#be trained to be much more efficient

[dors-ee]

My attempts at lineless, sketchless (or minimal minimal), style with gouache are my new nightmares and sleep paralysis demons.

But... I am making progress. I think. At least the nightmarish demons have a recognizable human shape and face now. A couple months ago they looked like shapeless blobs even nightmares wouldn't be able to make.

What we do for art.

(I'm... only half exaggerating. Some of those things are straight up from nightmares. But that is how we learn. I just hope I am actually learning and not falling into "repeat the same thing expecting something to change".)

[snekdood]

i love my gma but man I really wish she didn't take on Every Household Responsibility Ever growing up bc she did for a long time take care of my cat for me, which I think is partially why hes such a loud demanding asshole who thinks hes owed the world because she has a tendency to let people (and sub-sequentially animals) walk all over her .-.

[ladynoirzeddison123]

This is hitting too close to home, our healthcare system is in shambles right now and yet I walk on to the ward with our unsafe staffing levels and burnt out colleagues and we still manage to get through the day. It very much is due to extensive training and great guidelines that we avoid incidents at this rate. But it would be so much better if we had extra staffing and support.

It's really important when you're at work to go out there and really give it your 60%. Maybe 35%.

[iydiamartinx]

RIDDLE ME THIS, HOODS GOT A GIRL?

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 1.7k synopsis: The Bats need information, Jason has an informant...who might also be more. a/n: I feel so utterly single writing these imagines, but I only want one of the bat boys 😭

The night sky over Gotham shone with its usual smog-streaked clouds faintly glowing orange from the city’s lights.

Inside the Batcave, it was a whirl of activity as the team tried to figure out the Riddler's location.

“We need someone who knows Riddler’s movements—someone who’s worked with his patterns recently,” Bruce said, gaze narrowed on the glowing map display.

Jason leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, helmet tucked under one arm. “I’ve got someone.”

Tim paused mid-keystroke. “You’ve got someone?”

Dick raised a brow. “Someone you’re willing to share with the class?”

“She’s not exactly a people person,” Jason said with a lazy shrug, already turning to leave. “But she’s solid. I’ll get the info.”

“No way,” Damian said flatly. “If there’s an informant involved, we’re all going.”

Jason sighed. “She’s not exactly an informant.”

“But she has intel,” Dick added, voice teasing. “And you just happen to be the one she’s willing to talk to? Sounds suspicious.”

Jason shot him a look that could’ve cracked concrete. “Just stay out of the way.”

They met you beneath the derelict train yard off Kane Street—barely lit, long forgotten, and exactly the kind of place no one stumbled into by accident. The rusted metal groaned in the breeze, and the distant hum of Gotham felt muted here, swallowed by shadows and silence. You were already waiting, perched atop a decaying train car like a sentinel, one leg bent, the other dangling with casual ease.

The moment they stepped into view, you jumped down with fluid grace, boots landing soundlessly on the gravel below. The black and steel tactical gear you wore clung to every sharp line of your body, outlining lethal efficiency. Twin pistols were strapped tight against your thighs, and the half-raised hood left your expression mostly concealed—save for the sharp glint of your eyes.

“You’re late,” You said, voice low and smooth.

Jason smirked beneath the helmet. “Traffic.”

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t sound convinced.

That was when Nightwing stepped forward, all charm and sunshine grins, as if that smile of his could melt any armour. “And who might you be, gorgeous?”

Your eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “Not interested.”

Tim coughed into his hand, clearly trying to hide a laugh. Damian smirked, crossing his arms with a tilt of smug satisfaction. Both of them had encountered you before—brief run-ins during missions that didn’t last long. You were direct. Cold. All business. No patience for pleasantries or ego-stroking.

It was one of the reasons Bruce was even considering pulling you into the fold. Claiming, he needed more serious people but everyone was sure he needed someone who brooded as much as him. But tonight you didn’t seem as broody.

Jason tilted his head. “Play nice.”

“I am,” You shot back, then turned back to him—and your tone shifted. 

You took a few deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between you and Jason until the toe of your boot nearly touched his. Your fingers reached out, grazing the edge of his chest armour.

“You look good, Hood,” you said, voice low and sly. “Still wearing red for me?”

Jason’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk pulling beneath his helmet. “Figured it hides the blood.”

Your lips curved into dark dangerous amusement. “You always did bleed pretty.”

A cough from behind broke the charged silence.

“I didn’t know you two had met,” Tim said, cautious, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“We’ve crossed paths,” you replied smoothly, gaze still locked on Red Hood like no one else existed. “Several times.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, his stance loose but alert. “She saved my ass once.”

“And he returned the favour,” You replied.

“You got something for me?” he asked, jumping into business.

You reached into her jacket, producing a drive between two gloved fingers, holding it just out of his reach. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

“You know what I want,” You crooned.

Jason’s reply was steady, unwavering. “You know I always deliver.”

That earned a smirk from you. You leaned in just a touch more, voice a soft purr. “You gonna say please, Hood?”

Jason reached out, his hand closing lightly around your wrist. The grip was firm, a warning more than a threat. “Don’t push.”

Your eyes sparked with interest—delight, even. “Oh, but it’s so fun.”

Still, this time, you relented. Slowly, purposefully, you stepped closer and tucked the drive into the utility pouch strapped at his hip. Your hand lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the gear, grazing the curve of his waist.

“Under Tricorner,” you said quietly, close enough now your breath warmed the space beneath his helmet. “He’s nesting under the old cathedral ruins. You’ll want to take the west tunnel—avoid the gas traps.”

“Appreciate it,” he replied, but his voice was a little rougher now.

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You always know how to say thank you.”

And then, with the same casual audacity you wielded like a blade, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the underside of his helmet leaving behind the faintest mark of your lipstick

Backing away, you turned on your heel, already fading into the fog that clung to the edges of the train yard. But your parting words were clear. “You know how to find me… to pay up, Hood.”

Then you were gone, swallowed by the dark as if you’d never been there at all.

The boys stared at Jason in stunned silence.

He turned slowly, expression unreadable beneath the helmet, and said dryly, “What?”

Dick blinked, visibly thrown. “You and her?”

“I told you she’s not a people person and…” Jason shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “We’ve got history.”

“I—how long has this been happening?” Tim asked, looking genuinely lost.

Jason was already walking past them, shoulders relaxed, “Long enough.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, trailing behind. “What kind of payment is she demanding from you?”

Jason didn’t even look back.

“None of your business, Demon Spawn.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

Riddler had been taken care of and Jason was finally off the clock. But instead of heading to his apartment, he headed over to another.

He slipped through the open window, careful not to get tangled in the curtains as they fluttered in the warm breeze. The light in the kitchen dimmed low. The soft trace of gunmetal and something sweeter, like vanilla lingered in the air.

His armour peeled off piece by piece, left in a silent trail across the hardwood. Chest plate. Gloves. Utility belt. Boots. Until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

The bedroom door was cracked. Light from the street spilled across the bed in thin golden ribbons, illuminating the figure curled beneath the sheets.

She was there. Tucked into the centre of the mattress, tangled in a nest of linen and shadows. His shirt—an old, faded thing he’d once bled in and meant to throw out—was all she wore, slipping off one shoulder and riding high on her thighs.

She always looked like a contradiction like that. Sharp in every moment of the night—cold eyes, cutting voice, touch like a weapon—and soft here, in the early mornings. Laid bare and defenceless in the place no one else got to see.

Jason paused in the doorway, his breath catching for reasons he didn’t want to name. He didn’t get softness often. He didn’t let himself want it. But here… here it waited for him.

Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fanned against her cheeks, one hand curled beneath her chin.

He moved quietly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he settled behind her. She stirred—just a little—but didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t need to. Her body curved instinctively back into his.

“Mm,” You murmured, barely a whisper. “Thought I felt you…”

Jason’s voice was rough, low against your ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Liar.” Your voice was sleep-drenched, teasing. “You always do.”

He let his arm curl around your waist, pulling you close until your back was flush against his chest, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck.

“Riddler’s out of the picture,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Gotham’s quiet… for now.”

You smiled against the pillow, but it was fleeting—because a heartbeat later, you moved.

With a slow arch of your spine and a shift of muscle, you rolled, tossing your leg over his hip in one fluid, practiced motion that had him flat on his back before he could blink. You were straddling him now, perched above with that smug, lazy grin he’d come to recognize—and maybe dread just a little.

“Which means,” you purred, voice low and velvet-rich, “it’s time for you to pay up.”

Jason huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “You made that up,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like he was trying not to smile. “You spun that whole ‘transactional intel’ stuff just so my brothers wouldn’t find out about us.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your fingertips ghosted over his chest—trailing from the dip of his collarbone to the ridges of muscle, your nails skimming along the old scar just over his heart, making him twitch. “Doesn’t matter,” you whispered, leaning down so your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “You agreed to the terms.”

Your voice dropped to a sultry murmur, wicked with promise. “And what I want… is you. All to myself. For the next few days. No patrol. No Bat drama. Just you. That’s how this works, baby.”

His arms encircled you before you could fully retreat, keeping you flush against him. One hand tangled into your hair, possessive and grounding, while the other slid along your thigh, reverent and slow, stopping just beneath the hem of his shirt that barely covered you.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice husky now, low and warm.

“Guilty,” you breathed, lips brushing against his.

And then he pulled you down.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. Deep and warm, burning slow and sure as his hand tightened in your hair and yours slid along his ribs. You melted into him like you always did.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to press his forehead against yours. His voice was barely more than a breath.

“You know you always have me to yourself.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good. Because I don’t share.”

Jason smirked, voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you if you tried.”

[hatsbuckets]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”

more

[robertreich]

Friends, Musk is trying to downplay the chaos he’s creating by saying it’s much the same as the cost-cutting efforts of the Clinton administration. “What DOGE is doing is similar to Clinton/Gore Dem policies of the 1990s,” he posted on his X platform. Rubbish. I cut costs in the Clinton administration. The contrast with what Musk is doing couldn’t be sharper. As secretary of labor, I took the Department of Labor down from 18,500 employees to 16,600 — but did it without any layoffs. No chainsaws. No meat-axes. And we were careful to improve the services we were providing the public. For example, when people lost jobs in an industry that was shrinking, we devised a way to get them job-training and job-search assistance in addition to unemployment insurance. This helped move them into new jobs faster — which also saved the government over $1 billion a year in unemployment payments. We plowed that $1 billion back into job-training and job-search assistance, making the whole economy work better. In Musk’s attack on the federal workforce, thousands of federal workers have been fired without warning. Or they’ve been offered fake “deferred resignation” buyouts that were never authorized by Congress and may not be legal. Entire agencies have been gutted without legislative authorization, forcing judges to intervene. Our “Reinventing Government” effort was authorized by bipartisan congressional legislation. We worked carefully over several years to identify areas where government could be more efficient, notifying Congress of what we were doing. But the Republicans who control Congress today have allowed Musk to race ahead without them, even though the Constitution states that the legislative branch approves spending and federal law prohibits the president from cutting programs Congress has authorized without its permission. Clinton sought that permission, and Congress accepted $3.6 billion in cuts he proposed. We also involved federal workers, because they knew better than anyone what could be improved and how best to do it. We introduced performance standards, we encouraged our workers to embrace the internet, and we gave out awards to employees who came up with ways to cut red tape and improve service. “There was a tremendous effort put into understanding what should happen and what should change,” said Max Stier, president of the Partnership for Public Service, which seeks to improve the federal workforce. “What is happening now is actually taking us backwards.” We were deliberative and careful. Musk is the opposite. Musk sees government workers as the enemy — as costs to be cut. We saw government workers as assets to be developed, our partners in getting better services to the public more efficiently. Musk also calls people who benefit from government programs the “parasite class.” Presumably that’s why he’s eager to cut back Medicaid. But Medicaid’s beneficiaries aren’t parasites. Half of them are children. Oh, but if we’re talking about people who depend on government, Musk is the biggest “parasite” of all. Over the years, Musk and his businesses have received at least $38 billion in government contracts, loans, subsidies, and tax credits, often at critical moments, helping seed the growth that has made him the richest person in the world. That he views public servants as his enemy and the people who benefit from public programs as “parasites” tells you all you need to know about Elon Musk. When you hear Musk say his effort is similar to what I and others did in the 1990s, know he’s lying. When you see him call people who benefit from public programs “parasites,” know he’s a hypocrite. Thoughts?

[santaasi]

obviously blind

pairing: james potter x bsf!fem!reader

summary: for years, james potter thought he was chasing love. sirius black knew better — he’d been holding it all along.

warnings: fluff fluff fluff, friends to lovers, idiots in love, james calls reader love, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 11.3k

a/n: it was probably the longest idea to write and edit. i rewrote every moment a bunch of times trying to bring it all to perfection. therefore, this time I hope more than ever that you will like it and you will support me with a like, comment or reblog. have a nice time reading this work! love u <3

ᯓ★ now playing…

slaves – footprints

You left your mark on me like footprints in the snow

Would you promise me you'll never let me go

November 15, 1971 My dear best friend, Hogwarts is brilliant! You should see the castle; it’s massive, with these moving staircases that sometimes take you to places you didn’t even mean to go! I tried to get to Charms class last week and ended up in the Trophy Room instead. Sirius says it’s part of the fun, and I’m starting to agree. Speaking of fun, I made a new friend! His name’s Sirius Black, and he’s a bit of a troublemaker like me. Don’t tell Mum, but we might’ve let some Filibuster’s Fireworks off in the Great Hall during lunch. The teachers were furious, but the look on their faces was worth it. How’s Beauxbatons? Is it true your castle is magical in a totally different way? Sirius said something about unicorns roaming the grounds. Is that real? Write me everything—I want to know what it’s like over there. Hope you’re having as much fun as I am.  Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK WAS UTTERLY SPENT. Not the charming, rakish kind of spent he might brag about after a late night of mischief, but truly, completely, soul-drainingly done. The journey to the Potter family cottage, which should have been a brisk jaunt, had turned into a Herculean trial. Blame the snowstorm that had swept through magical London like some vengeful Norse curse, burying everything in its path under heaps of frosty misery.

It started with a delayed train — no, not delayed, imprisoned. Sirius and James were already aboard when the announcement came, trapping them in a stuffy carriage surrounded by loudly complaining wizards and at least one crying baby. And because the universe clearly found Sirius’ misery entertaining, the train came to a jolting halt halfway to their destination, snow packing the tracks so thickly that it took hours of magical clearing before they moved again.

When they finally arrived at the station, they discovered that Mr. Potter, their much-needed savior with a warm car and a better attitude than either of them, had been delayed at work. Thus, Sirius and James were left to trudge through the snow-laden countryside, dragging their trunks behind them, with James’ endless chatter about Lily Evans ringing in Sirius’ ears like a persistent curse.

“Her smile, Padfoot,” James had sighed dreamily at least seventeen times, his glasses fogging up as if even thinking about Lily caused them to malfunction. “And the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating—”

By the sixteenth sigh, Sirius had been sorely tempted to shove a fistful of snow into James’ face. By the seventeenth, he was mentally composing a list of Unforgivable Curses and ranking them by efficiency. Yet, even as he grumbled under his breath, Sirius couldn’t bring himself to abandon the trek. The Potters were the closest thing he had to a family, and spending Christmas anywhere else — no matter how dire the journey — was unthinkable.

When they finally reached the Potter home, Sirius didn’t so much step inside as collapse into it. He shoved the front door open with the dramatic flair of a man escaping death itself and sprawled across the polished wooden floor like a martyr for his own cause. His trunk fell beside him with a satisfying thud.

“Home at last,” he groaned, voice muffled against the rug. “Tell me, Prongs, do they serve last rites before cinnamon rolls, or do we skip straight to the feast?”

The cottage, of course, was as warm and welcoming as Sirius remembered. Strings of fairy lights twinkled across the beams, casting a cozy glow of red, gold, and green. A holly wreath hung crookedly on the wall — lil’James’ handiwork, no doubt — and the scent of pine mingled with the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon, butter, and something sweet. Sirius’ stomach growled audibly.

“Oi, shut it, you ungrateful mutt,” James shot back with a grin, though Sirius could see his friend’s eyes darting toward the kitchen. “You’re embarrassing us in front of the wreath.”

James hadn’t even set his trunk down before a figure appeared in the doorway.

At first, Sirius barely registered her presence. He was too busy muttering about the injustice of underage magic restrictions. But then — oh, then — she stepped fully into view.

A girl.

Not just any girl, but you.

You moved with a kind of quiet confidence that Sirius instantly clocked, your steps unhurried, your presence undeniable. The golden glow of the fairy lights danced across your hair, giving it a shimmer that seemed almost unreal. You were wrapped in a deep blue jumper — Sirius realized this after a moment’s brain lag — and your cheeks were rosy, likely from the heat of the kitchen.

You carried a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls, the scent of melted sugar and spice trailing after you like some kind of domestic enchantment. Sirius’ mouth went dry, and for the first time in years, he was at a loss for words.

“Well,” he managed after a beat, hauling himself upright and trying for a semblance of decorum. “Now I see why you were so keen to come home, Prongs. You’ve got cinnamon-roll-bearing angels dropping out of the sky.”

You laughed, soft and melodic, the sound so unguarded it seemed to wrap the room in warmth. Sirius couldn’t help but notice the way your lips curled into a smile that was equal parts inviting and mysterious.

“Hello to you too, Sirius,” you said, your voice carrying a familiarity that made his ears perk up.

Sirius blinked. Wait. Of course. This wasn’t some celestial being summoned to his rescue; this was James’ childhood best friend. The one James had vaguely mentioned — just a handful of times over the years, always in passing and with a strange softness that Sirius hadn’t thought to question before.

And yet, here you were. In the flesh. Standing in the middle of the Potters’ living room with a tray of baked goods and a smile that Sirius suspected had the power to stop traffic.

“Well, well, Jamie-boy,” Sirius drawled, nudging James with his elbow and watching his friend with amused curiosity. “You never told me the famous cinnamon-roll angel was also — what’s the word? Ah, yes — real.”

You raised an eyebrow at Sirius’ antics, though your smile didn’t falter. Instead, you glanced toward James, who looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus Charm.

Sirius smirked. “James, mate, you alright? You’ve gone all... slack-jawed.”

But James wasn’t paying him any attention. His hazel eyes were locked on you, wide and brimming with something Sirius couldn’t quite place. He watched as James' gaze traced over the streak of flour smudged on your cheek, the stray strands of hair escaping from your ponytail, and the red apron dusted with flour and cinnamon.

Sirius almost snorted aloud. This was the James Potter who couldn’t shut up about Lily Evans — the boy who spent half his waking hours plotting ways to win her over. And yet, here he was, staring at you like you’d just descended from the heavens.

“Jamie,” you said softly, setting the tray down on the nearby table.

It was just one word, but the way you said it — warm, tender, and utterly unguarded — sent a jolt through Sirius.

Before he could process what was happening, James crossed the room in a few long strides and swept you into his arms. You squealed in surprise, and the sound was pure delight, echoing off the walls.

Sirius blinked, startled. The way James held you — hands firm on your waist, his head dipping into the crook of your neck — wasn’t friendly, not by a long shot. Sirius had known James since he was eleven years old, had seen him charm and flirt with half of Hogwarts, but he had never seen this.

“Missed me, Jamie?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his unruly hair with the kind of ease that spoke of years of familiarity.

“Always,” James murmured, so quietly Sirius barely caught it.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered under his breath.

He glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to explain this baffling scene, but it was just him, James, and you, wrapped up in some intimate little bubble that made Sirius feel like an intruder.

James murmured something into your shoulder — too soft for Sirius to catch — and you laughed, your voice light and unrestrained. The sound pulled James’ head up, and Sirius couldn’t miss the way his eyes traced your face with a kind of devotion Sirius had only read about in sappy romance novels.

It was then that the memories began to click into place. The scattered mentions over the years, the odd tone James always took when he talked about you. “She’s not like anyone else, Padfoot. She just gets it.” Or that one summer when James had come back to Hogwarts looking utterly miserable and wouldn’t explain why. Sirius had teased him about it for weeks, thinking it was Lily-related. But now, seeing the way James looked at you...

“Wait a minute,” Sirius blurted, his grin widening as realization dawned. “You’re the one. The one he’s always sneaking off to write letters to, the one he’s all secretive about.”

James shot him a glare, his cheeks burning bright red.

“Padfoot—”

“—the one who sent him that hideous scarf last Christmas!” Sirius continued, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “I knew there had to be someone. Prongs doesn’t just get that moony-eyed look over just anyone.”

You laughed again, covering your face with your hands, while James muttered something about strangling Sirius later.

Before Sirius could needle him further, the kitchen door creaked open, and Euphemia Potter swept into the room. She was radiant as always, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw James.

“There’s my boy!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug before he could even attempt to protest.

“Hi, Mum,” James mumbled, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

Euphemia pulled back, cupping his face in her hands as though memorizing every detail. “It’s been too long, Jamie. Too long. You’re far too skinny — have you been eating properly at school? And what have you done with your hair?”

James groaned, though his smile was fond.

Then her eyes fell on Sirius, and the warmth in her expression grew tenfold.

“Sirius, my dear,” she said, moving toward him with open arms. “I’m so glad you’re home, too.”

Sirius froze for a moment, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to this — the genuine affection, the way Euphemia made him feel like he belonged.

When her arms wrapped around him, the embrace firm and filled with love, Sirius felt an odd lump form in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of his own mother’s cold, perfunctory hugs, her disdainful gaze, and the way her affection always felt like a transaction.

“You’ve grown even handsomer,” Euphemia said, pulling back to study him. “Fleamont’s going to be jealous.”

Sirius managed a crooked grin, the lump in his throat still stubbornly there. “That’s the goal, Mrs. Potter. Keep him on his toes.”

Euphemia laughed, her eyes twinkling, before cupping his cheek briefly. “You’re family now, Sirius. Never forget that.”

Satisfied, Euphemia turned her attention to you. Her face softened even more, and she reached out to squeeze your hands. “Oh, there you are, dear. I was wondering where my helper had gone. The mince pies won’t bake themselves, you know”

You shot James a quick, playful glance before following Euphemia toward the door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” you said, your smile lingering. 

As Mrs. Potter ushered you toward the door to finish the pies, Sirius remained rooted to the spot. The warmth from her hug lingered, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of how lucky James was to have parents like that — and how lucky he was to have stumbled into their lives.

James watched you leave, his gaze following you until you were out of sight. Sirius couldn’t help but laugh.

“Mate,” he said, clapping James on the shoulder. “You’re a goner.”

James huffed, shoving him away, but the goofy grin on his face was impossible to hide.

And Sirius? Sirius couldn’t wait to see how this played out.

July 2, 1973 My Love, Summer’s only just started, and I can’t wait to see you. Mum’s already planning another one of her “legendary” tea parties, which means she’ll fuss over you endlessly. You’ll smile politely and charm her like always, and she’ll end up spoiling you with biscuits to take back to Beauxbatons. I’ve got so much to tell you. Sirius and I found this secret passageway that leads straight to Hogsmeade. We’ve been practicing spells to make it even harder for Filch to find us. Remus is shaking his head, but I think he secretly loves our schemes. Oh, and Lily—she’s still brilliant. She’s got the most incredible laugh. But you, my love, I bet your laugh would still outshine hers any day.

Do you still walk in those Beauxbatons gardens at sunset? I can imagine you there, glowing in the soft light. It suits you. Write me back quickly, won’t you? The days are always better when I hear from you. Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK HAD ALWAYS KNOWN JAMES POTTER WAS A TACTILE PERSON. James spoke fluently in the language of touch — claps on the back that lingered just a second too long, overly enthusiastic shoulder bumps that almost knocked you off your feet, and the occasional arm slung around your shoulders like he was staking a claim. But this? This was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just the way James touched you. It was the way he seemed to orbit you, like some lovesick moon drawn to its planet. Wherever you were, James was never far behind — hovering, grinning, completely and utterly besotted without even realizing it. And for someone so allegedly brilliant, he was astoundingly stupid about it.

Sirius noticed it within minutes of their arrival at the Potter cottage for the holidays. As the snow settled outside, so did James — right beside you, always beside you. If you were arranging the flowers Euphemia had insisted on, James was there offering suggestions like he’d suddenly become an expert on floral arrangements. If you were curled up in the drawing room with a book, James was sprawled across the nearest sofa, pretending to read but actually just watching you out of the corner of his eye like some hopeless romantic idiot in a badly written Muggle novel.

Sirius had been rolling his eyes so much, they were practically stuck in the back of his head.

THE SECOND MORNING WAS WHEN THINGS REALLY CLICKED. Sirius had woken up earlier than usual — a rare and uncomfortable event for him. He had no plans to do anything productive, of course, but the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway intrigued him. Padding out of his room, he peeked around the corner just in time to see James sneaking toward the kitchen.

Naturally, Sirius followed. He found James standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up like some kind of domestic god, arranging breakfast with the precision of someone preparing an offering to Merlin himself. There was a plate of toast with cream cheese and thinly sliced avocado, a bowl of berries that looked like they’d been picked by woodland elves, and a steaming cup of coffee. The smell alone was enough to make Sirius reconsider his usual disdain for mornings.

“Fancy,” Sirius said, leaning lazily against the doorframe, voice still scratchy from sleep.

James jumped slightly but recovered quickly, flashing Sirius a sheepish grin. “Morning, Pads. Coffee’s on the counter.”

Sirius eyed the tray suspiciously. “Is this for you, or is it for your favorite person in the world aka me?”

James’s ears turned pink. “It’s for her,” he admitted, almost bashfully, like he hadn’t just spent ten minutes crafting the most meticulous breakfast Sirius had ever seen.

“Of course it is,” Sirius muttered with a smirk, grabbing a mug for himself. “You realize this is bordering on embarrassing, yeah?”

James shot him a look, but before he could respond, you appeared in the doorway, still looking half-asleep. Your hair was mussed, and the oversized jumper you’d borrowed from James was slipping off one shoulder, but you somehow managed to look effortlessly radiant. Sirius rolled his eyes again.

“Morning, love,” James said, his voice soft and warm in a way Sirius had never heard before.

“Morning, Jamie,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you shuffled into the kitchen.

James practically tripped over himself to hand you the coffee. Sirius watched, amused, as James’s fingers brushed yours in the exchange, his entire face lighting up like someone had cast Lumos Maxima directly on it.

You took a long sip of the coffee, humming in contentment. “Perfect, as always,” you murmured, looking up at James with a sleepy smile that could have melted a Dementor.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Sirius nearly choked on his coffee. He wasn’t sure what was more painful — the nauseating sweetness of the moment or the fact that neither of you seemed to realize how completely ridiculous you were.

“Right, well, I’ll just... leave you two to it,” Sirius said, waving his mug in mock surrender as he backed out of the room. “Try not to get married while I’m gone.”

“Shut up, Sirius,” James called after him, but the way his voice wavered slightly betrayed his embarrassment.

By the time Sirius reached the living room, Euphemia and Fleamont were already seated by the fireplace, exchanging knowing glances like they’d seen this coming a mile away.

“Is he making her breakfast again?” Euphemia asked with a smile that was far too pleased for Sirius’s liking.

“Every detail,” Sirius confirmed, sinking into an armchair. “I’m starting to think he’s auditioning for Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Devoted Boyfriend’ feature.”

“Don’t tease him too much,” Euphemia said with a chuckle. “He’s just like his father was with me.”

“Merlin, it’s contagious,” Sirius groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “If I start acting like that, someone put me out of my misery.”

But even as he joked, Sirius couldn’t help but smile. Because for all his teasing, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that James was hopelessly gone for you. And judging by the way you looked at him, Sirius had a feeling the feeling was mutual — even if neither of you was bright enough to figure it out.

AND THEN THERE WERE THE SMALL, INTIMATE TOUCHES SIRIUS COULDN’T IGNORE, no matter how much he wanted to. James’s hand resting on the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, like you might somehow lose your way without him. The way his fingers traced lazy patterns on your knee under the dinner table, as though the contact grounded him. Or how he’d tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just long enough to make Sirius roll his eyes and fight back a gag.

It was maddening to watch, really. Not because Sirius minded the affection — no, James deserved a bit of softness in his life, and you were undeniably good for him. It was maddening because you were both so oblivious. James was a goner, sure, but you weren’t far behind. Every time you leaned into his touch, smiled up at him like he hung the stars, or called him Jamie in that soft, teasing tone, it was like watching two wizards tiptoe around a cauldron, waiting for it to explode.

One evening, as the three of you lounged in the living room, the dynamic was on full display. The Potters had insisted on a family movie night — Euphemia’s idea, of course, because family time was important. Sirius couldn’t say no to the fire roaring in the hearth, the massive bowl of popcorn, and the ridiculous Muggle Christmas film flickering on the screen. But as the minutes passed, he started to regret not escaping upstairs.

James had situated himself squarely in the middle of the sofa, with you tucked neatly under his arm. His hand played absently with the ends of your hair, fingers twisting the strands like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You had your legs curled beneath you, leaning into him with the kind of comfort Sirius had only ever seen in old couples who had been together for decades. James pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring something Sirius couldn’t quite catch.

It was unbearable.

“Oi, lovebirds,” Sirius interrupted, launching a piece of popcorn at James. It hit him square in the forehead, a small but satisfying victory. “Some of us are trying to watch the movie without choking on all this sap.”

You burst into laughter, sitting up just enough to toss a handful of popcorn back at him. “You’re just jealous, Black.”

“Jealous? Me?” Sirius placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “Of what, exactly? Watching James Potter transform into a human puddle before my very eyes? No thanks. I’ll pass.”

James didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, looking every bit the lovesick fool he was. “You’ll get it one day, Pads,” he said with infuriating calm.

Sirius snorted, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing it into his mouth. “Right. Because what I’m really missing in my life is the chance to turn into that.” He gestured at the two of you with a dramatic wave of his hand.

But despite his teasing, Sirius couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading in his chest as he watched the scene unfold. James, the arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed, devil-may-care prankster he’d known all his life, was utterly, completely, hopelessly in love. And the worst — or perhaps best — part? He didn’t even seem to realize it.

BY THE END OF THESE COUPLE OF DAYS VACK AT THE POTTER COTTAGE, SIRIUS KNEW. James Potter wasn’t in love with Lily Evans — not really, not anymore and maybe not ever. He was in love with you. It wasn’t in the dramatic declarations Sirius had once teased James about making to Lily. No, this was quieter, deeper. It was in the way James’s gaze softened whenever you spoke, like he couldn’t believe you were real. In the way his hand always seemed to find yours, even when there was no need for it. And in the way his entire being lit up when you smiled at him.

And you? You weren’t much better. You laughed at his terrible jokes, poked fun at him with an ease Sirius envied, and looked at James like he was the center of the universe. It was so obvious it made Sirius want to scream.

“This isn’t normal, you know,” Sirius said later that night, cornering James in the kitchen as he made tea.

“What’s not normal?” James asked, far too casually for Sirius’s liking.

“You and her. You’re not just friends. Stop pretending you are.”

James frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “We are just friends. She’s my best mate, Pads. You know that.”

Sirius laughed, loud and sharp, shaking his head. “Oh, Prongsie. You’re an idiot.”

“Am not,” James shot back, but there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.

Sirius leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “If you’re just friends, then I’m a unicorn. Face it, Potter — you’re in love.”

James opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then you walked into the room, yawning and looking for all the world like you belonged there. James’s expression softened immediately, his gaze lingering on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Sirius didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.

Because James Potter was already lost, and for once, Sirius didn’t mind watching his best mate fall.

March 30, 1975

My Love, It’s been ages since your last letter, and I miss you like mad. Exams are coming up, and I’m hopeless at concentrating without your words to keep me sane. The Marauders are in full swing, though—our latest adventure involved sneaking a swamp into one of the corridors. Filch is still grumbling about it. I told you before how Lily has the most beautiful laugh, right? Well, I think she might finally be warming up to me. I’m playing it cool, but honestly, every time she looks at me, I feel like a kid with a new broomstick. And yet... you’re still the one I write to when I want to share everything. Funny, isn’t it? How’s the ballet going? I remember you mentioned your school recital. I wish I could see you dance. You’d be like a dream on stage, graceful and bright. Maybe one day. Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK WASN’T ONE TO BELIEVE IN LOVE — not the kind spun into poetry or whispered in secret corners of libraries. Sweet words, fleeting touches, long glances… all of it sounded like an elaborate prank. A fantasy created by people who hadn’t tasted the bitterness of the world.

How could anyone believe in love when raised in a house where affection was a weapon and the family motto might as well have been stab first, smile later? The Black family had given Sirius many things: wealth, privilege, and a last name dripping in infamy. But love? That was a foreign concept, spoken in a dialect he’d never been taught.

And yet, Sirius Black — child of darkness and rebellion — had found light. That light had a name: James Potter. From the moment James had barreled into Sirius’s life, grinning like the sun itself, everything had shifted. James had yanked him out of the shadows and dragged him into a world Sirius didn’t know existed — a world filled with warmth, laughter, and actual hugs.

It wasn’t just James, though. It was the whole bloody Potter family. Euphemia and Fleamont were like characters out of a Muggle holiday film. Euphemia, with her soft, unrelenting affection, had made it her personal mission to drown Sirius in love and sweaters. Fleamont’s laughter could fill a room, a deep, belly-shaking sound that warmed Sirius from the inside out. Together, they moved through the world as though their love was an unshakable force, a steady undercurrent in every shared look and word.

“Darling,” Fleamont would call from across the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a newspaper in hand.

“Yes, Fleamont?” Euphemia would reply, her smile soft and teasing as she stirred whatever heavenly dish she was making.

Never by name. Always darling.

Still, if love like that was rare, James bloody Potter seemed hell-bent on stumbling into it without even realizing.

James and you had been dancing around each other for years, so oblivious it was borderline painful. Sirius sometimes wondered if you two were practicing for a comedy sketch, the way you acted like best mates while exuding the kind of tension that could make a Dementor blush. If Sirius had a Galleon for every time James looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he could have bought his own Quidditch team by now. And he's only been watching you for a couple of days.

IT WAS THE FOURT DAY OF HIS CHRISTMAS STAY AT THE POTTER HOME, and the dynamic was impossible to ignore. You and James were practically inseparable, moving through the house like two planets caught in the same orbit. You helped Euphemia with the decorations while James carried boxes of ornaments up from the cellar, always hovering nearby like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

“You know,” Sirius said, leaning casually against the doorway, “most people don’t need to supervise someone hanging tinsel.”

James didn’t even glance back. “She’s not most people, Pads.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For Merlin’s sake, just marry her already.”

James froze, an ornament dangling from his hand. “What are you on about? We’re just friends.”

“Sure, and I’m a Muggle,” Sirius shot back, rolling his eyes.

You, blissfully unaware of the conversation, turned from where you were perched on a stepstool. “What are you two arguing about now?”

“Nothing,” James said quickly, his cheeks tinged pink. “Sirius is just being Sirius.”

“That’s never good,” you teased, smirking at Sirius.

“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m delightful company.” Sirius crossed his arms, feigning offense. “But if you’re not careful, pretty, you’ll end up trapped in Potter’s web of undying devotion.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping down from the stool. “Potter’s web of what now?”

James shot Sirius a warning glare, but Sirius just grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just that James here is—”

“Hungry!” James interrupted, loudly and awkwardly. “Right, Pads? Didn’t you say you were starving?”

Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head as James practically shoved him out of the room. “Subtle as ever, Prongs.”

From Sirius’s vantage point, it was painfully obvious. James was hopelessly, stupidly in love with you. And you? You weren’t much better. The way you smiled at him, teased him, trusted him without question — it was all the evidence Sirius needed. And yet, you were both blissfully, idiotically unaware.

One evening, as Sirius sprawled on the sofa in the Potters’ living room, he couldn’t help but notice the way you and James interacted. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, rifling through a box of Christmas decorations Euphemia had set out.

“Jamie, hand me the gold bauble,” you said, tossing him a quick glance over your shoulder.

James, who had been half-heartedly untangling a string of lights, immediately perked up. “Which one?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “The one in your hand, genius.”

James laughed, tossing it gently toward you. It missed entirely, landing with a soft thud on the carpet.

“Good aim, Prongs,” Sirius drawled from his spot on the couch. “Truly inspiring.”

“Shut it, Padfoot,” James shot back, but his grin never faltered. He turned to you, sheepish. “Sorry, love.”

Love. Sirius didn’t miss the way the word slipped out so naturally, like James had been saying it his whole life. And he definitely didn’t miss the way your cheeks flushed as you ducked your head, pretending to focus on the decorations.

LATER THAT EVENING, SIRIUS FOUND HIMSELF LAYING ON THE SOFA IN THE LIVING ROOM AGAIN (it probably was his favorite place in the house by now), a book abandoned on his chest as he watched Euphemia and Fleamont dancing in the kitchen once, a slow, swaying movement that didn’t match the upbeat Muggle music crackling from the wireless. Euphemia had rested her head on Fleamont’s chest, his arms wrapped around her like it was the only place in the world she belonged. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy — just simple and unshakable. And it made Sirius ache in ways he didn’t understand.

And a moment later they were in the same kitchen, preparing tea and laughing softly as they worked.

“Darling, pass me the sugar, would you?” Fleamont said, his voice warm and affectionate.

Euphemia handed him the sugar bowl without looking up, her smile soft. “Here you go, darlin'.”

It was the kind of exchange that Sirius might have mocked once. But now, as he watched the way Fleamont leaned in to kiss Euphemia’s cheek, or how she swatted him away with a laugh when he tried to sneak a biscuit, he felt something unfamiliar tugging at his chest.

“They’re sickeningly sweet, aren’t they?”

Sirius turned to see you standing in the doorway, a mug of hot chocolate in your hands.

“They are,” he admitted, sitting up and motioning for you to join him. “But it’s sort of... nice. In a vomit-inducing way.”

You laughed, settling beside him. “I think it’s lovely. They’re so in tune with each other, you know? Like they’ve been dancing to the same song for decades.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching you as you spoke. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want that? The whole ‘dancing to the same song’ thing?”

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “I don’t know. I suppose it would be nice, but... I’m not sure it’s in the cards for me.”

Sirius frowned. “Why not?”

You shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at your lips. “Because my dance partner’s too busy tripping over his own feet to notice I’m right here.”

Sirius stared at you, his mind racing. Did you mean James? Surely you meant James. But before he could say anything, James walked in, ruffling his hair like he always did.

“Alright, what are you two plotting?”

“World domination,” Sirius replied without missing a beat. “Want in?”

James grinned, flopping onto the sofa and immediately throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Always.”

Sirius watched as you leaned into James, your head resting against his shoulder. James turned to look at you, his expression soft and unguarded.

And that’s when Sirius knew — again, because he seemed to be realizing this every ten minutes — just how much trouble you two were in.

DAYS LATER, SIRIUS WAS STANDING BY THE WINDOW OF THE POTTER COTTAGE, a steaming mug of hot chocolate warming his hands. The world outside was a vision of winter — snow blanketed the ground in pristine white, the trees bowed under its weight, and the air held a sharp, crystalline stillness. Inside, the house was alive with warmth: the crackle of the fire, the gentle hum of Euphemia’s humming, and Fleamont’s cheerful banter as he set up a chessboard by the hearth.

But Sirius wasn’t watching any of that. His attention was fixed on the two figures trudging down the snow-covered path just beyond the window.

You and James walked side by side, your mittened hands brushing against each other with the kind of unconscious familiarity that spoke volumes. The path ahead glittered in the weak afternoon sun, the frost catching the light like scattered diamonds. Clouds of breath curled into the frosty air as you laughed at something James said, the sound clear and bright, even from a distance.

Sirius couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He saw everything in the way James turned his head toward you, his face lit with the sort of joy that was impossible to fake.

Then it happened — your foot slipped on a patch of hidden ice. Sirius’s grip on his mug tightened for half a heartbeat, but James was already there. His hand shot out, steadying you before you could fall, as if the world might crumble if he didn’t catch you in time.

“Careful there, love,” James said, his voice carrying easily through the crisp winter air.

You laughed, brushing snow from your coat as your cheeks turned pink — not just from the cold, Sirius was sure. “You’d think I’d have learned how to walk by now.”

James grinned, tugging you a little closer to his side. “Good thing you’ve got me.”

“Good thing indeed,” you replied, your eyes crinkling at the corners, your voice soft and full of affection.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, James reached out to brush a stray snowflake from your hair. His fingers lingered for just a moment, his expression open and unguarded, filled with something so pure that Sirius had to look away for a second.

It wasn’t the first time Sirius had seen that look on James’s face. It was the same quiet, awestruck gaze he’d noticed a thousand times when James thought no one was watching. But seeing it now, against the backdrop of snow and laughter, it struck Sirius like a Bludger to the chest.

That’s how Fleamont looked at Euphemia, Sirius realized. He’d seen it that very morning, when Euphemia had walked into the kitchen with a sleepy smile and Fleamont had paused mid-sentence, his face lighting up as if she were the sunrise itself.

Sirius took a long sip of his hot chocolate, the sweetness of it sharp against the lump forming in his throat. He muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Never by name. Always love.”

“What are you smiling about, Sirius?” Euphemia’s voice broke the quiet, warm and curious. She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

He turned, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Oh, nothing, Mrs. P. Just watching James make a right fool of himself in the snow. Again.”

Euphemia chuckled, stepping closer to peer out the window. Her gaze softened as she spotted you and James, now engaged in some sort of playful shoving match, James clearly letting you win.

“Hopeless,” Sirius added, shaking his head.

“Like father, like son,” Euphemia said with a knowing smile.

Sirius huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the scene outside. Sirius’s gaze lingered on James’s hand as it rested on your shoulder, the ease of the gesture speaking louder than words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sirius allowed himself to believe. Not just in the love he saw in James’s face or the easy affection between Fleamont and Euphemia. But in the idea that maybe—just maybe—love wasn’t the cruel, twisted thing his family had tried to make him believe.

Maybe love, real love, was something entirely different.

November 27, 1976

My Jamie, Winter has settled over Beauxbatons, and the mountains are kissed with snow. I wish you could see how the frost sparkles on the trees. I think of you often, imagining the mischief you’re up to at Hogwarts. I heard you’re Quidditch Captain now — congratulations! I can already picture you soaring through the air, the wind in your hair and that unstoppable grin. You were born to lead, Jamie, and I’m so proud of you. Your mum wrote me again last week. She’s sent another scarf, this one in Gryffindor colors. She says it’ll keep me close to you. It does, in a way — I wrap it around myself when I miss you most. Do you think of me as much as I think of you? You’re my constant, my warmth on the coldest days. Soon it’ll be Christmas, and we’ll have the stars and endless nights to talk about everything. Until then, stay safe, my Jamie. Forever yours, Love

THE CHRISTMAS CHAOS AT THE POTTER HOUSE STARTED BEFORE SIRIUS EVEN HAD A CHANCE TO GRUMBLE ABOUT THE HOUR. The sun wasn’t up yet, but Fleamont Potter most certainly was, barreling into James’s room with the energy of a man half his age. Before Sirius could properly complain — or hide under the covers — he and James were unceremoniously hauled to the garage. Their mission? Assembling the absurdly large Christmas table that Euphemia insisted on every year.

Sirius swore under his breath, wrestling with the oversized wooden monstrosity. “You know,” he grumbled, glaring at James, “if your parents had just gone for a nice, normal-sized table, we wouldn’t be out here freezing our—”

“Language, Sirius!” Fleamont interrupted cheerfully, though there was a definite glint of amusement in his eyes.

Sirius rolled his eyes but complied, though only because Euphemia’s kitchen smelled like heaven, and he was determined to earn his way to a plate of whatever was roasting in the oven.

Inside, the house was a picture of festive perfection: holly strung along the bannisters, twinkling fairy lights glowing softly in the corners, and a wireless by the fireplace playing carols just loud enough to make Sirius hum along when no one was listening. Euphemia’s soft laughter echoed from the kitchen, mingling with yours as the two of you prepared a feast fit for kings — or in this case, a house full of Marauders.

And James? Well, James wasn’t himself.

Sirius noticed it almost immediately. His best mate was usually a hurricane of enthusiasm during the holidays, cracking jokes, sneaking sweets from the kitchen, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But today, James kept glancing toward the kitchen like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home.

The idiot was besotted.

Every time your laughter drifted into the room, James’s head whipped around like he was under some sort of spell. If you so much as said his name, he’d stop mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up like the Christmas tree in the corner. Sirius would’ve teased him mercilessly if it weren’t so... obvious. Painfully, ridiculously obvious.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN JAMES AND FLEAMONT HAD VANISHED TO THE GARAGE — probably to charm something they had no business charming — Sirius found himself tasked with tidying up James’s room. He grumbled the whole time, of course. Cleaning wasn’t his style, and James’s room was a disaster zone: Quidditch magazines spilling off the desk, parchment crumpled in corners, and socks scattered in ways that defied the laws of physics.

“Honestly, Prongs,” Sirius muttered, holding up a suspiciously stiff sock with the tips of his fingers. “How are you supposed to woo Evans — or anyone, for that matter — when your room smells like the wrong end of a hippogriff?”

As he moved to clear a particularly cluttered shelf, a box caught his eye. It was tucked in the far corner, partially hidden behind an old textbook. Sirius raised an eyebrow. Anything stashed away like that was bound to be interesting. With a mischievous grin, he reached for it, only for the entire thing to tumble off the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Bloody hell,” he swore, crouching to pick up the mess. His hand froze mid-reach when he realized what had fallen out: letters. Dozens of them, bundled in ribbons of various colors.

Sirius sat back on his heels, eyeing the pile. His curiosity, as always, got the better of him. With a glance at the door to ensure James wasn’t about to barge in, he grabbed the nearest stack and plopped himself onto the bed, cross-legged and grinning like a kid about to open a box of Zonko’s best tricks.

The first letter he unfolded smelled faintly of vanilla. Your scent, Sirius realized, and his grin faltered for just a moment.

October 7, 1971 Beauxbatons is so different from Hogwarts. The professors here are so strict, James, sometimes it feels like I’m being watched all the time! I miss the feeling of freedom you must have at Hogwarts, even if you’re always getting into trouble with Sirius. Do you ever just wish you could escape the rules and run wild?

Sirius chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting. “Trouble? Me? Never,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

But as he reread the letter, a strange tightness settled in his chest. The way you wrote about Hogwarts — it wasn’t just about the school. It was about James. Even miles away, you saw him as something larger than life, as the embodiment of freedom and adventure.

And James? The idiot probably thought you were just being polite.

February 21, 1971 Sirius sounds like a bit of a handful, but I bet he’s hilarious. I think I’d like him, even if he does cause chaos. You all sound like you’re constantly up to something, but I imagine you get into trouble a lot, don’t you? Anyway, I’d love to hear more about his pranks— I’m sure you and him must make a great team!

Sirius barked a laugh. “A handful? Pretty, you have no idea.”

Still, the words struck a chord. He could see it so clearly now: the way you’d woven yourself into James’s world with every playful question and teasing remark. You weren’t just curious about his adventures; you wanted to be a part of them, to understand the boy behind the Quidditch bravado and the wild schemes.

Then came the letters about Lily.

March 25, 1973 James, you always talk about Lily, and I think it’s sweet that you have such admiration for her. I bet she doesn’t even know how much you like her. She sounds like she’d be really hard to win over, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just don’t forget to have fun along the way, yeah?

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s saggy pants, Prongs, how thick can you be?”

He could almost picture you writing those words, the careful balance between encouragement and self-sacrifice. Even as you pushed James toward Lily, your letters were saturated with love — pure, unguarded, and heartbreakingly unspoken.

It was infuriating. How could two people so obviously meant for each other be so oblivious?

By the time Sirius reached the later letters, the humor had drained from his face.

December 5, 1974 Your mum sent me another gift! She’s so sweet, and I can’t believe how kind she is to me. It always makes me feel so loved. You know, when I’m away from you, it’s like I’m missing something... like the best part of my day. I never want to take our friendship for granted.

The parchment crinkled slightly as Sirius’s grip tightened. That wasn’t just gratitude — it was devotion, raw and aching. The kind of love that didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations because it was already woven into every moment, every memory.

And James? Sirius shook his head, a pang of frustration mixing with pity. James had spent years chasing the idea of love, blind to the fact that he already had it.

The final letter undid him.

December 12, 1975 I was thinking about you today, and how you’ve always been there for me — whether it was listening to me complain about the Beauxbatons professors or laughing with me when I’m in a bad mood. You’re always there, and I think that’s why I trust you more than anyone else. You’ll never know how much that means to me, Jamie.

Sirius closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. You didn’t just see James; you knew him. The real James — the boy who laughed too loudly, who lived for Quidditch, who couldn’t resist a good prank. You loved James, not the idealized version he tried to be for Lily or anyone else.

Sirius exhaled sharply, folding the letter with a reverence he didn’t usually bother with. His heart ached — not for himself, but for you, for James, for the years you’d both spent dancing around the truth.

“Merlin, you’re both idiots,” he muttered, though his voice was softer now. 

Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it further into disarray, his mind replaying what he’d just uncovered. The letters — those bloody letters — had been the key. Now everything fell into place: James’s barely-there smiles over the past few days, the way his gaze lingered when you entered the room, the softness in his laugh when you said something clever. James Potter, his brash, unrelenting, wildfire of a best friend, was utterly transformed around you.

Balanced. Grounded. Sincere.

It was unbearably obvious now, as if someone had pulled back the curtain.

And yet, the idiot still had Lily Evans’s picture on his bedside table in his dorm.

Sirius’s gaze fell on the stack of letters once more, neatly tied with a ribbons that seemed far too delicate for James’s usual chaos. He could have left it alone, let James figure things out in his own thick-headed way — but that wasn’t Sirius Black’s style. If there was one thing he’d learned from years of pranks, broken curfews, and bending the rules until they snapped, it was this: sometimes people needed a push, even if it stung a little.

Sirius exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, the letters still in hand. "You're a fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. Oh, the look on James’s face when he confronted him — it would be priceless. Sirius wasn’t one for sentiment, but for you? For James? Maybe, just maybe, he’d make an exception.

The door creaked open, and James stumbled into the room, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Sirius watched as his best friend all but collapsed into the armchair by the bookcase, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looked like he’d been wrestling dragons all day — or, more likely, his dad’s endless list of chores.

But there was something else, too. A tension in his jaw, a restless energy that practically vibrated off him. Sirius could see it plain as day: James hadn’t seen her all day, and it was driving him mad. She was so close — just a staircase or two away — and yet untouchable.

Sirius cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So, Prongs, is this why you’ve been obsessing over the owl schedule for years? Didn’t peg you as the secret pen-pal type.”

James’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion. They darted to the bed, where the stack of letters lay exposed, and then to the shelf where the box had clearly been moved. He froze for a second before letting out a long, resigned sigh.

“Pads,” James said, his voice low and uneven, heavy with an edge Sirius rarely heard. “It’s not cool to read someone else’s letters.”

The room seemed to still, the words settling into the air like dust, soft but laden with weight. James’s eyes — those unmistakable hazel orbs that always held a spark of mischief — were guarded now, a flicker of something raw and unspoken behind them.

Sirius leaned forward, a grin stretching across his face like the blade of a knife, sharp and unapologetic. “Not cool,” he echoed, his voice laced with mockery, “is keeping this from me for six bloody years. Care to explain, or should I guess?”

James flinched, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the soft knit of his jumper. He moved toward the bed with the slow, deliberate steps of someone walking a tightrope, balancing the fragile threads of anger and restraint. The dim light of the room cast long shadows over his frame, making him seem taller, older — more vulnerable.

He reached for one of the letters, his hand hesitating for the briefest moment before his fingers curled around the parchment. His thumb brushed over the faded ink, tracing the loops of her handwriting like a blind man reading Braille. The edges of the letter were frayed, softened by years of touch, and as he lifted it to his face, Sirius caught the faintest smile tugging at James’s lips.

It was a small, private thing, that smile. Reverent. It wasn’t the boyish grin Sirius knew so well, the one James wielded like a weapon to charm or disarm. No, this was different — softer, as though the mere act of holding the letter in his hand brought James closer to something sacred.

Sirius felt his chest tighten. He’d seen James in every possible state — triumphant on the Quidditch pitch, livid after a prank gone wrong, devastated when the world seemed too heavy — but this? This was new. This was James Potter unguarded.

“She’s different, isn’t she?” Sirius said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

James didn’t look up. He sat on the edge of the bed, sorting the letters with a precision that bordered on ritual. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers careful not to smudge the ink or crease the paper. Sirius had never seen him handle anything with such care — not his broomstick, not his glasses, not even the Marauder’s Map.

“It’s not what you think,” James murmured, but the words lacked conviction, as though he knew they’d crumble under scrutiny.

Sirius scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated snort. “Not what I think? Mate, I think you’re in love with her and too much of an idiot to admit it. Am I wrong?”

James froze mid-motion, the ribbon he was tying slipping from his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t speak, didn’t move — just stared at the letters as if they might answer for him.

“She’s…” He trailed off, his voice barely audible. “She’s different, Pads. She’s… everything.”

There it was. The confession, raw and trembling in the space between them. Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression unusually serious.

“Yeah,” Sirius said softly. “She is. And that’s exactly why you’re a bloody idiot for pretending she’s not.”

James let out a bitter laugh, the sound low and fractured. He raked a hand through his already-messy hair, his movements frenetic, as though he were trying to shake off the weight of the moment.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Sirius shot back, his tone sharp but not cruel. “I’ve watched you for years, Prongs. You talk about Evans like she’s some kind of bloody trophy, but her? You look at her like she’s the air you breathe. Like without her, you’d suffocate. And you’re sitting here telling me it’s complicated?”

James’s laugh turned hollow, empty. “Lily’s… safe. She’s who I’m supposed to want. She’s not my bloody childhood best friend.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Sirius said nothing. Then, he barked out a laugh, loud and biting.

“Safe?” he repeated, incredulous. “Since when have you ever played it safe, James Potter? Love’s not supposed to be safe. It’s messy, terrifying, and completely bloody worth it. Or are you seriously telling me you’d rather be ‘safe’ than happy?”

James looked up at him then, and Sirius’s breath caught. His best friend’s hazel eyes, usually so full of fire and mischief, were red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.

“Do you think…” James’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Do you think she feels the same?”

Sirius’s grin returned, slow and wolfish. “Mate, judging by these letters? She’s just as much of an idiot in love as you are.”

For a moment, James didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. And then, like a dam breaking, he laughed — a shaky, unsteady sound that grew louder, freer, until it filled the room.

“What do I do?” James asked, his voice raw and trembling with vulnerability.

Sirius stood, crossing the room to clap a hand on James’s shoulder. “You start by telling her everything. No more hiding. No more pretending. You owe her — and yourself — more than that.”

James nodded slowly, the faintest glimmer of determination flickering in his eyes. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Sirius said, smirking. “I’m always right.”

As James reached for the letters, carefully tucking them back into their box, Sirius watched him with a rare sense of pride. This wasn’t just James Potter, the fearless Quidditch captain, the prankster extraordinaire. This was James Potter, a boy on the cusp of something extraordinary.

And for once, Sirius Black wasn’t just causing chaos — he was helping someone find their way through it.

THE SNOW OUTSIDE FELL IN HEAVY, DELIBERATE FLAKES, BLANKETING THE WORLD IN A SOFT, UNBROKEN QUIET. Sirius stood on the second-floor landing of the Potter home, a mug of hot coffee cradled in his hands. The rich aroma mingled with the faint scent of pine and cinnamon wafting from the decorated tree below. The whole house seemed to hum with a kind of warmth that Sirius rarely allowed himself to imagine, let alone experience.

From his vantage point, he had a perfect view of the living room below. The fire in the hearth crackled gently, casting golden shadows across the walls. Mr. Potter sat on the sofa with an arm draped around Mrs. Potter, the two of them cocooned under a soft plaid blanket. A book rested on Fleamont’s lap as he read aloud, his voice low and steady. Euphemia’s head rested against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed in serene contentment. Every so often, she’d smile at something he read or reach up to adjust her husband’s glasses, her touch so light and familiar it made Sirius’s chest ache with longing — not jealousy, but something softer. A wistfulness for this kind of unshakable bond.

But his gaze didn’t linger on the Potters for long. It drifted to the corner of the room, where the Christmas tree’s twinkling lights bathed two figures in a kaleidoscope of warm colors. You and James sat on the floor amidst the chaos of torn wrapping paper and open boxes. The morning’s gifts had already been exchanged, but it seemed James had saved something special for last.

Even from here, Sirius could see the faint nervousness in his best friend’s posture. James wasn’t one to fidget, yet his hands moved restlessly, smoothing invisible creases on his trousers, brushing imaginary dust from the tree skirt. His eyes, though, were unwavering as they watched you. You were cross-legged on the fluffy white rug, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulder as you picked idly at a ribbon. Sirius noticed how your gaze lingered on James, curious and full of quiet affection.

James leaned closer, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable lilt of mischief. “One of the owls was late,” he said, holding up a slightly weathered envelope. The parchment looked a little worse for wear, its edges crumpled as if it had been handled too often. “It dropped this off this morning… asked me to give it to the most beautiful girl in the world.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you reached for the envelope. “Still using that line, are you, Potter?”

“Can you blame me? It’s worked wonders so far.” His grin was cocky, but Sirius saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he handed it over.

You rolled your eyes, but the way you bit your lip betrayed your own anticipation. Turning the envelope over in your hands, you ran your fingers along the black-inked scrawl of your name before carefully breaking the seal. Sirius leaned forward slightly, his coffee forgotten as he watched the scene unfold.

The moment the letter emerged, the air seemed to shift. Your eyes darted across the page, your expression softening with each word. Sirius could see the precise moment the meaning settled in — the way your lips parted in surprise, the way your shoulders tensed, then relaxed, as if letting the weight of something long unspoken sink in. James’s hand rested on your knee, his thumb moving in small, nervous circles.

“Love?” James’s voice was barely above a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away. He was watching you as though the world rested on your reaction, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. “You’re awfully quiet. Should I be worried? Say something. Anything.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes stayed fixed on the page, even as a tear slipped down your cheek, catching the light like a tiny diamond. James froze, his face paling slightly.

“Hey, hey, no…” His voice cracked. “Don’t cry. If it’s rubbish, just say so and we can forget it. Burn it, even.” He laughed nervously, though it sounded forced. “I’ll… I’ll pretend it never happened.”

That’s when you looked up, meeting his gaze with eyes so full of emotion it made Sirius’s breath hitch even from across the room. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached out, cupping James’s face in your hands. He stilled under your touch, his wide-eyed surprise melting into something softer as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss Sirius might have teased him about — not fiery or impulsive. It was quiet, deliberate, and full of a tenderness that made Sirius feel like an intruder, even though he couldn’t look away. James’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though you might slip away if he let go.

Sirius smiled to himself, feeling a rare swell of pride. James had always been the heart of their little group, the one who wore his feelings openly. And now, here he was, finding a kind of love that Sirius knew would anchor him forever.

A sharp click shattered the moment, and both of you turned your heads to find Sirius standing at the bottom of the stairs, a wide grin plastered across his face as he waved a freshly developed photo in the air.

“Perfect!” he announced, shaking the picture. “This one’s going in the family album. And when my godchildren ask how their parents got together, I’ll tell them Uncle Sirius orchestrated the whole thing.”

You laughed, leaning your forehead against James’s shoulder, while James groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re a menace, Pads,” he said, though his voice held no bite.

“A charming menace,” Sirius replied, retreating toward the couch where the elder Potters were watching the scene unfold with amused smiles.

“Everything alright, dear?” Euphemia asked, her eyes twinkling with affection as she glanced between you and James.

James nodded, his hand still firmly clasping yours. “Yeah, Mum. Everything’s perfect.”

Mrs. Potter’s smile widened, and she reached over to pat your hand. “Welcome to the family, my dear. Though, truth be told, you’ve always been part of it.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion.

THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED IN A GOLDEN HAZE OF LAUGHTER AND WARMTH. Euphemia roped you into helping her in the kitchen, insisting you learn the secret to her mulled wine. Sirius watched from the doorway, sipping his coffee and grinning as you tried to follow her directions, only for James to sneak in and steal a taste from the pot, earning himself a playful swat on the arm.

By evening, the fire burned low, and the snow outside had blanketed the world in an even deeper hush. Sirius sat in his favorite armchair, a blanket draped over his legs as he watched the scene before him. You and James were curled up together on the rug, a cozy tangle of limbs as you whispered to each other, your laughter soft and unguarded. The Potters sat nearby, sharing quiet conversation, their hands intertwined.

For a moment, Sirius closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the room and the sounds of contentment wash over him. He thought of his own childhood Christmases — cold, sterile affairs devoid of joy. And then he thought of this… the home James had built, not just for himself but for everyone he cared about. It was the kind of love Sirius had always believed was out of reach. Until now.

“Merry Christmas, Prongs,” he murmured, raising his empty mug in a toast to his best friend.

James glanced up, catching his eye. “Merry Christmas, Pads,” he replied, his grin soft but unmistakably James.

James had turned to you, his hand cradling your cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm.

"Merry Christmas, love," James murmured, his voice low and filled with a tenderness that made Sirius’s chest tighten.

"Merry Christmas, Jamie," you replied, resting your forehead against his.

Sirius chuckled, settling back into his chair, the warmth of the moment settling deep in his bones. The world outside might be cold and uncertain, but here, in this house, surrounded by love and laughter, everything felt exactly as it should be.

He thought about how James Potter had once given him the home and warmth he never had. And now, it seemed, Sirius Black had helped his best friend find his way home, too.

FROM THE ARCHIVE OF SIRIUS BLACK:

To my future, undoubtedly brilliant, devilishly handsome, and wildly talented nephews,

Listen up, you little rascals. You don’t know me yet, but let me make one thing very clear: I’m the reason you even exist. That’s right, your ridiculously perfect Uncle Sirius is the mastermind behind it all. Without my charm, wit, and expert meddling, your parents might still be doing the whole "will-they-won't-they" nonsense.

So, when you’re out there ruling the world, remember to thank yours truly. The coolest, suavest, and most humble uncle you'll ever have — Sirius Black. You're welcome.

December 25, 1976 My Love,   It’s Christmas, and the house is quiet now, the soft hum of the tree lights the only sound. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at this parchment, trying to find words big enough for what I feel, but they don’t exist. Still, I need to try.   Love, I see it now—what I’ve been too blind to see all along. I’ve always thought of myself as brave, fearless even. But when it came to you, I was a coward. I didn’t want to risk losing you. You, who have been the brightest part of my life since the moment we met. You, who’ve filled every corner of my world with warmth and light, even when we were miles apart.   Every summer, when you stepped into my life again, it was like the sun breaking through a storm. You’d sit by the lake with that book you never quite finished because I was always distracting you. You’d laugh at my terrible jokes, your nose crinkling just so. And you’d hum when you thought no one was listening, always off-key but somehow more perfect than any melody I’ve ever heard.   I thought I was looking for the kind of love my parents have — their unshakable bond, the way they look at each other like the world begins and ends with them. And all this time, it was right here, under my nose. You were under my nose.   I think I was afraid, love. Afraid that if I let myself feel what’s always been there, I’d ruin us. That I’d lose the only person who’s ever truly known me, the only one who can look past the pranks, the bravado, and see me—the real me. But Sirius, being Sirius, knocked some sense into me. He said I’ve been acting like a fool, and for once, he’s right. Rereading our letters with him was like seeing my life laid out before me, and every line, every word pointed to you.   Even when you were far away, you were my everything. The letters you sent were more than ink on parchment; they were lifelines. When Hogwarts felt too big, too chaotic, you were the quiet in the storm. When I felt lost, you reminded me who I am. Do you know how many times I reread your words, just to feel close to you? I kept your letters in my trunk, hidden from the others like a secret treasure. Because that’s what you’ve always been — my treasure.   How could I have been so blind? How could I have wasted so much time thinking it was Lily I wanted when it’s always been you? I’ve spent so long chasing a dream when the real thing was right in front of me. I see it now, clearer than I’ve ever seen anything. You are my stars, my moon, my sun. You’re the laugh that makes everything brighter, the voice that feels like home.  

I love you. I love the way your handwriting gets messier when you’re excited. I love the way you argue with me over the silliest things just to see me smile. I love the way you hum when you’re nervous and how you always know exactly what to say to pull me out of my worst days. I love you.   I don’t know if you feel the same way, but I hope with everything in me that you do. And if you don’t, I’ll understand. Because having you in my life, even just as my friend, has been the greatest gift I could ever ask for. But if there’s even the smallest chance you might love me too, then I promise to spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.   Merry Christmas, my love. You’ve been my greatest gift every day since I met you.   Forever yours,   Jamie

thankx for reading <3

god, this is my biggest work and I was so afraid to publish it, cause it seems to me that no one reads such long fics (I myself adore long fics).

and if you've finished reading this, thank u and I love you so much! I hope you enjoyed every part of it and I will be very glad if you leave a comment, because it seems to me that I have left all of myself in this work!

you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox. btw my requests are open so… make a wish :3            

p.s. if you liked this work i’d really appreciate if you go and read more of my works in my masterlist and give it your opinion. i’m very proud of my latest work ‘muse’ and hope you’ll like it just as much as ‘obviously blind’                   

– your santi 🪐

masterlist

[lay-z]

Things you shouldn’t say around Task Force 141, unless you know how to deal with the consequences.

It’s a rare lazy day at the 141 HQ on base in Hereford.

Lazy for you, at the very least, due to an upcoming long holiday weekend and the blessing of being one if not the most efficient secretary around. 

Days like this mean it’s time for some groundwork, cleaning up messes from the past weeks, and doing all the filing you’ve been procrastinating for longer than you’d like to admit. 

But they also mean that either your boss or one of his men will approach you to ask for your lunch order at some point—more than happy to indulge in some much-needed downtime between training and paperwork. 

While Captain Price sits behind his desk with you standing next to him, signing some documents for you, the other three men all lounge around the room like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves if no orders are given. 

Kyle and Johnny manspreading on the leather couch in the corner, Simon is standing by the open window with his mask rucked up and a ciggy dangling between his gloved fingers. 

“What about shawarma? Haven’t had tha’ in a while,” Kyle suggests, scrolling on his phone as he continues to look for restaurants and chip shops nearby. 

Johnny groans next to him. “Aye, ’s good, but gives me the farts–” A loud smack. “Ow!” Your eyes flit up with furrowed brows, holding out another document to the captain. 

“Bruh.” Kyle kisses his teeth snidely, shaking his head as he drops his hand again while Johnny rubs the rapidly flushing nape of his neck. “There’s a lady present, Soap.” 

Simon snorts, flicking ash out of the window before taking another drag. 

“Muppets,” Price mutters under his breath as he takes the next document from your hold. 

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish— 

Giving you a fat baby, each, and four men utterly obsessed with you along with them. 

[nerosaerothorn]

Or, at the very least, plan out her concerts more efficiently, and take a tour bus for interstate travel.

I saw a map of the proposed locations of her concerts. They seem to be engineered specifically to maximize the amount of fuel used.

I don't remember the exact paths but it is something similar to this: Los Angeles -> New York -> San Diego -> Chicago -> London -> Miami -> London again -> etc...

I have an ice-cold take to share but I'm trusting you all with my vulnerability

Obviously Taylor Swift's private jet carbon footprint is a fucking problem but also I think if she did the alternative and flew on commercial airplanes to get to her concerts then someone would absolutely bite her.

I think she'd safely get through about 5 flights but on the sixth there will be some Swiftie who spots her and enters a complete hyperventilation fugue state that manifests with something similar to cute-aggression but it would manifest in the form of biting Taylor Swift as much as possible. I don't think she would leave unscathed.

Like politicians already travel privately to avoid assassination and it's just that I believe the number of political assassins out there pales in comparison to the number of 23-year-old white sorority girls who are one Taylor-Swift-spotting away from putting their invisalign into practice.

[yanderedrabbles]

Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

[sasuketruther]

i spent all day running 6 samples on my instrument (plus calibration and other random lab specific shit ofc) and only 3 worked out well 🥹. idk i don't think it's my fault but no one is talking to meeeeee idkkkkkkkkkkkkkk :/

[ozzgin]

I'm in my parody mood again. I'm so sorry. You have to attend a yandere school: quite literally, an academy designed to train you into a proper yandere. Except you're terrible at it. So pathetic, in fact, that all the yandere-to-be students and teachers have to help you. And now they're slowly but surely falling for you. Content: gender neutral reader, horde of yanderes, parody

"For the last time, (Y/N)..." the teacher sighs, mild frustration creasing his features. "You can't be a cool and aloof yandere if you look this tense."

"I thought I'm supposed to obsessively stare at my crush from the window", you argue, waving away some cherry blossom petals that were blown by the wind straight into your face.

"Yes, but no one can tell you're a yandere yet. Your gaze must be indifferent, idle, bored. Do you understand?"

You're a lost cause. The older man readjusts your body's position with pursed lips. You'll never be a proper yandere with this attitude. He should be angry about it - Yan Academy dons an unmatched reputation of flawless success. Every student graduates with impeccable results. Well, except for you. And yet, he's almost enjoying the repeated efforts, the daily observations, the additional training you require.

A thought crosses his mind: what would you even do without his help? You'd be lost. You need him to succeed. He shakes his head in embarrassment, swiftly shoves his glasses further up the nose, and coughs.

"Meet me after class. I'll be in my office."

"Again?"

The words escape your lips before you can stop yourself. His brows furrow, and he lifts your chin with his index finger, responding in a deeper voice:

"Yes. Until you learn to act properly, (Y/N)."

“What’re you doing now? We were going to hang out at my place, so we can practice efficient stalking methods.”

Your classmate smiles at you, almost pleadingly. Oh, if only you’d join them. How else will you manage? He can already picture your confused, innocent expression as you try to keep up with them.

You were made to be stalked, not the other way around.

“I can’t”, you whine. “Teacher wants me to stay behind again.”

The students stare at you with a peculiar glimmer in their eye. This bastard…is he trying to keep you all to himself? He should be minding his damn business and leave such matters to people who’re closer to you. They know you better. They’d do a much better job at…training you.

You feel a tug behind you. The classmate removes your backpack and throws it over his shoulder.

“Fuck that. You’re coming with me.”

[More parodies original work] | [Part 2] | [Part 3]

[moonsglare]

frustration. || arlecchino x reader [NSFT][MDNI]

Arlecchino is, for lack of better term, sexually frustrated. The cure is conveniently close and willing—read: you, her wife—but the universe has… other plans.

cw. literally just smut. all the hallmarks of my usual smut blah blah breeding arledick etc

notes. nothing to say for myself. but like this is like 6k words

She cannot focus.

It is a novel situation for her, to be sure. Arlecchino has always been of a more straightforward, single-minded disposition. Tasks are to be completed with grace and efficiency—she has never liked dallying, or letting work build up in increments. She likes to, “lock in”, as the children say, and be at her leisure to go about her personal business for the remainder of the day. And yet, today, it is taking every last ounce of willpower in her to keep her eyes on the spread of papers on her desk—and not the low, nagging heat in her abdomen.

She considers, briefly, banging her head on her desk. But such behavior is unbecoming of a Harbinger, so she settles for leaning back in her chair and sighing, folding her hands over her stomach with enough force to turn her knuckles white in an effort to stave off the urge to let them travel lower, beneath her desk, to deal with her problem. It’s not like she couldn’t. No one comes into her office without announcing themself first, and she keeps a box of tissues on her desk at all times. She isn’t particularly loud, either; at least, not when she’s alone. The mess would be minimal, she’s certain, and she’d get some relief from this need thrumming up and down her spine, but, well…

Frankly, she doesn’t really enjoy her own hand anymore—not after several years of marriage to you. It works, sure, but she doesn’t feel that same release, that same bonelessness in her lower body when it’s with you. Sometimes it does surprise her, the carnal lust you inspire within her, but then she remembers the feel of your sweet cunt around her cock, and the way you look beneath her, spread out and beautiful, tears of pleasure clumping your lashes and mewling her name and—

She groans, feeling her pants get tighter. Not helping, she berates internally, crossing her legs. Her cock aches, almost embarrassingly so. Though, she supposes, it has indeed been a while since she was last able to indulge in you. Work has been increasing, on account of the rising number of Gnoses making their way into the Tsaritsa’s possession. All that remains is that of the Pyro Archon’s, and at this eleventh hour there is much to be done for every Fatui agent, at every level. As a Harbinger, she is no exception.

She sighs again. If only you were here, she thinks idly, thumping her head against the cushion of the chair. You’d tease her relentlessly for being so wound up, but then you’d sink down to your knees before her spread legs, tease her zipper down with your teeth and—

“Fuck.”

Fuck.

Arlecchino pinches the bridge of her nose with one dark hand and shoves her waistband down her hips with the other.

Her cock practically springs free as soon as it’s released from the confines of her slacks, the engorged, leaky tip nearly touching the underside of her desk. Her toes curl in her heels as the cool air of the room kisses the sensitive flesh, and she circles her thumb and index finger around her thick base, right over the thatch of black and white curls that lead upward in a tapering triangle to her navel. She hisses at the first shift of her hand upward, and chews the inside of her cheek as her thumb swipes at her cockhead to spread the pearly proof of her arousal up and down her stiff cock.

Her free hand covers her eyes as she lets them slip shut, and she retreats into certain filthier memories. She can picture you with near perfect clarity—half-moon eyes trained on her as she tangles a fist in your hair, and slowly rocks her wet cock against your cheek. Your tongue is stuck out utterly obscenely, further wetting her already slick length before she draws back to press the tip to your shining lips. They part obediently, and then she’s sinking into your warm, wet, mouth—and she can’t help the way her hips buck into her own fist at the memory.

She delves deeper into that recollection, and her body reacts in kind. The pace of her hand rises, the sloppy noise of her jerking herself off echoing in her office. Her tip leaks an absurd amount, one she knows you’d complain about if you ever saw. You’d complain about it then put your mouth on her until your nose brushes her happy trail and the muscles of her back tense at the thought of having you deepthroat her, of being so deep in your willing mouth that you gag on it.

“Fuck, darling,” she pants, starting to feel far too warm for all her layers. Her fist flies over her cock now, absolutely shameless, her hips starting to rise up from her chair. In her mind you’re bobbing your head up and down, up and down, hollowing your cheeks ruthlessly as your fingers toy and caress her balls. Her jaw is clenched tight enough she swears she hears it creak, and with a final, harsh stroke she tips herself off that knife’s edge, coming with a muffled snarl into her palm and shooting her cum all over the underside of her fir desk. It’s thick, viscous, and strings of it cling to her twitching dick as she comes, making an utter mess. She slides her fist up and down her softening dick to wring every last ounce of pleasure she can, but it’s not the same as having you swallow around her or—Celestia above—having your perfect, tight cunt squeeze around her as she comes.

She comes down with a sigh, releasing her slick, sensitive dick and reaching for the box of tissues. That nagging heat is… not gone, but quelled, at least for now. That restlessness is still there, a buzz in her muscles that’s irritatingly present. In the back of her oxytocin-fogged mind she feels a sense of exasperation towards herself for being unable to keep from jacking off like some hormonal teenager as she wipes clean the evidence of her indulgence from her desk, cock and slacks.

By the time she’s tucking herself back into her pants, the sun is beginning to set outside her window. She’d be clocking out soon, and that means heading home to your shared bed—which, if she’s lucky, she can hopefully put you through tonight and satiate this frankly demonic lust in her system and become a normally functioning member of society again.

She is not lucky.

You’re already asleep by the time she gets back, and she doesn’t have the heart to wake you for sex of all things. You’re worn out as is—it really is a busy season for the Fatui, and someone of your rank certainly has much on your plate. So instead, she cleans up, then slides into bed next to you, and lets the way you instinctively snuggle up against her turn that ember of need in her belly into a gentle hearth of affection in her heart.

Maybe next time, she thinks.

“Next time” ends up being a whole week and a half later. Arlecchino is truly barely clinging to her sanity. She’s antsy, snappish, and backed-up; and worst of all, her curse is acting up. There’s a soreness in her arms, a pervasive heat under her skin, like her blood is boiling. No number of ice packs or cold showers do anything to soothe the heat and uncomfortableness, and it leaves her in a much, much worse mood.

Her agents bear the brunt of her ire. Never her children, by the Crimson moon, never—but all her agents walk on thin ice around their Harbinger. She’s high and dry, not unlike the gunpowder in their rifles, and it only takes a single spark to set her off. Nowadays, anyone going into her office is seen saying a quick prayer to the Tsaritsa before entering. Not that it offers much protection, but at the very least their final act would’ve been worship of the Archon, who would hopefully embrace their ashen corpse in her cool arms once all was said and done.

Put frankly, it’s Bad, with a capital B.

And so she’s ready to snarl when the door to her office is pushed open so casually, only for it to die between her teeth when she notices who has walked in. It’s you, in your Fatui coat, the lightest dusting of snow in your hair. You offer her an apologetic smile and hang up the thick mantle next to hers on the rack, then walk over to round her desk and press a kiss to her temple.

“You okay?” you ask when you draw back, and Arlecchino has to resist the urge to chase after your touch. She doesn’t fight it when your fingers curl in her hair, and you draw her head to rest against your side.

Her fingers twitch at the question, and she sets down her quill. She shakes her head with a soft sigh, inhaling the scent of you—you smell of pine and firewood, with the hint of fresh snow’s frostiness. The dull throb in her arms reduces somewhat. “Not… entirely.”

You make a quiet noise of acknowledgement at that, carding your fingers through her hair. You find the clasp of her low hair ornament and gently pry it loose, letting her hair fall free and she lets out a muted groan of relief as some of the pressure in her skull reduces.

“Rough day?”

“A week would be a kinder estimate,” she replies, almost petulant, and you laugh gently, a low crackling like firewood in a warm hearth. She noses closer to you and nearly whines when you pull away to sit before her on the edge of her desk instead, your legs between her knees.

“Poor thing,” you coo, fingers trailing down from her hair to the collar of her suit jacket, your index finger slipping past to tease it loose. “You’re so tense, baby. Need my help?”

Your touch is already addling her brain, and she blinks slowly. “Pardon?”

“Oh, baby, it really is bad, huh?” you giggle, using your other hand to pop the buttons of your own uniform, and oh—her pants are suddenly far, far too tight. “The letters weren’t exaggerating.”

She can barely muster up the brain power to ask you what in Celestia’s name you mean by that, because fuck the sight of you undressing on her desk is sending all of her blood down south. “Letters?” she rasps hoarsely, and you smile, like a fox in tall grass.

“Mm, letters. So many agents submitted in an additional request that I do something about your, ah… situation,” you tease, letting your shirt fall off your shoulders and onto the wood below you, and you’re really, really trying to kill her because why else would you be wearing her favourite lingerie set underneath? “Lucky for them—and you—I know just the cure.”

You raise your leg, and press the heel of your foot ever so lightly against her bulge, and she makes a choked noise, tingling fingers digging into your calf. You lean back on her desk, a pure vision of lust, eyes half-lidded as you gaze down at her.

“Well, husband? Care to partake?”

She has your back flat against the desk in seconds.

You let out a startled “oof” that tapers into a moan as her lips attack your neck, pressing bruising, biting kisses into the tender skin there. Her teeth scrape your pulse and she groans at the salty tang of your skin, laving her tongue and shamelessly licking into the cleft below your jaw. She’s growling like some sort of feral beast as she fumbles with the zipper of her pants, unhelped by the way your ankles have locked around her lower back with a deceptively tight grip. It takes a firm hand on your hip, pressing you into the wood in a way that has you mewling before she can wriggle enough space to shove a hand between you both to free her straining erection.

Her tip catches on your clothed cunt the moment it’s exposed, tapping against your swollen clit over its hood and making you whine. There’s a wet patch on the delicate lace of your panties, and Arlecchino has half a mind to drop to her knees and put her mouth on you instead. But her own cock twitches almost angrily at the thought of being deprived of your pussy now that she’s got the opportunity. She uses the hand trapped between your bodies to grasp her base, and she uses her shaft to rub up and down the covered lips of your core until the fabric is sticky and translucent with your slick and her pre-cum. All the while her mouth remains busy, sucking marks and bruises into your neck, collarbones, and anywhere in between that she can reach.

“Arle,” you whine, digging your nails into her broad shoulders, “c’mon, please—”

“Begging so soon?” she grunts in return, silencing you with a nip to your earlobe. “What happened to the teasing minx you were a minute ago?”

“She’s—mnn—way too horny to entertain you right now,” you quip back, your fingers creeping higher up her spine to the nape of her neck, and scratching at the base of her skull. Tendrils of sensation, like a many-limbed spider, skitter down her back and her hips roll of their own accord, a twitch rather than a thrust. Still, it has you making more of those lovely, plaintive noises, and Arlecchino herself is far too worked up to tease you as well. “Hurry up—”

“Shh,” she soothes, the hand on your thigh grasping your chin so she can swallow your words with a kiss. Her tongue shoves into your mouth, tracing the edges of your teeth and licking against your cheek. Her other hand tugs your panties to the side as her hips bump forward, her cockhead parting your lower lips wet with slick. “Shh, darling, be patient.”

And you gasp into her mouth when she finally pushes in, your fingers winding tight in her hair and tugging. She hisses as your cunt bears down tight around her, fluttering and pulsing in time with your heartbeat. Her achy, trembling hands fly up to smack down on the desk around your head with an audible thump, her entire body shuddering at the sensations lancing up and down her body like a raging blaze. She inhales a tense, unsteady breath as she pushes in further, the wet noise of your cunt sucking her cock in nearly making her dizzy—or that might just be the latent headache from before, she isn’t sure anymore. In any case, she pushes deeper, inch by inch, splitting you open on her dick until your hips meet with an obscene noise, and she nearly topples over you, the strength in her right arm giving way until she’s forced to brace her weight on her elbow instead. She pants into your neck as she lets you adjust, muttering a string of almost incoherent praise against your skin.

Your face is hidden in her shoulder, your body arching up from the table in lust-drunk frenzy, and then you’re shifting your hips, drawing a strangled noise from deep in her throat. She wants to pin your rocking hips to the wood but her hands and forearms are already worsening in their ache, burning up from within, and so she decides to draw back and fuck forward at the same time you shift low, and it has her pressing so deep inside you that you nearly sob.

“Fuck– Arle,” you whimper, nails digging hard enough into her shoulder she’s sure she’ll have marks for the next day or two, “fuck, missed you, missed you so much— shit, you’re so good—”

Her only response is a low rumble as she starts to thrust in earnest, each slap of her hips against your thighs making her solid desk creak. You’re babbling nonsense into her shoulder, a slurry of words spilling from your bitten lips much like the way your slick is dripping out and around her cock as she fucks into you. There’s a burning behind her eyes, and her arms are starting to protest further. The dull ache is now a rhythmic pulsing, and her rhythm falters as she’s torn between the extremes of pain and pleasure. Frustration nips at the back of her head and her nails scratch the finish of her desk as she wills herself to overcome the pain.

You’re already squeezing around her, inarguably close to your orgasm, but she can’t stop the choked noise of pain from slipping past her lips. She kisses and nips at your neck and fucks you hard enough the desk slide forwards, but your years of marriage has attuned you to her like no other living person. Even through your hiccuping moans and mewls you pierce through your own need with concerned clarity, palms on either of her shoulders as you lean back against the desk to get a better look at her.

“Arle, mnn— what’s wrong?” you breathe, eyes searching her face and lips pulling into a frown when you notice the conflict in her expression. “Hey, hey— shh, what’s wrong?”

She lets out a half-bitten sigh of frustration, stilling her hips and dropping her head into the crook of your neck. Her arms are throbbing now, the muscles of her forearms feeling like they might just melt right off her bones. Your hands cradle the back of her head as you catch your breath, patting her hair.

“Is it the curse?” you ask softly, and she can only manage a wordless, defeated nod into your shoulder. You hum at that, and gently place your palms against her chest to push her back and sit yourself upright again. Her hands twitch with slight relief as the pressure of holding her upper body up fades, and they slacken further when you take them in your own, thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

“Let’s finish this another time,” you suggest quietly. “I don’t want to continue if you’re in pain.”

I can keep going, a stubborn part of her protests—probably her dick talking, to be honest—but as much as she wants to continue she knows you wouldn’t let her. She’s impressed, but also not surprised at how quickly you can shut off your own arousal, in a sense, out of nothing but concern for her. It’s… heartwarming, but also a little frustrating, when she’s pretty sure emptying her balls inside your cunt would fix at least a few of her problems. But she relents, slipping out of you with a muted noise and she lets you clean her up—because you never let her lift a finger when her curse flares up—and then yourself, before you slip your clothes back on and stand on slightly wobbly legs.

“Let’s go home,” you murmur, taking one of her aching hands in your own. “Let me take care of you.” The fire in her veins does not dissipate, but it settles ever so slightly, and she manages the smallest of smiles, reserved only for you.

“As you say, my dear.”

At home, you wash her, dress her, then lead her to bed where you hold her close against your chest. It isn’t often she allows herself to little spoon, but the background pain of the curse has worn down her walls until they’re paper-thin.

So tonight, she lets herself be held by you as your fingers dance up and down her arms, soothing in familiarity, until she slips beneath the veil of a dreamless sleep.

When Arlecchino wakes up, she realises 2 things: 1) she’s hard, again, and 2) you’re having what she thinks is a very fun dream. Through the foggy haze of sleep and the barely-there, grey wisps of early morning light, she sees—and feels—you squirming on the bed, brows drawn tight and lips parted around little mewls. Her hand on your hip feels the way your whole body is tense, the muscle beneath your soft flesh flexing as you twitch in response to whatever she’s doing to you in your dreams.

“Arle—” you whimper, thighs pressing together subconsciously, and her dick twitches in response in her sleep shorts. She buries her face in the crook of your neck with a rumbling groan, her hands—now mercifully painless—squeezing around the meat of your hips. Her fingers tease the waistband of your panties, and you shiver.

“I’m here, sweet thing,” she murmurs, lips kissing a trail up to your ear. “Open those pretty eyes for me, hm?”

It takes you a while before your eyes finally flutter open, and a little longer before you distinguish the boundary between dream and reality. When you do, your arms come to wrap around her back, like they’ve always meant to be there, and she presses the shape of a kiss into your neck.

“Good morning,” she purrs, drawing back to brace herself above you on her elbows. She takes in that half-dazed, half-aroused expression of yours with a greed that would put some of her colleagues to shame, feeling her blood smoulder in her veins not with pain but with pure, unadulterated lust. “Good dream?”

It takes you a beat to process her words, but you nod, almost shyly. “Yeah. Very… good.”

She leans down and presses her forehead to yours, teasing your lips with her own and making you whine. “And what exactly did you dream about, darling?”

“You,” you answer without hesitation, your eyes meeting hers with nothing but adoration. She smirks at that, kissing the corner of your lips, and then your cheek, then your brow, all over your face. You breathe a soft laugh at the ticklish sensation, and butterflies stir the heat in her gut.

“Oh? And what was I doing, pray tell?”

You smile. “Lots of things.”

“Well, do elaborate.”

You roll your eyes, and before she can react, one sneaky hand of yours has snaked down between both your bodies to cup her bulge through her sleep shorts, and she makes a half-bitten noise of surprise and arousal at the touch. You grasp her through the fabric, your thumb lazily rubbing her tip until a wet spot of her pre-cum forms. Your other hand cups her nape, tugging her close enough to breathe your next words right into her mouth.

“I think,” you begin, and Arlecchino swears her dick gets somehow harder at the low sultriness of your voice, “we should cut to the chase and finish where we left off yesterday.”

“That so?” she manages to rasp, and you nod, leaning up to kiss her, biting and demanding, your teeth worrying her lower lip in a way that’s making her feel deliriously horny.

“Mm,” you hum, and your hand on her dick squeezes just a little tighter. “C’mon, baby, ‘m already so wet, just fuck me, please? Missed your cock, baby—”

It’s nothing but filth from your lips but Archons does it work. Arlecchino is pinning your wrists above your head with one hand immediately, the other shoving her sleep shorts down and kicking them off before her lips attach to your neck with an intensity that’s almost ruthless. You gasp, arching up, then moan when her free hand rubs you through your panties. Fuck—you’re drenched, just like you said you were. The cloth sticks to your lower lips, practically translucent, and perfectly outlining your lower lips almost like a second skin. Normally, she’d indulge in a little teasing, but restraint is a pipe dream for both she and you right now, so instead she tugs your panties to the side, and pushes in like she needs it to survive.

“Fuck,” she snarls, at the same time you moan her name, and maybe it’s the residual neediness from your dream but you’re coming immediately, back bending into a crescent as your cunt squeezes and flutters around her cock, your inner walls tightening around her to the point she feels dizzy, like you’re trying to cut off her damn circulation. Your hips jerk and twitch erratically as your muscles tense and relax, pleasure ripping through you. She rocks her hips slowly to coax you through the high, and it’s a wonder she doesn’t bust right then and there.

That is, unfortunately, where Arlecchino’s restraint ends. Because as you come down, she only increases her pace, free hand holding your hip down and in place as she starts fucking you, bullying her thick cock into your eager, greedy cunt with each drive. The headboard smacks against the wall with each thrust, echoed in time by your loud, shameless cries. “That’s it,” she growls, lips descending onto your breast through your nightdress, “that’s it, darling. Take my cock like the good girl you are.”

Arlecchino can see the whites of your eyes with how far back they’ve rolled into your skull, your lashes kissing your cheek with each flutter. Each movement is accompanied by an obscenely wet, squelching noise as she stirs up your insides and rearranges your guts. Arlecchino glances down and exhales roughly when she sees the bulge she forms inside you, rising and retreating with every snap of her hips. Her balls draw up tight, and she’s so, so close.

“I’m going to cum, sweet thing,” she grunts, nipping at your jaw. “Going to fill this perfect cunt with my seed, hm?”

The noise you let out at her words is wanton and needy, your fingers clenching in her grasp, digging into your palms. “Yes, yes, Arle— please, I want it, I need it,” you beg, writhing beneath her, “please, baby, need it so bad— I love you, I missed you, please—”

She kisses you to shut you up, releasing your wrists to claw both her hands into your waist. Your hands immediately claw at her back, nails drawing red lines into her skin. Her breathing comes in tense, ragged pants, one hand moving down to grip your thigh and push your knee to your chest, opening you up further for her pistoning cock in a way that makes you howl. Your cunt ripples, pulses and clenches, molding to every ridge and vein of her dick until it all comes to a brilliant, blazing head as she bursts off the edge, sinking her teeth into your shoulder as she hilts balls deep and—

She shoots more than a week’s worth of backed-up tension deep into your welcoming cunt, thick, hot ropes battering your tender inner walls. A low, rumbling groan emanates from her throat, past the clamp of her teeth in your shoulder as she comes and comes, filling you until it leaks around the seal of your lower lips, forming a frothy ring of white around her base.

“I love you,” she gasps, choked off and strained as she laves the bite on your shoulder with kisses and her tongue, “sweet thing, I love you so, my good, perfect girl.”

Your whimpers turn into little overstimulated sobs, your body trembling and squeezing around her. Her intense drives turn into languid thrusts as she winds down from her high, and she presses tender kisses all over your shoulder, collar and neck to coax you and herself through it. But even when you’ve caught your breath, cheeks beautifully flushed, she’s still achingly hard in you—and you seem to still want to take advantage of the fact.

“Arle,” you mewl, adorably needy and clearly not fully satiated, “again, please? Want to feel you again.”

“Greedy,” she breathes, but she draws back, pulling out with a wet squelch. You protest petulantly, and she shushes you gently as she presses your thighs together, turning your lower body onto your side. Arlecchino takes just a moment to admire the way your cunt squeezes around nothing, and some of her load dribbles out to coat your slick lower lips. Her throat dries up, and she traces a finger through the mess as if entranced. Your hole flutters in response, your hand encircling her wrist to tug her closer. She shakes her head with a soft huff, lightly smacking your ass but nonetheless shuffling forward to align her still stiff dick with your cunt before sheathing back in again.

“Still so tight, sweetheart,” she breathes, and the sensation of her cum sloshing around inside you as she moves makes her toes curl. “So good for me, hm?”

One of your hands fists in the pillow behind your head, while the other grasps her hip. “Jus’ for you,” you slur out, barely coherent, “only you, baby, ngh—“

“I know, darling,” she hums, trading her fast, ruthless thrusts from before for slow but deep drives, bullying the tip of her cock right against your sweet spot. The hand not on your ass grips your ankle to stop your leg from kicking out at the stimulation, her thumb massaging the base of your calf tenderly. “You were made just for my cock, weren’t you? This pretty pussy was made for me, takes me so well.”

You nod brainlessly on the bed, clearly beyond any more thought. You just lie there and take her cock, over and over, and a mix of affection and lust tangles in her chest. She leans down to devour your lips in a demanding kiss, chest to chest, your nipples stiff beneath your nightdress. Her eyes narrow at the fabric barrier, and she’s tugging the straps down your arms with her teeth and making you shiver as the cool air of the room meets your stiff peaks. Then her lips descend like rapture, sealing around one first to suck and nip, gently pulling, not enough to hurt but certainly enough to feel. She sucks shamelessly at your breast, only leaving one for the other once it’s thoroughly marked up. All the while she continues to fuck into you, pace not faltering even in the slightest.

“Baby—“ you gasp, feeling the coil in between your hipbones start to tighten and tense, “—baby, ‘m gonna cum, fuck—“

Arlecchino snarls, and one hand grips your shoulder, and then she’s manhandling you onto your front before you can even register what’s happening. She traps both your legs between her own and lies flat above you, nearly crushing you into the mattress as she pushes in deep. Your pussy practically convulses, and you moan almost whorishly at the new depth she’s achieving with you prone like this. Your face is half-pressed into the sheets, your noises muffled, and Arlecchino remedies that by tangling her fingers in your hair and tugging back. She takes in the drool trickling down the corner of your lips as she fucks you absolutely stupid, only the whites of your eyes visible.

“Go ahead and cum, darling,” she murmurs, “make a mess on my cock. It’s all yours.”

And you do, beautifully, sweetly, with a hoarse cry of her name. You squeeze and pulse around her dick, a rhythmic clench of your muscles around her from base to tip, like you’re trying to draw her orgasm out as well. She bites her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood to prevent herself from doing just that—rocking slowly and shallowly as you course through the waves of your orgasm.

Once your shivering subsides, she leans down to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder—and then she’s gripping your hips with both hands and tugging them up, up, and up until you’re face down on the bed with your ass braced up on your knees. You whine at the sudden movement, only to be smothered when she curls her fingers around your nape while the other grips your hip and she starts utterly pounding into you again.

“Arle—“ you cry out, like a sob, “—wait, ‘s too much, baby—“

Her fingers press on the underside of your neck, your throat, effectively smothering your protests. Not tight enough to choke, but certainly tight enough to feel. She fucks you with the subtlety of a battering ram, all ruthless tenacity, like a woman possessed. She keeps going despite your pleas—you haven’t said the safeword yet, after all. The hand on your hip isn’t idle, occasionally smacking the globe of your ass as it shakes with each harsh thrust.

“‘Too much?’” she mocks, grinding her dick in as far as it can go, “but this sweet cunt keeps clenching around me, darling. You can take more, I know you can.”

You don’t protest with words anymore, just whiny half-sobs, and she rapidly approaches her second high. The muscles of her lower body tense and flex, her hamstrings burning slightly with exertion. All the while she murmurs quite praise barely audible over the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, because for all she may be fucking you like a common whore you are still her wife, her darling beloved, and she will ensure you know as such.

She leans down and kisses all over the side of your face, the hand on your neck abandoning its harsh grip to curl lovingly over your own fisted in the sheets. She coaxes you to let go of the fabric, and then she’s slotting her warm fingers between your own, gently holding your hand even as she seemingly fucks you to oblivion. She rests her head against yours, cheek to cheek, and whispers, “I adore you, my darling, my sweet girl. Take all of me, sweetheart, take it all.”

She buries herself as deep as she can go when she comes, her cum undoubtedly spilling right at your cervix. She entertains the idea that it’s making its way into your womb, that she’s breeding you, and she hisses softly as another jet of cum spurts from her tip into your tender cunt. She feels her balls twitch as they empty into you, pumping you full for the second time this morning. More of your slick and her cum drips from you, down your thighs and onto the sheets which most certainly have to be changed later.

When she finally pulls out, she feels boneless, like she could flop over and sleep another eight hours. But first, she gently guides you back onto your back, her hand cupping your cheek to focus your glassy gaze on her.

“Look at me, darling,” she whispers, thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”

It takes you a minute, but then you’re turning your face into her palm to kiss the heel of her hand and nodding. “Yeah,” you answer, voice shot, and a tiny flutter of pride swells in her gut. Your eyes flick down her body, widening a fraction, before a disbelieving laugh slips from your lips.

“You’re still hard?”

Arlecchino huffs. “I did tell you it has been a long week.”

She’s not fully hard, more so semi-hard—one more round would have her soft for certain. Although, she can’t quite bring herself to ask for one more round, with the way you’re so thoroughly fucked out. You seem to notice her turmoil, as always, and reach down to grasp her semi-hard dick, pumping it slowly. She shudders, hands digging into the meat of your thighs. “Darling…”

“Come closer,” you order, and she does, and you both groan when her dick slides over your pussy, tip catching on your clit. She glances at you quizzically—and then you’re flattening your hand over your lower lips, creating an almost makeshift passage for her to fuck. She swallows thickly, desire reigniting in her gut, and she does exactly that.

She moves slowly, languidly, eyes locked in yours as her dick slides back and forth over your messy cunt. Her length is covered in her own load and your slick, making the slide easy. She makes an effort to bump your clit with each movement, relishing in the way you sigh with pleasure. Something warm blooms in her chest, beneath her sternum, and it draws her to you like a magnet, compelling her to lean down and capture your lips in a soft kiss. Your free hand cups her jaw as you return it with equal fondness.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth, and you smile against her lips.

“I love you too,” you answer, caressing your thumb over her cheekbone, before mewling softly, eyes slipping shut. “Arle, mm… gonna cum, baby.”

“Me too, darling,” she groans as her thrusts get a little jerkier. She’s not long, now. She makes a choked noise when your fingers grasp her gently, your thumb alternating between rubbing the sensitive underside of her frenulum and her leaky tip, and then she’s toppling off the edge with you in tow. “Fuck—“

She lets out an uncharacteristically high-pitched cry as she comes, spilling her cum onto the plane of your belly. She’s only distantly aware of you finding your peak as well, thighs twitching as you come from stimulation on your clit alone. She collapses on top of you, shuddering and shaking, her face tucked in the juncture of your shoulder and neck, as she keeps painting your belly with ropes of cum until she’s finally drained dry and soft.

The sun is warm on her skin when she finally comes to again, your hands tracing up and down her back just making her go even more boneless against you. This is what she’s been needing—this full and complete release, where despite how she can’t seem to move a muscle she feels as light as a feather.

“Thank you,” she rasps against your neck, and you chuckle.

“For what?”

“For this,” she answers easily, kissing your shoulder. “And for being with me.”

Your arms loop around her broad back, and she sinks further into the sanctuary of your embrace. You’re warm, like a perfect hearth on a cold day.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else.”

The sentiment pulls a rare, genuine smile from her, that she hides against your skin like a playful secret reserved only for you and no one else—not the Fatui, or the House, or even the gods. Just you, and only you, the way it’s meant to be, and always will be.

“And I, you—forever and always, my love.”

She made this vow once at the altar, and she will continue to make it every day until she last draws breath—for it is the one thing she knows to be true in this world, beyond fate and even beyond death: that she loves you, and you love her, and that is all she needs.

[princesssmars]

abby eating you out in the back of her car…nsfw.

now, when abby invited you to drive around with her before talking and eating at the romantic cliffside that overlooked the city, you had to admit about thirty percent of your brain was sending out horny little alarm bells.

it was sweet, how she took you to your shared favorite fast food spot before parking at the site and starting up her cute little romantic playlist, pressing a kiss to your cheek when you gushed over how adorable she was.

but you shouldve known better than to gush over abby when she was in a hyper romantic mood, because after placing a playful bit juuust on the right spot on her neck she’s quick to start kissing you on your lips, then tugging off your jackets and maneuvering you into the back seat-

so now you’re here, laying on the back seat car door with one leg propped on the backboard and the other in a crooked angle over the passenger seat while abby grips your thighs and enthusiasticly eats you out like she’s doing her favorite hobby.

you drag your fingers through her scalp and into her let down hair, admiring how her brow relaxes when you do so and her head tries to bury itself deeper into you. biting your lip to try to muffle your moans is useless, her hand pinching the skin of your thigh until you let out a gasp.

she knows every little thing to do to drive you crazy, carrying them out with a drive and efficiency that would scare you if it wasn’t so arousing. just when you feel a twinge of your peak she pulls back her efforts, every time your moans start to stall she sucks roughly at your clit while staring into your eyes.

but you love her attentiveness more than anything, including how she notices the subtle shifting of your hips as you try to get more comfortable, back aching and leg cramping at the uncomfortable position. without stopping she lifts your leg and rests it on her shoulder, scooting her body towards the floor so you can rest against the seat instead of the floor.

you’re close to the edge, your breathing getting harsher and hips not so subtly grinding up into her face. you almost don’t want to cum simply because of how peaceful she looks, eyes damn near rolling into the back of her head as she desperately tries to bring you closer to her mouth. when you crane your neck forward you get the slightest glimpse of her grinding her hips into the car seat and the sight makes your orgasm hit you like a freight train.

you really hope no other couples had the sweet idea of driving up to this lookout, because if they did all they'd hear would be your moans as you continue bucking your hips into abby's face, palm slapping into the fogged-up glass of the window as your whole body trembles.

she guides you through it all, steeling herself so your bucking hips don't push her away from licking up as much of you as she can. if she was a little less euphoric she'd let out a small giggle at your reaction, adoring the way you mean without care and proud of just how long she makes this one last.

you gently lift her head away once you decide you can't take anymore, blonde tresses in your grip as you raise her until you can see the pink of her tongue. she smiles, taking your hand out of her hair and pressing it to her lips for a kiss. her slightly fucked out look only reignites the heat in your stomach, legs shifting and feeling embarrassment when she notices and smiles even wider.

so uh yeah. car sex with abby.

[rafeslvbug]

introducing…pediatrician!rafe

back to basics!! (physical)

height: 6”3 at minimum, the type of height where he can be assertive if needed with other doctors, or appear gentle to patients if he kneels down. some of the boys he has as patients, always say they aspire to be like “doctor cameron” and the dads are always envious of his height, as men are.

age: early 30s. had to do years of training && education. considerably young in his respective field, but widely praised for his efficiency and ability.

build: works out daily. believes in keeping peak physical fitness to take care of his patients. scrubs fir too tightly over his muscles. could be prone to ripping. mothers often find themselves staring a bit too long at their kid’s doctor.

looks!! (specific)

arms: consistent with any !rafe au, he’s got massive arms. but this is because

- a: to carry patients if need be (though he works with children) - you never know when emergencies might come up,

- b: he finds that having bigger arms is more comforting for little children when he has to hold them

- c: has to handle hospital equipment that might be heavy, and he’s a gentleman so he’s always helping people carry equipment if he’s not busy.

pager && watch: his pager is forever on him, not that he has no life outside of work, just that he cares so much about his patients. he won’t hesitate to cancel a day off for the sake of his patients. his watch is of course because of how much rafe is invested in his fitness and health. needs it to track his workouts and steps etc. or he also likes how convenient it is, to access emails or messages etc.

personality

patient: eternally patient. during arguments. meltdowns. when the baby’s been crying all night. all calm words and gentle movements. never yells. controls his anger and doesn’t make huge outbursts. even when stressed (unless it reaches an extremely bad point - this is rare)

multi-tasking: can put the baby to sleep in one arm and type up an article/report with the other hand while in bed. listens to research podcasts while cooking dinner so he doesn’t have to find time to do it later. efficiency is key. his job is already time consuming, and he wants to make sure he has as much free time as possible.

attentive: rafe’s busy. he’s always working overtime or being called away because of an unexpected patient issue. but when he’s at home with you? his pager isn’t off..but it’s not on his person all the time. he’s able to maintain work-life balance and he’ll listen to everything you have to say about your day. he loves your daughter to bits, and frequently says she’s his, always checking up on her and making sure she’s healthy (as doctors habitually do)

job

specialist position: neonatologist - someone who mainly looks after premature babies’ development and intensive care for infants.

salary: $350,000+ (excluding bonuses and potential to increase)

reputation: young, but well respected. considered one of the best in his field in the hospital. always gets compliments from patients, and dedicated to his work.

likes

stress-free days without overtime. he lives for any ounce of free time, no matter how satisfied his job makes him. likes to be home, likes having time go on hikes or play with your baby.

getting called your baby���s father. he loves it when he gets to say he’s the dad, or when you call him the dad. even if he’s not biologically her dad, he’s the only one who’s been present. adopts her relatively quick.

picking your daughter up from daycare. loves the way her face lights up when she sees him, how she’ll run as fast as her little legs can take her and getting to scoop her up into the car.

when you come to him for help. whether it’s with your daughter or anything tbf. he loves helping, loves being the person you rely on.

dislikes

when you go to a different doctor for help with your daughter. if anything starts arguments it’s that. he wants to be the one to look after her, because it’s all he’s done since she was born. he thinks of himself as her father, and wants you to too. a father looks after his daughter.

patients who bring in their children for dumb reasons. a common cold? wasting his time because they act like they’ve never had a cold before. children in his care are in critical condition, not basic colds, and these people are usually insufferable because they force themselves to the top of his list of priorities.

your ex. never even met him, never even seen him. hates him. loves that he left in a way, because it means he could be in your life, but hates the man for what he put you through.

pet names

he gives you: baby, sweetheart, babygirl, honey, busy lady

you give him: doc, handsome, honey, baby, darling

what he’ll call your daughter: sweetie, pumpkin, little lady,

[robbysreaders]

Sorry I don’t make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!

Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.

Hehe pls & thanks

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 3.6k notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!

Something unlocks after you get engaged.

It’s not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. There’s a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and Jack—Jack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.

And you continue to see a side of him you’re not entirely used to.

He's still Jack—still grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange places—but he’s also… attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like he’s been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still can’t believe he gets to.

“I locked you down,” he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. “You, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.”

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you laugh, spitting into the sink.

Jack grins against your neck. “Maybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.”

“Oh, we were dangerously close to that, don’t kid yourself,” you say, rinsing. “But I wanted the view.”

And the view was worth it.

Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimate—friends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like she’d been training for it her whole life.

You danced under string lights. Said “I do” to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow—shockingly—you agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.

Just you. Just him.

The first night, you’re on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.

Jack comes up behind you—barefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his face—and wraps his arms around your waist like he can’t help himself.

“I love this,” you murmur. “I love you. I want to stay here forever.”

“I know,” he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, “But… is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? …no pun intended.”

You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. “God, I love you. This is why I married you. You’re in my brain.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, brushing your hair back. “Maybe we wouldn’t miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Wasting no time, huh?”

“I’ve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You can’t be surprised.”

“Careful,” you say, teasing, “you sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.”

Jack hums, low and amused. “I mean… if the shoe fits.”

You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. “God, you’re such a menace.”

“An insatiable menace,” he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Who happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good we’d get twins. Two for one.”

“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you laugh, swatting at his chest. “Did you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?”

He grumbles into your neck.

You swat his chest. “You know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.”

“I know the basics,” he says, hand smoothing over your hip, “and that I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“God, you are so full of yourself. Should’ve never married a jock.”

He smirks. “Did someone say cock?” His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.

You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. “You’re ridiculous. And I thought you’d go for the “and you’ll be so full of me’ route”

“What can I say, I’m maturing,” he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. “You’re lucky you married me. Any other man would’ve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.”

“Instead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.”

He scoops you up with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back—and carries you inside like it’s your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.

“Jack,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m just doing a thorough exam,” he says into your skin. “You’ve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, breath hitching.

“You love it.”

You do.

You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his time—relearn your body like it’s the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.

Laughing, gasping, kissing like it’s the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.

He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. “Seriously. Twins.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m just saying, it’s efficient.”

“Beau is six and I’m still tired.”

Jack chuckles. “Fine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.”

You roll over, facing him. “You happy?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I knew I could be.”

The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.

“I was scared, you know,” you whisper.

Jack glances down at you. “When?”

“All of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?”

He brushes a hand along your jaw. “We probably will. Sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you carry the weight alone.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I felt it too. But I didn’t know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m tired of running.”

You press a kiss to his chest. “So no running. No hiding.”

“No hiding,” he repeats.

There’s a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.

Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: “I want a big life with you.”

You look up. “You already have one.”

He smiles. “I know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Just—more.”

Your throat tightens. “God, you’re such a sap now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling you in closer.

You grin into his skin. “Don’t worry. I’m into it.”

And he’s into you—clearly—because within minutes, he’s proving again just how committed he is to “practice.”

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didn’t choose wrong.

His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You don’t move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.

The lake outside is calm. There’s birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.

You sigh into the silence.

“Mmm,” Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. “Alive?”

“Barely.”

“You wore me out,” he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.

“You begged for it.”

“I did,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I’d do it again.”

You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. “We’ve officially entered the honeymoon stage.”

“We skipped it the first time. I’m cashing in.”

You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Poor circulation. Still your wife though.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“No idea. But I think I’ve achieved full body paralysis.”

“Same.”

There’s a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, “We should go swimming.”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not? Lake’s right there. We’re in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.”

“Very romantic. Also, I don’t even know where I packed my swimsuit.”

“Who said anything about swimsuits?”

You arch a brow. “You want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?”

He shrugs, rolling onto his back. “I’m just saying, we’re legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?”

“Jack.”

“Live a little, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stare at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m proposing an impulsive memory. Don’t make me swim alone like some pervert.”

You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. “Fine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.”

He grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.

Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.

The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.

When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, he’s looking at you like he can’t believe this is his life.

“You’re unreal,” he says, reverent.

You splash water in his face. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Best scam I’ve ever pulled.”

You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.

The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.

You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomach’s growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. It’s stupidly domestic. And perfect.

You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.

“Do you think we should call Beau today?” you ask, chewing.

Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. “Yeah. Just to check in. Not now though. He’ll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.”

You laugh. “She does run a very strange babysitting operation.”

“She’s a miracle worker. Honestly, I’m still shocked she agreed to take him.”

“She told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the ‘I do.’ Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.”

Jack chokes on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, smug. “Just saying—her words, not mine.”

He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. “And is it?”

You glance at him.

“Intentional.”

The air shifts.

You don’t answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.

“I think… I’m not not open to it,” you say slowly. “Before, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and it’s like—yeah. I want more of this. More of us.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “You’re sure?”

You smile. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like it’s a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.

And when he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and breathless.

“I love you so much it’s physically uncomfortable.”

You laugh against his jaw. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”

He grins. “Yeah. Tragic.”

That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though he’s too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.

“I hope Beau’s having a good day,” you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.

Jack’s hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. “I’m sure he is. You think he’ll remember the wedding?”

“Some pieces,” you say. “The dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell ‘just kiss already!’ before we even got to the vows.”

“God,” he sigh. “What a circus.”

You hum in agreement.

Then, “Do you think we’re doing okay? With him? With this?”

Jack shifts beneath you. “Honestly? I think we’re doing great. Not perfect. But real. He’s kind. Confident. Feels safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod slowly. “I used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.”

“He saw love,” Jack says simply. “Even when it was hard. Especially then.”

You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sun, sweat, skin.

“I’m glad we waited to do this right,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.”

Jack’s voice is thick. “Me either.”

That night, you dress up.

No real reason. Just a silky dress you’ve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pants—well, linen slacks—and a button-down that’s already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.

He sees you and stops short.

“Jesus.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough.”

Dinner is just a short walk into the village—twinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.

“You’re going to check my carry-on and judge me, aren’t you?” you accuse.

“Only because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.”

“They’re options, Jack.”

He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. “God, I love you.”

You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.

“I love you too.”

Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.

Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.

You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this time—heavier, softer, but still electric.

You don’t remember falling asleep—just the weight of Jack’s body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.

What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.

Jack’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you’re some kind of sunrise. His hair’s a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.

“Morning, Mrs. Abbot,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“God,” you groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re going to say that all the time, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” he grins. “Until it’s on your driver’s license.”

You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like he’s hungry again.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Still counts.”

You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?”

Jack swings his legs off the bed and stands—naked, unabashed. “I’m a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?”

“In Italy?”

He shrugs. “International pancakes.”

You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still can’t quite believe this is real. 

You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.

Jack’s already got flour out. There’s a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t burn them.”

“You wound me.”

“I’ve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.”

“That’s because you heckle me,” he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. “Watch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.”

You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. There’s something ridiculous about how seriously he takes this—like he’s proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, he’ll have earned it all over again.

He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”

You take a bite, eyes widening. “Okay. Okay, maybe you have improved.”

Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. “I’ve been practicing.”

“For this moment?”

“For this life.”

The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at him—really look—and see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. He’s still Jack, but he’s… more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.

You reach for his hand across the table.

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t think I let myself imagine it,” you admit. “Not after everything.”

Jack’s expression sobers. He sets his fork down. “Can I tell you something?”

You nod.

“That night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I’d ruined my life beyond fixing.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I let it happen,” he continues quietly. “I was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. It’s like—if I didn’t fight for it, I couldn’t be blamed for losing it.”

Your throat tightens. “Jack…”

He shakes his head. “But I realized it wasn’t fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didn’t know how to be better then. I didn’t even know what better looked like.”

“You do now,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “Because of you.”

There’s a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself.

“You did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. We’re allowed to be happy now,” you murmur into his neck.

Jack’s arms tighten. “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you”

“I can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulness”

The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.

You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby village—stone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.

You take a million photos together, and he looks so happy—so open—that you save one immediately as your phone background.

When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You don’t even wake him when he starts to snore.

By evening, you’re tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.

“You know what I was thinking?” he says, voice low.

“Mm?”

“That I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.”

You laugh. “He already does that.”

“True. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.”

You turn to face him. “You really want to travel?”

“I want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,” he says. “Like we’re not just surviving.”

You study him. The honesty. The hope.

“Then let’s make it a plan,” you say. “Once a year. Somewhere new.”

Jack’s smile softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.”

“Trademark pending.”

“You, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything.”

“Exactly,” he grins. “Perfect family vacation.”

Later, after you’ve both showered, after he’s poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was “medically necessary to assess swelling from travel,” you’re curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.

Jack’s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like he’s waiting. Or willing.

You place your hand over his.

“You really want another?” you ask, voice soft.

“I want whatever you want,” he says.

You don’t respond right away, “You’d be a great girl dad.”

He snorts. “God help me if she’s anything like you.”

“Smart, stubborn, charming?”

“Dangerous,” he says. “too smart, perfect.”

You smile. “You’re already soft. You’d fold the second she looked at you.”

“Don’t tell Beau.”

You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.

And it hits you again—like it’s the first time.

You’re married. To him.