, he’s not sure how he feels about it.

“He said I’m just like our father. I was a dick to him.”

Barty smiles sadly. “You were surprised to see him.”

“I knew I’d see him, eventually. I mean, I’ve done a good job of avoiding him. But I thought, maybe naively, when I came to Hogwarts that maybe there’d be a chance he’d want to explain. But he didn’t. He just looked at me with pure hatred and stormed off into the stacks.” It sounds childish, the way Regulus’ voice takes on a petulant whine.

But Barty nods, like he understands. He doesn’t. He doesn’t have siblings, but he does have an uncomfortable family situation. So, he’s sympathetic, at least. “Maybe he’s scared to apologise because he thinks you won’t hear him.” Barty offers.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.”

The other boy scoffs amusedly, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You think he’d want me to be a part of his life? If I could forgive him.” Regulus asks, hating how insecure he sounds.

Barty presses his lips to Regulus’. It’s soft, caring. Rare, for them. “I dunno Sirius. I’ve never met him. But I do know that anyone who doesn’t want a part of you in their life is a fucking idiot. And you don’t need another idiot in your life. You already have me.”

He likes that answer, so he kisses Barty until they’re both a mess of tangled limbs and swollen lips. Until it turns out that there’s other ways to forget his problems. And all of them suddenly have a lot to do with Barty Crouch.

James –

He’s pacing. He knows he’s pacing, and he knows that his footsteps are clunking against the wooden floorboards, and that Remus will likely lose his mind if he continues. But James can’t stop. It’s how he thinks, how he processes. Years of thinking on his feet, of having to have a mind as sharp as a tack, having to move whilst processing a hundred different outcomes. The only outcome he can think of right now is you hating him even more than you already do when he inevitably goes to Pince and tells her that your ankle isn’t properly healed.

He did the necessary reading to conclude that prolonged numbness is definitely not a normal side effect of having a reconstructive surgery. A temporary side effect, yes. But it’s been months since your surgery. That’s not a good sign, according to a very reliable source (if you count Reddit as a reliable source; James isn’t sure if he does). And he knows he’s catastrophising. He’s prone to it. But he’s worried. And wouldn’t he rather you hate him that little bit more and eventually be able to get back on the ice next year (after another surgery, Reddit had confirmed) than risk it all now and never skate again? James doesn’t feel qualified to make that decision. He hasn’t been a captain long, and even then, it’s not like he’s in charge of people’s livelihoods. He wouldn’t have taken the job if that was the case.

James knows how much Nationals means for you – it’s the gateway to the World Championships, to the Olympics. He cost you that last year, and he hates himself for it. Is he really willing to do that to you again? He’s not sure. So, he paces. He loses count of how many times he picks up his phone and almost hits the green call button next to your name. He’s not even sure you’d answer, even less sure of what he’d say to you if, by some miracle, you answered. ‘I think you should miss out on Nationals again, this year, have another risky surgery and hope for the best. Okay, bye!’ doesn’t exactly seem like a good plan to him.

Remus is the embodiment of exhaustion when he pushes James’ bedroom door open and leans against the frame like a parent ready to chastise their hyper-active child. James cringes. Remus needs all the rest he can get. Between hospital appointments, hockey, and his classes, he never stops. “Sorry. I’ll try be quieter.” His voice comes out rushed and anxious, an alarm bell sounding off to alert Remus of his worry.

The taller boy tilts his head and studies James. Sometimes, he loves how perceptive Remus can be. It helps offence, and it generally means that he’s a better friend. But now, he shifts awkwardly because for the second time in the space of a year, he’s keeping a secret from his best friend. He hates lying to Remus. But your words play on a loop in his head. No one can know. You’d been so scared. Terrified, even, at the idea of everything you’ve worked for over the summer being ripped away from you. Call James selfish, but he doesn’t particularly want to be the one to do it. Even though he knows he should because it will be better in the long run.

“Or” Remus suggests, “You could stop pacing and tell me what’s going on with Y/N.”

James opens his mouth. Subsequently closes it because he doesn’t know what to say. He won’t betray your trust. He hates lying to Remus. But he knows, ultimately, if he really doesn’t want to talk about it, his best friend won’t push him.

He feels himself shrug, his best attempt at feigning nonchalance. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Remus’ honey eyes read like a book. He knows James is lying, scrutinising him whilst simultaneously trying to figure out why he’s lying for you. As far as Remus knows he’s on bad terms with you. And technically, that’s true. But James would give anything to fix that. He just hasn’t figured out how, yet.

“You know,” Remus pushes off the door frame, ever the one for imparting wisdom in the most dramatic of ways and pushes his hands into his pockets. “If I didn’t know well enough, I’d say you’re trying to decide her future for her. I can tell you right now, that won’t end well. Whatever it is she’s hiding, I’ve been there. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but one she has to do on her own.

“Don’t make her hate you any more than she does now, James. I’m still rooting for you.”

“You know?” James asks, throat dry.

“About the numbness or you cheating on her?” Remus asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he leaves James standing, alone, in the middle of his room with a sinking feeling that he’s let everyone down.

He’s not sure how Remus knows. Maybe you told him even though you’d told James you weren’t going to tell anyone.

An amicable breakup, you’d suggested. It’ll save us both the embarrassment.

He hates himself. Hates himself for all of the things he wishes he’d sat you down and forced you to listen to over the summer. Hates that he didn’t fight for you more. There’s so much you don’t know. So much you don’t want to hear. So much James wishes he’d done differently. Starting with how he wishes he’d run out onto the ice, consequences be damned, the minute he saw you land on your ankle, the minute he heard you sobbing in pain. He wishes he hadn’t walked away, feeling sorry for himself that he’d ripped Nationals from you. That, despite how hard he’d tried, he’d still failed you.

And he hates even more that he even considered doing it for a second time.

James sits on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, and he decides there and then that he’s not going to tell Pince. But he is, even if you fight him every step of the way, going to find a way to fix this for you. You’ll have a chance at Nationals if it’s the last thing James does.

And it starts with a call to Euphemia Potter.

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talonabraxas · 5 days ago

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“Life is short. Time is fleeting. Realize the Self. Purity of the heart is the gateway to God. Aspire. Renounce. Meditate. Be good; do good. Be kind; be compassionate. Inquire, know Thyself.” — Sivananda Sirius Gateway Talon Abraxas

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moonstruckme · 4 months ago

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Hi gorgeous!! Do you have any marauders fic writer recommendations?? I hope this is okay to ask and I completely understand if not!! I hope you have a lovely rest of your day/night!!

Of course it’s okay to ask lovely, please don’t worry! Okay I assumed by fics you meant longer pieces (I’m still struggling with some of the tumblr lingo so forgive me if that’s wrong) and I scrounged up some favs but don’t just take my word for it, check out the author’s pages and you’ll find tonsssss more great stuff for our boys.

@fourmoony - ice burn is a Jamie fic that was my gateway drug to her and I’ve yet to waver in my devotion to it

@kquil - heroes in tattoos is a poly!m series (also my gateway to her page, I also got attached)

@ellecdc - come back, be here is a sirius series and I'm still working my way through but so far the hurt/comfort is delicious

@luveline - I’m still down bad for mouth of September, a Sirius series (I’m a hurt/comfort bitch what can I say, I find it very soothing) but I know she’s not very proud of that one anymore so I’d also like to plug a star between hands, which is a james series that’s unfinished but I believe she’s talked about continuing

#mae's recs

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whorediaries-09 · 8 months ago

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heartbeat;

pairing- fwb!sirius black x reader warning- hurt/comfort, 18+ content, substances, cheating. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- also this has so much sex for no reason at all-

little train. masterlist of 'the seven lives' series

' you thinking that the songs coming on to tempt me i need to be alone like the way you left me '

heartbeat;

the waves scandalised on his feet, the sand running through the gaps between his toes. the sun hung low, a strange crimson glow bathing through his features. salty air blew into his hair, scents of burnt leaves tantalizing his nostrils as late july crept around. the cigarette burnt through his puffs, the burnt ash flying with the air, leaving the roll with an orange glow. the dusk of the twilight enamoured him. he took another puff from his cigarette, letting the burnt feeling settle on his tastebuds.

‘hey,’ your touch was all too familiar on his skin. from feeling his skin to touching his skin, he’d grown to like your touch. it didn’t shudder his thoughts or nerves. it was familiar, a burn that he liked.

‘hi,’ he said, as you pulled the from cigarette between his lips. wrapping your lips around it, you pulled in the tobacco, letting it intoxicate your lungs. he watched the tip glow red, the smoke leaving your lips as he wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

‘never took you for a beach kinda guy,’

‘no?’

‘nah. with all those abs and all. more of a mountain and trekking guy i guess,’

‘well i have surprised you then.’ he said pulling your body closer. his finger slid between the strap of your bra through the t-shirt. he drew faint circles on your shoulder, enjoying the goosebumps that arose on your skin, and how your shook under his touch.

‘or maybe you have your fantasy with a beach fucking gateway. you do, don’t you?’ he chuckled, a deep rumble from his throat. hiding his face in the crook of your neck, he blew a breath of warm air on your skin, letting the wind cool it.

‘you really know me don’t you,’ he whispered. he heard your heart beat, growing its pace.

‘honestly, i don’t know what you’re waiting for,’ you replied, your tone low, laced with a veiled hunger. your hand crept around his neck, pulling him closer by the black t-shirt he was wearing. smiling against his mouth, you crept your hand into his locks.

‘in public?’ he smirked. you laughed, hitting his chest with a light blow.

‘no,’

but when his lips met yours in a fanatical frenzy, you found your mind reeling, pressed against the cold wall of his hotel room. it was numbing, as his lips bit all over your skin, marking you all over, his touch spreading a blossom of lust within you. you arched your hips, as he carried you to the bed, throwing you on the mattress.

pushing back a moan into your throat, you gulped as he tore your shirt off, ripped off your pants. your hands slid down to the zipper of his fly, but he slapped your hand away, his fingers circling your clit.

‘did i say you could?’ he said against your mouth. you could see the clouds of lust hidden in his gray irises. he increased the force of friction upon your clit, circling the sensitive mound more aggressively. you breathed heavy.

‘n-no’ his fingers met the warmth of your cunt, his rings cold against the heat of your throbbing hole.

‘so wet, just for me huh?’ he teased, sinking his teeth in the nape of your neck.

‘it’s never dry when you’re around, black,’ your chuckle was caught halfway with a whine as he slid his fingers into you. he curled his fingers into you, pressing onto your sensitive spot. you arched your hips, trying to get more friction.

‘that’s right sweetheart, ride my fucking fingers. cum on them. let me have a taste,’ he said, watching you unravel on his fingers. he liked the control over you, how you turned into putty just into his hands. he liked you to see you melt, to watch you become breathless, surrender to him. he liked how he knew your body like it was his. as if he could sculpt you out pore by pore with his eyes closed.

‘fuck,’ you whined as he latched his tongue onto your clit, sucking on it, letting you closer to the release. you were feral, breaking through the latches of your sanity as his tongue lapped on you, your thighs shaking around his head, pulling him closer. he could feel the clench of your walls around his fingers, the shaking of your thighs as you pulled him closer, letting him consume you.

he smiled against your cunt, devouring every bit of your sanity as you unravelled on his tongue, letting your orgasm paint his tongue and fingers. when he got up from between his legs, he pushed his fingers into your mouth, letting your taste fuse with your tastebuds.

‘you taste so good, you know that?’ he said, adjusting his torso between your thighs. you smiled, wrapping your hands around his neck as he pushed into you.

‘i know,’ you said, your tongue slipping into his mouth, as he gasped into your mouth. your walls stretched around his neck.

‘you better fuck me like you mean it, black,’ you demanded, as he groaned, pulling his cock out and thrusting into you again.

‘trust me, i always fuck you like i mean it, sweetheart,’ the way the nickname rolled off his tongue had you clenching your walls around his girth. he rammed into you, his hand meeting your throat, feeling the beat of your cunt and heart under his control.

‘sucha dirty girl,’ he moaned, rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb. you arched your hips, as he pushed the back of your head into the mattress. through the constriction, you felt the numb whiteness of pleasure consume you, your over sensitive cunt throbbing as you felt his pubic hair rub rough against your skin.

‘just for you, black,’ he smiled, running his fingers through his raven strands.

‘yeah? just for me?’ you nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to your body. his hand left your throat, pinning your hands over your head. he enjoyed the look of your breasts bouncing before latching his mouth on your nipple.

‘fuck-black, just like that,’ you groaned, as he pushed a rather rough thrust into you. the hoarseness in his voice was laced with a low growl paired with a rhythmic thrust brought you over the edge, as your orgasm unravelled and you painted his torso with your juices. he craned his neck at the sight, releasing himself into you, painting your insides with his cum. panting, he fell onto your body, his cock still buried deep inside you.

‘sweetheart, you get me so soaked,’ you tease, enjoying the soft bliss of his warmth.

‘always my pleasure, sweetheart.’

‘always my pleasure, sweetheart.’ the bartender said, pushing the glass of his drink towards him. he wrapped his lips around the glass, drowning the bittersweet drink down his throat. in the crevices of the dim light of the bar, he could see you, pushing your hips against the crotch of your new boyfriend. it was disgusting, how his hands roamed all over your body, his lips latched onto your neck.

he should’ve seen this coming. he should’ve believed james when he told him about the bastard. he should’ve seen past the barriers of fucking, the barriers of sex in hidden hotels, seen past the potential of rendezvous affairs in parking lots. he should’ve seen it earlier.

but sirius black was a stubborn man. he would get anything he wanted. so, he found himself at the bar, when your glass was empty with a loser of a boyfriend. he found himself on the edge of breaking his jaw when his hands crept on your thigh, tantalizing over your core. he could see it on your face, even if you were hidden in shadows. he could read it in your expressions, the little breathes that left your lips, the way you gulped, the curt curl of lips on your face.

he tapped his finger on his thigh, bouncing his leg. the bartender was fluttering his eyelashes at him, his sandy dusty hair falling in front of his eyes. he could see the honey glazed irises through the strands, as he licked his lips. sirius wasn’t foreign to such attention from women and men alike. it came with him being dashingly attractive and more than just a hollow shell to look at. his charisma could break through a brick-wall, if he wanted to.

but what he was foreign to was the fact he had somebody else on his mind. he didn’t have a subtle history of one-night stands or flings. it was raunchy, and he had left the culture for good, having unintentionally broken many hearts. but sirius black’s sex drive wasn’t to be extinguished so fast.

a stupid drunken night he’d hooked up with his best friend, you. he’d fallen into a void he thought he could escape. but he’d already fallen down the rabbit hole of madness, a stupor of lust, greed, and highness you brought down from heaven. it was a promiscuous affair, and neither of you backed up, and it became more than just a stupid hook up ‘accident’. it became an arrangement of sorts, a clandestine affair hidden within the darkness of parking lots or scabby motels. it was inescapable, and soon he found himself reminiscing the touch, the feel of your skin.

but even through the feelings he’d tried to ignore, he felt himself drowning into the need of your touch. in this drunk stare, he took the bartender and the girl who’d been practically eye-fucking him, to his flat it was angry and frustrated; he needed those feelings out his system. so, he found himself between a guy and girl, in a haze of lust. it was lore to be kept hidden when the girl scratched her nails deep into sirius’ back, her red lipstick marked all over his torso. the bartender took sirius from behind, stretching him out, as sirius rutted the girl’s guts into his mattress. his hand wrapped around sirius’ neck, placing his mouth on his, retching him with bruised lips.

he felt his orgasm tug low at his stomach, as the girl’s walls clenched around his cock. sirius dug his fingers into her waist, drowning in the high of alcohol and lust that wrecked his system. he missed your touch, your feel, your nasty words that helped him crawl down the euphoria of pleasure. in the distant cacophony of the low moans and skin-slapping, he found himself emptying into the condom.

‘fuck,’ he whispered as he felt the warmth flood behind his back. he felt the liquid slide down his thighs, lips latched onto the skin of his neck. it brought him a strange sense of discomfort. it wasn’t the first time he’d had a threesome, but somehow, he found himself hating it.

‘i need to go clean myself,’ he whispered. they nodded. sirius stood there, lingering, his waist uncharacteristically swaying.

‘you guys can clean yourself in my bathroom - and stay here for the night if you’d like. i-um i’ll sleep outside,’

he saw the girl giggle and wrap her arms around the bartender before wrapping her lips around his waist before he walked out into the hallway. he’d have to change the sheets the next day, he decided. even burn that were about to be stained with the deeds of strangers. it felt like a backfire of his plan but he was too tired to fight it.

you knew better than to respond to sirius’ text. you’d seen him bartender and a blonde girl home. it was a ploy, to make you jealous. you could read it in his face. but you were so tired of being the chase, of being the prey. you needed him to hunt you down, make you his. perhaps all he needed was a little push. so, you’d decided to the guy at work a chance. he was cute-physically at least. as the evening went on you realized he was nothing but a hollow shell, just a pretty thing to look at.

internally you cursed marlene who’d given you this ‘awesome idea’ to woo sirius and make him jealous. sirius black was a stubborn man and he’d make anything his if he set his eyes on it. all he needed was a little push over the edge to pursue his interests. a little push for him to set off the ticking bomb that was his anger issues. he’d bash out and admit his feelings any day. but it was the push he needed. so, you’d tolerated the guy throughout the evening hoping the sex wouldn’t be half as bad.

how wrong you were. his touches were rushed. but it wasn’t a sensual rush that led you into a headspace of arousal. it was a rush to see you naked. there was no foreplay what so ever, neither was there an effort to make you feel good. all he wanted to do was explore his pleasure, let down his high of euphoria. you didn’t even feel yourself close to the edge when he pulled out, chasing your lips with a bruising kiss.

you groaned, as he fell near you, panting slowly. his hand wrapped around your waist and he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck. his beard tickled the skin, and you found yourself hating it. it wasn’t like sirius’ soft stubble. it was scratchy, raising the sensors of your comfortability.

it was rabbit hole of fucking madness. you’d found yourself falling deep into the grave of lust and greed when sirius had hooked up with you on a drunk night when the summer air was humid. you found yourself filling the void of his heart without realizing it. you found yourself gaining a power, a control over him nobody else had. you found yourself falling with him, deep into a dorm of madhouse. it was inescapable, and somewhere along the clandestine rendezvous in hotels and parking lots, you allowed yourself to not escape.

you had messed with sirius, and you knew it was a bad news. and now he was messing with you. so, you turned around your screen of your phone on the nightstand.

‘had a threesome after so long.’

it was vulgar, short, yet enough to set you off the edge. even if you knew it, the confirmation made it worse.

‘why don’t i fuck you good enough?’

‘well, you’re fucking some loser from work.’

‘i’m fucking him, that’s not my boyfriend.’

‘big talk sweetheart, you went on a date with him. he’s your co-worker. as good as a boyfriend.’

‘he’s as hollow as your mother’s fried brain.’

‘rude.’

‘you agree with it.’

‘i do.’

you let out a short breath.

‘so…’

‘meet me in five.’

‘right.’

‘right,’ he said, munching on a fry. you chuckled, wiping a stripe of mayonnaise from the side of his lips.

‘that bad of a fuck huh?’ he teased, even though you could hear the bitter tone laced in his voice. sipping on your milkshake, you shrugged.

‘sooo bad. he didn’t even last like…10 minutes.’

‘i mean he must have never had sucha good pussy before,’ he whispered, leaning closer to you. it was a vile thing to say in public, but you were guarded by the windows of his car. you chuckled, throwing him a nervous blow of your tongue.

‘i’m not wrong,’ he winked.

‘i mean i must believe you. you’ve your experiences.’ you said, a stern tone in your voice. throwing the plastic cup into the polythene, you climbed over the seat, straddling his hips.

‘fuck,’ he groaned, arching his hips. when you unbuttoned your skimpy blouse, shoving your breasts into his face, he latched his mouth onto your nipple. you moaned, craning your neck, and hiding your fingers into his silky strands. this wasn’t a part of your plan…but how could you resist his mouth upon your body, his teeth marking spots on your skin as he fervently kissed you into a stupor till your mind went numb.

still, this felt different, when his finger explored your cunt through your underwear, rubbing soft on your clit. there was something in his eyes, a fire of agony, a fire of desire. something more than just lust. he unzipped his pants, letting out his cock.

‘fuck me,’ you said, your mouth against his. he raised an eyebrow.

‘no foreplay?’

‘oh, fuck you, black, it’s so wet already,’ you groaned, rubbing your cunt against his skin of his girth. a devious smirk tasted upon his kiss bitten lips.

‘it’s so wet for me, isn’t it?’ he said, positioning the tip of his cock at your core, teasing your slit.

‘yes, yes,’ you groaned. when he entered you, it was a delicious stretch that burned through you. he grabbed your neck, pressing so slowly on your artery.

‘look at me, look at me, sweetheart,’ your eyes glazed over his, and you found yourself lost into the crevice of madness into his gray eyes. he rammed his hips into you, your thighs shaking as he did so. he brought your face closer to his, and licked over your lips.

‘you’re such a sweetheart for me. such a slave for my cock, even though you’ve got a stupid boyfriend at home,’

when sirius dropped by your office, he didn’t expect you to be… for a lack of better words, making out with your co-worker. the heat from the coffee he’d been holding seeped through his fingers. he felt his brain sizzle with emotion, an anger that soaked his nerves with a nausea an overwhelming desire to fucking bash that bastard’s head. his heart pounded threateningly against his ribcage, his feelings swallowing him whole. his eyes burned from unshed tears. he saw red, fucking red when you slipped your hand into the bastard’s pant, going down on your knees, licking your lips.

in the middle of the fucking day, in your office cabin you were ready to offer head to that excuse of a boyfriend. it was disgusting, gross- it made him feel things he’d never felt before. he felt obsessive, as a strange sense of possessiveness took over his senses. he felt his blood boil, his head reeling with viciously violent thoughts.

he stood there, watching through the curtain of his unshed tears as you felt somebody who wasn’t him. his hands shook as he walked out of the office, throwing the cup of coffee into the bin. truth be told, he wanted to ask you out, ‘gain a pair’ as james told him, since ‘it wasn’t too late’. he wanted to take you to dinner, a proper date with all the ‘gentlemanly shit,’ as marlene suggested.

‘you won’t break your heart,’ a famished lily had told him as sirius fondled with his godson’s cheeks. remus agreed with her, giving him a piece of chocolate as encouragement. and for the first time in their life, sirius thought, they were wrong. they were wrong. you wanted nothing more than sex from him. your heart wasn’t his, even if his was yours. you didn’t wear your heart on a sleeve like he did. you weren’t his to lose. but it still hurt.

it still pitied a fire into his stomach. a fire of agony, a desire. a fire which was fuelled by the diesel that was you. by the diesel that was your touch, your feel, your scent, your smile, your words, your body. by the diesel that were you. he decided perhaps, it was time to go. even if he wasn’t ready to go, perhaps he was. perhaps that’s how he’d be healed, if he ran away from you. from the ecstasy that you brought him. if he fled his thoughts that were full of you.

sirius wiped his hands on the side of his apron. as someone who’d never baked a day in his life before, peter’s advice helped him to make a darn good cake. it came out as a regular sponge, but he had an eye for decorations. from a boring old sponge cake, it was transformed into a beautiful cake. now he could only hope harry would like it.

he took a picture and sent it to you. he didn’t ignore you, as he thought he would, but he certainly never met you physically. he never met you alone in shabby corners or was left alone with you. perhaps you were done with him. but you were his friend, a damn good one at that, and he couldn’t let that bond break just because you didn’t want anything to do with him. perhaps he’d never be good enough for you.

‘you going today?’ you texted.

‘no i made this cake for myself.’

‘just answer the damn question god damn.’

‘obviously i’m coming.’

‘that’s what she said.’

‘middle school boy humour.’

‘hmmm… i know.’

the bubbles appeared and re-appeared on his screen. he didn’t text you back until you got off whatever you had on your chest.

‘can you… come over?’

he found himself questioning the text, instead of replying right away. he wasn’t ready to go, not yet. but he didn’t want to leave with a broken heart either. luckily for you, he was damn good at making bad decisions.

‘yes.’

‘yes,’ your moan muffled against the pillow as his cock plunged into you, his finger tips sinking into the soft flesh of your ass. the dress you were wearing for the party had been long discarded on the floor. you could hear him whimpering as your finger bruised circles on your clit. your walls clenched deliciously around his cock, your orgasm at the brink of your sanity.

sirius’ tatted hand wrapped around your neck as he brough your shaking body closer to his. he pushed his slender fingers into your mouth, as you gaggled around them, spit drooling around his fingers. the room was filled with the sound of skin slapping and guttural moans. it wasn’t a drunk accident. the both of you were very sober when you decided to ravage each other.

‘you’re sucha nasty-’ he moaned, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as you clenched tighter around him. he was feral, as he hit a particularly deep spot inside you at this position. it made you see fucking stars, and you practically screamed as your thighs shook.

‘i’m sucha nasty girl, no? just for you black,’ you whispered, your throat raw with the guttural moans and screams that emitted out of your lips.

‘that’s right sweetheart,’ he said, his voice low and rough. you nodded, as you broke the sweat, your orgasm escaping through your body as he licked a filthy stripe from your neck to your ear.

‘fuck,’ he gasped, as he emptied into you, his seed filling into you like white ropes. he pinched your skin, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he came down from the high of the pleasure you brought him.

your weak body fell slump onto the bed, and you turned around on your back. you brought him down by looping your finger through his silver chain. you slipped your tongue into his mouth, teeth sinking into his lips. he twisted his fingers into your hair, hungrily consuming the saccharine taste of your lips.

‘stay?’ you asked, breathless. sirius could feel a pool of anger pit into his stomach.

‘no,’ he on your lips. he could read the hurt in your eyes but he thought he just imagined it. obviously, he did. he had to stop falling into the spectrum of your attraction. he had stop being there, hanging in there just to be your little sex toy.

‘why not?’

‘i- i can’t,’ he said, getting up, distancing himself from you. he could feel his heart break as you covered yourself with the sheet under you.

‘you’ve a boyfriend.’ he whispered, as he put on his clothes.

‘that didn’t stop you from brainfucking me the other night-‘

‘i-i was out of my mind.’

‘i- i want you to stay.’

‘no.’

‘please.’

‘i’m sorry.’

‘why?’

because i don’t recognise you anymore. i don’t recognise the girl i once had. the only thing i recognise is the not half as bad sex. i’ve lost you.

‘i- i want you to know, i’m ready to go.’ throwing you a sad look, he left without giving you an explanation.

sirius had found you sitting at the bar. you weren’t expecting him of course. you hadn’t reached out to him ever since he’d left. he hated to say it, but he missed you. incurable was the void his heart had created. he missed something that wasn’t him, someone who wasn’t his. he had boiling anger surging within him, but he wanted to see you. his heart overruled his brain, so he approached you.

‘hi,’ he said. he half expected you to bash out at him. but you didn’t. instead, you gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

‘hey,’ you said. taking a sip of your drink. i’ve missed you.

‘so alone in a bar? on a thursday night?’

‘yep,’ you said, a little too cheerfully to be honest. his hand gripped yours. your heart broke. he wasn’t ready to go, not yet.

‘are you okay?’ he asked. you crept your hand around his neck. there was something in your eyes. something he’d never seen. something too pure for it to be just lust. something of an unreadable lore.

‘can we talk in private?’ he thought about your question. the last time, talking in private turned into a fuck session where he’d realized he didn’t recognise you anymore. but he was damn good at listening to his heart when you were around.

so, he agreed which resulted him taking you home. your hands wrapped around his waist as you held onto him. the skimpy dress you’d been wearing didn’t provide much of a coverage through the cool air. the engine of his motorbike died as he stopped it at your house.

it was a quiet feeling that submerged the both of you. your minds and hearts were full of unsaid words. a seething rage of desire settled deep into your nerves. you wanted nothing but to grab him and kiss him stupid. tell him how much you loved him. but you needed to talk. talk about your feelings and his. talk about the mad rabbit hole you’d fallen into.

‘hi,’ you said, unlocking the door. he smiled.

‘so, what did you want to say?’ you twiddled with your mouth. now that you had him, you didn’t know how to say anything. you walked towards your table, and poured a glass of water for yourself, a fake liquid courage. he stood on the other side, waiting patiently for you to say something.

‘for a lack of better words, i have no idea how to say this. but i still will. because i can’t go long without getting this off my chest,’ you voice broke, and you felt your cheeks heat up as the words left your mouth.

‘in simple words, the guy i was dating was a ploy, to get you jealous. i thought a little push would get you to admit how you felt. i- i’m in love with you.’ you said, whispering the last part. you met his eyes, hoping he’d say something. but there was nothing. a pregnant silence where none said anything.

‘so you’re telling me you’ve loved me for all this while?’ he spat, exploding into a fume of anger you’d never seen seethe within him before. you nodded.

‘i- i’m in love with you, sirius.’ sirius felt his heart explode. anger spilled into every crevice of his heart and he felt his words spill before he could control himself.

'fuck this! what even are we? are we best friends? are we fucking? are we dating? something in between that?' he said, slamming his wrist on your table. his eyes wandered over your body, taking in your features through the silky skimpy dress clad on your body. he stopped at your lips.

you could feel the heat radiate off his body when walked towards you pinning your body to the cold wall behind your wall. his hand crept on your cheek, finger stroking at your mouth. he leaned closer, brushing his nose against yours, his hair tickling your face.

the fury agonized a fire within him which only you could extinguish. it spread into his gut, crawling out with an intensity of lust. he could feel you melting into his touch, like you always did.

'i wish we never fucked, and i mean that.' he said, a cold threat laced into his voice. even in the spiral of lust or greed, you'd never seen his eyes so dark. you'd never seen the pure genuine anger which crumbled him into shattered pieces. still, you felt his touch ignite your skin, melting into the tension, the diesel of desire. it was the fire you liked playing with. gripping his t-shirt collar, you pushed his mouth near yours,

'do you mean that?' he brushed his lips against yours, taking your lower lip between his teeth.

'no, not really,'

a deep rumble held onto his chest when you pushed your mouth onto his lips, converging your feelings deep into his brain. he felt his heart thump angrily against his ribcage as he held onto you. in the mist of the clouds, he found you to be his muse. he found himself seeing nobody but you. you’d gotten him hooked.

when you parted, he was breathless, a stupid smile plastered on his face. his cheeks were dusted pink. he leaned his forehead on your temple, as you chuckled. your arms wrapping around his waist.

‘tell me you love me too,’ you said, a tone of insecurity laced into your voice. he crept his hand on your cheek, stroking his finger onto the skin.

‘look at me, sweetheart.’ when you met his eyes, an unfamiliar shyness took over you.

‘i’m yours. you’re mine. i love you too. let me take you out tomorrow?’ he said against your mouth.

************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

taglist (for series)- @iqr-x

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox. specify whether you want to be tagged in just the series or all my upcoming works.)

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #marauders #sirius black #sirius x reader #sirius black smut #the marauders #sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #marauders era #sirius black thoughts #sirius black x oc #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanart #sirius being sirius #sirius black fluff #sirius black angst #fanfiction #james & peter & remus & sirius

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a-asterias · 2 years ago

Text

— micaela's march recs

ty to all these amazing writers who have left me with butterflies in my stomach and/or tears rolling down my face, much appreciated <3

LOCKWOOD AND CO.

— anthony lockwood.

the language of longing by @fleetingvow

midnight talks by @websterss

↳ cuddle comfort

AVATAR

— neteyam.

tell me it's not true by @sullybby

MARVEL

— matt murdock.

paper rings by @sunflowerdjarin

i broke my heart for you by @atlaese

— bucky barnes.

little lion man by @wkemeup

↳ graveyard

— druig.

love me harder by @fireinmoonshot

GRISHAVERSE

— nikolai lantsov.

it looks better on you by @goldengoddess

pretty privateer by @magpiencrow

loving you is the antidote by @sumsebien

unbearable by @holden-caulfield

↳ a special occasion

speechless by @fishley

i'd choose you by @xsamsharons

↳ come here often?

↳ moi tsarevich

— kaz brekker.

inflicted desire by @meadowscarlet

DAISY JONES AND THE SIX

— warren rojas/rhodes.

rhythm of our love by @mlwriting5

pretty lady by @hellogeegee

HARRY POTTER

— fred weasley.

please don't touch the artwork by @writesowhatnext

— george weasley.

pretending is a gateway drug by @writesowhatnext

↳ it's so mysterious to me

↳ we're only getting older, baby

— theodore nott.

our secrets are burried shallow by @acosmis-t

MARAUDERS

— james potter.

saudade by @embrassemoi

a moment in the library by @heloisedaphnebrightmore

— sirius black.

the worst wingman by @theweasleysredhair

— remus lupin.

if it wasn't for you meddling kids by @writesowhatnext

the girl with the books by @solemnarration

BRIDGERTON

— benedict bridgerton.

spare me a moment? by @iliveiloveiwrite

— anthony bridgerton.

brilliant plan by @heloisedaphnebrightmore

OUTER BANKS

— rafe cameron.

plastic plants by @pogueszn

i need a favor by @magpiencrow

#anthony lockwood x reader #neteyam x reader #matt murdock x reader #bucky barnes x reader #druig x reader #nikolai lantsov x reader #warren rojas x reader #fred weasley x reader #george weasley x reader #theodore nott x reader #james potter x reader #sirius black x reader #remus lupin x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #rafe cameron x reader #kaz brekker x reader #micaela's recs

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lulublack90 · 6 days ago

Text

Prompt 8 - Trophy Room

@wolfstarmicrofic November 8, word count 557

Previous part First part

The door slammed shut behind them and faded from view. Sirius didn’t like this one bit.

The room they had walked into was full of trophies. Some were tiny things no bigger than thimbles, others were nearly as tall as Sirius himself and they were everywhere. Every surface, including the floor, had a trophy, some were even suspended from the ceiling on strings. At the far end of the room lay another door.

“Well, I guess we should try the door?” Sirius said, raising a brow at Remus. The Grim offered a rumbling growl from his chest, and they walked towards the door.

Sirius managed to get about halfway across, dipping and weaving around the trophies, not wanting to knock any over and risk breaking them. He’d just walked past a particularly pointy one, first place for fencing, when the sound of metal hitting stone rang out. Deafening in the silence of the room.

The trophy bounced a few times, ringing out as it did, before coming to a stop. Remus had retreated from the sound after his tail had flicked and knocked it over. “Try to be more careful, my love, we don’t…” But whatever he’d been about to say, died in his throat as the trophy on the floor trembled and split into two. “Remus come away,”

The trophies trembled again, and both spilt into another. “That can’t be good,” Sirius muttered. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

One of the trophies hit a spindly displace and knocked more trophies on the floor, instantly splitting, each faster than the last. “Run, Remus!” Sirius urged as the trophies began to pile up.

They ran as fast as they could but were soon swept up in the wave of bronze, silver and gold. “Remus!” Sirius called out, losing sight of the massive black dog. “Remus!” He heard a yelp below the sea of trophies and pushed through them the best he could, his hand brushing against something warm and soft. He lifted Remus’s head above the trophies and led him towards the far end of the Trophy Room.

Their progress slowed as they battled against the onslaught. Sirius dared to glance behind and wished he hadn’t, as the multiplying trophies had reached the ceiling and were knocking over more and more. The door was slowly being buried by the blasted things.

Suddenly, Sirius and Remus were being forced forward, the wall of awards had caught up to them. Sirius’s eyes widened in horror as he realised what was about to happen. They were about to be crushed into the wall by tons of metal.

He shoved Remus over as far as he could, lining him up for the door. “Trust me,” He shouted over the cacophony of banging and ringing. Remus couldn’t talk, but he could have sworn he heard Remus’s voice say ‘Always,’ inside his head.

Sirius pulled himself so he was in front of Remus. They were feet away from the far wall now. He reached out and grabbed the doorknob, twisting it until the door gateway, and they tumbled through, the door slamming shut behind them and vanishing into the stonework. Sirius let his head flop back onto the floor as he let out a long breath of relief. They’d done it.

“Ahem!” A voice behind them coughed, and Sirius groaned. What now?

Next part

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marigold-hills · 4 months ago

Text

Dunes & Waters, part 13

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

He stops himself. Pulls his fingers away from Sirius’ hair. They look at each other and Sirius’ face says: the next time you touch me will it be with kindness or with ire? Remus wants to answer kindness, always, but he can’t. Not with what they are to each other: nothing but strangers thrust against their will into proximity. A man like Sirius never would have talked to a man like Remus in different conditions and the same is true the other way around. Remus is a cautious man. He’s never spoken to a convict before, and had the situation been different and he heard of Sirius he would have thought good riddance and walked the other way.

Now, his judgement is clouded by crossword puzzles and mornings at a kitchen table. Strands of hair which should be soft. Eyes, large and pleading, saying understand me, or at least listen.

Despite his best intentions, he wants to listen.

(He’ll remember this later, this moment with soft light and a room in disarray, with tiny cuts on his fingertips, as a tipping of a scale. A gateway, or a way stone. This is when it changed, he’ll say if they talk about it. For now he doesn’t know that. They’re two: Remus is Remus and Sirius is Sirius and they’re two people in a room blown up by emotions.)

Remus doesn’t rush - hadn’t rushed - to check on the priceless, ageless books, nor the trinkets and artefacts on the shelves. He should. In any other circumstance, nothing could have stopped him from it. Instead, he’s kneeling by Sirius’ chair like moving will irreparably damage something.

Sirius is taking in deep breaths now, even. Calm, or maybe calming still. A moment of recovery. His eyes are wide and a little bit feral and Remus, with startling clarity, thinks somebody beat this man. When he was bound and wandless and defenceless, the guards took their anger to him. Remus saw the proof.

He’s not a violent man. Never been impulsive. But here? He wants to take fire to the Muggle jail, run the guards out like rats from a sinking ship and wait for them at the exit.

Those are not thoughts he ever entertains. There is enough violence in him during the full moon, and he doesn’t welcome more – for nothing and for no one. Despite everything, he found himself a place in society, clawed it out with patience and determination, each time he was told he didn’t belong a notch on a bedpost that, perversely, kept him going. Each time kept him more mild-mannered, desperate to prove he could be part of academia and part of the world and that he belongs damn it.

One look at Sirius and all of that threatens to become undone.

He steps away. Feels each movement like a crack in his bones, but he gets up and he steps away.

NEXT PART

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frangipanilove · 2 months ago

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Thoughts on the latest Spain spoilers; are we going to the “Dog Islands”? Plus a tangent on alcohol, pilgrimage and a cure.

In light of the latest Spain spoilers laid out in this post by @bookqueenrules, I wanted to bring back this post that I wrote back in April, when the first rumors of TWDDD filming in Spain appeared. The currently unconfirmed spoilers below describe how Daryl and Carol arrive on the coast of Galicia:

Like I explained in the post from April, themes of Spain, Santiago de Compostela, and pilgrimage under the “way under the field of stars” have been lurking in the background of the show since at least 5x8 Coda, possibly even further back. We now know that there will be filming in Galicia/ Santiago de Compostela (read here) and I can’t help but feeling that it’s all coming together. In this post, I talked about how Santiago de Compostela could be tied to “the green route” written on Morgan’s wall back in 3x12 Clear, and how that potentially could be a tie to Beth (whose last name is Greene), and how the Northern Way of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, which goes through an area called “Green Spain” could be significant for TD.

(I’ve also discussed the themes of Spain, Santiago de Compostela and pilgrimage in more detail here, here)

Also, @galadrieljones made an incredible discovery while researching some coordinates from FTWD, coordinates that supposedly were pointing to a repeater station in Georgia, but in reality pointed to an area of the Atlantic Ocean near the Canary Islands (which are Spanish territory located outside the West African coast).

There are several interesting aspects to the Canary Islands, aside from being loved holiday destinations for sun-deprived North Europeans (of which I am one). The name itself comes from Latin Canis, which means "dog". There's even a breed of dogs local to the islands, Presa Canario.

Again, the dog theme is super significant in TWDU. I’ve talked about the Sirius symbolism incessantly since 4x13 Alone, when Beth and Daryl were visited by a one-eyed, white dog, embodying the spirit of Sirius the Dog Star, the star that returns to the night sky after having been missing for …let’s just say several seasons. 4x13 was when I became aware of this particular symbolism, but in reality it’s been present since the pilot 1x1 Days Gone Bye, which I’ve also discussed in several posts.

Sirius the Dog Star is located in the star constellation Canis Major, “canis” is Latin for “dog”, and the Canary Islands can be translated to “Dog Islands”. And as @galadrieljones discovered, coordinates from FTWD pointed in that direction.

I’ve laid out the theoretical foundations of the Sirius symbolism in many posts over the years, here’s one of the first ones I wrote on it.

So yeah, there’s that. Lots of dog/Sirius symbolism. Additionally, the Canary Islands serve as an important gateway to transatlantic crossings. This is due to their favorable position in the Atlantic Ocean, where the trade winds historically has aided vessels across the ocean.

Could this latest development, with Daryl and Carol reportedly aiming to cross the Atlantic on a boat from the UK, lend itself to a future storyline where they instead have to cross from the Canary Islands, or shall we say Dog Islands?

This could, in the narrative, serve as a plausible solution in Daryl and Carol’s quest to RETURN to the US after their European adventure. See what I did there? Sirius symbolism is about returns/rebirths/resurrections. Where better to achieve that than on a group of island whose name literally means Dog Islands? That’s double Sirius symbolism.

And of course, for TD, the big question is, will Beth, the Sirius figure, return (or RESURRECT) with them? Will they find her there, or have they already found her and she’s the one who suggests returning via the Canary (Dog) Islands?

I have no idea, just throwing out suggestions here. We won’t know until we know, plus keep in mind these are, at the time of writing, unconfirmed rumors. However, it is interesting how spoilers constantly seem to be perfectly aligned with theories we already explored months and years ago.

And on a personal note, I started theorizing about Santiago de Compostela and pilgrimage literally after 5x8 Coda, and now, all these years later, we have confirmed reports on filming in Santiago de Compostela, on a show that was originally called Pilgrim.

Of course that doesn’t prove anything, but it gives me the feeling we might be on to something 👀

Finally, I will mention that I believe “the green(e) route” from Morgan’s wall (possibly represented by the Northern Way to Santiago de Compostela, through “Green Spain”), will be tied to not only Beth’s “resurrection” specifically, but rather a “resurrection” of human kind in the form of a vaccine/cure/treatment to the Wildfire zombie virus. I talked about how that was foreshadowed in 4x4 Indifference in this post, where we saw Daryl completely mesmerized by a green jasper he found, literally a "rock in the road", while they were out searching for antibiotics to combat the prison flu back in season 4.

My hypothesis is that the “rock in the road” is a reference to St. Roch, pilgrim and patron saint of plague victims, known to have healing powers, who was himself healed from the plague when a stray dog licked his wounds. He therefore also became patron saint of dogs and dog lovers:

See how there’s dog/Sirius symbolism in that? Sirius symbolism is ultimately about resurrection, rebirth and returns, and what represents resurrection more than an actual cure to the zombie virus?

In 4x4 Indifference, Daryl and company were specifically out searching for antibiotics (a "cure for the plague”) when he found the green(e) “Roch in the Road”. I believe that’s a metaphor for how we will find hints of a cure in relation to symbolism that deals with pilgrimage (St. Roch and Santiago de Compostela), something green (Beth Greene and green(e) Spain) and that Beth’s resurrection will be a metaphor for the revival of humanity.

@galadrieljones recently wrote an incredible post on how she believes the bottles of green Chartreuse spotted in the trailer for TBOC might be a nod to a historical template for how scientists working on a cure for the zombie virus were exiled to Spain, modeled after real events where monks producing Chartreuse were exiled to Spain in the past. Go read it, it's excellent!

The Chartreuse can be seen on the table under the Mona Lisa painting in this screenshot:

I’ve been meaning to write a separate post replying to the Chartreuse post, and I still have every intention of doing so one of these days, I just don’t have the greatest time-management skills, I guess 😄 I don’t know where time went, this summer was super busy. But it’s coming, I promise!

In the meantime, I’ll just say that I believe the Chartreuse hypothesis sounds more than plausible, in fact I’ve written several posts on how in TWDU, alcohol has always been used as a metaphor for “the antidote”, meaning a cure, such as here, where I also explain how it is Sirius symbolism.

In FTWD 4x16 I Lose Myself, we saw this meticulously explained when our heroes had to find a way to survive being poisened by antifreeze containing methanol:

I wrote a post on that, read it here.

Remember how in 4x4 Indifference, at the veterinary college where they found the antibiotics that ultimately saved the lives of the flu victims that were dying, Bob famously also found a bottle of brandy:

Daryl did not approve, to say the least. He felt Bob should have focused on finding antibiotics for the plagued prison population. However, TPTB, by placing the bottle of brandy among the antibiotics, cleverly made sure to establish an association between the alcohol and the antibiotics, the "antidote/cure".

They also did that earlier in the episode, when they came across a gas station where several people had committed suicide by drinking antifreeze, which often contains methanol. This was a storyline that was later repeated in FTWD 4x16 I lose myself, which I mentioned above, where they explicitly articulate "the antidote is ethanol". Again, the takeaway for us is that alcohol is a metaphor for a cure.

The antidote to methanol poisoning is ethanol, otherwise known as alcohol. So where methanol is the poison, ethanol/alcohol is the cure. Meaning, TPTB established alcohol as metaphor for a "cure" all the way back in 4x4 Indifference, first by showing the deadly effects of the "opposite" of alcohol, meaning methanol. Then they did so again, by strategically placing a bottle of alcohol among actual antibiotics, the actual cure which helped heal the sick prison community.

I also elaborated on this in the Fighting Fire With Fire posts (here, here and here).

Long story short, alchohol has been used as a metaphor for a "cure" since at least 4x4 Indifference, where we also saw Daryl find a "Roch in the road", which in my opinion was a reference to the pilgrim St.Roch, patron saint of plague victims, known to be able to heal people from the plague, as well as being healed himself. Basically, it's peak "cure" symbolism.

I believe the fact that Daryl's "Roch in the road" was green, is a nod to Green Spain, a stretch of land that needs to be crossed (in pilgrimage) in order to get to the real cure, which potentially could be under production in Spain, possibly somewhere near Santiago de Compostela, a world famous destination of pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage has always been about healing in some way, shape or form, and we saw this clearly with Morgan, in the coda after 5x8 Coda, when he reached Father Gabriel's church as though it was the destination of his pilgrimage. The last time we had seen him, in 3x12 Clear, he had been a tormented soul, now he was a pilgrim reaching his destination, and he was "healed".

He "resurrected" a cross, which TD interpreted as a foreshadow of the "resurrection" of Beth, who had "died" just moments earlier.

And I believe we will see the resurrection of a certain Beth Greene, which will serve as a metaphor for the revival of hummanity, meaning a cure for the Wildfire virus. Fighting Fire With Fire.

#team delusional #team defiance #bethyl #daryl dixon #beth greene #the walking dead #twd #twddd #ddtboc #the book of carol #tboc #twd daryl dixon

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