the words of my wrist (the devil in silk and yet I yearn)

chapter 6

Author's Note: I've been awake for over 30 hours and counting. But the dopamine receptors that are broken during the day aren't broken in the middle of the fucking night so I crammed this out for you lot~!

This chapter is the tragic backstory of our beloved Star Black! It's a hurt/comfort chapter with about 20% comfort. Do with that what you will. (≧▽≦)

In a more serious note, TW for /// suicidal ideation; attempted suicide; underage drinking; major self-loathing; mental instability /// please tread lightly with this chapter, and if you are not in the right mindset for it, do not read it.

I love all you <333

---ooo---

there is (something that could have been) [pt.1]

Sirius is a broken thing. A broken thing cobbled together by other broken things, formed by edges and sides that didn't fit together, but he made them scrape and grate against each other until the broken sculpture resembled something of a human. Through the cracks, the darkness was visible, a beast he'd tried to kill since he was old enough to know of it's existence, and it wanted to eat him alive.

He couldn't kill it though. No matter how much he chained it as if it were a manipulative fae, wrapping it in cold iron, it would not die. It wouldn't die if he thought he could drive a stake through it and burn it, as if it were a vampire. It didn't die if he thought it to be a werewolf, injecting silver into it's veins and choking it until it stopped breathing.

(Remus once snapped at him that Sirius didn't know what it's like to be a monster.)

(Sirius laughed. He's been a monster for as long as he can remember.)

And sometimes it consumed him.

Sometimes, if he wasn't careful, it would wash up to the edges of his mind like the gentle lapping of the ocean, and then it would flood his skull. Then Sirius is crazy. The world blurs until all Sirius knows is that there is blood— in his mouth, on his knuckles, pouring from his body— and insanity— in the form of Bellatrix' cackles leaving his mouth, eyes so bright they look like exploding stars, ragereagereage so much rage that it is his entire state of being— and he's spilling over, infecting everybody like a contagious, unwanted disease.

He is all the bad things in life squashed together, all broken shards and jagged pieces, and then smeared together until they were unrecognizable, until nobody know how bad he was, before it almost kills them.

Sirius is dangerous. He is— broken-unloveable-clingy-abrasive— an acquired taste, at best.

---ooo---

When Sirius is 15, he wakes up.

His lungs are heavy, his chest is being crushed, his magic is alive, and his body is tingling. He has an awareness of two souls that aren't his, of two minds that are melded into the broken fissures of his sculpture, soothing over the cracks lovingly.

Bartemius Finnegan Crouch.

Evan Sylas Rosier.

Soulmates.

Sirius has two soulmates.

His mind is flooded with a disbelieving adoration that he doesn't return. What he returns instead is a spiral of rage, of hatred, of— of ihateyou-idon'twantyou- so much disgust—

They're Regulus friends, he tells himself as he pulls on his clothes, reveling in the immediate hurt and pain that comes from his soulmates. They're everything he's trying to distance himself from.