Do you have a masterlist ?
I do not! unfortunately I havent actually written enough here to make one.
trying on a metaphor
Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
One Nice Bug Per Day
cherry valley forever

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
d e v o n
Jules of Nature
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium
No title available
art blog(derogatory)
DEAR READER
styofa doing anything

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@vellawrites
Do you have a masterlist ?
I do not! unfortunately I havent actually written enough here to make one.
🎶 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 🎶
-Owen Grady probably if Jurassic World was Disney
( idk if this has been done before )
because I have to
We put up our 221B decal and now we’re getting daily letters from Sherlock. 🔍 let’s solve some crimes!
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.
Me, cracking my knuckles compulsively every 15 minutes: I’m here for a good time not a long time but tbh I expect neither
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. ❤️
If I have any Muslim followers:
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
It’s that time of year again #shittyart
I sleep talk a lot. Here’s some of the shit I’ve said when I was waking up
“Kirby would be great on Game of Thrones. He has no neck to slit”
“Pirates should not be given 3D printers. Oh my god.”
“Snow White must have washed a shit ton of socks.”
“Go away babe, I gotta sort this sushi by the dewey decimal system.”
“Fuck fuck fuck someone grab my toes they’re flying away.”
#Dramione is officially canon
One Night || Sherlock x Reader (smut below cut)
He showed up minutes to noon.
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?
Because it’s never wrong to have some hip thrusting-Owen Grady on their dash. *drools a bit*
Reblogging again because I can’t stop staring at his crotch
A little non-fanfic related treat for you guys.
damn son
Never fails To make me laugh
I just can’t stop it
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.
keep writing.
THIS.
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.
‘They got her whole family.’
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