MASTER FUCKING PIECE - Tumblr Posts
“he thinks your voice is what heaven’s choir is made of” hOLY SHITTTTTT IM SOBBING
the marauders as. . . whatever these love languages are (i).
a/n: i got addicted to writing drabbles. . .
“i’m touch-starved.”
there’s not a day where 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 isn’t holding onto you like a lifeline—a tether to this world when he feels like he’s about to float away. on mornings where he wakes up back in his childhood bedroom, portraits of jaundiced ancestors hurling insults at him as though he hasn’t already heard it all from his benevolent mother—he closes his eyes, and when he opens them, there you are. gone are the colorless walls of his early years, instead he’s drowning in the shades of you.
you’re wearing nothing but his shirt and the bursting hues of his devotion. he’s never been fluent in ‘i love you’ but for you, he wants to learn every language there is, so as long as you know that he is yours. yours to command, yours to throw away one day, yours to love—his soul and heart are utterly and irrevocably yours.
he pulls you closer to him because sirius black is a mad man, selfishly burrowing in your warmth like he’s been trudging through an eternal winter, desperate for light and the relief of your lips. sirius wraps his arms around your waist, as if to protect you from the sunlight—because you are his and not even the threat of tomorrow can take you away. he wants to stay close with you like this forever. until neither knows where they begin or end. he buries his nose in the crook of your neck—wondering if you’ll be cross if he pilfers a taste of your skin. the sound of your heartbeat is more beautiful than any orchestra symphony—he thinks your voice is what heaven’s choir is made of.
sirius splays his fingers on your bare stomach, his loose shirt riding up your waist. he aches, and oh, how he burns for you. he’s never been one for tears, but he finds that the reprieve of your touch can bring a wayward man to his knees. you are, in every essence, the answer to his prayers and the pardoning of his sins. he chases you like a drunkard drawn to firewhiskey—he’s afraid that you’ve gone and gotten him addicted to you.
to your fingers in his hair—tugging and pulling—then, to his tongue licking a trail against the column of your throat, your breath hot on his cheek, your nails digging in deep into his back, and the nights where love is spoken through fervent whimpers and whispers of adoration.
sirius knows it’ll be centuries until he becomes a man worthy of your love—but for now, he hopes you’ll let his arms protect you from harm, and his hands find solace in yours.
after all, you are the better parts of his soul.
a/n: i’m not sure if i hit the mark on touch-starved as a language BUT WE MOVE. remus next!