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#dtiys by @tinyshroomboy in Instagram! Love this concept and I really really enjoyed drawing this. #tinysboydtiys

Moony and Padfoot

Remus reading muggle books to Sirius is the headcanon I’m here for

Remus finishing reading The Secret History and just sobbing into Sirius’ shoulder, while clutching onto his shirt and him being held close by Sirius. Remus can’t even explain why he’s crying bc that book is a fucking emotional rollercoaster.

incorrect marauders quotes [1/?]

Ahhh i wanna say thank you for 70+ followers!!

I've gotten a lot of support and kind words over the past few weeks and i'm so grateful. 🖤✨

Remus: *plucking petals off a flower* He loves me... he loves me not. He loves me... he loves me not. He loves me... *plucks last petal* he loves me not...

Sirius: *bursting in with an armful of various flowers and bouquets* That can’t be right, try again.

NETFLIX ORIGINAL SERIES: The Marauders

You are all a lost generation.

werewolf—

there are many words for transformation / metamorphosis metaphor / medication / go to sleep / beside the man you love & wake up next to a dog / maybe the moon brought it out of him hound hungry for blood / maybe it’s your fault / or maybe it was there inside him / howling all along

— Sam Sax, from “Bestiary,” A Guide to Undressing Your Monsters

this was.. *chief kiss*

just plain beautiful

vivre d'amour et d'eau fraîche || s.b. x reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: smoking, fluff, me not knowing french

a/n: extra translations at the end

—————

The air was thick was the scent of smoke, the curling of which held your attention. It wisped gently above you, nearly a dance, and your fingertips itched with the urge to mingle with the tainted exhalation. But you were weighed down by the effects of lethargy, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Sirius’ fingers chose indolence as their nature, combing through your hair and trailing down your spine, recurrent actions that lulled you. His free digits were attending to the lit cigarette, his lips spilling comfort from such perfume.

“You still tired, baby?” he murmured, noticing your half-lids. His ministrations paused to help tilt your head up, your chin seating on his chest.

You managed a slight nod. The common room was empty, the students blissfully stuck in classes—exactly where you and your boyfriend were also meant to be.

He made a soft sound, brushing the strands from your forehead. His eyes held adoration—the sort you rarely saw without such privacy. It was pure. He offered you the tobacco, a subtle lift of his wrist, but you declined it, instead turning your head back down and staring into the perfunctory fire.

“How many more exams?” he asked, taking another drag.

You sighed, “Two? Three? I don’t remember.” Your nails drew along the fabric of his button-up, the cotton soft.

Skipping class with Sirius was a common pastime, and it only grew more regular as exams finished. Often, he drew you into the common room, laying across couches and pillows, letting you rest; it was one of the few times you could do so serenely, nights dedicated to studying. The two of you would sleep, or speak, or merely stare into space; there was no pressure, no worries, no intrusions.

“Doing so well, love,” he murmured, stubbing the cigarette out on the nearby ashtray. He left the paper there, letting both arms wrap around you. “I’m proud of you, you know. You work so hard.”

The praise settled any anxiety that prevailed, and you smiled, pressing a spare kiss to his collarbone. “Thank you.”

Sirius’ own lips found the crown of your head, lingering for only a moment, just as his fingers dragged along your side. “Of course, ma vie.”

Those words, the endearment, curled your mouth further; his French was something few were privy to, the side of him he kept hidden—remnants of who he truly was, where he came from. It was all the push you needed, getting the energy to squirm and sit up.

Sirius followed you, pushing to be propped against the armrest, then pulling you to be straddling his lap. You reacclimated, then grinned, smoothing down his hair and playing with his tie. His hands settled on your hips, and his head cocked in question.

“Tell me something in French,” you said, dusting your touch across his shoulders.

But one of your hands was quickly removed, courtesy of his own grip. His other stayed on your torso, thumb rubbing circles on your waist. “Je vois la vie en rose,” Sirius hummed, placing the tips of your fingers to his lips. “À cause de toi.”

He finished with a kiss to the pads, though didn’t move to extract them.

“What?” A soft giggle tumbled out, your index dragging over his cupid’s bow. “Je ne comprends pas.”

He grinned at your poor attempt at the language, leaving one more kiss to your knuckles before dropping the appendage to his chest. His brow raised in amusement. “You’ll just have to learn to find out, then, won’t you?”

Ignoring the taunt, you quickly scooted closer. The sun that filtered in highlighted the scene, nearly picturesque; smoke still rose behind him, and you absently loosened his tie, getting comfortable. “Teach me?”

He considered you for a second, chin raising, then: “What do you want to know?”

You tapped a staccato to the hollow of his throat, thinking. “How do you say…‘I love you’?”

“Really?” he laughed.

Your mouth turned down, a pulled frown, but affection lit his pupils, his head shaking.

“Je t’aime,” he answered.

And this time, it was his fingers that traced your lips. “Je t’aime,” you repeated. When he smiled, you continued, “What about…” you paused once more, “...‘I always think of you’?”

His eyes flickered. “Je pense à toi tout le temps.”

Slowly, you fumbled the words back.

It earned another chuckle. “What else?”

You rolled your eyes, but did melt further into his body as he shifted down the couch. Your lips poised over his left pectoral, the steady beat lying there. “‘You make my heart race.’”

“Tu fais battre mon cœur.”

“Tu fais battre mon cœur,” you echoed, easing your eyes shut, his tenderness too much a balm. “‘I want you.’”

“J’ai envie de toi.”

You murmured it back, voice muffled. After, you remediated, “‘I want to be with you forever.’”

Sirius trailed a thumb along your bottom lip, letting your limbs entangle. He joined you in such relaxation, sunlight and studies draining you both of all energy. One arm curled around your waist, legs slotting, but he kept the hand grazing your face. “Je veux être avec toi pour toujours.”

Your words, whilst slurred, still copied him. “Je veux être avec toi pour toujours.”

Sirius shifted under you, and you looked up, finding his gaze already on you; you, the slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw, the face he would know blind. He gave you a more personal smile, letting your admission ring a few moments more. “Moi aussi, ma chérie. Je veux passer ma vie avec toi.”

Your brow furrowed, mouth heavy with the new phonetics. “What does that mean?”

“Me too, my darling,” he responded, English this time. “I want a lifetime with you.”

You met his smile with one of equal ardor. You adjusted so you could lay on his shoulder, then within the crook of his neck. The smell of smoke wafted off of him, and it reminded you of home. “And that’s what we will have.”

The seconds ticked by, no disruptions. It was only you, him, midday light blooming through the common room. Cigarettes and kisses and mirrored French. Your arms and his legs and the lips that met once, twice, three times.

Lids weighed heavy, dragged down in satisfied fatigue; relaxation you earned. And, as always, you were asleep first, curled against him, later to be found by James, Remus, and entertained smirks.

But before he let go, Sirius let his unfinished sentiment depart, unbeknownst to your half-awake state—the state that caught onto the unfamiliar words. “Tu fais partie de moi,” he breathed, a tongue he hadn’t spoken in so long, “Je t’aimerai pour toujours.”

—————

translations:

ma vie — my life

Je vois la vie en rose. À cause de toi — I see life in rose. Because of you.

Je ne comprends pas — I don't understand

Tu fais partie de moi — You are a part of me

Je t’aimerai pour toujours — I will love you forever

—

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Maybe I’ll do like close up portraits of all of them