The Trap
Duke!Sirius Black x wife!reader who is being pressured to produce an heir [1.8k words]
synopsis: amalgamation of prompts by @captainsbuckie & @girlyidek for some royal au/arranged marriage trope. The pressure is on in the Black estate and Sirius tells someone to get away from his wife
CW: afab!reader, arranged marriage, reader thinks Sirius doesn't care for her much, reader is struck, abuse, brief mention of blood, angst with a happy ending & hurt/comfort
You’re beginning to realize you’ve done something terribly wrong by ending up confined in a room with your mother-in-law, but it appears to be too late for anything to be done other than to ask Pandora to please fetch the two of you a tea service.
Pandora, for her part, holds your eye contact as she offers you a polite curtsy before she slips out of the parlour room Walburga Black has sequestered the two of you in.
The trap is set.
You hadn’t been entirely pleased at the prospect of being married off, let alone married off into the infamous Black family, but other than the fact that you think you might have preferred to marry for love, you had to admit that life with – or, rather, alongside – Sirius really wasn’t all that bad.
He was polite enough; he provided you with your own wing of the estate, you had your own staff which you had been able to choose for yourself, you never wanted for anything, and save for the first night spent together to keep up appearances of “consummating” your marriage, he really never asked you for anything. A good show was put on in public, and sometimes his lingering touches and his soft lips left you thinking you might not mind if he did ask you for more…
But you are rather content, all things considered.
Walburga doesn’t seem to appreciate that.
“My son has you set up quite nicely here, doesn’t he?” She asks, the question sounding an awful lot like a trick as she walks the perimeter of the room examining the bookshelves; every click of the matriarch’s heels against the marble tiles echoes like the jaws of a bear trap inching closer and closer together.
“It’s a lovely home, madame.” You agree with a gentle bow of your head.
She hums in agreement as she pauses in front of the large window – a click – looking out at the grounds as staff begin their task of reviving the gardens after a long winter.
“A lovely home, a lovely life, a lovely environment.” She muses, craning her neck to look at you though her body remains pointing to the window. “A woman should have no problem falling pregnant under such…comfortable circumstances.”
Another click.
“Perhaps, yes.” You agree noncommittally; gaze flitting towards the door as though Pandora might magically appear and save you from the titanium teeth baring down on your neck.
“Perhaps?” Walburga asks, voice rising a few octaves as she officially turns her body and makes to slowly cross the room.
Click, click, click.
“You’ve been seen by a physician recently, yes?”
“Yes.” You admit, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” Walburga agrees theatrically. “Yes, I know that you have; I’ve spoken to them. Apparently, my dear, there’s nothing that should be stopping you from falling pregnant. So what, exactly, is the issue?”
“There’s no issue, madame.” You try, aiming for as undaunted as you could possibly manage whilst counting at least two more clicks.
“There better not be,” she hisses – any air of feigned cordiality officially gone – as she storms towards you. Click, click, click. “Because you were brought here for one reason and one reason only, and if you do not provide this family with an heir I can think of a number of ways to rid this house of you.”
You swallow thickly, eyes dropping to where her witch-like finger was pointed at your trachea. “Have you spoken to your son, Walburga?”
Walburga, for her part, actually sucks in a breath and takes a step away from you. “This isn’t about my son, you insolent little witch.” She sneers. “This is about you and about what you’re meant to do. And you are meant to be producing heirs for this noble and most ancient house!”
The end of her sentence crescendos in time with your heart careening up into your throat; each you punctuated by a jab of her perfectly manicured finger into the soft tissue just beneath your shoulder.
“Walburga I am going to ask you to keep your hands off of me.” You declare with your most severe tone, wondering if (and hoping that) the breathy, panicked quality of your voice is only imagined.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” She wails. “In my - house.”
With this, the trap finally snaps; jaws clamping shut around your neck.
A white hot pain flashes across the right side of your face and before you can make sense of what has happened, you’re cowering away from your mother-in-law as you cradle your cheek with a shaky hand.
You register shouting, but you’re quite sure it’s not yours and it’s certainly not Walburga’s.
Suddenly, Pandora’s hand is on your shoulder and Sirius’ voice is commanding the room. You’re not sure what was said when he first entered the room, but his next words are unmissable.
“Get away from my wife.” He growls as he stalks into the centre of the room, putting himself between you and his mother; you try to stand at attention despite Pandora’s quiet sound of protest.
“Sirius, how n-” Walburga starts calmly, smoothing out her dress skirts. Sirius doesn’t give her a chance to finish.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Sirius demands; the sentence which is meant to be a question ringing more like a threat.
“I am here,” Walburga bites back, “to figure out why there has been no progress in providing this family with a suitable heir.”
You’re somewhat expecting Sirius to turn the conversation onto you, so the words that end up leaving his mouth find you speechless.
“When and how I fuck my wife is no one’s business but mine and hers.” He hisses; the only movement from your husband is a subtle twitch of his jaw at the affronted look that takes over Walburga’s face.
“If you have an issue with the way that I am running this house, you speak to me. And the next time you speak to me will be via letter, because you are no longer welcome on this property.” He proclaims, turning towards Remus and James who had stormed in here with him. “See her out, please.”
“This is my house!” Walburga wails indignantly, trying to dodge James’ outstretched hand as he reaches for her elbow.
“This was your house, mother.” Sirius spits in return as Remus manages to restrain Walburga by her other arm. “But you made the mistake of outliving your husband.”
Walburga shouts and hollers the entire time she’s being escorted out of the room and, assumingly, off of the estate as a whole; James and Remus the unlucky audience to her theatrics as they see to the escorting.
You vaguely compute words exchanged between Pandora and Sirius before someone slips out of the room and closes the door behind them.
You're surprised to look up and find Sirius staring at you with a gutted look on his face.
“Are you alright?” He murmurs softly, though he doesn’t give you a chance to respond as he approaches you. “I’m so sorry.”
You go to shake your head but find that even the act of blinking stings.
“Are you alright?” He asks again; voice such a stark contrast from the venomous tone he took with his mother as he gently brings his hands up to each side of your jaw, tilting your face to scrutinise it.
“I’m alright.” You agree, mostly because you’re not sure what to make of the distress painting Sirius’ face, only that you want it to go away. “I’m sorry, I-”
“You have nothing to apologise for.” Sirius insists, a hint of agitation making itself home in his tone though you get the sense that it’s not at your expense.
One of his hands disappears from your jaw in favour of pulling out the handkerchief from his pocket before gently dabbing your cheek bone. The white material comes back bloody.
“Oh…”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quickly, “you’re alright. Are you alright?”
“I’m alright, but-”
“You’re alright.” He parrots as though trying to convince himself of it, too. “It’s those bloody gaudy rings of hers; she nicked me once, too.”
He tries to offer you a sad smile as he says this which emphasises a small, crescent moon shaped scar above his lip; evidence of some such gaudy rings however many Walburga-sized temper tantrums ago.
“I’m sorry.” Is all you can think to say.
“I’ll consider accepting your apology if you can tell me what you’ve done that’s so horrid.” He muses as he frowns at the likely very minor cut to your face.
“I’ve ruined your handkerchief.” You bemoan, surprising Sirius enough to force his eyes away from your cheek.
He's looking at you as though you’ve grown three heads. “That wretched old hag came in here, insulted you, struck you, and you think I’m worried about a piece of cloth that I keep in my pocket for moments not entirely unlike this very one?”
You’re saved from having to respond by Pandora reentering the room; a tray with various medical supplies, a bowl of ice, and a pot of tea with two cups in her hands.
“Thank you. I’ve got it from here.” Sirius dismisses Pandora who offers the two of you a final curtsy before she exits the room again.
“I really am okay, Your Grace.” You murmur as Sirius encourages you to lower yourself onto the settee; him forgoing furniture altogether and simply kneeling on the rug before you.
His movements stutter so briefly that you have half a mind to believe you imagined it before he’s using a damp wipe to clean your wound.
“I’m your husband, love,” he murmurs, his nose and cheeks pinking slightly as he remains dedicated to your wound care, “for better or for worse, I think you can call me Sirius, yeah?”
If he continues calling you love, you think you’ll call him whatever he wants you to. You don’t tell him that, though.
“Yeah.” you agree on an exhale. “Yeah I- erm, I’m okay, Sirius.”
The first honest smile since he arrived teases the corner of Sirius’ lips as he fastens medical tape to your cheek. “She’s very lucky that you are.”
With this, he leans in to press the gentlest of kisses to the space just below your cut. The action, the kiss; both so gentle it nearly burns and sees tears welling in your eyes.
You think, perhaps, that whilst you didn’t get to marry for love, you might just find yourself falling in love with who you married.
© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.
