2) However, I have tons of story scraps, snippets, outtakes, and abandoned fics in my writing tag here on Tumblr. Check that out for content not found on AO3.
3) You can also find me under this username on old fandom sites like fanfiction.net, LiveJournal, Dreamwidth, etc. I don’t update those sites anymore, but they’re there if you’re interested for some reason.
4) I don’t know what else to put here. Ask box is open for anyone who wants to ask me random things or prompt me something.
Written ages and ages ago for a Prongsfoot week prompt. I never got to the sexy bits so I never posted.
Well, here's a lil mini-fic with no sex.
--
The truth was, the house was so scarce in decor, it was difficult to believe anyone really lived there. James fumbled for a light, feeling along the wall until he gave up and lit the end of his wand instead.
James dropped his suitcase on the floor.
He was still in a foul mood. No matter how remote the place was, he could still hear the jeers and heckles from the stands. He could still feel the sting of his teammates avoiding his eyes as they told him glumly that it wasn’t his fault.
The house was supposed to be an escape for the summer. Harry would come with his friends as soon as he finished school, and they would all spend a few weeks on the beach. Lily assured him it was for the best.
“Can’t think about Quidditch when you’re looking after three teenagers,” she said, grinning.
The house belonged to Gwenog Jones, but Jones offered it up for the summer, saying she wanted to spend her holiday somewhere tropical.
“It’s not connected to the Floo,” she warned. “That’s on purpose, mind you. You’ll have to Apparate just outside of the enchantments.”
The instructions on how to get inside weren’t at all helpful. To her credit, James had a feeling that she hadn’t intended for him to arrive at midnight. But James couldn’t sleep in his flat anymore, and when he couldn’t stand to toss and turn for another minute, he stuffed a number of things into a suitcase and Apparated to the coast.
Later, he would blame exhaustion and almost complete darkness for the mistake.
The door wouldn’t open with the key, but after agonizing whether or not he should go home, he settled for a gentle breaking and entering with a slightly complex unlocking charm he made up himself.
He found the light by pulling a little white string. He followed a short corridor into the lounge, and from a sideboard, he found firewhiskey which he poured into a crystal lowball and sipped while he wandered the house. It was very old, he thought. The walls were stone and the ceilings were buttressed with unpainted wooden beams. The kitchen was ordinary and the bedrooms upstairs were unimpressive. It was odd—Gwenog Jones certainly wasn’t an overly sentimental person, but shouldn’t there have been photographs of friends and family? And hadn’t she boasted about a designer she hired to decorate? It all seemed rather plain to James.
It wasn’t until he reached the last bedroom—the largest—that he realized something was wrong. The bed was unmade. There was underwear on the floor. A guitar out of its case leaned against the wall.
At the same time, the front door opened downstairs.
“Oh, fuck me.”
In his panic, he tried to Apparate but nothing happened—just like Jones, the owner of this house had anti-Apparition protections in place.
James inched along the wall into the corridor. It was bad enough to walk into the wrong house, but it was made far worse by the fact that he had intentionally broken inside. And even worse than that, he was only a week out from causing the English national team to lose the last spot in the Quidditch World Cup. He imagined Rita Skeeter’s story in The Daily Prophet: QUIDDITCH PLAYER AND PUBLIC HUMILIATION, JAMES POTTER, BURGLARIZES BEACH HOUSE.
Someone downstairs swore.
It’s a perfectly innocent mistake, James thought desperately.
“All right,” called a man’s weary voice. “If you’re still here, come out now and I’ll let you keep whatever you took. I’m not in the mood to kill anyone. Do us both a favor and give up now.”
James, his face burning, stepped on the first stair. The creak of it echoed through the foyer. A man appeared suddenly at the bottom, wand in hand.
“Oh, fuck,” James groaned.
The man was annoyed, but his unhappy expression made him even more recognizable. His hair, sleek and black, hung over his brow, darkening his pale eyes. James had seen posters advertising the man’s band for over a decade—he knew exactly whose house it was.
James heard someone speaking, gibberish mostly, until he realized it was his own voice that filled the stairway, blabbering on about Gwenog Jones and the wrong house.
“—bit stupid, I know, but it was dark and the key was stuck—well, I guess it was stuck because it was the wrong one—so I used a charm to get in, and really, I hardly touched anything. I’ll pay for the drink I made—it’s still here, I’ll give it to you if you want—and—and I’ll pay for anything else—emotional damage, whatever it is—”
Sirius Black, the owner of the house and front man for the most popular band in the country, gestured with a crooked finger for James to come downstairs. He was not amused in the slightest.
His heart hammering, James ghosted down to the ground floor. Black held out his hand, and James gave him the glass of whiskey. Black took it, drank it, and nodded at the lounge.
James was still apologizing as he followed Black.
Black poured more firewhisky for both of them before he dropped onto the sofa and kicked off his boots. By then, James had run out of words.
“You’re done, then?” said Black, raising his brows.
“I think so. I really am sorry, Mr.—er—Black.”
“Yeah, I think you’ve made that obvious. You know, if you hadn’t babbled about eighty apologies, I might have had you arrested for burglary." Black drank and wiped the corner of his mouth. It seemed like he was trying not to smile. "I started to believe you were actually sorry around the tenth one.”
James shut his mouth.
“And 'Sirius' is fine. Sit. Tell me your name and which charm you used to break the lock.”
Awkwardly, James took the cushion where Sirius Black patted.
“I’m James.”
Black waved his hand, indicating for James to continue.
“Er—James Potter,” he went on. “And I used a—”
“Wait a minute,” said Black suddenly. “James Potter? You’re James Potter? The bloke who lost England the—” At James’s miserable look, Black stopped himself. The wonderment faded suddenly into pity. “The Quidditch player,” he amended. “Puddlemere United, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn’t afford your own place, could you? Blew all those Chaser galleons on firewhisky and prostitutes?” He drank again, sweeping his gaze up and down James. “Tell me about that charm of yours.”
“I invented it,” said James.
“Oh? The protection on the lock is a rune I designed,” said Black, eyeing him. “I thought it was pretty good. How does your charm work?”
“It’s just your basic rune scrambler.”
“Yes, but you how did you know it was a runic enchantment? I thought it was difficult to detect.”
“Yes, but I’m very good with runes. I was obsessed with them at school, actually. The enchantment you made reminds me of one that I’ve done before, so it was easy to undo.” Then, James grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Not my best work, I’ll admit, but it’s not like I’ve much to lose here, do I?”
Black tipped back the rest of his drink. It was hard not to watch his throat move. His neck was shining with perspiration. When he was finished, he didn’t make another, but he did stretch obscenely, raising arms over his head and extending his legs as he yawned. The shirt pulled from his jeans, exposing the black hair of his navel.
“Well, I’m knackered, James Potter. I’m off to bed. Take the bedroom closest to the bathroom—the sheets are clean, as far as I know.”
James shook his head. “I’ll go to Jones’s cottage.”
“Don’t be stupid. Besides,” said Black, “if you break into Mrs. Enfield’s house by mistake, she’ll castrate you. Imagine what The Daily Prophet headline might be, eh? Finish that,” he said, nodding at the drink. James obeyed and sucked down the rest before accepting the man’s calloused hand to let Black help him up.
What was astounding was just how quickly the blood rushed to his head and how a swift wooziness made his legs wobble. He grinned at Black.
Written for @jilypadweek 2026 - Day 1 prompt "Firsts or Lasts"
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The first time it happened was supposed to be just a bit of fun. Lily and James were getting married in a week, and neither of them were really interested in having a stag or hen night. So instead they had a small party, more of a dinner really, and waited until the guests had left and Sirius was insisting on helping with the cleanup.
It was simple enough to ask him to stay for a nightcap after that. And then to sit on either side of him on the couch, the both of them slowly pressing against him, sandwiching him between them. Sirius slowly turned redder as the evening went on, a flush that could not be explained away by alcohol.
When James put one hand on Sirius' thigh, he froze, words stuttering to a halt just as Lily reached up to cup his face in one hand.
"Wha— Er… Is this…"
"James and I have come to a decision," Lily said, caressing his cheek with her thumb.
"A… decision?" Sirius whispered, looking equal parts turned on and terrified.
"You've been so helpful with the wedding, already," James said, resting one arm along the back of the couch. "We'd like to ask your help with one more thing."
"And… what do you need help with?" Sirius asked, sounding breathless.
"Something in the bedroom," James said, standing and offering a hand to Sirius. "Really finicky. It'll probably take all night."
Sirius looked between them for a moment, as if looking for a possible misunderstanding. A small grin began to tug at his mouth when Lily ran one hand up his inner thigh.
"Well, what kind of best man would I be if I didn't give you my all."
---
The last time they pretended it was just fun between friends was after Harry was born. Sirius had stayed with them for the first two months, helping with nappies and midnight feedings and cleaning up the clutter and chaos that spreads in the wake of having a newborn. Then he'd been sent on a mission for the Order, and Lily and James had to contend with the horrible gap caused by the lack of him in their lives.
When he finally returned after nearly a week away, he looked exhausted and apologized for showing up. He had returned to them out of habit, instead of trying to get to his own flat.
"Good," James said, handing a fussy Harry over.
"Good?" Sirius echoed, holding their son as lovingly as ever.
"It's good to return home after a mission," Lily confirmed, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. "This is where you belong. Home, with us."
"Now let's get you cleaned up and properly fed," James said, wrapping one arm around Sirius and leading their partner to the kitchen.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome, and yet here I am every day applying for jobs I'm never going to get hired for and writing books no one is ever going to want 😂 Just off living in my own little bubble, expecting different results and yet knowing it will never happen.
being too warm during the day: well, this sucks, but this temperature makes sense because the sun is up, and the sun is making me warm. i am unhappy but logically i can deal with it for now.
being too warm at night: what if i kill everybody.
""Why you ask?" he says, and the translation computer is across the room by now, so I primarily hear it in his own voice, an octave below where it would usually be. He taps the question-particle with one claw, bop bop, into the flesh of my arm. "Want big strong sexy Eridian to hold you down?" Tap tap, again, and I can almost feel the point of that claw through the xenonite. I think it feels sharp."
Look I did say I'll take a break but then @twwings wrote T’hy’la and it's literally the scenario I've been thinking about since phm came out, down to Rocky pinning Grace's thigh to the side. What am I supposed to do, not draw something for this fantastically written, funny and really really hot fic?? Please.
Also yes whatever I forgot the xenonite suit but hey look at all those nice pencil lines and crazy perspective
A few of my thoughts on the drawing choices I made under the cut:
I do a lot of the composition/style choices subconsciously but after I sleep on it I typically can tease them out ahah, for those interested...
My goal was to make you feel how sturdy Rocky is. I played a lot with the texture and shape of his limbs to make them look almost like coiled muscle. I hope I nailed this tension between him having Grace very securely down and balancing his significant weight oh-so-carefully so he doesn't hurt him.
I wanted to capture that breathless moment for Grace, right before he lets go, by creating some drama with perspective and contrast:
Light/Shadow: Grace's body is in focus, on full display, cast in light. His body already knows what it wants, it is open and pliant (tender underbelly slightly exposed). But! Grace himself hasn't fully caught up yet. His face and Rocky's top-of-body are tucked away from us, in a world of their own in the intimate shadows. Rocky probably already "hears" that Grace is hot under the collar, but he is waiting on him to come to terms with it. They're conferring, in the tender safety of shadows, away from our prying eyes.
Perspective: I used it to define areas of "closeness" and "distance". The perspective actually makes their "faces" in the back appear close together. Their bodies, on the other hand, maintain a respectful distance, further distorted by the perspective. I wanted to make that space bracketed by their lower limbs so empty but so erotically charged.
I spent so long on Grace's face, I aimed for relaxed and trusting, a bit starstruck, like he is about to finally breathe out and let himself be into this.
I chose this scene to illustrate because it hangs in a delicate balance of plausible deniability and I find that so so unbelievably hot. I think it even decided the black and white style for me: almost like a slow-mo of a flash going off. For a moment, everything is illuminated and laid bare. Whatever happens next will be decided in the darkness that follows.
Honourable mention: I included a hint of Grace being semi-hard. It deviates from the fic but a) I'm a sucker for a dick print in sweatpants and b) it's so subtle that you can generously think it's just fabric bunched up. Just adds more to this "we could still backtrack. We can still pretend it's just play." energy.
something something omega!grace waking up in space with rejection sickness but not knowing why (spoiler alert it’s bc his last memory his alpha was him standing there just watching while they sedated him)
WAIT. I colored this???? I just found the colored layer. Lmao. Sirius looks like a leprechaun. But I also appreciate that he looks bedraggled and old. Idk.
