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Not replacing anyone!
I’m looking to do an MXM roleplay!
One where two guys are dating! I have two short plots you could choose from!! And we can always switch it up!
Rules!!
1. 18+ because I’m definitely thinking smut being incorporated into the rp
2. I’d prefer someone semi-lit! So not too long or too short
3. I only do and accept FC’s of REAL people only!!!!
Yes we can send pictures of outfits, looks, etc. if you’d like!
Preferably want to chat on discord!
Dm me here to rp!
Sirius Black ch 3 posted gang i did it yimotherfuckingpee abt to go down a Modelo l8r
VOLUME 003 ✰༄
“And now Mulciber’s face is in pieces.”
After a violent confrontation at the Clocktower left Y/N a pariah, they are forced into an uneasy, high-tension proximity, with Sirius acting as Y/N's unwilling guardian while the bond tests their mutual hatred and volatile connection.
Warnings: Heavy swearing, flirting/sexual tension, heavy bullying, emotional tension, description of injuries. Ps i do NOT support she who shall not be named at all I'm just obsessed with Harry Potter so why not write some gay shit out of spite!
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room was too thick, too warm, and far too loud. It felt like a physical affront. James was mid-sentence, his hands animatedly describing a play for the next match, and Peter was laughing at something that had happened in Transfiguration. To everyone else, it was just another Tuesday night—the gold and scarlet tapestries glowing in the hearth-light, the scent of cedar and old parchment wrapping around them like a blanket.
But for Sirius, it felt like being trapped in a bell jar. He was sitting in his usual armchair, his broad frame slouched so low his head rested against the moth-eaten velvet. He wasn't participating. He was staring at the flickering embers with a hollow, fixed intensity, his jaw tight.
On the small table beside him sat a single, crumpled cigarette—cherry tobacco. He hadn’t lit it. He just kept rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the dry crinkle of the paper.
"Padfoot, you're doing it again," James said, his voice dropping the theatrical edge. He leaned forward, his glasses reflecting the fire. "You've been staring at that log for twenty minutes. You look like you're at a funeral."
Sirius didn't look up. The word *funeral* felt uncomfortably close to the truth.
"Just thinking, Prongs," Sirius rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
"About the Slytherin?" Peter asked tentatively.
Sirius’s hand clenched, nearly crushing the cigarette. He thought about the Clocktower.
He thought about the way Y/N’s slim, muscular frame had felt pinned against the stone—not like a partner, but like a cornered thing. He thought about the crack of Y/N’s knuckles against his cheek and the raw, jagged look in Y/N's eyes afterward.
He had gone into that moment driven by a predatory, desperate hunger to have, to touch, to claim. He hadn't meant to cause this much damage. He had just wanted to feel the friction. But as he sat in the warmth of his own House, surrounded by the brothers who loved him, he realized the cost was entirely one-sided.
Y/N didn't have a safety net. Sirius had dragged him out into the light of a rivalry he never asked for, and then he’d left him there, stained in neon ink and targeted by his own Housemates.
"He's an outcast, James," Sirius said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. "He was already an outcast. And I... I made it worse. I thought I was 'fighting' him. I thought we were equals."
"You guys were fighting," James said, confused. "He gave as good as he got, Sirius. He's one of the best duelists in that year."
"It's not about the spells," Sirius snapped, finally looking up. His gray eyes were dark, shadowed by a guilt he couldn't name. "He’s powerful, yeah. But he’s alone. And every time I touch him, every time I pull him into our mess, I’m just burying him deeper."
He looked back at the cherry cigarette. It was a relic. A tiny, fragile thing he’d stolen from a boy who was currently fighting a war on two fronts because Sirius Black couldn't control his own gravity.
He stood up abruptly, the movement jarring the table. "I’m going to bed."
"It's only eight," Peter noted.
Sirius didn't answer. He climbed the spiral stairs to the dormitory, the sound of his own heavy footsteps echoing in the stone tower. He felt the weight of every choice he'd made since the Sump. He wasn't just losing his grip on the "fun" of the rivalry; he was losing the version of Y/N he actually respected—the one who had been safe in his own silence until Sirius decided to break it.
He lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and closed his eyes. In the dark, he could still taste the copper and the smoke. He realized that the "impasse" wasn't just a choice Y/N had made—it was a consequence Sirius had earned.
While the warmth of the Gryffindor tower felt like a sanctuary, the air in the Slytherin dungeons was cold, damp, and smelled of old moss and repressed resentment.
Y/N sat in the far corner of the common room, the green glow of the fire casting deep, jagged shadows across his face. He was leaning back in a leather armchair that felt more like a throne of glass than a seat. His arms were bare, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint, yellowish bruises from his last "interaction" with Mulciber’s crew.
He wasn't reading. He wasn't studying. He was simply sitting there, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the common room, his jaw set in a line so hard it looked carved from stone.
The atmosphere in the room changed the moment Mulciber and Avery walked in. The low hum of conversation among the younger years died instantly. It wasn't the silence of respect; it was the silence of a shark entering a reef.
"Still here, then?" Mulciber sneered, stopping a few feet from Y/N’s chair. He didn't have his wand out, but his hand was resting on the back of a nearby sofa, his knuckles white. "Thought maybe you’d moved into the Gryffindor tower by now. You certainly seem to spend enough time pinned against their walls."
A few of the sixth-years snickered, the sound echoing hollowly against the stone.
Y/N didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just let his gaze drift slowly up to Mulciber’s face, his expression one of bored, dangerous indifference. "You talk a lot for someone who still hasn't figured out how to cast a Shield Charm properly, Mulciber."
The snickering stopped. Mulciber’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. "You think you’re untouchable because Black has a thing for you? You think that makes you special?"
"I think," Y/N said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal rasp that carried across the room, "that if you say his name one more time, I’m going to show you exactly how 'untouchable' I am. And I won't need a wand to do it."
He shifted slightly, the functional strength in his shoulders tensing. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to snap. Despite the exhaustion deep in his marrow and the hollow ache in his chest from the Clocktower, the "outcast" in him was still very much a fighter.
Mulciber hesitated. He looked at Y/N’s taped knuckles, then at the cold, dead look in his eyes, and decided it wasn't the night for a hospital wing visit. He spat on the floor near Y/N’s boot and stalked off toward the dorms, Avery trailing behind him like a dog.
When they were gone, the common room didn't return to normal. The younger students avoided Y/N’s gaze, drifting away to other corners. He was a pariah. He was the "compromised" Slytherin, the boy who had let a Gryffindor get too close, and in this House, that was a death sentence for your reputation.
Y/N reached into his pocket and pulled out a bent cigarette. He went to light it, but his hand stopped mid-air. The scent of the cherry tobacco hit him, and for a split second, he wasn't in the dungeons. He was back against the granite of the Clocktower, feeling the broad, solid weight of Sirius against him, tasting the salt and the desperation.
He felt a sharp, jagged surge of revulsion—not for Sirius, but for the fact that even now, in the middle of a siege, he still wanted the very person who had put the target on his back.
He crushed the unlit cigarette in his palm, the dry tobacco spilling onto the floor like ash.
"I'm not coming back," he whispered to the empty room, though whether he meant to Sirius or to the person he used to be, he wasn't sure.
He stood up, his slim frame looking jagged and sharp in the firelight, and walked toward the dorms. He moved with a stiff, guarded grace, every muscle ready for an attack that he knew was coming, eventually. He was alone, he was hated, and he was exhausted—but he was still standing.
———————————————————————
The Great Hall was a roar of clashing cutlery and adolescent laughter, a sound that usually felt like home to Sirius. But tonight, it was just grating. He sat at the Gryffindor table, picking at a piece of dry toast, his broad shoulders hunched. The bruise on his jaw had turned an angry, mottled yellow at the edges.
Every time he looked toward the Slytherin table, he felt a sharp, bitter twist in his gut. He was angry—furious that Y/N had hit him, furious that Y/N was right, and even more furious that he couldn't stop looking for that slim, rigid silhouette in the crowd. He didn't want to help Y/N; he wanted to shake him, or maybe just be near him until the world made sense again. But the "impasse" was a cold, jagged thing between them now.
Across the room, Y/N wasn't eating. He was staring at a spot on the stone floor, his hands shoved deep into his robes. The "siege" was visible in the way the students around him left a five-foot gap on either side, as if his isolation were contagious.
"A moment of your time, if you please."
The voice was quiet, but it sliced through the fog in Y/N’s head like a blade. He looked up to see Dumbledore standing near the side chamber of the Great Hall. The Headmaster wasn't looking at him with his usual twinkling curiosity; his gaze was steady, heavy with a weight that felt ancient.
Y/N followed him into the small, circular office off the hall. As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence of the room hit Y/N like a physical blow.
"You look quite weary," Dumbledore began, folding his long, thin hands on the desk. "The conflict between the Houses has reached a fever pitch, it seems. And you, I fear, have become the lightning rod."
Y/N opened his mouth to give a sharp, guarded retort—to say he was fine, to tell the old man to mind his own business—but then it started.
A low hum, like the vibration of a distant hive, began at the base of his skull. Within seconds, it sharpened into a piercing, high-pitched ring that drowned out the sound of the ticking clocks in the room. Dumbledore’s lips were moving. He was saying something about "choices" or "consequences," but Y/N couldn't hear a single word.
The room blurred. All Y/N could see were Dumbledore’s eyes—blue, piercing, and strangely devoid of surprise. Dumbledore wasn't reacting to Y/N’s distress; he was watching it, like an alchemist watching a reaction he’d seen a thousand times before.
Y/N felt a cold sweat break across his lean chest. The ringing was deafening now, a wall of white noise that made his teeth ache. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a great, dark height.
Just say it. Tell him you’re fine.
"I'm okay, Professor," Y/N blurted out, his own voice sounding like it was underwater.
The ringing stopped instantly. The silence that rushed back in was so sudden it made Y/N’s ears pop.
Dumbledore leaned back, his half-moon spectacles catching the candlelight. He didn't push. He didn't offer a lemon drop. He simply watched the way Y/N’s muscles trembled with the effort of standing still.
"I see," Dumbledore said softly. "Very well. If you are certain. But remember—some fires are not meant to be carried alone, no matter how strong the vessel is."
"I've got it handled," Y/N rasped, his voice regaining its jagged edge. He turned and walked out before the Headmaster could say another word.
Dumbledore watched him go. He didn't call him back. He didn't intervene in the "siege" waiting for Y/N in the hallways. He simply picked up a small, silver instrument from his desk that was vibrating in a perfect, silent rhythm—a rhythm that matched the ringing in Y/N's head. He knew exactly what was happening to the boy, and he knew that for the plan to work, the "lightning rod" had to be pushed to the breaking point.
————————————————————————
Y/N stumbled out into the hallway, his vision still swimming. He rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into a broad, solid chest.
Sirius.
Sirius grabbed Y/N’s upper arms to steady him, his grip tight and unyielding. For a second, the bitterness in Sirius’s eyes flickered into genuine alarm as he saw how pale Y/N was.
"What did he say to you?" Sirius demanded, his voice low and harsh.
Y/N yanked his arms back, his eyes flashing with a cold, desperate fire. "Get your hands off me, Black. I don't need a savior, and I definitely don't need you."
Sirius’s face hardened, the bruise on his jaw deepening in the torchlight. "Fine. Die on your own then. See if I care."
They stood there for a heartbeat, two people who wanted to scream but only knew how to bite, before Y/N pushed past him into the dark.
————————————————————————
The cold in the dungeons wasn't just weather; it was a physical weight. It seeped through the stones and settled into Y/N’s marrow, turning his blood to slush. He had been moving like a machine for weeks—eat, study, survive, repeat. But machines eventually wear down. The metal fatigues. The gears begin to grind.
He was walking back from a late session in the library, his bag slung over his slim, aching shoulder. His body felt light, almost buoyant, in a way that signaled total exhaustion. The world was beginning to tilt. The torches on the walls seemed to flicker in time with his heartbeat, and that familiar, dreaded hum was beginning to vibrate at the base of his skull.
"Look at him," a voice sneered. "The little lion-tamer looks like he’s about to faint."
Y/N didn't stop. He didn't even look. He knew that voice. Mulciber. He was leaning against a damp stone pillar, Avery and a few other fifth-year snakes flanking him like a pack of jackals. They had been waiting. The "siege" had been quiet for a few days, which only meant the pressure had been building.
"I’m talking to you, blood-traitor," Mulciber spat, stepping into the center of the narrow hallway.
Y/N stopped. He let his bag slide off his shoulder, the heavy thump of textbooks echoing in the hollow silence of the corridor. He didn't pull his wand. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his fingers curling into tight, trembling fists.
"Move, Mulciber," Y/N rasped. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—someone older, someone who had already given up.
"Make me. Or what? You'll go crying to Black? Tell him your big, bad housemates are being mean?" Mulciber laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. "Is that what you do when you’re pinned against those stones? You whimper for him?"
The ringing in Y/N’s head didn't just start—it exploded. It was a white-hot spike driven through his temples. The hallway blurred into a mess of gray and green. He could see Mulciber’s mouth moving, the sneer twisting his features, but the words were gone. Everything was gone except the noise and the heat.
Mulciber raised his wand, the tip glowing with a sickly violet light. "Let's see how much he likes you when you're—"
Y/N didn't wait for the spell. He didn't think about "proper" dueling or House points. He lunged.
The impact was bone-deep. He tackled Mulciber, the back of the other boy’s head hitting the stone floor with a sickening thwack. They rolled, a mess of tangled robes and flailing limbs, but Y/N was faster. He was fueled by a month of suppressed rage, by the humiliation of the ink trap, by the confusion of Sirius's touch, and by the sheer, crushing weight of being alone.
He got on top, his knees pinning Mulciber’s arms. And then, he started swinging.
CRACK.
The first punch landed square on Mulciber’s nose. The spray of blood hit Y/N’s cheek, hot and metallic. He didn't flinch.
CRACK.
The second hit Mulciber’s jaw. Y/N’s knuckles split, the skin tearing open, but he didn't feel it. He was a passenger in his own body. He was punching the ringing in his ears. He was punching the way Sirius looked at him. He was punching the fact that no matter how hard he fought, he was always the one left in the dirt.
"Stop it!" Avery’s voice was a distant, muffled shriek.
Y/N didn't stop. He was a rhythmic machine of violence. Right, left, right. His muscles were screaming, his lungs burning, but he couldn't pull himself away.
He was drowning in the white noise.
Mulciber’s face was becoming a ruin of red and purple, his hands weakly trying to shield his head, but Y/N just pushed them aside and kept going. He was looking for an end. He was looking for the bottom of the well.
Suddenly, the world wrenched backward.
Huge, powerful hands fisted into the back of Y/N’s sweater, hauling him off Mulciber with such force that his feet left the ground. Y/N snarled, a feral, animalistic sound, and tried to swing at whoever was holding him.
"Y/N! Y/N, look at me! Stop!"
He was spun around, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked stone, and slammed back against a pillar. The air was knocked out of him in a violent puff.
Sirius.
Sirius was there, his broad frame looming over him, his hands gripping Y/N’s shoulders with a strength that felt like iron. Sirius’s hair was a mess, his eyes wide and panicked, his own jaw still bruised from the last time they’d met. His lips were moving—he was shouting, his face inches from Y/N’s—but the ringing was a solid wall.
Y/N stared up at him, his chest heaving so hard it felt like his ribs would snap. He looked at the blood on his own hands—Mulciber’s blood—and then he looked at Sirius.
And that’s when the wall broke.
The adrenaline that had been keeping him upright evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum. His knees buckled, and if Sirius hadn't been holding his shoulders, he would have collapsed.
A single, hot tear spilled over Y/N’s lower lash line. Then another.
He was crying.
He wasn't just crying; he was breaking. The "outcast," the "fighter," the boy who took every hit and smiled through the blood—he was gone. In his place was a seventeen-year-old boy who was utterly, completely terrified.
Sirius’s expression shifted. The anger and the urgency vanished, replaced by a look of such raw, agonizing pity that it made Y/N want to die. Sirius reached out, his thumb twitching as if he wanted to wipe a tear away, his mouth forming a soft, broken word.
No.
Y/N couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle the pity. He couldn't handle being seen like this—weak, shattered, and bleeding—by the person who had started the fire in the first place.
With a desperate, final surge of strength, Y/N wrenched himself out of Sirius’s grip. He shoved Sirius back, his hands leaving bloody prints on the Gryffindor’s chest, and he ran.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from the light. He had to get away from the eyes.
He scrambled up the stairs, his vision a blurred, watery mess. Every step was a agony. His lungs were seizing, the air coming in short, panicked gasps that sounded like a wounded animal. He passed a group of Ravenclaws who stared at him in horror—a bloody, sobbing mess of a boy sprinting through the halls—but he didn't care.
He found the alcove on the fifth floor. It was behind a moth-eaten tapestry of a forgotten battle. He dived behind it, collapsing onto the freezing stone floor.
He crawled into the furthest, darkest corner, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking his head down. He wrapped his arms around his legs, his shredded knuckles stinging as they pressed against his jeans.
The hyperventilation hit him like a physical blow.
He couldn't get the air in. His chest was a vice. He was gasping, a high-pitched, wheezing sound that echoed off the small stone walls of the alcove. He bit his lip to try and stop the sobbing, but it only made it worse. A low, keening moan escaped his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated loss.
He felt like his skin was too tight. He felt like the stone was closing in.
"I can't... I can't... I can't..." he whispered, the words lost in the sound of his own crashing pulse.
He was so alone. The realization was a cold blade in his gut. He had pushed everyone away to survive, and now that he was dying—spiritually, mentally—there was no one to catch him. He had no House. He had no friends. He had a boy who was obsessed with him but couldn't understand him, and a world that only wanted to watch him bleed.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead resting on his knees. The ringing in his head was finally fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that felt like it would last forever.
"Please," he gasped into the dark, his voice a broken thread. "Please, just make it stop."
But there was no one there to hear him. There was only the cold stone, the smell of old dust, and the sound of a boy who had finally, truly, lost his way. He sat there in the dark, bloody and broken, waiting for a morning he wasn't sure he wanted to see.
Outside the moth-eaten fabric, the castle breathed. The wind whistled through the high battlements, and the distant clatter of a Filch’s lantern echoed somewhere floors below.
Then came a different sound.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of dragon-hide boots.
Sirius hadn't used the Map—he hadn't needed to. He had followed the smears of copper on the stone walls, the frantic, staggering trail of a boy who was bleeding out in more ways than one. When he reached the fifth floor, the trail ended at a tapestry depicting a nameless, forgotten massacre.
Sirius stopped. His broad shoulders were slumped, his chest still heaving from the sprint. He stared at the fabric, his hands trembling. He had never seen Y/N cry. He had seen him bleed, seen him snarl, seen him stand his ground against an entire House, but the sight of those tears had felt like a physical tearing of Sirius’s own soul.
He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering over the tapestry. He wanted to rip it down, to scoop Y/N up, to demand that he be okay. But he remembered the way Y/N had looked at him—the absolute, crushing revulsion.
So, Sirius didn't go in. Not yet.
He sat down on the floor outside the alcove, his back against the stone wall. He pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them, and stayed. He stayed through the deep, dead hours of the night. He stayed until the cold from the floor seeped into his own bones. He listened to the silence behind the curtain, waiting for a sound that meant Y/N was still alive.
Hours later, the first gray light of a Scottish dawn began to bleed through the high windows of the corridor.
The light in the alcove was gray and sickly, the color of a guttering candle. Sirius sat back on his heels, his frame casting a shadow that swallowed Y/N’s huddled form. He had spent the night listening to Y/N’s jagged breathing, and now, he was staring at the boy’s face.
Y/N’s eyes were open, but they were vacant. Glossed over like marble. He was looking right through Sirius, his body locked in a rigid, leaden freeze. It was a trauma response Sirius had seen before—usually in the mirror after a summer at Grimmauld Place—and it made a cold, sharp anger settle in his gut. Not at Y/N. At the whole damn world.
Sirius didn't whisper sweet nothings. He didn't beg for forgiveness. He looked at Y/N’s blood-caked knuckles and the way his body was shivering despite the paralysis, and he felt a surge of grim, bitter resolve.
"Right. Enough of this," Sirius rasped, his voice cracking from disuse.
He didn't ask permission. He reached down and slid one arm under Y/N’s knees and the other behind his back. When he lifted him, Y/N didn’t move—he stayed in that curled, fetal position, his weight like dead wood in Sirius’s arms. He was slim, but the muscles on his frame made him heavy, a solid reminder of the fighter currently trapped behind his own eyes.
Sirius kicked the tapestry aside and stepped out into the corridor.
The castle was waking up. He didn't care. He walked through the halls with Y/N in his arms, his jaw set, the mottled purple bruise on his face a badge of the mess they’d made. He passed a group of whispering third-years and a stunned-looking Hufflepuff prefect. He didn't look at them. He looked like a man carrying a body off a battlefield.
"Is he dead?" someone whispered.
"Get lost," Sirius snarled, his gray eyes flashing with a warning that sent them scurrying.
He didn't go to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey would ask too many questions, and word would get back to the Slytherins before the first bell. He went straight to the stone gargoyle.
"Sherbet lemon," Sirius snapped.
The gargoyle leapt aside. Sirius carried Y/N up the moving spiral staircase and kicked the door to the Headmaster’s office open.
Dumbledore was already standing. He wasn't behind his desk; he was by the window, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He didn't look surprised.
"Set him on the sofa, Sirius," Dumbledore said, his voice devoid of its usual whimsy.
Sirius laid Y/N down on the chintz settee. Y/N stayed exactly as he had been—on his side, eyes glossed, staring at the leg of a table. He looked like a statue of a tragedy.
"He's been like this since he stopped hitting Mulciber," Sirius said, stepping back and wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. He was vibrating with a restless, bitter energy. "He won't speak. He won't blink. He’s gone, Professor."
"He is not gone," Dumbledore said softly, walking over to peer down at Y/N. "He is simply... elsewhere. The mind has a way of retreating when the environment becomes uninhabitable."
"And whose fault is that?" Sirius snapped, his voice sharp and self-loathing. "The Slytherins are treating him like a traitor, and we treated him like a target. And now Mulciber’s face is in pieces."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his gaze turning grave. "And that is where the true danger lies. I have already received an owl from the Mulciber family. They are not interested in 'schoolboy rivalries,' Sirius. They are calling for an immediate expulsion and a Ministry inquiry into 'unprovoked dark magic'—despite the fact that Y/N used nothing but his hands."
Sirius felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his neck. The Ministry. If the Mulcibers got involved, Y/N wouldn't just be expelled; he’d be broken. He’d have no wand, no future, and a target on his back that would never fade.
"It wasn't dark magic," Sirius growled, stepping toward the sofa as if he could shield Y/N with his broad shoulders. "It was a fight. A fair one."
"The Mulcibers do not care for 'fair,'" Dumbledore countered.
On the sofa, Y/N’s hand gave a tiny, microscopic twitch. The ringing in his head was changing pitch, turning from a screech to a dull throb. He could hear them. He could hear Sirius’s voice—bitter, angry, defensive. He could feel the warmth of the office, so different from the damp stone of the alcove.
But the freeze held. He was terrified that if he moved, the world would rush back in, and he would have to face the fact that he had destroyed his life over a hallway taunt.
"I'll tell them it was me," Sirius said suddenly. The room went silent.
Dumbledore looked over his spectacles. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'll say I started it. I'll say I provoked the whole thing," Sirius said, his face hardening into a mask of reckless, Black-family arrogance. "My name carries more weight than his right now. The Mulcibers won't push as hard if they’re coming for a Black. They’ll want a settlement, not a soul."
"And your own family, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "Your mother will not be pleased to defend you for a brawl involving a... 'special interest' in a Slytherin."
"Let her be displeased," Sirius spat. He looked down at Y/N’s glassy eyes, a sharp, jagged pain twisting in his chest. "I’m the one who broke the impasse. I’m the one who dragged him into the light. I’m not letting them bury him because I was too selfish to leave him alone."
Y/N’s breath hitched. A single, ragged sound.
His eyes began to focus, the gloss clearing like mist off a lake. He looked up, his gaze landing first on Dumbledore, then drifting to Sirius. He saw the blood on Sirius’s clothes, the yellowing bruise on his jaw, and the defiant, bitter set of his shoulders.
"No," Y/N whispered. It was the first word he’d spoken in hours, and it sounded like it was being pulled out of him with pliers.
Sirius froze. He looked at Y/N, his expression a mess of relief and stubbornness. "Shut up, Y/N. I've got this."
"No," Y/N said again, more clearly this time, his arms shaking as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked at Sirius with a raw, weary intensity.
"I don't need your sacrifice, Black. I don't need you to be my hero. You've done enough."
The words were a blow, but Sirius didn't flinch. They stood there—the Marauder and the Outcast—in the quiet of the Headmaster’s office, while the weight of the Ministry and the Mulciber name hovered over them like a guillotine.
Dumbledore didn’t look away. He stood perfectly still, the light from the Pensieve casting flickering silver shadows across his deeply lined face. He let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable—until Sirius’s restless energy and Y/N’s trembling defiance seemed to vibrate against the very walls of the office.
"Admirable, Sirius," Dumbledore said, his voice as smooth as polished bone. "And entirely predictable. You would throw yourself into the path of a speeding carriage to save someone from a puddle. But the Mulcibers are not a carriage; they are a landslide. If you claim responsibility, you don’t just save Y/N—you give your mother the ammunition she needs to bring you back to Grimmauld Place for 'correction.' And Y/N would still be seen as the catalyst. No one wins."
Sirius opened his mouth to argue, his chest heaving, but Dumbledore raised a single finger, silencing him.
"There is a third option," the Headmaster continued, turning his gaze back to Y/N.
"Though I suspect neither of you will find it particularly pleasant."
Y/N sat on the edge of the sofa, his muscles still stiff in a state of high-alert tension. He wiped a smudge of dried blood from his lip, his dark eyes narrowed. "What is it? Just say it."
"The Mulcibers are moving for a Ministry inquiry based on the claim that you, Y/N, are a danger to the student body—a volatile element that cannot be controlled," Dumbledore explained. "However, the Hogwarts Charter contains an ancient, rather dusty clause regarding In Loco Parentis and disciplinary guardianship. If a student is deemed 'at risk,' the Headmaster can appoint a monitor—a peer-mentor who is held legally and magically responsible for that student’s conduct. Every action, every fight, every late-night excursion becomes the responsibility of the monitor."
Sirius’s eyes widened. He saw where this was going.
"If Sirius takes on this role," Dumbledore said, "the Ministry loses its grounds for an external inquiry. The matter remains internal to Hogwarts. Sirius’s 'monitoring' becomes the guarantee that you are under control. The Mulcibers can’t demand expulsion if a member of the 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black' is effectively acting as your shadow and your leash."
"A leash?" Y/N’s voice was a dangerous, low rasp. He stood up, his legs shaking slightly but his gaze fixed and burning. "You want me to be his pet? To have him follow me around like a jailer? I’d rather take my chances with the Ministry."
"You wouldn't survive the Ministry, and you know it," Sirius snapped, turning to face him. The bitterness was back, sharp and jagged. "They’d snap your wand before you could even give your name. You think you’re so tough, but you’re just one boy against families that have been burying people like you for centuries."
"And you're any different?" Y/N stepped into Sirius’s space, his frame dwarfed by Sirius’s shoulders, but his presence just as heavy. "You just want a front-row seat to watch me fall apart. You want to feel powerful because you’re the only thing standing between me and the gates."
"I want you to stay," Sirius roared, the words echoing off the circular walls. He didn't move. He stood his ground, the yellowing bruise on his jaw a reminder of their last collision. "I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you never speak to me again. But I’m not watching you get dragged out of this school because of a fight I helped start."
Dumbledore watched them, his expression unreadable. "If you accept, Sirius, your magic will be bound to his. If he fights, you feel the recoil. If he is punished, you share the burden. It is a total loss of privacy for both of you. You will be roommates. You will be shadows."
Y/N felt the high-pitched ringing start to hum at the base of his skull again. Roommates. Shadows. Forced proximity to the one person who made his skin crawl and his heart race in equal measure. He looked at Sirius—the arrogance, the bitterness, and the underlying, desperate loyalty that Sirius refused to name.
"Fine," Y/N whispered, the word tasting like ash. "Do it. Bind us. But don't expect me to be grateful, Black."
Sirius didn't smile. He didn't look relieved. He just nodded once, a sharp, curt movement. "I'm not looking for a thank you. I'm looking for you to not get expelled like a damn fool."
Dumbledore drew his wand, the tip glowing with a faint, amber light. "Then let us begin. The impasse is over. From this moment on, where one goes, the other follows."
As the magic settled over them—a heavy, invisible chain that linked their pulses—Y/N felt a new kind of cold settle in his chest. He wasn't alone anymore, but being tied to Sirius Black felt like its own kind of prison.
The weight of the bond was a physical pressure, a low-frequency hum that vibrated in the marrow of Y/N’s bones. It wasn't that he could hear Sirius’s thoughts—thank Merlin for small mercies—but he could feel the *presence* of him. A heavy, restless heat that sat at the edge of his senses, reminding him every second that he was no longer a ghost in the halls of Hogwarts. He was a tethered shadow.
————————————————————————
In the sterile, white-washed silence of the infirmary, the air was thick with the smell of essence of dittany and medicinal bile. Mulciber lay propped up against a stack of pillows, his face a horrifying landscape of trauma. His jaw was wired shut, held together by silver charms and brute-force healing, but his eyes—dark, wet, and filled with a frantic, animalistic rage—were wide open.
Avery sat in the hard wooden chair beside the bed, his fingers restlessly tapping against the edge of a side table. He didn't look like a student; he looked like a vulture waiting for the scent of rot.
"It’s a farce," Avery hissed, his voice a jagged whisper that carried to the shadows of the next curtain. "A complete and total failure of justice. You’re lying here with a shattered face, and that animal is walking the halls under the 'protection' of a blood-traitor. Dumbledore thinks he’s clever, using the Black name to bury this."
Mulciber made a sound—a choked, gargling noise behind his teeth—and his hand spasmed against the bedsheet.
"I know," Avery said, leaning in closer, his shadow falling over Mulciber’s bandaged forehead. "It’s not over. The Ministry might have backed off because the 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black' put its neck on the line, but Sirius Black is a ticking time bomb. He has no patience. He has no discipline. Eventually, he’ll realize that Y/N is a liability. And when that tether snaps... we’ll be there to catch the pieces."
Avery looked toward the door, a slow, toxic smirk spreading across his face. "If we can't get him expelled, we'll just make him wish he was dead. Sirius can't watch him every second of every day. And Y/N? He’s already cracked. We just have to find the right place to push."
————————————————————————
The portrait hole swung open with a violent thud, and Sirius stepped into the Gryffindor common room. He looked like he’d been through a war. His robes were wrinkled, his tie was gone, and the mottled, plum-colored bruise on his jaw stood out in stark relief against his pale skin.
The room, usually a riot of noise and laughter, went dead silent. It was the kind of silence that preceded a lightning strike.
James was standing by the hearth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Remus and Peter were on the sofa, looking up with expressions of pure, unadulterated shock.
"Is it true?" James asked. No jokes. No 'Padfoot.' Just the cold, hard weight of a question.
"If you're asking if I signed the papers, yes," Sirius snapped, walking toward the fire. He didn't look at them. He stood with his shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. "Y/N stays. I’m the monitor. The bond is sealed."
"You’ve tied your magic to a Slytherin who nearly committed murder!" Remus stood up, his voice cracking with a rare, jagged anger. "Sirius, do you even understand what you’ve done? You aren't just his 'friend' or his 'rival' anymore. You are legally responsible for every hex he throws, every fight he picks. If he snaps again—and he will snap, Sirius, look at him—it's your future on the block too."
"I don't need a lecture on the Charter, Moony!" Sirius roared, turning on them, his gray eyes flashing with a desperate, bitter light. "The Ministry was going to take his wand. They were going to throw him to the wolves. Do you know what happens to someone like him in a place like Azkaban? He wouldn't last a week."
"And that’s your problem why?" Peter squeaked from the corner.
Sirius looked at them—at his brothers, the people who were supposed to understand—and felt a sudden, sharp wall of isolation rise up. "Because I’m the one who started it! Because I’m the one who made him a target for his own House because I couldn't keep my hands off him! I broke the 'impasse,' and I’m the only one who can keep him from being buried under it."
"You're obsessed," James said softly, and that was the word that cut the deepest. "This isn't about guilt, Sirius. You're tying yourself to a ghost because you can't stand the idea of him being out of your reach."
Sirius didn't answer. He couldn't. He just turned and walked up the stairs to the dorm, the heavy thud of his boots sounding like a funeral march.
————————————————————————
The halls of Hogwarts felt different now—sharper, more dangerous. Every corner felt like an ambush. Y/N walked with his head down, his body rigid, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He could feel Sirius about ten paces behind him, a constant, looming presence that made the hair on his arms stand up.
They were passing through the crowded corridor near the Charms classroom when it happened. A group of seventh-year Slytherins, loyal to the Mulciber name, were waiting.
Rosier, a hulking boy with a cruel, thin mouth, stepped directly into Y/N’s path. He didn't pull a wand. He didn't have to. He just put his shoulder into Y/N’s chest, a hard, intentional shove that sent Y/N stumbling back into the stone wall.
"Still breathing, I see," Rosier sneered. "I heard you’ve been downgraded to a pet. Does the Gryffindor give you treats when you stay in your cage?"
The white noise in Y/N’s head didn't just return; it exploded. It was a high-pitched, screaming frequency that drowned out the sound of the students around them. Y/N’s vision tunneled until all he could see was Rosier’s smug, punchable face. His arms bunched, his knuckles—still raw and pink—clenching into white-hot stones.
He was a second away from launching himself, from feeling the crunch of bone under his fists again, when a hand fisted into the collar of his robes and a broad, solid chest slammed into his back.
Sirius hauled him away from the wall with a violence that was startling. He spun Y/N around, pinning him against the opposite pillar, his body acting as a physical shield.
"Don't you dare," Sirius hissed.
"Get off me!" Y/N rasped, his voice a broken, feral sound. "He touched me. I'll take his eyes out, Sirius, let me go—"
"Look at me!" Sirius shouted, grabbing Y/N by the jaw with a bruising grip, forcing their eyes to meet. Sirius’s face was a mask of harsh, bitter urgency. "It's not just your neck anymore. You hit him, and the bond recoils. You get expelled, and my magic is stripped. You want to ruin your life? Fine. But you don't get to take me with you because you can't handle a taunt from a bottom-feeder like Rosier."
Y/N froze. The reality of the magic—the iron weight around his heart—finally sank in. He looked at Sirius’s eyes, saw the genuine, jagged fear behind the bitterness, and the fight drained out of him, leaving him hollow and shaking.
Rosier and the others walked away, their laughter echoing like glass breaking in the hallway.
—————————————-———————————
Late that night, the library was a cavern of shadows and the smell of ancient dust. Y/N was tucked into a corner, his lean frame hunched over a book he wasn't reading. His hands were still trembling, a rhythmic, microscopic shake he couldn't stop.
Sirius appeared out of the dark, sliding into the chair across from him. He didn't look soft. He didn't look like he wanted to help. He looked exhausted and angry, his shoulders slumped.
"You're a mess," Sirius said, his voice flat and confrontational.
Y/N didn't look up. "Leave me alone, Black. You did your job today. You kept the 'pet' in line."
"I’m talking about the fifth floor," Sirius said, and the air in the room seemed to vanish.
"The alcove. The tapestry."
Y/N’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the cold sweat return to his palms. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar," Sirius snapped, leaning across the table. "I was there. I heard you. I saw the way you couldn't breathe, the way you were... falling apart. The crying. All of it."
Y/N finally looked up, his dark eyes filled with a raw, jagged hatred. "So what? You going to tell them? Going to tell the Marauders that the 'dangerous' Slytherin is just a pathetic wreck who can't handle a fight? Is that the new prank, Sirius? Is that how you finish me off?"
Sirius stared at him for a long beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he let out a short, bitter huff of a laugh.
"I'm not telling anyone," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. "I’m a lot of things, Y/N—I'm a prick, I'm arrogant, and I'm a Black. But I’m not a rat. What happened in that alcove stays there. I’m not giving Mulciber or James or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing they actually got to you."
Y/N blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. The ringing in his ears faded into a dull throb. "Why?"
"Because you're enough of a disaster as it is," Sirius said, standing up, his chair scraping the floor with a harsh sound. "And because I don't need people knowing the guy I’m bound to is a crier. It’s bad for the brand."
Sirius turned to walk away, but stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Y/N’s rigid body. "But don't think this makes us friends. You stay in line. You keep your fists in your pockets. I'm not saving you again."
He disappeared into the shadows, leaving Y/N alone in the dark. For the first time in months, the weight of being alone felt a little less like a death sentence, even if the person standing guard was the very person he hated most.
The "impasse" hadn't been cleared, but for the first time, there was a secret shared across the wall. And in the cold silence of the library, that was the only thing keeping the dark at bay.
broooo fam don’t be mad ik I’ve been gone for like over a month but fr life was doing me sooo trash bro like life was a semi that ran me over life fucked me so bad no lube no nothing i fr didn’t think i was gonna make it out gang frfr but i’m doing much better now still struggling a bit but much much better fr but yooo y/n fucked mulciber up soooo bad got him looking like Nate Jacob’s fr oh and i really recommend listening to ‘May These Noises Startle You In Your Sleep’ it was linked to my last post and ‘Hell Above’ back to back in that specific order by Pierce The Veil the describe Y/N’s mental state and the chapter soooo well and plsss let me know if you all liked this chapter or not or if you have anything you wanna see next time but yeah byeee later mofos I’m outs this mf xb
would like to note that after going over the next part for Sirius Black x Male reader I have changed a lot of things. I would say this song and photo is what you should be looking forward to in the next part. ok later mofos hopefully i will have it out within the next few hours if I don’t get lazy :b
Hi! Please read this before sending me a message if you’d like to rp. These are my rules and info in case anyone would like to role-play with me. My PM’s are always open for that purpose or to be friends. I am up for suggestions regarding pairings or playing other characters!
1. Please don’t invite me to group rps because I only do 1x1 and please do not have your first message be a rp starter.
2. I am semi-lit to literate, but I do try to match my partners’ literacy. I write in third person. I will admit that I am a bit rusty as it’s been a while since I’ve role-played, but I’m sure I’ll get back into the swing of things.
3. I am okay with OC’s as long as the OC has a decent amount of info and only for BxB and GxG rps.
4. I may forget to respond or be busy and I might need a reminder so feel free to double text.
5. The genres I enjoy are romance, friendship, drama, horror, Historical, and Slice Of Life. I am okay with other genres as I can be fairly lenient.
6. I don’t have any preference regarding characters or ships. My lists are in no particular order
7. I am a sucker for rare pairings so I’m definitely listing some
8. I do enjoy platonic and romantic pairings so I will be including ships from each category.
9. I’m not entertaining any negativity so don’t bother with judgement.
Muses
-Marinette Dupain-Cheng
-Kagami Tsurugi
-Lila Rossi
-Chloe Bourgeois
-Sabrina Raincomprix
-Marc Anciel
-Nathaniel Kurtzberg
-Adrien Agreste
-Luka Couffaine
Ships
-Marinette x Adrien
-Marinette x Luka
-Kagami x Felix
-Kagami x Luka
-Chloe x Luka
-Nathaniel x Marc
-Luka x Felix
-Luka x Adrien
-Luka x Marc
-Adrien x Marc
Hi! Please read this before sending me a message if you’d like to rp. These are my rules and info in case anyone would like to role-play with me. My PM’s are always open for that purpose or to be friends. I am up for suggestions regarding pairings or playing other characters!
1. Please don’t invite me to group rps because I only do 1x1 and please do not have your first message be a rp starter.
2. I am semi-lit to literate, but I do try to match my partners’ literacy. I write in third person. I will admit that I am a bit rusty as it’s been a while since I’ve role-played, but I’m sure I’ll get back into the swing of things.
3. I am okay with OC’s as long as the OC has a decent amount of info and only for BxB and GxG rps.
4. I may forget to respond or be busy and I might need a reminder so feel free to double text.
5. The genres I enjoy are romance, friendship, drama, horror, Historical, and Slice Of Life. I am okay with other genres as I can be fairly lenient.
6. I don’t have any preference regarding characters or ships. My lists are in no particular order
7. I am a sucker for rare pairings ships so I’m definitely listing some.
8. I do enjoy platonic and romantic pairings so I will be including ships from each category.
9. . I’m not entertaining any negativity so don’t bother with judgement.
Muses
-Haruhi Fujioka
-Kaoru Hitachiin
-Hikaru Hitachiin
-Tamaki Suoh
-Takashi Morinozuka
-Mitsukuni “Honey” Haninozuka
Ships
-Kaoru Hitachiin x Kyoya Ootori
-Kaoru Hitachiin x Takashi Morinozuka
-Hikaru Hitachiin x Tamaki Suoh
-Hikaru Hitachiin x Takashi Morinozuka
-Tamaki Suoh x Takashi Morinozuka
-Tamaki Suoh x Kaoru Hitachiin
-Haruhi Fujioka x Takashi Morinozuka
Random vague prompt, idk, feel free to use it. I’ll follow up if I ever write something.
Bearnelli are just fucking around, being their usual chaotic criminal selves.
They piss somebody off, (maybe Ollie’s trainer when they stole his credit card), and end up running away and hiding.
They end up in a closet pressed together, because it’s fucking tiny and they barely fit.
Maybe they make out, maybe not; feelings ensue.
I'm just a girl 😭🙏
Me and my random gay kpop ship against the world 😔✌️
