🎶 Raptors are better than people, Blue don’t you think it’s true?
Yeah, people will sell you and hunt you, extort you!
Every one of them’s bad — except you.
But people smell better than raptors. Blue, don’t you think I’m right?
That’s once again true — for all except you.
You got me. Let’s run for our lives 🎶
I haven’t reblogged that compliment ask game that’s going around because I’m deathly afraid no one will actually send me any. So if you’re doubting your own writing and whether people enjoy it, you aren’t alone.
(I’ve had a handful of people tell me they love Our Bloody Pearl just this week and yet part of my mind is still convinced it’s all a lie.)
Your value as a writer is not dependent on what you think of your own writing at any given time.
It’s not dependent on the negative feedback you cling to.
It’s not dependent on your current mental health.
It’s not dependent on your ability (or inability) to process and internalize positive feedback.
So if you’ve looked for validation and didn’t get it, or you got validation and it didn’t feel like enough, or if you can even bring yourself to seek validation for fear you won’t receive any, then I’m here to say:
⭐ YOU ARE VALID AS A WRITER ⭐
I hereby shun all your brain goblins to the abyss. Go forth and write and believe in yourself, or write despite your disbelief. This is your sign not to give up.
something that’s useful for me to remember, when writing, is that there is literally no other creative practice where you are expected to form a complete and final product as your first step. artists begin paintings with loose pencil sketches. musicians begin songs by finding a riff that works, or a chord progression, or a hooky lyric, and they build from there. there’s an understanding that a creative project is something that is built in steps, over time, starting with simple pieces and adding more and more detail and complexity as time goes on. but writers are like, “ugh, this draft is shit, i’m gonna have to do so much editing” and the consoling counterpoint to that is, “first drafts are always shit, haha, i had to write 1.5 zillion drafts of this novel before i was happy with it.” but like. what if. shit first drafts are the point. i mean can you imagine a painter looking at a pencil sketch and weeping about how terrible it is and how there’s no colour or shading or detail? your first draft is a sketch. you are sketching a book. as you keep refining that sketch, your book will get better. refining the sketch is the work.
first draft > edit > edit > final draft. shit first drafts aren’t embarrassing preludes that you churn out until you finally produce something printable, they are necessary steps toward producing the printable thing.
<<but writers are like, “ugh, this draft is shit, i’m gonna have to do so much editing” and the consoling counterpoint to that is, “first drafts are always shit, haha, i had to write 1.5 zillion drafts of this novel before i was happy with it.”>>
^^^tHiS
Tbh I’ve always wondered why we do this to ourselves. Why do we tear ourselves to pieces like this? At least we’ve PRODUCED something. But even if we’re proud of it, someone will always come along to tell you NOT to be. We tear ourselves down, and others tear us down, too.
Be proud, writers. If you produce, it’s amazing. Good for you. ❤️
I hope you’re safe, i hope you feel safe soon, I wish this people full of hatred didn’t exist but unfortunately they do, but at least I hope this is the last of these pointless racist attacks, I love you and you can count on me for anything
You’d been up late studying, pouring over textbook after textbook that you’d been too tired to bother putting away when you finally crawled into your bed in the young hours of the morning. Your flat was as cluttered as it had ever been with a disarray of notes occupying every surface the eye could see and beside your open laptop, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten amidst the middle of it all, half empty with a shallow ring forming on the wood beneath it.
Your eyes were slow to open at the sound of the incessant knocking on your front door and you stretched with a groan, your half asleep mind fumbling to remember if you were expecting company then. The knocking grew louder, faster, and only after determining that the visitor was definitely not going to stop did you throw your legs over the side, the wood cool cool beneath your feet.
You didn’t bother to move a single hair, despite how atrocious your bedhead surely was, and your eyes fought against every instinct to fall back shut and crawl back into your bed as you stumbled to the front door. Whoever it was had the indecency to wake you from your near-coma and as punishment, they would be forced to endure your unkempt state and most likely harrowing morning breath.
You had barely unlocked the bolts when the door flung open, nearly knocking right into you, and the tall dark blur of the consulting detective swept past you into your flat.
“Y/N, you won’t believe what I saw on my way here.”
You blinked at him, your mind suddenly on as high alert as it could be, and you pushed the door shut behind you. He’d yet to even spare a glance in your direction as he rushed through the room like a storm, his hand running along every surface he passed until he plopped unceremoniously to the spot you’d occupied most of the night before. You watched him fumble with the teacup and he took a sip before promptly spitting it back out into the porcelain.
“Gah, it’s cold.”
“Yeah,” you rasped in a tone that called him out for stating the obvious. “It’s been out all night. Why would you just drink from random cups?”
“Not random,” he mumbled, “it was yours. And I love tea. Can we make tea?”
Your arms crossed as the cogs in your head started to turn. Leaning against the arm of your chair, you peered down at him as he begun to flip through the pages of your various textbooks with both hands, eyes flitting wildly from one page to the next as though he could absorb all the different passages simultaneously.
Though, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?”
The question went ignored.
“These are boring.” A look of disgust curled the edges of his lips as he moved on to the other open books spread out, finding nothing of interest in those either. “Why are you reading these, Y/N? They’re so boring.”
“They’re for my classes, Sherlock.”
“You already graduated,” he protested, at last turning those bright blue eyes your way. His brows furrowed. “These aren’t for forensics. Why are you studying anatomy now?”
“I enrolled in a nursing program.”
“Why?”
“Because—because I needed a change.”
“Change is upsetting.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not surprised you would say that.”
“Oh. Oh!” In an instant, he was at his feet once again, all but leaping over the coffee table to cross the room to you. His hands clamped onto your arms and he leaned in, like he often did when he had a breakthrough on one of his cases. “Y/N, you’ll never believe what I saw on my way here.”
“You said that before. So what was it?”
“I was on my way over here and there was a car parked down near Mr. McGillis’s shop—you know the one, with the knives and the clocks?”
“Yes. You took me there two weeks ago on one of your cases.”
“Yes! That one. Well you’ll never believe it but the car—a dog was driving it!”
You cocked your head with a most perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised in disbelief—and not because of his story, but rather the enthusiasm with which he was relaying it.
“I know! Isn’t that the oddest thing?” He let out a burst of laughter and his eyes shined wildly. “Well, of course it wasn’t really driving, but there were two dogs in the front seats and the small one had its paws up on the wheel—here, I have a picture. You have to see!” As he fumbled to reach into his pocket for his mobile, his grip on your arms fell and you took a step away.
“Sherlock.”
His hands abandoned his search and he looked at you once more, a stupid little smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming gracing his lips. “Y/N.”
You held out your hand. “Sherlock, give me your list.”
This time, it was he who looked at you in confusion. “My list?”
“Yes, Sherlock. Your list.”
Recognition hit and for a moment, he said nothing.
“I don’t have it,” he lied.
“Yes you do. You always do. Give it here.”
“No.”
“No?”
Like a petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin.
“If you want it, you have to take it from me.”
You eyed him up and down, reading everything from his posture to his stubborn glare and letting out a resigned sigh, you took a step forward. Your hand slipped into his pocket.
“It’s not in there.”
You glanced at him. “Then wh—“ As your understanding took root, you drew back and glowered. “Sherlock.”
“Go on, love. Take it.”
He was challenging you, his eyes glinting playfully—dangerously—and he pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth with a smirk. You took another step forward as he lifted back the side of his coat and cautiously, as though you could be burned, your fingers slipped into the pressed pocket of his trousers, brushing the crumpled note hidden inside. Before you could pull away, his arms wrapped snugly around you and all but pinned your body against his own, chest and legs and hips pressed firmly together.
“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “Are you always this warm when you’ve just woken up?”
“Sherlock, you’re crushing me.”
His arms loosened ever so slightly but he didn’t let go and he didn’t give you any space to escape from his embrace. It was enough, however, that you could pull your hand out from his pocket, clenching the crumpled paper between your fingers.
“My god,” he groaned again, his deep voice rumbling against your form in a most confusing and pleasant way, “you smell absolutely divine. How is it you always smell so delicious?”
His head dipped and you felt his nose bury into the skin of your neck, into your messy hair, and he hummed against you, sparking tiny shivers that wracked up and down your spine. You were nearly distracted enough to forget the entire purpose of standing so intimately close to him but with how oddly he was behaving, it didn’t stray far from your thoughts. You unfolded the note and did your best to smooth it with the little dexterity your single hand would provide.
As you struggled to see the words from over his shoulder, your eyes widened.
“What the fuck, Sherlock? Ecstasy?”
“It’s fascinating. I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before.”
“Sherlock, why would you take ecstasy?”
For a man who so seldom felt any strong emotions and even rarer still wanted to feel them, it was a most peculiar whim and you found yourself at a loss for words.
“For a case,” he mumbled. His face was still so close to yours, the tip of his nose drawing a delicate path along the line of your jaw. “The victim was drugged at a nightclub and the assumption is that it was the dosage that killed her. Obviously I had to adjust it for my stature.”
In your younger years, you had become well acquainted with it while you were away at university. You were no stranger to its effects or the dizzying euphoria that it created, but seeing that high experienced through Sherlock was jarring and alien to say the very least. You read over the number written out beside the long pharmaceutical name and your eyes widened again.
“I can’t believe you took this much. Jesus Christ—“ you tried to push away but his arms held you against him with alarming strength. “So you, what, figured you would overdose to see if it would kill you?”
“No,” he murmured so softly against your neck. “On the contrary, I’ve never felt so alive. Do people feel like this all the time?”
“When they’re high, yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”
“And appealing.”
It would have been impossible not to notice the way his firm hands began to slide across your back, fists curling and uncurling in the fabric of your sleep shirt as though it were an instrument he was all too eager to learn.
His breath fanned warmth against the shell of your ear as he gasped your name. “I feel so strange. And you feel so good.”
This was getting to be too much.
“That’s the drugs talking, Sherlock.”
Your hands rose up between you and as they slid over the smooth fabric covering his chest, he let out a moan that once again left you shivering, unsure if it was your body reacting to the proximity of your situation or if it was a thousand tiny alarms setting off at the sound.
“Fuck, it feels so good when you touch me.”
At that, you shoved him back with every ounce of strength in your body. He stumbled on his feet and looked at you in confusion—dare you say dejection—and his lip pulled down into a pout.
“Why did you do that?”
With the distance returned between you, you were able to clear your mind of the strange illusion he’d cast. Your hands fell to your hips, lips pulling into a most unpleasant scowl. “Damnit, Sherlock, how could you be so foolish?”
“Please.” In an extravagant motion, he waved the pesky thought away and his eyes remained locked on your form, raking up and down over and over in a slow way that made you feel far more exposed than you were. “I’ve done much worse than this.”
“Yes, as though I need the reminder.” Your eyes clamped shut and you pinched the bridge of your nose.
What were you going to do with him? How long has it been since you’d had to deal with someone this high on this particular drug—he might as well have taken Viagra with the way he was carrying about. You let out a sigh, mind searching everything you’d read about drug interactions since beginning your studies and everything you knew from before then, scrambling to remember if you had anything useful for the situation at hand.
You had nothing.
You couldn’t think clearly.
Your eyes snapped open, suddenly, when his face was buried into your neck again—only this time, his tongue lapped out, tracing a lazy pattern against your skin up to your ear and before you could properly prepare for it, his lips closed over the sensitive flesh of your lobe, nibbling and pulling and breathing in a way you never—not in a million years—would have expected from him.
“Sherlock.” Your voice was needy, pleading, but whether you were pleading him to stop or to keep going, you hadn’t the foggiest.
“You’re so bloody soft,” he moaned against you. “Softer than velvet. I wonder if you’re this soft everywhere.”
His warm fingers squeezed your fleece-covered thigh, running up and down with enough force to bruise and his other hand had somehow snaked its way underneath your shirt in your momentary distraction, sliding up and up and up along your ribs until he could very nearly—
“Sherlock Holmes, watch your hands!”
You all but jumped away from him, catching yourself on the edge of the chair to keep from falling backwards in the clumsiest way.
Focus. You needed to focus.
The man looked almost as dazed as you were sure you did and his lips were moist and red and if you weren’t so utterly astounded, it would have turned you on like nothing ever had.
Okay, so it did that anyway—
“I’d like to watch my hands touching every inch of you.”
Fuck.
When his lips stretched into a smirk once more, you almost lost it. You stepped around behind the chair and held your hand up, signaling him to stop before your hormones could cloud your judgement.
“Sherlock, stop it. This isn’t you and I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re high as a kite.”
He made that face again—the one that relayed the depths of his confusion, looking a breath away from upset with his bright blue eyes as wide as could be.
“But I want this.”
“Now you do. Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”
“I promise you I won’t.”
He took a step closer, around the side of the chair you hid behind, and your feet mirrored his to keep distance between you.
“No, Sherlock, please. Your not thinking straight. You need to go sleep this off.”
“Sleep is the last thing I need right now.” His voice was the embodiment of pure sex. He took another step and so did you.
“Then go take a shower. I recommend a cold one.”
“I’d be more inclined if you joined me.”
The thought crawled into your mind and made a nest of its own and for a single moment, you thought your feet might betray every rational thought you had and take him up on the offer.
You couldn’t let that happen.
You darted past him in a quick burst and plucked your purse from its spot beside the door.
“No. I—I have to go to work. I’ll be late for my shift.”
Sherlock stared at you, expression unchanged. “No, you’re lying. I may be ‘high as a kite’, as you put it, but I can still read you like an open book. Or open—“
“Nope.” Your voice pitched and you shrugged your purse onto your shoulder. “Not lying. Gotta go.” Your hand twisted the knob. Without sparing a glance back at him, you called out to him over your shoulder. “The towels are under the sink.”
You slammed the door shut behind you and lasted all the way to the stairwell before you fell back against the wall and let out a long-held groan.
What the hell was he doing to you?
You returned late at night, just past midnight, after having opted to work a double to cover for your coworker who desperately wanted to leave early to meet up with a date. It kept you from returning to your flat and that was enough motivation for you to power through your sleepless fatigue, haunted mercilessly by the memory of Sherlock’s mouth and his tongue on your sensitive neck and the memory of his hands pressing you together as close as your clothes had allowed.
The walk home from the tube was long and cold and you took it at a slower pace than you normally would, both hoping and dreading to find him there when you returned—so you could make sure he was alright and that the drugs had passed through his system in the twelve hours since your confusing and frustrating drug-fueled encounter. Your pyjamas were in a wad in your arms, keeping your hands sheltered from the sparse snow that had started to fall and since you had rushed out before grabbing a coat, you forced yourself to focus on that small bit of warmth instead of the biting chill that burned at your bare arms and legs. By the time you pushed inside your building, you swore your legs were going to fall off and you shivered violently the entire way up the three flights of stairs.
Your flat was quiet when you pushed your way inside and the sound of the bolt sliding shut was next to deafening. You glanced, your heart beating in alarm, to the couch—his normal spot—to see if it had awoken him, but a mild wave of surprise filled you when you found it to be empty and untouched despite his coat hanging beside your own as a clear signal that he’d yet to leave. In the scant amount of light streaming in from the window, the mess from your studying appeared to have been straightened, all your textbooks closed and aligned neatly in the middle of the table, stacks of your crumpled and loose notes beside each one correspondingly almost as if the mess had never been there at all.
You crossed the floor to your bedroom but before you even stepped foot over the threshold, you spied his curly mop of hair spilling over your pillow as he lay curled up in your soft blankets. Sound asleep. In your bed.
You shook your head. Of course he’d taken up residence in your bed. This was Sherlock and why you were surprised by his intrusive approach was a surprise in and of itself.
A quick trip to your kitchen had you returning with a small tray of toast and a tall glass of water. As you drew near to the bed, he stirred and rolled over. His eyes blinked at you blearily, neither asleep nor awake.
“Hey.” You whispered, unwilling to completely rouse him from his slumber more than you already had. Timidly, you sunk into the mattress at his side. “I brought you some food.”
“Ugh.” His expression soured and he closed his eyes once more. “Thank you for the gesture but I couldn’t possibly eat.”
With a disapproving frown, you slid the tray onto the table beside your bed and scooted closer to him, pulling his arm out from underneath the blankets. He groaned, objecting loudly against escaping the warm cocoon he’d created, but with your trek through the wintry streets you had little to no sympathy for the complaint.
Your fingers pressed steadily against his wrist and your eyes followed the ticking on your wrist watch. As your focus wandered from him, he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. His eyes were clearly still halfway caught in sleep but they were much more clear than when you’d left him earlier and his pupils no longer fought to swallow the sky from his eyes.
You let his hand fall gently onto his lap and leaned back, propped up by your arms as you continued to survey him. “Your vitals are back to normal.” You hadn’t needed to say it aloud as you both already knew it to be true, but your need to fill the silence in hope of forgetting the strange events of earlier overpowered the comfortable quiet.
“Your hands are freezing.”
“I’m freezing,” you corrected. You curled your legs beneath you to get closer the the heat from his nap that radiated from the blankets beneath you. “I forgot my coat when I left.”
“You did run out without even changing out of your pyjamas.”
Your supervisor had been furious about the fact, too, and you’d had to borrow an extra uniform from one of your coworkers who was quite a bit shorter and decidedly less endowed and had only a spare skirt to cover you from the waist down. Your entire shift had left you feeling the burn of leering gazes as you moved from table to table in the clothes that were just a bit too fitting and as the night settled in, you had begun to curse yourself for running out as quickly as you had instead of just sucking it up and getting ready beforehand. You could have locked Sherlock in the bathroom and shoved him fully clothed into an ice bath or something while you dressed and then you wouldn’t have had to deal with any of that or the heckling you’d awkwardly received when you explained you’d had a restless night and the other waitresses assumed less innocent things than the truth.
Of course, the light mark he’d left on your neck definitely didn’t help you plead your case.
You shook your head and reached over to the bedside table to lift up the glass of water and passed it to him.
“So was it the drugs that killed her?”
“No.” He gave a wry smile as he took the aspirin from your outstretched hand and threw them back. “I knew that from the beginning, I just had to prove it.”
You just shook your head. “You’re absolutely insane. You’re the only man I know who would put their body through that just to prove something you already knew.”
Sherlock didn’t respond. He finished the glass and returned it to the table at his side, straightening his posture as he stared at you quizzically. Silently.
The cold was getting to you. That was the only reason why you were shivering.
“So you’re feeling better then?”
“More normal, at any rate.”
“Good.”
With a soft pat to his covered knee, you swung your legs off the bed and walked to your chest of drawers across the room and pulled out your warmest pair of pyjamas. You could feel his eyes trail after you—there was no mistaking the burning way they bored into your back—and your bare legs shook as you thought of the warmth of your plush bed he had overtaken, a tinge of jealousy touching you when you realized what you’d be giving up after such a long day for the sake of his well being.
“Okay. You should get more rest. I’ll sleep out on the couch tonight.”
“No, wait.”
Before you can walk away, he grabbed you by the wrist and you hadn’t realized he’d even stood at all until you slammed firmly into his chest.
“I meant what I said before, Y/N.” His grip dug into your hip and a finger trailed across your cheek as lightly as a feather, brushing the stray wisps of hair away. “I do want this.”
Your breath caught in your throat and you tilted your head to stare up at him in the darkness, trying to make sense of the strange words tumbling from his mouth. Strange, too strange, even for him.
“I don’t think you do.”
The littlest sound escaped his lips, trapped somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and those gentle, warm fingers trailed so delicately around the curve of your ear, slowly making way down the slope of your neck. This time, there was no denying the cause of your shiver and it took everything not to lean into his touch.
“It’s been on my mind for quite some time—and you know how prone to obsession I am.”
You didn’t trust his words and you didn’t say a thing, you just continued to stare up at him with the slightest crinkle on your brow. Your hands had come up to rest against his chest but you weren’t sure if it was to keep this strange, imaginary connection between the two of you real or if it was to quicken your ability to push him away.
“I’ve been thinking about the way you must taste,” he whispered, leaning in, brushing his lips like a ghost against the shell of your ear. “And after the small glimpse I managed to steal earlier, I can’t get it out of my mind—I can’t think clearly. You always smell like firewood and nutmeg and I can’t help but wonder if your skin is just as intoxicating.”
His lips moved away from you, your skin cold and empty at the loss of contact. “It’s quite inconvenient, how distracting you‘ve become to me.”
Inconvenient.
He had such a way with words.
A familiar thought spilled into your mind—what was he doing to you? You were sure he didn’t even realize what he was doing or that he was at all, but it tormented you just the same.
Your breath shuddered. “This doesn’t sound like you.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’m not very familiar with this sensation—this need. I don’t understand it in the least,” he confessed. He tilted your chin and studied the planes of your face, the depth of your eyes, as though there were answers hidden somewhere should he only seek them out. “I don’t like not understanding.”
“You know, you don’t have to understand everything.”
“Yes, I do.”
How could you have expected anything less from him? You shook your head and scoffed. He pulled back but his fingers continued to toy with the hem of your small shirt, just barely still tucked into the high waist of your skirt. The warmth from his touch was so pleasant, so inviting, that even though your head told you otherwise, you did not pull away or make any move to stop him.
He cocked his head. “How long has it been since you were with Mark?”
You almost whipped away at the question.
“Michael.” You knew he knew the man’s name but his insistence to ignore social pleasantries always had him playing the same game with those he considered insignificant. “We ended it three weeks ago.”
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “how long has it been since you were with a man?”
What business was that of his? Truly, it wasn’t.
Still, you answered. “Two months.”
That toying, teasing smirk returned to his face. “Then you want this too, I imagine. From what I understand, that’s a rather long time to go without fulfilling this particular need.”
Your mouth opened so slightly to deny it but before you could squeeze out a word, his fingers slipped underneath your shirt, splaying across the soft skin of your stomach and squelching your objection in a single heartbeat.
He leaned in and his sweet breath fanned across your cheek. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes,” he murmured, skin so close to yours you could feel the electricity humming between you. “You like the way I’m touching you.” His touch moved seamlessly from your stomach beneath the band of your skirt, softly caressing the top of your hips and you had no control over your resulting shudder.
“I can feel your pulse racing—right here.” A spark shot through your body when his lips closed in on the bare skin at the base of your neck, his lips soft and warm as his tongue moved so gently there just like he’d done earlier when the sun was bright in the cold sky.
“Of course my pulse is racing,” you managed to whisper. “You’re making me nervous.”
His chuckle tumbled against your throat, resonating down through your stomach. “Nerves and excitement can be easily confused.”
“How would you know?” You hadn’t intended the words to come out as bitterly as they did, as harsh, and once they were out your voice softened. You weren’t sure he ever would truly understand. “The only emotions you’re familiar with are boredom and arrogance.”
He hummed. “You call it arrogance; I call it confidence. And right now I’m confident about two things—I’m confident that I want this, I want you, and I’m confident you want me too.”
As usual, he was right.
You did want him. His teasing words from earlier had taunted you all day, sullied by the confusion between what you knew to be Sherlock and this strange behavior he was displaying, muddled by the frustration that had been building that you were sure he would never feel in the same way you did.
You weren’t in love with him, no. But god you wanted him.
He waited as you mulled over your silence and the lack of affirmation thrummed in his chest like rejection.
“If I’m wrong,” he rasped, deeply and needing, “just say it. Say it and I’ll stop and we’ll never speak of this again.”
He had laid the line before you and now it was up to you whether you would cross it or not.
You let out a soft breath, tongue flicking out across your lips to wet them—a motion that did not escape his attuned senses.
“And what if I do admit to wanting this?”
Finally, your hands trailed up his chest, curing around the loosely unbuttoned collar of the crisp dress shirt he’d fallen asleep in while you were gone. Your fingers toyed with the third button, gently brushing the pale skin just beneath and his eyes darkened as he watched you. They darkened more when he caught your gaze, challenging and fierce but still so reluctant to push him into this unfamiliar territory you both seemed to want so much.
“What would happen in that case, Sherlock?”
“Then,” pausing for effect, he leaned down to press his mouth against your ear again, like it was only natural. “I believe I have a few ideas that we would both enjoy.” His hand slipped down your thigh, playing at the hem of your skirt, and he pulled you taught against him with the other, your hips flush in a strange and new and magnetic way. “And each and every—single—one of them ends with you saying my name.” As if on command, he found the spot just below your ear and clamped onto it with delicious pressure, pulling his name from you in a soft moan. “Just like that.”
You hardly even recognized the sound of your own voice.
He pulled back and smiled down at you, lips brazen and cocky but for once, you didn’t care. Any objection, every inhibition, that you had melted away under his touch, under his hands as they slid to your back and those long musician’s fingers slid the zipper of your skirt loose around your waist. Under the fabric, he groped at the soft flesh of your hips and you hadn’t known it to be possible to get closer than you were but he managed to make it happen, always surprising you.
“Oh, fuck it.”
You’d no sooner said the words before you were working his shirt open, taking care not to snap the buttons despite your frenzied want. More and more of his lean, toned chest came into view and your nails trailed softly over the newly exposed skin as you went. You lurched up on your toes, wondering if his neck was as sensitive as your own, but just before you could, he pulled away and he held your weight against him, staring down at you with lust blown eyes and a grin.
“You want this?” His fingers brushed again and again over your hips, slowly sliding the skirt further and further down.
“Sherlock, please,” you keened, “stop teasing.”
His laugh shook straight to your core and as he leaned in to his new favourite spot on your neck, his leg slipped between yours and the fabric of his trousers raised goosebumps all the way up your spine.
“I need to hear you say it, love.”
“Yes. Fuck, I want this.” Your hands carded through his hair, curls soft against your fingertips. “I want you,” you moaned. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I want every second of it that I can get.”
That was all he needed to hear.
In the space of time it took for you to process what was happening, his hands slid down and grasped the back of your thighs and he hoisted you up his waist with all the strength of a man possessed. He pulled you against him by the back of your neck before finally—finally—your lips crashed together, his tongue slipping greedily between yours and you opened your mouth to him without a thought as the delicious warmth sent you reeling. His lips, his tongue, were softer than you would have ever imagined and his sweet breath had you pushing harder against him, your nails raking through his dark curls and legs tightening around his waist with desperation.
Closer. You needed him closer.
Your back sunk into the soft mattress and only then did he pull back, panting as softly as you. His blue eyes locked on yours and he slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, casting it away carelessly to land somewhere crumpled on the floor of your room. Where he knelt between your legs, he had the perfect view of the length of your entire body and he followed with those fathomless eyes the trail made by his hand, starting at your knee and to your hip, brushing the skin of your waist and along your side that your shirt had ridden up to expose.
His swollen lower lip pulled between his teeth in concentration as he watched your every reaction, every shiver, that his touch elicited. You leaned forward, eager to pull that lip between your own, but his hand pressed firmly against your hips and pinned you in place.
“Patience, love.”
The whine that tore from your throat rose a blush along your cheeks.
“You’ve been teasing me all day.”
Even if he didn’t realize it—which at this point you were sure he did—it was the truth.
Sherlock hummed in response to your protest. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your collarbone before his lips touched there as well.
“I had to make sure that you wanted this as much as I do.” His hand slipped up underneath your shirt, dragging lazily along the curve of your breast—teasing, taunting, but never moving any closer to where you wanted. His dark hair tickled your neck and he murmured against the soft mound, still shrouded from view by the white cotton.
“I’m still not sure I’m convinced.”
His lips clamped around your nipple through your shirt and you gasped immediately. He pinned you in place still through the arching of your back and when he added his teeth, sucking and nipping and playing at the sensitive bud, your knees clamped tightly to either side of his hips, trying and pleading and begging for the friction he’d abandoned.
“Sherlock,” you moaned, “please.”
He hadn’t even really touched you yet and you were sure you were going to cry out from sheer frustration.
The cocky bastard chuckled, his lips pulling away from your pert nipple and leaving it open to the chill of the room.
“Shall I find out how badly you want this?” He moved his hand at last to your nipple beneath the fabric of your shirt and deft fingers squeezed and rolled in just the right way that had you squirming under him.
“I wonder just how wet you are.”
Your chest heaved and his hand slid past your hips, past the scrunched up skirt, and for one glorious moment moment, his hand sunk down to cup your dripping core.
But all too soon, he pulled away.
What the fuck?
If looks could kill, you would have struck him down as he rocked back on his heels and swiped your skirt down to reveal your absolutely bare legs, devoid even of the knickers he’d expected to find.
“Well,” he gushed, “this is a pleasant surprise.”
“I was in a rush,” you snapped.
He grinned down at you wickedly and once again you flushed. “It’s all the same—even if you hadn’t run out on me earlier,” he pressed a quick, suckling kiss to your stomach, “I wouldn’t have let you leave with them on.”
You panted incredulously, beyond frustrated by his games.
“You’re so sure about that.”
“Mm.” One after the other, his legs slipped from the bed and little by little, he tugged your skirt down past your ankles. Tauntingly slow. Once get offending garment was thrown, he lifted your leg and his mouth closed around the skin of your inner thigh, inches north of your knee.
“I’m positive.”
His fingers traced small circles against your hips but he didn’t move any closer, even when you let out a small whine, even when you wriggled in place, aching and begging without words. He watched you squirming in your distressed state, his expression a blank canvas as he studied your every curve splayed out before him in waiting.
You glared at the cracked plaster of your ceiling.
“You know, Sherlock,” you hissed through your teeth, “you’re talking a big game but you’ve yet to have anything to show—“
A harsh tug pulled you to the edge of the bed and before you could finish spouting out the word, two long fingers slipped inside of you and he smiled as he nibbled at the apex of your thigh.
“Fuck.”
His fingers pulled almost completely out before he pushed them back in, twisting just so and the pad of his thumb brushed over your clit. A moan fell through your lips like honey before you could stop it, before you could deny it.
That familiar, arrogant chuckle broke through the walls of your momentary bliss. “What was that were you saying?”
“Nothing,” you gasped. “Just keep going.”
“Mm-hmm.” The sound rumbled against your thigh. “That’s what I thought.”
A third finger joined the others, stretching you around him like you hadn’t felt in a while and somehow only serving to make you wetter, needier for his touch. His thumb moved away from your sensitive bud and briefly, you considered shouting out to him.
Not again.
But before your dry mouth could gasp a single protest, his tongue had already taken its place.
That was unexpected.
He lapped delicately against you, drawing the sensitive flesh between his lips as his fingers continued to work you—play you, like a well-known melody. You felt his lips release your clit and trail down, drawing a stripe from your dripping center up over your hooded nerves and your legs began to quake.
This time, you gasped soundlessly—what was he doing to you?
He was here, touching you, but you still weren’t entirely convinced any of it was happening. That it was real.
The still of the room filled with your heavy breathing, with your mewling whimpers, and every sense you had was focused on him and the way he moved so warmly between your thighs. Everywhere he touched was on fire in the most pleasant way and by now you had completely forgotten the cold you had suffered what felt like hours earlier.
Somehow, he’d found a way to go deeper, curling just so, fingers strong and eager as they worked you so deliciously. They slid in again before sliding completely out of you, drawing a whimper as you pleaded for the fullness they had given you. His hands moved to knead the curve of your arse, pulling you closer to him and in a sure motion, his tongue flicked out and his lips teased and sucked in a way that was so different from his fingers but so good. Naturally, instinctively, your hands twisted into the sweat dampened hair at the nape of his neck.
“You taste even more exquisite than I imagined,” his deep voice rumbled against your core in the most delightful way.
You’d always known he had a sharp tongue but if you’d known how good he was with it, if you’d known how it could make butterflies fly through your stomach as well as it could cut, you might have begged to sit on his face years ago.
You whispered his name and pulled him closer, guiding his head in the way that drove you wild. Your hips ground wantonly against his face as you chased the blinding, numbing ecstasy that you could feel breaking way to the surface. That tight and hot and desperate feeling pitted deep within you, begging to be freed.
“Oh my god—“
Then, all too soon, he was gone. Again.
You groaned. “Sherlock—“
With both hands still cupping your thighs, he lifted you up, his face burying in the flushed crook of your neck. His teeth nipped and he sucked against your pulse, harder still when you curled into him and dragged him down with you. His thigh ground against your aching core, rubbing just enough with the friction from his trousers to keep your excitement mounting and building but never spilling over. Every sigh and every gasp you made, he moved further up your neck, his hands groping and sliding until finally his lips reached yours.
He moved closer, so close you could feel his breath but he kept that scant distance with his arms caging around you on either side of your head.
Your mouth fell into a pout. “Sherlock, please.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”
You wriggled beneath him, trying in vain to catch his lips. “And if I didn’t know any better,” you panted, “I‘d think you were enjoying it, too.”
He brushed away a lock of your hair. “Oh, I am.”
“Just kiss me already.”
He did. Finally, he did. You could taste yourself on him, the soft and salty and sweet flavor so exotic and unlike anything you’d ever tasted before and to experience it through him was so heady, so primal, you wanted nothing more than to soak up all of it. You pulled his lip between yours, suckling and tender and the dangerous thought that you were sure you couldn’t get enough of the intoxicating way he made you feel swam around you, filling your ears with a symphony composed of his touch and the deep, rumbling tones of his voice. Your tongues moved together in a gentle duel, curling against the unspoken whispers of desire.
Clothes. He was wearing far too much.
“Trousers,” you managed to mutter against his lips. “Take them off.”
He didn’t stop kissing you and when his hands wandered lower, they caught on the hem of your shirt, sliding the cloth higher up your ribs.
You pulled away roughly. “Take them off. Now.”
Blue eyes glazed from the intimacy between you met your own and your eyebrow rose, both ordering him and begging him to heed your command. You needed it. You needed him.
His tongue dragged lazily against the bare skin of your stomach but he did as he was asked. You heard the telltale sound of his belt clattering against the hardwood and a few seconds later, he urgently—clumsily—kicked them away.
You took a second to soak in his form and though you’d never really taken the time to do so before, you weren’t disappointed. Beneath the layers of dark clothes he elected to wear day after day, he hid a well toned physique, his waist tapering softly where a trail of dark hair dove just beyond your line of sight from where you lay sprawled before him.
He climbed back onto the bed, hovering above you with still so much space—still too much space—empty between you. Those hands glided up your ribs, like he had before when you’d pushed him off, and this time you didn’t stop him as he pulled the tight shirt up over the mounds of your breasts, baring them in all their glory to his feasting eyes. You laughed when the collar snagged on your chin and laughed harder still as he pressed closer, trying to finesse it off of you without pulling your hair any more than doing so already had.
Finally, your sight returned to you as your borrowed shirt was cast far off into the darkness of your room without a thought.
His hot palms slid along your sides, starting at your narrow waist until he reached your supple breasts, cupping you, kneading you.
Stalling.
“You’re not wearing anything here either,” he mused just before nodding his head and flattening his hot tongue over your hard, peaking nipple.
“Like I said, I was—“
“In a rush. Yes. Running away from this.” His teeth raked gently at the startled nerves, your back arching with him as he pulled. “Trying to hide from your desire for me.”
His hands skirted down your hips, brushing your inner thighs. He spread them open, sinking into the crevice between, and his hips rocked so gently against your own.
“Sherlock.”
In an instant, he pulled away and he wasn’t touching you at all; not with his hands, not with his mouth. Nothing.
“I need you to tell me what you need, Y/N.”
“More. I need more.”
He hummed, taunting you with, “I thought you weren’t interested in taking advantage of my curiosity.”
Oh, this was just cruel. If you weren’t so desperate, if you didn’t want him as badly as you did, you would have shoved him away.
“Fuck you,” you spat.
“That’s sort of the plan, love.”
And then he slid into you, roughly, until he was sheathed as deeply as could be. Hips flush against your own in a way that sparked every sensitive nerve alive, the way he twisted had you shaking beneath him and the groan that tore from your lips was nothing shy of pornographic.
For a second, he paused. Your eyes had closed, head tilted back into the sheets, and his hands fluttered helplessly at your waist.
“Did I—“
“Do it again,” you gasped, finally finding your voice. “Please.”
That had been a good sign after all.
And so he did, again and again. His movements were clumsy at first, not quite sure where to put his hands or how he should move, but he was a fast learner and this, it seemed, was no exception.
Soon the clumsy pace and tentative touches lead way to confident thrusts, dragging unintelligible noises from you both and his hands grew bolder in all the right places, sure to leave bruises though you couldn’t find it in you to care. He hiked your legs up around his waist and you were more than eager to oblige as flesh pressed firmly against flesh, his lips sucking and tongue curling from your collarbone to your chin, leaving no inch of skin untouched. His mouth met yours, hot and hungry and full of desire, and his tongue begged for access as his hips did the same, both moving in slow, languid strokes that tingled through your spine.
You reached up for him, tugged at the long hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer and your hips bucked up against his own, begging—pleading—for the release he’d been building you up to for so long. You felt him shiver as your nails raked down his back, felt him pulse inside of you and in a flash, he gathered your hands in his own and stretched your arms far above your head.
Your hands struggled in his grip.
“I need to touch you.”
“You’ll get your turn,” he promised gruffly, grinding into you without pause. “Right now, it’s mine.”
And though a part of you yearned to disobey and pull at him, to touch him like he was touching you, you submitted to his mercy with very little complaint. His lips, his hands, his teeth, his tongue moved all over you in perfect harmony, his thrusts just the right strength and speed to send your head reeling, make you see colors around you like the cosmos.
He kissed you tenderly, he kissed you roughly, and every touch of his lips hummed against your skin. His hands continued to wander in their mindless, greedy path, fingers reaching between you as you tightened almost unbearably around him.
His name tumbled from your lips like a chant, a mantra inspired by the intimacy between you.
Overwhelmed by everything about him and overtaken by the mindless, numbing sensations that overtook you, he lead you to the very edge like he had time after time that night but this time he didn’t hold you back, he didn’t pull away, he didn’t stop even when you were screaming out in pleasure that left your throat raw and your mind spinning. This time, he tumbled right along with you.
Neither of you moved, content in the silence spoiled only by the rise and fall of your heavy breathing as you both let the beating of your hearts return to normal. His head fell into the crook of your neck, your skin hot to the touch and slick with sweat that he didn’t seem to mind.
Moments trickled by before he moved, pulling out of you with a soft groan, and then he lay at your side. He folded his arms beneath his head, keeping the space between your naked bodies as though they hadn’t been pressed together so tightly only moments before. Your knees fell together at his side, the throbbing between them the only tangible evidence of what had transpired between you from out of thin air, and your hands brushed away the sticky, wild tendrils of hair that stuck to your face.
You didn’t need him to say anything, you didn’t need to hear anything, but something inside of you wanted to hear his voice thrumming against you again.
And at last, he spoke.
“Most enlightening.”
You took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling.
“So that’s—you got what you needed?”
For a moment, the disappointment in your tone was nearly palpable and while your mind was still struggling to come back down to your body, you wondered if his words of rejection would hit you as hard as the pleasure he’d made you feel.
But to your surprise, the rejection you expected never came.
Legs still shaking from his touch, the calm tingling still coursing through you, he pulled you on to his lap and his hands raked up your form without a moment’s hesitation. With alarming fervor, your lips crashed together, searing and greedy. He pulled back shortly after and the smile he looked down at you with was purely wicked, lips swollen from your kiss and his hair a mess across his forehead, and the way his dark eyes drank you in made you swear you could nearly come on the spot.
“Oh, not even close.”
————————
You sat on the fire escape outside of your window dressed in his half buttoned shirt, a cigarette lit between your lips. Wrapped in only your dark sheet, Sherlock sat beside you, arm snaked around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. Without a word, you passed it to him. His chest rose and fell against your back with his deep inhale and he blew a stream of smoke before you both, out into the snowy morning.
Your mind was clouded, your body still tingling from his touch.
“One time,” you whispered softly, fog spilling into the air with your breath. “That’s all this was.”
You’d loved every moment of what had happened but that’s all it could be. He admitted to being especially prone to obsession, driven by impulse and understanding and when his mind set to something, he pursued it with no exception. But much like him, you too were prone to the whims and the draw of addiction and you knew that without a doubt, this was something that would absorb you if you let it. The feelings he brought out of you were nothing short of intoxicating and the way he touched you with such determination, such fascination, left you craving more and more.
It was the only way you knew to keep from driving yourself mad. Declaring an end meant you had control. It ensured your ability to separate what was real from what was fleeting and Sherlock Holmes was known for wants of the fleeting variety.
You might have allowed yourself to get high off of him but you wouldn’t allow yourself to get hooked.
“Two times, technically.”
You were quick to smack your hand to his chest. “You know what I meant.”
“One night,” he offered in compromise. His hand slipped from your waist to the bare skin of your thigh, still warm from his touch. His fingers trailed, in a touch that was barely here, higher and higher and you shook as they moved closer to your most sensitive area. “I’m not finished discovering all the ways I can make you quiver.”
“Sherlock.”
With a deep chuckle, he pulled you tighter into his side and kissed your neck tenderly in the spot where a dark bruise had already started to form. You shivered against him.
“I’m not sure I’ll tire of hearing you say my name like that.”
“Of course you will.” You took in another puff. “I’ve never met anyone who tires of things as quickly as you.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” He didn’t stop and his lips fell to your shoulder. “But I find this quite intriguing. I’m enjoying the opportunity to expand my knowledge.”
“One night,” you whispered, reminding him of the words he’d just spoken. “Just one night.”
“If one night is all we have, then I intend to make it count.”
He pulled you easily onto his lap and kissed every inch of exposed skin as his fingers slipped loose every button of the only clothes you wore. Despite the bone-chilling cold, your skin was warm beneath him, burning from his touch so much that you hardly felt it at all.
He pulled just far enough away to smile at you as he slid the fabric from your shoulders like he was unwrapping something fragile. “Call it narcissistic if you must, but I think I like the sight of my shirt falling from your body as much as I enjoyed watching you put it on.”
The sheet fell from his chest as he pulled you tight against him, hands roaming shamelessly over your naked skin, over your hips and thighs, fingers brushing so intimately close to your heated core. He pulled your earlobe between his lips and with his hot breath fanning against your cooling skin, the shiver that overtook you had nothing to do with the winter air.
You leaned into him before you realized you had.
“Sherlock, we’re outside.”
“Yes, we are.”
With your attention so easily distracted, his fingers slipped easily inside of you, drawing out the softest mewl from your lips. That didn’t stop him, however, and his hands moved faster, fingers sliding and rubbing and before you could gasp out a word, his mouth latched eagerly to yours as he swallowed every moan, every whimper, every cry that he pulled from you.
And then for an instant, he pulled away. He grasped your jaw, still toying with you with devious, delectable ardor. You squirmed in his lap and he merely smiled, that lazy sexy smile with so much challenge in his eyes that would have made you weak in the knees if you were standing.
“I suggest you do try to keep your voice down. We wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”
sometimes i really love my fics. i wrote that because i wanted to read it. i love it. nobody visits my fics more than me. they remind me that i’m a hard worker, that i created something. it’s mine and i cherish it and love it because it’s exactly what i wanted so i made it.
and other days i’m crippled by self criticism and hate everything and can’t bear to look at my own work because i know it’ll never compare to the greats
but i live for the days i love my work. because it’s mine, and i made it. i didn’t wait for somebody else to make what i dream about. i went and did it myself.
so don’t feel like your work is awful
it’s the stuff you dreamed about. it’s the stuff you decided to make a reality. it’s not about quality, or poetry, or how perfectly your sculpt your words or keep it so deeply in character; because it’s what you dreamed and it’s what you wanted to see, so you made it.
keep writing; it’s yours, and you made it. and if you want to continue to sharpen and improve yourself? then do it. it’s all yours and you can make it whatever you want.
Sirius Black and the eleven times he fell in love with Marlene McKinnon // 11 of 11 // 1-5 6-10
11.
By the summer of 1981, their tasks for the Order of the Phoenix had driven all of them in completely separate directions.
James, Lily, and Harry were in hiding still and the looming threat of he-who-must-not-be-named was as stifling as ever. He still saw them at the Order headquarters, of course, but it was just never the same as it used to be. Aside from the ten minutes he’d been around a week or so earlier when they’d all gathered for the photo that Dumbledore insisted would boost morale, Remus hadn’t been heard from in weeks (or maybe it was months, it all felt the same at this point) and Sirius could count the times he’d seen Peter over the course of that year on a single hand. He saw the Prewett brothers more than he saw his own best friends these days and as he went from one job to another, there were familiar faces everywhere he looked—but never the ones he wanted to see. He was lonely, he was angry, and above all he could feel his mind slipping further and further into the darkness he’d tried for years to shield himself from as easily as anything he’d ever felt before.
But he had a solution; Sirius drank. He drank often and he drank a lot and if a day went by without a bottle in his hand, he wasn’t sure whether to call it a good one or a bad one. Nights spent at the bar or nursing a bottle in his flat turned into mornings doing the same and those spilled further into long work days sipping coffee that was more rum than caffeine.
Those days, waking up hungover had become normal and waking up still drunk from the night before was almost as common which is why when Sirius woke up that particular morning with his head pounding like a chorus of bells, nothing seemed amiss. Except one thing—
Marlene.
He stopped cold in his tracks and took in the sight of her sitting on the kitchen counter as if it had happened before, as if she’d been there a dozen times and as if seeing her face was just another day in the life and it was just normal. It wasn’t normal. He wondered if he was still drunk, maybe, but the pounding in his head assured him that was not the case but it had to be that because he couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be seeing her in his flat.
But Merlin if she didn’t look lovely right where she was—her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it before with pretty fringe framing her face. She stripped back the peel of a banana, appearing not to have heard him yet though Sirius very much doubted that was the case—he wasn’t a quiet man and his waking state wasn’t any different.
His socks scraped loudly against the wood floor.
“You know,” he laughed when she jumped at the sound of his voice, “if you wanted something to put in your mouth, I can find you something better than that.”
(He winced and not just at the shoddy pick up line—he sounded like he’d been gargling broken glass for most of the night.)
Marlene looked him over, from his long messy hair and outgrown stubble to the way his crumpled old joggers hung low on his hips. Merlin, he looked just as awful as he did when she found him the night before. She smirked and took a big bite of the fruit.
“Good morning to you too, Sleeping Beauty,” she said through a full mouth.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “That’s Mister Sleeping Beauty to you, McKinnon.” He rubbed his tired, bleary eyes and stumbled forward a few steps to cradle his head against the counter. “How can you be eating this early?”
“Early?” Marlene lifted her wrist, reading the time stamped across her watch. “It’s a quarter past ten already.”
“Like I said—early.”
Marlene scoffed and finished the last of the banana, dropping the peel onto the counter at her side. “Your sense of time is all screwed up, isn’t it?” He just shrugged weakly. She wasn’t wrong, but he wouldn’t be the one to admit it aloud. “Do you drink like this all the time now?”
Like she was one to talk—Marlene had spent most of their years at school building her reputation for drinking even the most seasoned of older students under the table and if she didn’t have her lucky flask tucked away in the pocket of her robes, she had her backup flask in the hidden pocket of her bag. He didn’t reply and she didn’t ask again but she watched him stumble around the counter to grab a bottle of aspirin from the top of the refrigerator.
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
He counted the pills in his hand and yanked the door open to display the near-empty chilled shelves inside. “I remember enough to know we didn’t sleep together.”
Sirius didn’t mean for his words to come out so callous, so jaded, but by now it was just second nature to him to speak with that tinge writing his tone.
She waited as he rummaged around inside but Marlene McKinnon had never been known for her patience and Sirius was clearly stalling. “Do you remember anything you said?”
A glass bottle clinked and scraped against the shelf and a second later, the top hissed and fell to the floor.
“You mean when I told you I was in love with you?” He tipped his head back and poured half the bottle down the back of his throat.
“Yup,” he popped, the word dripping wryly from his tongue. “I remember that too.”
In fact, he was hoping that she didn’t remember it—he’d been counting on it, really. Whether it was the alcohol or his own mind, he’d lied awake for long enough before rolling out of bed, turning over and over the words he’d uttered so carelessly into her hair the night before as she helped him into his own bed. He chugged the rest of the beer and tossed the bottle into the basket with a dozen or so like it.
Marlene didn’t know when her knee had started to bounce or when she’d started tapping her nails against the cold surface at her side but Sirius noticed and his silver eyes snapped to the motion like it had personally wronged him.
“Can you cut that out?”
Her fingers stopped almost immediately, but that didn’t mean she was any more calm. “Don’t you think that’s something we should talk about?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
Sirius’s hand scratched at his unkempt jaw and his eyes felt heavy like he hadn’t slept in days. “No,” he repeated, “I don’t think we should.”
That was the wrong answer and he knew it—the fire in her eyes lit almost immediately and in an instant, she was on her feet, following after him as he made a b-line for his bedroom once more.
“Why the fuck not?” Her voice was as shrill and demanding as ever before and it rang through his ears like a whistle.
“Because, Marls, what good would it do?”
She reached out for him and pulled him to a stop, her grip stronger than he’d ever remembered. “Did you mean any of it?”
He groaned. “Don’t make me answer that.”
“Well did you?”
She looked up at him with those big brown eyes that demanded answers, demanded so much more than he had the capacity to give, and he felt his resolve melting away into the pools of chocolate brown.
“Yes,” he answered at last, reluctantly. He looked away, unable to hold her eyes. “I meant every word.”
She stumbled back a step and Sirius almost laughed at the absurdity; the ridiculous notion that she would be so fearless coming at him on her terms, ready to call him on his bullshit, but the second it turned out to be real she recoiled. His hand raked through his hair again (James warned him that if he wasn’t careful, he’d pull it all out if he kept that habit up).
Marlene’s chest rose and fell and her gaze never left his face, not for a single moment.
“You’re in love with me?” The way she repeated it was like she didn’t really believe a word of it and he didn’t really blame her.
“Yes.”
Marlene nearly laughed, but she couldn’t make the sound escape. “How—” The girl blinked and licked her dry lips. “How long—”
“Have I been in love with you?” This time he did laugh but it was hollow and humorless and weak. “Fuck, Marlene, I don’t know. Eight years?”
“Eight—” she balked. “Eight years?”
“Give or take.”
He’d spent so long convincing himself that the first five times didn’t count because that sounded so much better than the truth. But they counted, every last one of them, even if only in the smallest of ways. They counted to him.
“And you never said anything?”
“Would you have believed me if I had?”
The way she looked at him, the doubt that echoed in her expression, made his breath catch. He’d always thought if this moment came, he would be prepared for it, but now that the moment was coming and going he found he’d never been more wrong.
“Or do you only believe me now that I’m broken and alone and a bottle away from drunk?”
For what might have been the first time ever, Marlene was silent.
Sirius sighed and all he could do was nod. “That’s what I thought.” He’d barely turned from her again when she said something that stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re right.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You’re right,” she repeated, softer this time. “If you’d told me then I wouldn’t have believed you—hell, I wouldn’t have listened.”
He already knew that.
“But,” Marlene’s voice wavered ever so slightly but she didn’t look away and she looked to be mulling over the words churning in her mind, “now…”
Now was a dangerous word, teeming with a dark and powerful and heavy kind of hope. He sucked in a breath and something in him compelled him towards her in two long strides. “Now?”
He wished he could hear what she was thinking when she opened and closed her mouth but he knew he had to wait—and he’d waited this long so for once that was something he knew he could do.
Marlene’s eyes gleamed. “I can’t say it, Sirius.”
“Then I will.”
And then, there was nothing between them but the soft fabric of her shirt and his hands reaching for her face, thumbs grazing the smooth plane of her cheeks for the first time.
“I love you,” he whispered.
After that, there truly was nothing that kept them apart. His lips crashed to hers in a desperate, needy way that spoke so much more than he could ever say. She let out a little sigh that stirred his heartstrings and he pressed deeper into her as though with that kiss alone, everything could be okay again—and nothing would be broken. There was only him and her, the soft but dry skin of her lips like static against his own and so much more intoxicating than he remembered—than he imagined—and her little hands on the bare skin of his waist, clammy and warm and so perfectly Marlene.
The eight years it had taken him to say those words suddenly didn’t matter anymore because now that they’d been said aloud, that was what was important and her skin was so smooth beneath his fingertips, like the velvet of a lost memory he never knew he had. It was sweet and deep and oh-so-right and though he could remember all the reasons he’d never done this before—all the doubts and whispers that plagued his dark mind—he couldn’t imagine a life where it didn’t happen exactly like this. Not now that he was finally holding her, finally kissing her, finally honestly and undeniably in love with her.
The what ifs were insignificant and the loneliness had faded along with them, even if only for that perfect moment.
“Marls.”
“You taste like an ashtray,” she mumbled against his lips, “and the end of a cheap bottle of booze.”
He couldn’t imagine a more perfect way for the moment to be ruined.
He pulled away from her, reluctant to leave her warm skin, and sighed. “If I’d known you were this good at talking dirty, I would have done this ages ago.”
Marlene licked her lips and laughed, her head thrown back in that ethereal way she did that he’d missed so much. His fingers tangled into her hair, finally relishing in the silky way it felt, and he smiled for the first time he could remember smiling in longer than he cared to admit.
“Let me take you on a date—a real date. With dinner and flowers and you can wear a nice pair of lacy knickers that you won’t let me see.”
Her eyes searched his face with a little smile. “Will you brush your teeth first?”
“I might even shower if you’re lucky.”
She laughed again. “Don’t go spoiling me now, Black. One step at a time.”
“This Friday,” he insisted.
“How about Saturday,” she countered, her thumb skimming over his bottom lip. “Friday is my dad’s birthday—it’s a whole family event.”
Truth be told, any day was perfect as long as she said yes. “Saturday it is.” He leaned in one more time and kissed her as softly as before and when he pulled back, her eyes were closed and her face was as beautiful as he’d ever seen it.
“It’s a date.”
//
There was no way he could have known that would be the last time he would ever see Marlene alive.
On the evening of Friday the seventeenth of July at the celebration of her father’s sixtieth year, a tragedy overtook the McKinnons.
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