#fate in the glitter of stars . . . [ REPLIES ]*

[frayededges-archived]

"i'm strong enough," alice insisted, drawing her shoulders back and straightening a little. she and kol were the same height, she didn't enjoy being the little werewolf on top of it all. "what do i have to do to prove it."

REPLY to @vamprincen / kol mikaelson *

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗜 𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗 lando norris x best friend! reader ( angst ) fic summary . . . you're left to pick up the pieces of what once was and what you unintentionally broke, trying to glue it back. It's a hassle, but it's better than nothing (1.1k words) -> part one

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

2025

It was supposed to be a golden year.

Australia cracked open with a roar, Lando finally on top, champagne sticking to his hair like stardust, laughter loud enough to drown out every old heartbreak. He stood on the podium, wide-eyed, championship leader at last, and you thought—yes, yes, maybe this time it’s his turn to rewrite the stars.

But fate had different plans.

China came and you conquered it. A victory sharp and searing. The dragon woke under your tires, and you roared louder. Then Max carved his win out of Japan’s mist, and for a moment, balance returned. But Bahrain—Bahrain was yours. Saudi Arabia too. Two wins back-to-back, stitched onto your chest like badges of defiance, and suddenly the standings twisted, crown shifting from papaya to scarlet.

You were the WDC leader.

And oh, God, how you wanted to be nothing but proud. How you tried to let the euphoria wash you clean, drown you in the sheer joy of it. It’s finally your year, forza ferrari. After seasons of pretending—chanting that old Ferrari mantra with broken belief—you were finally at the top. No longer a deluded dreamer. You were real. You were gold.

But happiness never comes without a crack in the surface, does it?

Because to achieve your dreams, you have to take away someone else’s dream.

Because the higher you climbed, the clearer you saw Lando, standing there with the world slipping from his grasp. His heart cracked wide open, unguarded, still too soft for the harshness of the game. You knew that hurt intimately—the bruised look behind his grin, the way his hands twitched when he thought no one was watching. He wore his emotions like his race suit, tight and suffocating, stitched into him no matter how he tried to shrug them off.

And you hated yourself for being the reason.

Because once upon a time, it was the three of you—Max Fewtrell, Lando, and you—figuring out how to survive hearts that felt too much. You grew up patching each other’s fractures with cheap jokes and faster lap times. You survived back then.

But now? You were the one making him bleed.

You got his number from Max, thumb trembling as you stared at the blank message screen, unsure if you deserved the right to say anything at all. Still, you reached out. Hey. Thinking of you. How are you?

Left on read.

Of course you were.

When he finally replied hours later, it was hollow. I’m fine.

And you knew he wasn’t. You said it—I know it’s not fine—and when that, too, was met with silence, you sat in the ache, letting it carve valleys into your ribs.

It was Lando, after all. You couldn’t leave him to drown alone.

So you agreed to meet, a week before Miami’s glitter and ghosts could swallow you both whole. 

Lando almost didn’t come, ready to ghost you—you could feel it in the tension when he slid into the booth at the small, tucked-away café. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie swallowing his shoulders. A ghost of a boy you once knew, sitting across from you.

Silence stretched between you, awkward and sticky, heavy like a summer storm about to snap.

Your rehearsed speeches fled your mind, cowardly things, abandoning you when you needed them most. 

Lando stirred his coffee aimlessly, watching the foam swirl like he was waiting for it to spell out an answer.

You tried to smile. "This coffee tastes like someone filtered it through a sock," you joked, voice too light, too forced.

He huffed a half-laugh. "Yeah, and the music's worse. Feels like we’re trapped in a 2008 YouTube vlog."

"Next they’ll play 'Bad Day' and we’ll really lose it," you teased, nudging his foot lightly under the table.

He smiled, fleeting and fragile. "Already lost it," he said, voice so quiet you almost missed it.

The laughter stuttered and died between you, the cracks in the walls suddenly too loud to ignore.

You swallowed hard, fingers knotting in your lap. "Lando . . ."

He shook his head, not meeting your eyes. "I was scared, alright?" Lando admitted. His voice broke the dam, sharp and uneven. "Scared you’d be better. Scared you’d outshine me. And instead of being scared of you, I decided to hate you."

You blinked, throat tightening. "Lando, I—"

"And now you are better," he cut in, words bitter, almost spitting. "You won. You’re leading. And I’m... me." He laughed without humor, shoving a hand through his hair. "Stupid, right?"

The confession hit you like a gut punch, raw and ugly and so terribly honest.

you found yourself reaching for him across the battered table, voice trembling, whispering the words you hadn't even known you carried. "I never wanted to hurt you. I’m—" You swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Not as a rival. Not as a competitor. But as the kid who used to build forts out of kart tires with him. As the friend who once promised to always have his back.

But Lando flinched at the apology like it was a slap.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, hurt flashing like lightning. "You can't just apologise for that," he snapped, pushing his chair back so hard it scraped the floor. "You can’t apologise for winning. For being good. You worked for this. You’re speaking like you’d just throw the championship away because you feel bad for me, and that’s—" He broke off, voice splintering. "That’s exactly why we’re not friends."

He stood, turning away like he couldn’t bear to see you anymore.

"Lando, wait—" You stood too, grabbing his wrist, desperate.

He froze. Shaking. Fragile.

"I'm not apologising for winning," you said, voice cracking. "I'm apologising for not being there. For hurting you without even realising. For being someone you couldn't talk to anymore."

He trembled. Tried to tear free. Failed.

The truth poured out, ugly and honest and too much: "I know you’re hurting. And I hate it. I hate that it’s me. But please, just—"

Silence. Heavy. Drowning.

And something broke in him. Something shattered.

At last, his face crumpled. His shoulders sagged under the weight he’d been carrying alone. And when you pulled him into your arms, he didn’t fight it. He collapsed into you, trembling, and you held him like you could piece him back together with nothing but your heartbeat against his.

His head buried against your shoulder like he was still sixteen, still learning how to carry the weight of dreams too heavy for his chest. He clung to you like he was scared of drowning, and you clung back, tears pricking at your lashes.

You stayed like that for a long time, in a forgotten corner of the world where no one could find you, two hearts broken in different ways, trying to find the rhythm of forgiveness again.

And maybe—maybe it wasn’t a fix. Maybe it was just another crack stitched together with trembling hands.

But for now, it was enough.

It had to be.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( i originally wasn't going to write a part 2 and was going to leave it as it is but there was high demand and I caved at the idea that yn and lando and max could be a trio again like the good old days, maybe she'll be a part of quadrant. thanks for all the love and support lovies <3 )

tagging: @mariedeyes223 @ohyoureaqueenbutuncrowned @notxoloveyouabit @grandprixprincess @wroetolando @eddsthemunson @st4rg1rln

[eremikayearner]

mistakes ‹𝟹 itoshi rin

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, you find your ex-boyfriend’s little brother at a party, and he’s definitely not as little as you remember.

ׂ╰┈➤ rin x sae’sex-gf!reader, tipsy!reader, tipsy!rin, a little ooc for rin, aged-up rin, a lil 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

. ݁₊ ⊹ you don’t know how you’d gotten yourself in this position. just that it was consuming. it was hot. it was intimate. it was right. but it was so incredibly wrong.

the way you remembered this happening through your tipsy thoughts and mind, you’d made your way past your friends in the party once you’d caught sight of him.

he looked so much like sae. you hadn’t seen him since you’d broken up with sae two years ago. he’d been seventeen at the time, but still devastatingly pretty. but now? now he was gorgeous.

laid back against the couch with japan’s U-20 team fellow stars beside him, rin really looked like sae now. slipping easily into the camaraderie of a team so nonchalantly, his presence quiet but not quite invisible. even the way he looked sitting there amongst his teammates reminded you of sae. laid back, legs opened comfortably, a drink in his hands and the slightest look of amusement on his face.

instead of sae’s pretty pink hair pushed out of his face, rin’s dark hair fell into his eyes, shielding the world from the true beauty that lied beneath.

your heart fluttered in your chest.

rin! you missed him.

you didn’t know what you were doing when you approached him. you really didn’t. what the hell we’re you thinking going to talk to your ex-boyfriend’s little brother?

then, as if it were fate, rin turned his head to see you. recognition glittered in his hazy teal eyes. he tilted his head at you just slightly and you felt your heart jump in your chest. this was definitely a mistake. but then, he lifted his hand, beckoning you to him with two fingers.

you complied, your tipsy mind fogging over as you remembered your ex-boyfriend. sae would’ve beckoned you over like that.

before you knew it, you were already on the couch beside him, the loud music and chatter drowning out as your mind zeroed in on the boy in front of you.

god, he really did look gorgeous up close. you didn’t know when he’d transitioned from a pretty boy to an absolutely beautiful man. because now he was sharper. his lips softer and fuller. his eyes deeper, darker, full of experiences a seventeen year old boy certainly wouldn’t have. and now those eyes were focused on you.

“what are you doing here, y/n?” he spoke, and your stomach flipped. he still sounded like himself. just more sure of himself. less quiet and clipped like that seventeen year old boy he used to be. still raspy and low.

“i can ask the same for you.” you managed to say, attempting to even your voice.

“i’m here ‘cause these morons dragged me.” rin replied, motioning with his cup towards isagi and bachira behind him. his teammates looked between the two of you, then at each other with a smirk. then bachira plucked the cup from rin’s hands and drank from it.

rin looked only a little annoyed. he was definitely different than he used to be. the rin she knew would’ve snatched back the cup. the rin she knew wouldn’t go to parties at all. the rin she knew would never even dream of drinking alcohol. how different was this rin from the boy she knew?

“i’m here ‘cause my friends wanted to go.” you replied.

rin’s eyes flitted up and down from your skimpy little dress to your pretty face. he looked as if he were taking you in the same way you were taking him in. you weren’t the same girl he knew. he looked at you pointedly with piercing teal eyes — sae’s eyes. “now what are you doing here?”

you knew what he was implying. what the hell were you doing here with him for the first time in two years?

“i haven’t seen you in years.” you explained, nipping on your lower lip nervously. god, maybe this really was a mistake. “i just came to talk to you.”

this seemed to amuse him. he didn’t smile at you. he never smiled at all. but something like that of a cat playing with a mouse crossed his features. he looked at you with those tantalizing eyes of his, his pretty lips lifting just slightly. “just came to talk to me?”

“yeah.” your voice came out on a breath. and you didn’t know why. hell, you wish you did. but you felt your lower abdomen flood with butterflies as you felt those teal eyes on you.

you were over sae. you really were. so why the hell was his little brother making you feel this way? his little brother who would blush and mutter out frustrated apologies when he walked in on you and sae kissing. his little brother who hated hugging but let you hug him goodbye every single time you came over. his little brother who let you brush his hair out of his face and playfully ruffle his hair. that boy was still the man in front of you now. why did that memory of him feel so far away?

“i missed you.” you murmured, your hand delicately lifting as you brushed his dark hair out of his face. he really was beautiful. so close yet so far from the rin you knew. “you aren’t so little anymore.”

he really wasn’t. he’d never been truly little. he was taller than sae now. he’d always been. just now he was even taller. his shoulders were broader. his biceps and thighs were more defined, even through the dark fabric of his clothes. when had he morphed from a boy into this man in front of you?

your fingers gently toyed with his hair as rin looked down at you for once, his cheeks already glowing with intoxication only glowed brighter.

“you know,” he said, leaning into your touch ever so slightly. “i used to have a crush on you.”

your heart raced in your chest as butterflies beat their wings rapidly against your lower abdomen. you looked up at him with big astonished glassy eyes. “really?”

rin looked down at you with something fervent and forbidden in his eyes. his expressions betrayed nothing, but within those teal pools of mystery, you could see his mind was struggling to stay composed.

“mhm. used to hug you and pretend i was the one you wanted.” his voice was low and raspy, like he hadn’t ever imagined saying them out loud. the stoic boy you once knew crumbled in your mind, revealing a shy and jealous rin you hadn’t truly known. a shy and jealous rin that had wanted you the entire time.

his lips parted as he looked at you through lowered dark lashes, and god, he was devastating. a face and a stare that could ruin you.

“loved when you played with my hair.” he murmured.

“like this?” your voice came out softer than you’d intended, your fingers slowly twirling the strands in your fingers as warmth pooled in your body and anticipation sent you on edge.

“just like this.”

there’s a moment where an unspoken question hangs in the air. did you really come here to talk?

looking at him now, he looked like a fallen angel. so impossibly beautiful with the most tantalizing and tempting eyes. he looked at you like you were an angel he knew wasn’t his to ruin. his eyes so full of illict desire and irrevocable need.

your eyes fall to his lips, an insatiable craving taking over your entire body, heart and thoughts. soft, plush, pink lips. then you lifted your gaze to find teal eyes full of feeling.

he looks nothing like sae at all. he looks like rin.

“you need something?” he murmured, a pale hand lifting to your hair and moving it out of your face. your lips part as his fingers delve further into your hair, his head tilting and his eyes never leaving yours.

you can hardly breathe.

“mhm.”

“yeah?” he says, and you swear you feel your body grow weaker in his touch. he looks down at your lips longingly, then back to your eyes. “think i can give it to you?”

you can’t even manage words. your heart racing so hard in your ribcage as your chest rose and fell quicker with every breath you took. “mhm.”

“always wanted to hear you say that.” he rasped, just before his lips fell perfectly on top of yours.

rin’s kiss was nothing like sae’s. he was warm. feverish. giving. undoing. rin’s kiss was undoing.

he was slow, deliberate, savouring, full of heat and want. and when he parted your lips under his, warmth blossomed in your lower abdomen.

his fingers wove into your hair, finding your nape and pulling you closer to him, deepening the kiss. your hands found his shoulders, a hand sliding towards his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart at his pulse.

and when his tongue met yours, you couldn’t help the soft sound that left your lips. rin tasted like alcohol, sweetness and want.

it was consuming. it was hot. it was intimate. it was right. but it was so incredibly wrong.

you pulled away from him, meeting rin’s alcohol hazed eyes with his pupils blown wide. he looked absolutely sick. sick with desire.

“this is a mistake.” you managed to breathe out.

his breaths came out in short, sweet pants. “it is.”

a shared need drew you two together. you looked down at his glossy lips once more, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. his eyes fell to your pretty lips again, then back to your eyes, a man starved.

his lips crashed into yours and it felt good. it felt so fucking good to kiss him.

fuck, you were really making a mistake.

you were making out with your ex-boyfriend’s little brother. fuck, and he felt so much better than sae ever had.

[dollyswishingwell]

Okay, hear me out on this one. I've been getting a bunch of Sabrina the Teenage Witch on my fyp and now I can't stop thinking about a specific scenario where MC is a witch and has a talking cat or familiar of sorts. Idk if anyone else has done this, bit I know you'll do my vision ✨️justice✨️

Thank you pookie dookie bear ❤️❤️❤️❤️

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Witch

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ as someone who dabbles in witchcraft i had to write this immediately, it’s so fluffy and cute

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ The boys with a witch reader

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- Constantly accuses your familiar of stealing your attention. “Why do you kiss it goodnight first?!”

- Helps you label spell jars with glitter stickers and makes potion videos for fun, “just for us, not the internet.”

- He makes you make a love potion so you can drink it for each other.

- Uses your cauldron to boil candy. You get mad. He pouts and gives you a handful of enchanted gummies.

- Sneaks into your moon bath rituals and dumps petals in dramatically. “For love! For beauty! For me!!”

- “Witch? Please. You’re my goddess. The stars work for you.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

- He insists on calling your spells “experimental treatments” just to cope. But you caught him reading your grimoire once.

- Your black cat familiar hates him. It always glares from the windowsill while Zayne brushes your hair in the morning.

- He’ll let you enchant his scrubs with protective charms (as long as it’s subtle). He thinks it’s silly…until they actually work.

- Brings you rare herbs from hospital imports and makes sure you have fresh rose quartz on hand.

- If you’re tired after a ritual, he puts your familiar on his shoulder like it’s part of the household. “Come on. Your witch is passed out again.”

- “You’ll kill me one day with those potions, sweetheart.” (drinks it anyway, just because you made it.)

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

- He understands your familiar perfectly. They often whisper to each other behind your back, plotting treats and surprise naps.

- You once caught Xavier floating while dusting the library, a candle balanced on his head. “That’s not a spell,” you said. “Isn’t it?” he replied.

- He loves your nightly tea rituals. You stir sugar clockwise to sweeten your fate together. He watches you, eyes soft.

- Always falling asleep with your spellbooks in his lap and your familiar curled against his neck.

- The two of you once enchanted your entire penthouse to shift its decor seasonally. Xavier added a snowflake charm in the corner just for you.

- “Your magic tastes like honey. I like it.” (He nuzzles your neck while you stir a love charm.)

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

- “Why settle for potion jars when I can build you an underground crystal lab?” (He does. With biometric locks.)

- Your familiar is oddly loyal to Sylus. It sits on his throne and only moves when you tell it to.

- He lets you read his enemies’ fortunes with your cards, then kisses your knuckles as you whisper who’ll betray him.

- Brags that his wife could curse anyone in high society, and they’d still beg her for tea.

- Secretly wears a cursed ring you gave him “for protection.” He pretends it’s just a fashion statement.

- “You’re my little witch. My spoiled, dangerous, sweetly wicked housewife.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

- Walks into the kitchen to find you chanting over a jam jar and nearly faints. “Pipsqueak, are you summoning something?”

- He built a protective rune wall around the penthouse but pretends he did it “just for fun.”

- When your familiar gets sassy, he picks it up by the scruff and lectures it like a tiny general.

- Gets you to make love charms so he can carry it around with him cause it makes his head woozy with overwhelming love for you (more than normal…don’t know how it’s possible)

- Brings you moon-charged water from the Skyhaven labs for your potions. Won’t admit it’s sweet.

- “You’re not allowed to go into the astral plane alone again. I nearly lost my mind.” (Hugs you so hard your spell candles flicker.)

[colouredbyd]

Time Cast A Spell On You III: The Rockstar

reincarnation au: Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: across lifetimes and names, two souls find each other again and again, tangled in memory, haunted by love, and drawn toward a quiet kind of forever that always slips just out of reach. But maybe this time, for the fifth and last time, the story will end differently.

word count: 22k (im so sorry guys..grab ur tissues)

a/n: this fic has a lot of songs; therefore, i highly suggest playing the linked songs when mentioned :D (this isnt proofread at all so sorry guys)

prologue lifetime I lifetime II lifetime III masterlist

lifetime III: The Rockstar

Fate, it seemed, was never kind enough to let ghosts rest. Threads spun from longing and unspoken words wound through the fabric of the universe, binding souls to unfinished stories, stitching heartbreak into the seams of time. Love that powerful does not die; it is reborn, again and again, clawing its way back to the surface.

This time, it was the city lights that burned like stars, neon signs flickering against rain-slicked streets. The music was loud, thunderous, shaking the walls with each beat of the drum. Electric. Raw. Unyielding.

Backstage, the air buzzed with electricity, amps humming, cords tangled like veins pumping life into the stage. A voice crackled over the speaker, drowning out the chaos: "London! Are you ready to welcome on stage... the world-famous band... SLYTHERIN!"

The crowd roared like thunder, a tidal wave of noise and light, and then they were there—stepping into the blaze of flashing neon. Regulus, sharp jaw and haunted eyes, guitar slung low across his hips. Evan beside him, fingers drumming along his own bass. Barty with that wild grin, hands raised to the crowd. 

Regulus moved to the mic, gaze cutting through the chaos, voice low and electric. He looked out into the sea of faces, lips brushing the microphone as if it held a thousand secrets. His fingers hovered over the strings, the anticipation hanging like static in the air.

And then he played the first note, raw and thunderous, and the world came alive with sound.

-

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

Mary just grins, unbothered by your glare as she tugs you through the swarming crowd. Neon lights flicker above, casting fractured light across her smile. You dig your heels in—not that it makes a difference. She’s stronger than she looks, and Dorcas and Lily flank you like guards, their linked arms a promise that you’re not slipping away tonight.

"Come on," Mary laughs, her grip ironclad around your wrist. "You’ve been moping for days. Consider this your intervention."

"I’m perfectly fine with my emotional deterioration," you reply dryly, but your words are drowned out by the low thrum of bass leaking through the concrete walls of The Wyrmwood. It stands tall and jagged against the London skyline, neon-green lights buzzing like trapped insects. The name flickers above the door, half-spelled in jagged letters:

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

It pulses like a heartbeat, too bright, too sharp. You try to shake her off. "I’m not going in there."

Lily just laughs, looping her arm through yours like it’s a binding contract. "We didn’t drag you out of your flat just for you to sulk outside."

"This place looks like a health hazard," you grumble, eyeing the graffiti-splattered bricks and the broken glass glittering beneath your shoes.

"That’s the charm of it," Dorcas winks, already slipping past the bouncer with a flash of her ID and a smile that could cut glass. You want to ask how often she’s done this, but you already know the answer.

"I’m not exactly dressed for... whatever this is," you say, gesturing at the crowd. Fishnets, leather, glitter smeared across collarbones like war paint. It smells like cigarette smoke and rebellion, like something is about to catch fire.

"You look fine," Mary says, shoving you forward before you can protest. "Besides, you won’t be looking at yourself."

The Wyrmwood swallows you whole. It’s dark inside, impossibly so, lit only by strobes of crimson and green that flash like danger signs. The air is thick with something electric—anticipation, desperation, the kind of longing that makes you feel like you’re standing at the edge of something sharp. Posters are plastered along the walls, black and white and cracked with age, names of bands you half recognize scrawled in jagged font. You pass under the flickering lights, and you can feel the bass thrumming beneath your feet, steady as a heartbeat.

Your friends are already weaving through the crowd, their laughter trailing behind them like silver smoke. You try to follow, but it’s packed—bodies pressed together, strangers breathing the same stale air. You lose sight of them near the bar, nearly tripping over someone’s discarded leather jacket, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here," a lazy drawl spills out of the shadows, and you turn, half-expecting it to be a mistake. But there he is, Sirius Black, leaning against the bar like he owns it, leather jacket thrown over one shoulder, grinning like he’s the devil’s favorite son.

"You don’t strike me as the concert type," he says, tipping his drink toward you, amber liquid sloshing against the glass.

"I’m not," you reply, glancing around. "I was ambushed."

He chuckles, low and unbothered. "Consider it a rescue mission. You’ve been cooped up for too long."

You take a sip of your drink, leaning against the bar beside him. "Don’t get too used to rescuing me," you say lightly. "I’m only here for two months. Then it’s back to Brooklyn."

Sirius raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "Two months, huh? Better make it count."

You shrug, the ice clinking in your glass. "That’s the plan."

Before you can protest, he signals the bartender, sliding a glass toward you. "It’s on me," he says, tipping his own in your direction. "To bad decisions."

You raise your glass, smirking despite yourself. "To worse company."

He laughs, full-bodied and reckless. "That’s the spirit."

The lights flicker once—twice. Sirius straightens, setting his glass down. The crowd shifts, a ripple of movement, and you feel it then. That quiet hush that isn’t really quiet. It’s the kind of silence that creeps in before impact, heavy and electric.

"Showtime," Sirius murmurs, eyes fixed on the stage. There’s something softer there, pride tangled with something you can’t place. 

The lights drop green, flooding the room with venom and envy. The curtain rises, slow and deliberate, and the room swells forward like it’s being pulled by invisible strings.

The curtain rises slowly, teasing, like a lover pulling away just enough to keep you wanting more. The first beat of the drums sounds—slow, deliberate. The air shifts again, a storm that doesn’t quite break but lingers, crackling, pulling at the seams of everything. It’s not just a sound, not just music—it’s something alive, something visceral. The kind of rhythm that gets under your skin, that makes your heart skip, that demands your attention.

The guitarist steps out first, grinning, wild-eyed. He twirls the sticks between his fingers, his movements effortless, cocky. He settles into position, cracking his neck, and the crowd roars.

Then comes the bassist, cigarette dangling from his lips like a gesture of defiance. His eyes scan the room, casual, disinterested, but you know he’s not. No one is. The air thickens as his fingers brush the strings, and the crowd tightens like a fist around your chest.

The stage lights burn white-hot for a second, blinding. And then—

The last figure steps forward, midnight-clad and sharp as glass. His hand wraps around the mic stand with a lazy elegance, silver rings gleaming under the lights. He lifts his head slowly, gaze cutting through the fog and straight into the crowd. He lifts his head, eyes sweeping the crowd, catching on you, piercing through the darkness. For a moment, everything else blurs. The crowd, the lights, the noise—all of it fades. It’s just him, his gaze, and the space between you, pulsing with something too dark to name.

Someone screams into the mic, a voice raw and electric: "London! Are you ready to welcome on stage... the world-famous band... SLYTHERIN!"

The crowd erupts. The world splinters.

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

The room detonates with sound—roaring, crashing, a tidal wave of bodies pressed together, surging forward like they could pull the stage closer just by sheer force of will. The lights burn emerald, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire, catching on the glint of rings and glitter-smudged eyes. You feel it beneath your feet, the tremor of bass shuddering through the floor, up your legs, thrumming in your bones. It’s not music. It’s a war cry.

{play kiwi by harry styles}

Regulus is still, framed in smoke and green light, hand curled around the mic stand like it belongs to him, like it’s part of him. There’s something almost cruel in the way he stands there, letting the crowd scream his name, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in the ghost of a smirk. The others are already thrumming with energy—Barty smashing the drumsticks together in an impatient staccato, Evan’s fingers flirting with the strings of his bass, coaxing out little whines of sound—but Regulus is silent. Then, with the flick of his wrist, the lights cut crimson, and the room gasps. He leans into the mic, voice smooth and sharp.

She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes...

The crowd erupts again, and you feel it—like static racing over your skin, like fire licking at your veins.

Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect...

Regulus’s voice is a weapon, precise and unyielding. His eyes burn with something feral, a spark that catches and spreads. The band is a beast behind him, a living, snarling thing, and they follow his lead without hesitation.

And all the boys, they were saying they were into it...

You catch his gaze, just for a second, and it’s like a punch to the ribs. He doesn’t look away. He never looks away. Barty slams down on the drums, a furious cascade of sound that rattles the bones, and Evan’s bass line thrums beneath it, heavy and unrelenting. The floor vibrates; the walls pulse. It’s suffocating and electrifying all at once. Regulus leans back, eyes closing, voice curling around the lyrics with that dangerous edge.

She's driving me crazy, but I’m into it...

The lights flash again, blinding white, and his voice carves through the chaos like a blade.

Such a pretty face on a pretty neck..

He strides over to Barty, plucking the cigarette right from his fingers without breaking rhythm. He takes a long drag, head tilted back, smoke curling from his lips like a sin, eyes dark and glinting under the flashing lights. The crowd screams, clawing at the stage as he descends the stairs with the grace of something untouchable, unstoppable. He finds you—first row, Sirius to your left, but it’s like you’re the only one there. 

The flash of his grin is sharp, wicked. Regulus kneels down, close enough that the heat of him mingles with yours. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, slow, deliberate. His gaze drags over your face, landing on your parted lips. His voice is low, gravelly, dripping with intent.

She sits beside me like a silhouette...

Then, without hesitation, he brings the cigarette to your lips. "Take a drag, pretty girl," he breathes, and it’s not a suggestion. 

It’s a command. The crowd howls, a feral, raw sound, but you don’t hear it. All you hear is your own pulse, loud and rushing as you take the drag, the burn sharp and sweet. His eyes flicker darker as you exhale, smoke curling between you like a promise. He plucks it back, never breaking eye contact, taking one last pull before the mic returns to his mouth.

Hard candy dripping on me 'til my feet are wet...

It’s not just a performance. It’s a claim. It’s devastation, wrapped in velvet and sin.

The crowd is madness, screaming his name, clawing at the barricade, desperate. But he doesn’t look away and neither do you.

It’s electric. It’s ruinous.

It’s everything.

Sirius leans in close, his breath warm against your ear, voice barely a whisper under the roar. “Did he just—?” he laughs, low and sharp, eyes wide with something like awe. "Bloody hell... never seen him pull that stunt before." He shakes his head, grinning wickedly. 

You want to ask what he means, but the question dies on your tongue because Regulus moves. Just a step forward, slow and deliberate, but the crowd reacts like he’s thrown gasoline on an open flame. 

His hand lifts to the mic, fingers brushing over it like a lover’s touch, and his eyes—sharp and unyielding—sweep the crowd, drinking them in, pulling them apart thread by thread. You swear he looks right at you, just for a heartbeat, and your lungs forget how to work.

His voice is smoke and silver, smooth and raw all at once, winding through the air like it’s living, like it’s breathing. The crowd goes feral, bodies crashing into each other, hands reaching out like they could touch him if they just stretched far enough.

When she’s alone, she goes home to a cactus…

His voice is molten, dripping over the words with something feral, something unrestrained. The band snarls to life behind him—Barty pounding the drums with a vicious sort of joy, Evan’s bass thrumming low and heavy, the guitarist slicing through the air like it owes him blood.

In a black dress, she’s such an actress…

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the light in shards of green and silver, and your breath stalls. There’s something primal in the way he looks at you—like he knows exactly what he did, like he’s daring you to do something about it.

Sirius is still watching you, shaking his head, that wicked grin never faltering. “Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, almost impressed. “He’s got the whole crowd on their knees, and he’s still making sure you know it’s all for you.”

You can barely nod. You’re too caught up in the way Regulus commands the stage, the way his fingers tighten on the mic stand, knuckles whitening, like he’s holding on for dear life. It’s intoxicating—dangerous, almost. Like staring into the heart of a storm and knowing you should look away but not wanting to.

“He always did have a flair for dramatics,” Remus adds from your other side, arms crossed but eyes bright. There’s fondness there, deep and warm, and you catch the flicker of a smile on his lips as he watches Regulus pace the stage, voice cracking raw over the chorus.

“Shut up, you’re crying,” James jabs him with an elbow, and Remus just snorts, unbothered.

“Am not,” he replies, though his voice is thicker than usual. “Maybe you are.”

He’s beautiful, you think. Dark and wild and entirely untamed. He isn’t tethered to anything but the stage beneath his feet and the roar of the crowd, and it’s like he’s breathing for the first time.

And just for a second, his eyes snap open and find yours, cutting through the haze, the lights, the noise. His gaze holds you there, trapped, breathless, and you feel the connection snap into place like it’s always been there, just waiting for the right moment. His lips tilt, barely a curve, but it’s there. A ghost of a smile, meant just for you.

The song ends with a shattering chord, and the room explodes. Regulus bows his head, hand still curled around the mic, breathing hard. The lights pulse back to green, spilling shadows over his cheekbones, and his gaze lingers for just a moment more before he turns back to the crowd.

Sirius nudges your shoulder, eyes alight with mischief. “Told you he was good.”

You swallow, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue. “Good?” you echo, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s… he’s incredible.”

Sirius just grins, wide and wicked. “Welcome to the show.”

“Come on!” Mary’s voice pierced the haze, cutting through the ringing in your ears. She grabbed your arm with surprising strength, pulling you back from the swell of bodies. Her grin was wide and reckless, lipstick slightly smudged, eyes glittering with excitement. “We have backstage passes, love! Barty’s waiting for us!”

“Barty?” you echoed, stumbling slightly as she dragged you through the crowd, weaving between swaying bodies and spilled drinks.

“Yes, Barty!” Mary tossed a wink over her shoulder. “He said he’d introduce us to the band after the show. Merlin’s beard, I swear you never listen to me. Come on, before he thinks we ditched him!”

You nodded, adrenaline still humming under your skin, and followed her as she slipped through a door guarded by a particularly disgruntled bouncer. The hallway stretched out before you, dim and narrow, lined with posters that curled at the edges and flickered under dying light. Mary tugged you forward, practically skipping with excitement, her laughter echoing off the walls.

“Wait, slow down!” you protested, nearly tripping over your own feet. But she was a woman on a mission, relentless and determined, dragging you around sharp corners and through winding corridors. Her voice bounced off the walls, rambling about how Barty had promised her an introduction ages ago, how this was finally her chance, how she was absolutely certain you were going to love them all.

But then—somewhere between a flickering light and a stack of equipment cases—you lost her.

You stopped short, breath catching, the noise of the concert muted to a distant thrum behind thick concrete walls. The hallway split off in three directions, each one identical and stretching into shadow. You blinked, turning in a slow circle. “Mary?” you called, your voice swallowed up by the empty space. Silence answered back, heavy and unyielding.

You turned left, footsteps cautious, trailing your hand along the wall as if that might somehow anchor you. It smelled like cigarette smoke and old wood, the air heavy with something unnameable, something that prickled at the back of your neck. 

You followed the sound of muffled voices, hoping for familiar faces, but the hallway twisted and turned, coiling in on itself until you were certain you were walking in circles.

“Mary?” you tried again, voice softer now, edged with nerves. No answer.

The backstage doors were all heavy iron and peeling paint, some marked with names you didn’t recognize, others blank and uninviting. You hesitated at one, fingers grazing the chipped handle, and then—because you had to—you pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, smelling of leather and cologne and something smoky that clung to the walls. And there, leaning against the edge of a cluttered vanity, his back to you, was Regulus Black.

The breath left your lungs in a single, startled rush. He was still dressed in stage clothes—black silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, silver rings glinting under the light. His hair was damp with sweat, falling messily over his eyes as he stared down at a vinyl record in his hands, fingers tracing the edge with a kind of idle reverence. 

You should have left—you knew that, felt it in the prickling of your skin—but your feet wouldn’t move, rooted to the spot as if by some invisible tether.

And then he turned.

It was slow, deliberate, like he’d known you were there the whole time. His gaze found yours instantly, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, the world went silent. You stared at him, unblinking, and something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe, though you couldn’t place why.

You should have said something. You should have apologized for intruding or stumbled over some explanation, but the words tangled up in your throat, stuck there by the weight of his gaze. He watched you like he was trying to solve a puzzle, like there was something familiar in your outline, something just out of reach.

“Lost?” he asked finally, voice low and smooth, cutting through the silence like a knife.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “A little bit,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I was trying to find Mary… I think I took a wrong turn.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, just slightly, barely there. “It’s easy to get lost back here.” He pushed off from the vanity, stepping closer, and you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. He was taller than you’d realized—broader too, sharp angles softened by shadow and smoke. “But I’m guessing you’re not supposed to be wandering around alone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words slipped through your fingers. There was something in the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, something that unsettled him just as much as it did you.

It felt like you’d been here before. Like you knew him. Like you’d always known him.

“Yeah,” you said finally, voice breaking the stillness. “I guess not.”

Regulus’s eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, unblinking, and then he nodded towards the hallway behind him. “Come on. I’ll help you find your friend.”

You hesitated, just for a second, but something in his gaze pulled you forward, like a thread wrapped tight around your heart. You stepped closer, and he held the door open for you, watching with that same curious expression, the kind that made you feel like you were missing part of the conversation.

He didn’t say anything more as you walked, just kept his strides even and unhurried beside you, the echo of your footsteps the only sound in the hallway. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—like the air was charged, heavy with something unsaid. Like the world had cracked open just enough for you to slip through.

And when his hand brushed yours, just for a heartbeat, it felt like coming home.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional—the brush of his hand against yours—but it left your skin tingling, the echo of it lingering like the remnants of a half-remembered dream. Regulus didn’t look at you when it happened, his eyes fixed forward, but you saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed, like he’d felt it too.

The hallway stretched long and winding, each turn identical to the last, walls plastered with fading posters and half-burnt-out lights that flickered like dying stars. You tried to focus on your steps, on the distant thrum of music vibrating through the floor, but it was hard to think of anything except the boy beside you. 

He moved like he belonged in the shadows, like they bent around him rather than the other way around. You wondered if he was always like this—quiet and consuming, like gravity itself.

“So…” you started, if only to cut through the silence threading between you. “Do you do this often? Rescue lost girls wandering backstage?”

The corner of his mouth quirked again, a ghost of a smile. “Not often,” he replied. “Most of them aren’t quite so…lost.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard the pause right, the weight behind the word. “Well, I’m not usually one for getting lost,” you replied, feeling a flush creep up your neck. “Guess tonight’s just…special.”

His eyes flickered to you then, something dark and unreadable swimming in them. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess it is.”

Before you could say anything else, he stopped short, his arm extending in front of you like a barrier. You hadn’t even noticed the turn you’d taken, the hallway splitting off into a wider room where laughter and voices spilled out like smoke. Mary’s familiar red hair bobbed through the crowd, animatedly talking to someone who looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Relief spilled out of you in a breath.

“There she is,” Regulus said, voice softer now. His arm dropped back to his side, but he didn’t move away. “Looks like you’re not so lost anymore.”

You turned to him, the words caught in your throat. “Thank you, I—”

But his gaze had dropped, fixed on your hand where his fingertips had brushed yours. His expression was distant, like he was seeing something you couldn’t, feeling something he didn’t want to.

“If you get lost again,” he said, voice drifting back to you, “find me.”

And then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hum of distant music, and you were left standing alone, hand still warm from where his had almost held yours.

You were still replaying it in your head—the heat of the stage lights, the raw pulse of the music, and the way Regulus Black had held your gaze from across the crowd. His eyes had found yours like it was effortless, like the thousands of people screaming his name didn’t matter. And then, with that effortless cool, he’d plucked the cigarette from his lips and pressed it between yours, his fingers brushing your mouth for the briefest second.

The memory was still burning at the edges when Mary crashed into you, eyes wide and practically vibrating with excitement. “There you are!”

You barely had time to register her presence before she grabbed your arm, dragging you down the hallway. “You’re not going to believe this. No, actually, you are, because I saw it with my own eyes,” she babbled, practically sprinting with you in tow.

“Mary—” you tried, breathless from both the memory and her speed.

“Regulus Black,” she said, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Lead singer, absolute menace, notorious for ignoring every single girl that tries to get his attention... just put his cigarette in your mouth.” She stopped suddenly, spinning to face you, hands gripping your shoulders. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating. That actually happened, right?”

You felt your cheeks heat up, still tasting the faint trace of smoke and mint on your lips. “I... yeah. It happened.”

Mary shrieked, a sound so piercing you winced. “Are you kidding me? How do you just casually stumble into stuff like this?”

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” you laughed, still feeling a little dazed. “I got turned around, and then... I don’t know. He just...” You struggled for the right words, the right way to explain the way his eyes had lingered on you. “...he just saw me.”

Mary’s expression softened, just for a moment. “Yeah, I guess he did.” Then, just as quickly, she snapped back to her usual self. “Okay, I need details. All of them. Did he say anything? Did he look at you like... like that?” She made an exaggerated swooning face, nearly toppling over in her enthusiasm.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “He helped me find my way back here. That’s it.”

“You’re not getting out of this,” she continued, weaving you through a maze of stagehands and tangled cables. “I’m going to make you tell me every single word he said.”

You were just about to protest when she tugged you into a more open part of the room, neon lights flickering overhead. “There he is!” she whispered excitedly, nodding towards the bar area.

You followed her gaze and spotted him instantly. Barty Crouch Jr., all black ccurls and sharp smiles, holding a drink in one hand and talking animatedly with someone you couldn’t see. He was magnetic—loud and reckless in a way that made you feel like just standing near him would be dangerous.

Mary grinned like she’d just won the lottery. “Come on, I promised you an introduction, didn’t I?”

Before you could respond, she was already tugging you forward, her grip ironclad. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the rush of adrenaline making you slightly dizzy. You barely had time to process it before you were right in front of him, his gaze flicking over to the two of you with mild curiosity.

“Well, well,” Barty drawled, grin spreading wide as he looked you up and down. “What do we have here?”

Mary nudged you forward, all but shoving you into his line of sight. “This is my friend. The one I told you about.”

Barty’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “The one who caught Reg’s attention?”

You blinked. “I... I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, I do,” he laughed, and the sound was sharp and wild, like it was cracking open the air around you. “You’re the one from the stage, right? Cigarette girl?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “That’s... yeah.”

Barty chuckled, leaning back against the bar. “Well, well. Looks like you’ve already got one foot in the door.” He tipped his head back towards the stage. “Careful with that one. He bites.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

Barty’s grin widened. “I never said I didn’t.” He looked back at you, eyes gleaming. “Stick around. I’ve got a feeling this is gonna get interesting.

The afterparty bleeds into itself, a kaleidoscope of neon lights and thrumming bass, bodies pressed too close, voices raised just to be heard. 

You drift between faces you don’t know and hands that grasp at your arm, pulling you deeper into the chaos. Drinks are thrust into your hand, the liquid sloshing over the edge, staining your wrist with something sticky and sweet. You sip, barely tasting it, just enough to be polite before you slip away, dissolving into the shadowed edges of the room where the light doesn’t quite reach.

Sirius is deep in conversation with someone you don’t recognize, laughter spilling from his lips like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He catches your eye for a split second, gives you a wink and a tilt of his drink, and you nod back, a silent promise that you’re fine, that you just need a moment. Maybe two.

The back hallway is quieter, the music muffled by thick walls, and you follow the path of least resistance—past the storage crates and tangled wires, past the buzzing EXIT sign that flickers like it’s on its last breath. You find the metal staircase tucked away behind an unmarked door, the kind of place people forget about. It creaks under your weight, the rusted metal groaning in protest as you ascend, step by step, until the noise of the party is nothing but a distant hum.

The rooftop is waiting for you, sprawling and vast, the city stretching out like it’s been painted just for this moment. You breathe in deep, filling your lungs with cold, untainted air, the kind that bites a little on the way in. 

Up here, the lights of the city blur into constellations, headlights tracing patterns on cracked pavement far below. You cross the concrete expanse, fingers trailing along the chipped brick of the ledge as you move to the edge. It’s almost peaceful—the kind of silence that feels deliberate.

You don’t hear him at first. He’s just there, a shadow leaning against the rooftop’s edge, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. He’s dressed in black, jacket half-zipped, curls tousled like he’s just come offstage—which, of course, he has. He lifts his head slightly, eyes catching the moonlight for just a fraction of a second. Grey, sharp, and cutting through the dark like knives.

"You running from ghosts?" he asks, voice low and smooth, laced with something sardonic. The cigarette glows bright, embers flaring, and for a moment, he looks like something out of a dream—sharp lines and smoke.

You blink, pulled from the haze of your thoughts. "Maybe," you reply, leaning back against the ledge. "Or maybe I’m just not one for crowds."

He studies you, unblinking, gaze flinty and knowing. "Funny," he says, taking a slow drag. "Most people stay where it’s loud. Makes it easier to pretend they’re not alone."

You laugh, short and surprised. "Is that what you do?" you counter, watching the way the smoke curls from his lips, drifting like it’s got nowhere better to be. "Hide in the noise so you don’t feel alone?"

He huffs a laugh, more breath than sound. "I don’t hide," he replies, sharp and resolute, like it’s carved into his bones. "I just know where to disappear."

Your eyes flick to his hands, to the rings that gleam silver in the moonlight. "Disappearing isn’t the same as running," you murmur, barely aware you’ve said it out loud.

His eyes snap to yours, sudden and sharp, like you’ve cut through something he wasn’t ready to expose. He watches you carefully, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. "You sound like you know something about that," he says, voice quieter, more deliberate.

You shrug, turning your gaze back to the skyline. "Maybe I do," you answer softly. "Maybe I don’t."

Silence falls between you, stretched thin and trembling, and you swear you feel the weight of it—like a breath held just a moment too long. He flicks the cigarette over the edge, watching it spiral down, down, down before the ember snuffs out entirely.

"Funny thing," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I’ve met you before." His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something raw in his gaze, something unpolished and unguarded.

Your breath catches, fingers curling tighter around the ledge. "Déjà vu?" you ask, trying for casual, but your voice betrays you, cracking on the last syllable.

"Maybe," he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. His gaze lingers, heavy and unyielding, like he’s trying to pull you apart just to understand what’s inside. "Or maybe something else."

You don’t look away. You don’t dare. "You believe in that sort of thing?" you ask, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

He smiles, slow and sharp, all teeth and danger. "I don’t know," he admits. "But I’m starting to think I should."

Regulus is still watching you, eyes narrowed, like he’s waiting for you to say something. But you don’t—not yet. You’re too busy holding onto the feeling that something just slipped through your fingers, something important.

He shifts, the leather of his jacket creaking, and his eyes flick back to the skyline. "Well," he says, voice back to that drawling indifference, "if you’re gonna disappear, might as well do it with a view."

You laugh, the sound light and unbound. "Yeah," you reply. "I guess I could think of worse places."

He glances back at you, gaze lingering a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize the lines of your face. "I’ll see you around," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, the promise of it slipping between the spaces of the city lights.

And before you can respond, he’s gone—slipping back through the rooftop door, leaving only the faintest trace of smoke and something that tastes like memory in his wake.

After that rooftop encounter, you start showing up at Slytherin's gigs more often—sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. You don’t think he notices. Until he does.

It’s after a show in Camden, the air thick with rain and cigarette smoke, clinging to your clothes, settling in your lungs. The sky is heavy, swollen, like it might crack open at any moment. You stand against the brick wall, fingers picking at the damp label of your drink when the door swings open, spilling laughter and smoke into the alley.

He’s the last to leave, trailing behind Barty and Evan like he’s got nowhere to be, like time bends around him. Sweat dampens his hair, curls sticking to his forehead, black shirt clinging to his shoulders. He spots you—of course he does—and there’s that flicker again, something old and aching, like a memory misplaced.

He saunters over, cigarette dangling from his lips, hands deep in his leather jacket. The streetlamp flickers above, casting shadows that dance like ghosts. “You always hang out in alleyways, or am I just lucky?” His voice is low, rough, softened from hours of singing. His eyes catch the light, sharp and silver, cutting through the dark like knives.

You raise an eyebrow, shrugging. “Depends on the company.”

The corner of his mouth curves up, a smirk that’s more habit than happiness. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving yours, and exhales slow, deliberate, like he’s marking the moment. Smoke curls between you, phantom fingers reaching out and fading just before they touch.

"Not the usual crowd," he observes, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a second too long. “Bit too... put together for the Camden lot.”

You huff a laugh, surprising yourself. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Guess that depends,” he replies, gaze slipping over you, unapologetic and unhurried. There’s something almost surgical in the way he looks—like he’s dissecting you, peeling back layers just to see what’s underneath. “You a fan of the music or just slumming it for the night?”

There’s a challenge in his tone, something jagged and sharp, but you don’t flinch. “Still deciding,” you say, letting the words hang heavy between you. You catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes—so brief you almost miss it—but it’s there, like a crack in glass that splinters the whole reflection.

He tilts his head back, studying you with the kind of intensity that feels like being seen for the first time. Like being known. “Brutal,” he murmurs, lips curling around the word. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And then he flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with a finality that feels deliberate. “You coming to the next one?” he asks, voice slipping back into something smoother, something practiced.

You don’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

For just a flicker of time, you think you see something soften in his expression—unguarded and raw. But then it’s gone, swallowed back into arrogance, and he nods, slipping back through the darkened hallway. You watch him go, breathless and burning, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free.

After that, you come to every show. Sometimes he finds you in the crowd; sometimes he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter—you always find him after. Outside under flickering streetlights or sprawled on the hood of his car, cigarettes and slow conversations spilling into dawn.

It becomes a ritual. He sings like he’s breaking apart, and you watch like you’re piecing him back together. The city is your playground: rooftops, train tracks, rain-soaked alleys. There’s a rhythm to it, a melody neither of you need to say out loud.

You talk about books with cracked spines and water-damaged pages. He talks about music, the kind that burrows under your skin, the kind that leaves you breathless.

It’s late, so late it’s almost early. The city holds its breath, draped in shadows and whispers. Slytherin is recording at an underground studio tucked away in East London. The others are inside, muffled bass and fractured laughter spilling out each time the door cracks open.

But you’re not inside. Neither is he.

You’ve slipped away, guided by instinct or something older, and found yourself in the garden behind the studio. A patch of wildness carved between brick walls and chain-link fences, where ivy creeps over crumbling stone and wildflowers push through cracked pavement. It smells like rain and rosemary, damp earth and city dust. A secret place, half-forgotten, the kind that only exists when the world isn’t looking.

You’re perched on the edge of a stone bench, the moss soft beneath your fingertips. Regulus is sprawled on the ground, back against the trunk of an old willow tree that curves like a secret over the two of you. Its branches sway in the wind, whispering things you can’t quite hear. His leather jacket is draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from the last set, curls wild and unkempt. He’s smoking lazily, the end of the cigarette flaring bright every time he inhales.

“You know they’re gonna come looking for us,” you murmur, gaze flicking back to the studio where the lights flicker behind fogged windows.

He just huffs a laugh, dragging his thumb over his bottom lip as he exhales. Smoke coils in the air, lingering between you. “Let them,” he replies, voice low and unapologetic. His eyes catch yours, dark and daring. “I like it better out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In the freezing cold? Surrounded by weeds and cigarette butts?”

Regulus smirks, the kind that feels like a dare. “Better than listening to Barty butcher another verse.”

You laugh, soft and unguarded. It startles you, the way it spills out so easily around him. His smirk softens, just a fraction, and he tilts his head back against the bark of the willow. For a moment, you just sit there, the silence stretching warm and steady between you.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Why don’t you sing?”

The question is a stone thrown into still water. It ripples out, unsettling everything. You blink, surprised. “What?”

He ashes his cigarette, eyes still on yours. “You always watch. Always listen.” He nods toward the studio. “But you never join in.”

You shrug, picking at a leaf stuck in the moss. “Guess it’s not really my thing.”

He lets out a low hum, like he doesn’t believe you. “Bullshit,” he says simply, and there’s no malice in it—just fact. “I see the way you watch. The way your lips move when you think no one’s paying attention.”

Your cheeks burn, and you look away, focusing on the ivy curling up the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” he counters, and his voice is closer now. You look up to find him leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp and unyielding. “I bet it’s good. I bet it’s better than you even realize.”

You swallow, the words sticking like honey. “Don’t you have enough singers around you?”

“Maybe.” He pauses, studying you with the kind of intensity that feels like being seen for the first time. Like being known. “But I want to hear you.”

The air goes thin. You shake your head, leaning back against the bench, crossing your arms. “Not gonna happen.”

He laughs again, low and smoky, like it’s the punchline to some joke you don’t understand. He stubs out his cigarette, flicking it aside, and when he looks back at you, there’s something electric in his eyes. “One day, I’ll make you sing for me,” he says, voice velvet-soft but edged with steel. “I promise.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing, but there’s a tremor in your voice. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He leans back against the willow tree, gaze never leaving yours. His smile is sharp, like the edge of a knife, but there’s a softness to it too, something almost tender beneath all that swagger. “I’m always sure when it matters,” he murmurs, voice dipping low, dragging over each word like a caress. His eyes darken, softening at the edges. “And with you… I think it matters.”

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to the space between you. The willow’s branches sway above, whispering secrets you can’t quite hear, and for a moment, the air is thick with something unspoken.

But you don’t break. Not yet. You just stare back at him, heart stuttering against your ribs. “We’ll see,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

Regulus smiles, slow and devastating. “Yeah,” he says, eyes flickering with something like destiny, something like longing. “We will.”

Regulus shifted beside you, the edge of his leather jacket brushing your arm. He exhaled, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, its ember flaring briefly before he stubbed it out against the concrete ledge. Without warning, he straightened, extending a hand towards you, palm open, rings glinting under the rooftop lights.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, laced with a promise. “I wanna show you something.”

You raised a brow, gaze flickering between his hand and his eyes, sharp and unreadable. “Where?”

His lips curled, almost conspiratorial. “You’ll see.”

It should’ve been a warning. You should have hesitated, questioned the glint in his eyes, the crooked smile that spelled trouble—but you didn’t. Your hand slipped into his, cold against yours, and he pulled you through the rusted doorway, down the narrow, winding staircase. The party rumbled far below, muffled by concrete and distance, just a distant thrum beneath your feet.

Regulus didn’t speak as he led you through spiraling corridors, his grip firm and unyielding. He moved with the kind of confidence that made you think he’d walked this path a thousand times before, slipping through cracked doorways and shadowed halls like someone untouched by consequence.

At last, you reached a door at the far end of the hallway—its frame chipped and crooked, paint flaking like dead leaves. He pushed it open with his shoulder, the hinges shrieking, and gestured for you to follow.

“What is this place?” you asked, hesitating at the threshold.

He glanced back, eyes dark and shimmering. “A shortcut,” he replied, then slipped through, leaving you no choice but to follow.

The space beyond was vast and hollow, a skeletal remnant of something once grand. Shattered windows let in slivers of moonlight, pooling silver over cracked marble and stone. The ceiling stretched high above, crumbling at the edges, vines creeping through the fractures like nature had come to reclaim what was hers.

“Regulus,” you breathed, voice catching on the echo. “Where are we?”

“Old conservatory.” His voice was softer here, reverent. He walked ahead, his boots scuffing against the stone, hands slipping into his pockets. “Forgotten when they built the new one downtown. They didn’t bother tearing it down. Just… left it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes catching the silver light. “I come here sometimes.”

There was a softness to his voice, unguarded and fleeting. You followed him, footsteps soft against the dust-coated floor, eyes wandering over the cracked pillars and dust-veiled chandeliers that hung like ghosts from the ceiling. You could almost imagine it in its prime—glass ceilings reflecting sunlight, flowers blooming from every corner, music echoing through its halls. Now, it was just echoes and shadows, but somehow, it felt… sacred.

Regulus led you further in, past pillars split with age, towards the far end where the roof had caved in entirely. Moonlight poured through the shattered beams, pooling at the base of something that made you pause—

A willow tree.

Its branches were thin and knotted, draped with curling leaves that shimmered faintly under the light. Roots spilled out over the fractured stone floor, curling around broken marble like it had grown straight through the ruins. It shouldn’t have been there. Not really. But it was, stretching up towards the stars like it was reaching for something it couldn’t touch.

Regulus watched you, his eyes hooded and dark. “We’re not supposed to be up here,” he murmured, almost like a confession.

“And yet, here we are,” you replied, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled at that—soft and slow, like it surprised him. “I found it a few years ago. This place. Wasn’t looking for it, just… ended up here.” His gaze drifted to the willow. “Figured it was a good place to disappear.”

You stepped forward, letting your fingers brush the leaves. They trembled under your touch, whispering secrets to the wind. “It’s beautiful.”

Regulus’s gaze never wavered from you. “It is.”

The silence stretched, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city. You felt his presence beside you—steady, solid, a quiet contrast to the chaos that always seemed to follow him.

“You bring everyone here?” you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

He chuckled, low and husky. “No. Just the ones I want to remember it.”

A laugh escaped you, breathless and sharp. “That’s a bit poetic for a rockstar, don’t you think?”

He turned to you, moonlight catching the edge of his jaw, casting shadows along the curve of his cheekbones. “I can be poetic.”

You raised a brow. “Prove it.”

Regulus looked at you for a long moment, the kind of stare that felt like it peeled back layers, sifted through ribcages and reached straight for the heart. Finally, he stepped closer, gaze dropping to your mouth, voice slipping low and rough.

“You remind me of this place,” he murmured. “Forgotten, beautiful… something that shouldn’t be here, but is.”

Your breath caught, the air shifting between you, heavy and electric. His eyes flickered back to yours, unguarded and raw, like he’d just revealed something he wasn’t sure he should have.

Before you could respond, he turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he said, voice slipping back into something lighter, easier. “We should get back before they think I kidnapped you.”

And so it slowly began.

Regulus had a way of slipping into your life like smoke curling under a locked door—silent, unyielding. It began subtly: a nod from across the room during Slytherin’s soundchecks, the flicker of his gaze in crowded spaces, the faintest smirk when you stumbled over your words in his presence. He’d drag you to their underground rehearsals, the ones held in the grimy back rooms of clubs that never saw daylight.

The band would set up, Barty twirling drumsticks with manic energy, Evan leaning against his bass like it was the only thing holding him upright. Regulus, though—he’d take the stage with a sort of deliberate care, fingers wrapping around the mic like it was something sacred. He never quite asked you to come, not directly. He’d just show up at your door, nod his head to the side, and say, “We’re on in an hour.” Like it was a given you’d follow. Like it was routine.

You learned the rhythm soon enough. The city streets stretched out beneath your feet, glittering with spilled neon and cigarette smoke. You’d follow him through back alleys and side streets, slipping past broken fences and beneath graffiti-streaked fire escapes. He always led—never rushed, just confident, like the city itself bowed under his command.

Slytherin would play, the sound raw and unpolished, clawing its way out of Barty’s drums and Evan’s bass like it was desperate to escape. And you would watch from the corner, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall, your eyes locked on Regulus as he tore through lyrics like he was bleeding on stage.

Sometimes, during breaks, he’d saunter over to you, the others scattering for drinks or smokes. He’d lean against the wall beside you, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips. He never asked if you liked the music—he didn’t need to. Instead, he’d ask things that felt heavier, sharper, questions that pried their way under your skin.  

You didn’t always have answers. Sometimes you didn’t need them. He seemed to like that—the silence, the way you didn’t force the space between you to be filled with noise.

It became tradition—after the rehearsals, after the city lights burned low and the night stretched thin, you’d find yourselves at the old conservatory. He never explained why he took you there; maybe he didn’t need to. It was just yours—a place that belonged to the quiet spaces between midnight and dawn.

The conservatory was a ruin of shattered glass and ivy-choked walls, lit only by the fractured moonlight that spilled in through the broken ceiling. At its heart stood a willow tree—its branches heavy and whispering with secrets, draped low as if to shield you both from the world outside. 

Regulus would sit with his back against the trunk, legs stretched out, cigarette balanced between his fingers. You’d sit across from him, knees pulled to your chest, shoes tucked into the cracked marble.

You never quite asked why this place. But there was something unspoken about it—an untouched softness in the way he leaned his head back against the bark, eyes closed as if listening to something only he could hear. His voice was always softer there, less jagged, unraveling in lazy curls of smoke and half-spilled confessions. 

He talked about the band, about Sirius, about the feeling of weight pressed into his chest that wouldn’t go away, not even when he screamed the lyrics raw.

He never looked at you when he spoke—his eyes were always on the leaves above, like they held answers he couldn’t quite reach. And you never pressed him for more. There was an understanding, something woven between the roots of that willow tree, something neither of you would dare disturb.

But the more you went, the longer you stayed. Rehearsals bled into midnight walks, and midnight walks bled into hushed conversations beneath swaying branches. His shoulder would brush yours more often, his fingers lingering just a little longer when he passed you a cigarette. And when he smiled, sharp and slow, you felt it in the hollow of your ribs—something aching, something wanting.

There, beneath the willow’s whispering canopy, it almost felt like the world had cracked open, just a little, just enough to let something raw and glimmering slip through.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

The words cut through the air with a weight neither of you are ready for. They land between you like shrapnel, heavy in the silence that follows.

Regulus freezes. The bottle in his hand—something dark and lethal—clinks against the counter as he sets it down, his eyes flickering up to yours with disbelief, his expression hard and unreadable.

"What the hell did you just say?" His voice is low, sharp, but there’s a tremor underneath, something vulnerable and raw he doesn’t want you to see.

You swallow hard, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to steady the quake inside you. "You heard me." Your voice cracks just slightly, and you curse yourself for it, but it doesn't stop. "The pills, the drinking, the fights, the constant nights out until you can't stand. You’re a wreck, Regulus. You don’t even look like you care about your own damn life anymore."

He laughs, bitter and dark. Tilting his head back, he downs the rest of the bottle in one swift motion before slamming it on the counter with a loud crash. "You think I care?" he spits out. "Since when do you care?"

You take a step forward, voice rising despite the knot in your stomach. "I care because I’ve watched you slowly fall apart. I’ve watched you shut everyone out like you’re trying to bury yourself in whatever darkness you think you deserve. And I’m not standing by anymore, Regulus. Not while I’m watching you do this to yourself."

His eyes darken. "You don’t know anything about me," he growls, turning away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. You hear the tremor in his voice, the tightness in the way he speaks, but the barrier’s still there—he doesn’t want to break.

You can’t stop yourself. "I know you’re not this... not this person."

He flinches, like your words are more painful than anything physical. His hands tremble for just a moment before he shoves them in his pockets. "You really think I’m the same person you knew before all of this?"

"I think you’re still the same Regulus underneath all the bullshit," you say, your voice steady, but you feel it—the crack in your own heart. "I think you’re just... drowning, and I can’t watch you do it alone."

His laugh is hollow. He looks at you then, eyes sharp and hard, but something’s breaking behind them. "You want me to be someone I can’t be," he whispers. "I’m not that person anymore, and you won’t like what’s left when you peel away all the layers."

You step closer, just a few inches, and this time, he doesn’t back away. You reach for him, your fingers brushing his arm gently. His body goes still, and for a moment, you swear he stops breathing.

“I don’t care about who you think you’ve become,” you say softly. “I care about who you are right now. And right now, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t respond, his jaw clenched so tight you hear the bones grind beneath his skin. His gaze falls to the floor, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but instead, he just exhales, a long, shaky breath, like he’s holding back.

Before you can say another word, his knees buckle, and he falls forward, collapsing against you in a way you aren’t prepared for. You don’t have time to think before his weight presses against you, his hands reaching out blindly, gripping your shoulders as his body shakes with silent sobs.

You catch him instinctively, one arm wrapping around his back to steady him as you guide him to sit. Your chest tightens with a kind of grief you hadn’t anticipated. “Regulus,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of what you’re seeing. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

His face is buried in your shoulder, and you feel him tremble with every breath, his body shaking like he’s been holding this inside for too long. His grip tightens around you, afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

It’s then that you hear it—a soft, broken whisper, barely audible but unmistakable. “I’m so tired…” His voice cracks, and for a second, it’s like all the walls he’s built around himself come crashing down.

You hold him tighter, rubbing soothing circles on his back, trying to offer what comfort you can. “I know you are,” you murmur softly, pressing your cheek to the top of his head. “I know.”

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of his breath and your heartbeat, both so loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t say anything else, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. He stays there, like a man lost at sea, holding onto the one thing that feels real, even if just for this moment.

You know that nothing is ever simple with him. But as you sit there, cradling him in your arms, you can’t help but wonder how much of this is fate. How many lifetimes has he hurt like this? How many times has he tried to bury himself, only for you to find him again, just as you always do?

The thought catches you off guard, like a faint memory that brushes against your mind but slips away before you can grasp it. You push it back, though, not ready to explore whatever that means—not when he’s like this, breaking in your arms.

And for just a moment, you let yourself think that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. This time, you’ll be able to help him piece himself back together.

His breath hitches again, and you feel the small tremor of his fingers, like a silent plea for something you can’t fully understand. But you do understand one thing: this—him, you, here—is all that matters right now.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, holding him tighter. “We’ll figure it out.”

Though you don’t know it yet, there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something ancient and new, lingering there, unspoken.

The room is still, save for your steady breaths and his, now slow. His face rests in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his skin against yours. His body, no longer shaking with emotion, still carries the tension. His hands, once clutching you desperately, now rest lightly on your waist, tracing circles as if reassuring himself you’re real.

You let him stay there, the silence speaking louder than words. After a long stretch of quiet, his head lifts, his eyes dark and lost. There’s a rawness, an openness that makes your heart ache.

The vulnerability he’s showing, the cracks in the walls he’s built, feel like a gift. He’s letting you in, even if just for this moment.

Regulus shifts slightly, pulling away to look at you. His eyes trace your face, like he’s memorizing it, afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. For the first time, the usual arrogance is gone. It’s just him, stripped down to raw humanity.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice rough, like he’s still holding everything inside, "tomorrow’s the concert."

You nod, your hand gently running through his hair, soothing him without a word. It’s automatic, as if it’s always been this way.

His lips twitch into a faint smile. "I’m supposed to get up there and perform like nothing’s wrong. Like I’m not... a mess." His voice trembles, not in anger, but in something deeper.

You don’t respond immediately, just holding him, letting the moment stretch between you. The night is still, the hum of the city muffled.

"Will you be there?" His voice is quieter now, vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone see. The question is heavy, an admission of his need for you, even if he can’t express it fully.

You don’t hesitate. "You’ll always find me, Regulus. If you look closely enough."

His eyes soften, just a touch, and for a fleeting second, you see something akin to peace in them, something that has always been buried beneath layers of pride and pain. There’s a spark there, a warmth, as though he’s finding something he didn’t know he was looking for.

"I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough for you," he murmurs, the words so quiet you almost miss them. But you hear them, and they settle in your chest like a tender ache.

You lean in, your forehead gently pressing against his. "Regulus," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You’re already more than enough. Don’t you see that?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, as though absorbing your words, letting them sink deep inside him. When he opens them again, there’s something almost fragile in his gaze, a look that both terrifies and comforts you all at once.

The moment lingers between you two, heavy and sweet. For a while, neither of you speaks, the only sound the rhythm of your breathing, mingling in the soft silence.

Finally, Regulus shifts, pulling away just slightly, his hand brushing against your cheek as he looks at you. There’s a new depth to him, something raw and real that he’s never allowed anyone to see—especially not himself.

"I’ll find you," he says quietly, almost as if it’s a promise. His voice holds something more than resolve, more than just a simple statement. There’s a kind of trust in it, an unspoken bond.

You nod slowly, your hand wrapping around his wrist for just a moment before letting go. "You always do," you whisper back, and this time, you feel it—something deep, something unshakable, the threads of your connection pulling tighter with every word.

As the silence stretches between you two again, it’s different now—more than just a moment of comfort. There’s something more, something building, something inevitable. And though neither of you says it out loud, you both know that tomorrow’s concert, with all its chaos and noise, won’t be the same without this, without the unspoken promise that you’ll always be there.

And as Regulus leans in to press a soft kiss to your forehead, it’s not just the end of a moment—it’s the start of something you can’t name yet, but you know will shape everything that comes after.

The morning passed in fragments of sunlight and easy conversation, both of you reluctant to break the delicate silence from the night before. But by afternoon, the world came crashing back—the buzz of rehearsal, frantic calls from managers, the roar of fans outside the venue hours before the show. The chaos swept you up until you found yourself back in the green room, the hum of adrenaline filling the air.

Regulus sat at the mirror, elbows propped on the vanity, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his knee. His eyes flickered up when you approached, and something in his expression softened just a little.

"Figured you could use some help," you said, holding up the eyeliner pencil with a grin.

He scoffed, a touch of arrogance. "Think I can't do my own makeup?"

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer, standing between his knees. "I think you like it better when I do it," you replied, teasing.

He didn't argue. His legs shifted, making room for you, and his hands settled lightly on your hips. You tilted his chin up, your thumb brushing his jaw, the room shrinking to just the two of you, the soft, hazy light reflecting off the mirror.

The eyeliner glided over his skin, smudging perfectly along his lower lash line. His gaze stayed on you, unblinking and intense, as if it were pressing into you.

The door swung open, and Barty and Evan walked in, buzzing with pre-show energy. Barty tossed a half-smoked cigarette aside and snickered. "Would you look at that? The Regulus Black, nervous? Thought I'd never see the day."

Evan smirked, leaning against the wall. "What’s the matter, mate? Scared you’ll forget the lyrics? Or just worried you might actually smile out there?"

Regulus shot them a glare, but there was no real venom in it. "Piss off," he muttered.

Barty winked at you. "Careful with that eyeliner, darling. Wouldn't want him batting his eyes too much on stage. Might start a riot."

You suppressed a laugh, finishing the last stroke, stepping back to admire your work. "Perfect," you whispered. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, it was just the two of you again, the world blurring at the edges.

He reached out, fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, pulling you closer. His thumb brushed the inside of your palm, slow and deliberate. Then, softly, almost like a secret, he leaned in. His lips pressed against yours, warm and feather-light, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was brief but aching with promise, and when he pulled back, his voice was low and uncertain.

"Will you let me take you out after the concert?" His eyes searched yours, a vulnerability flickering there, like he was terrified of your answer.

A slow smile spread across your lips, and you nodded, fingertips brushing his jaw. "You already know the answer, Regulus."

His shoulders relaxed, and something eased in his expression. You saw the knowing glances Barty and Evan exchanged behind you, but you didn’t care. For a moment, the world outside the dressing room didn’t exist. It was just the two of you, suspended in a sliver of time where nothing else mattered.

Barty cleared his throat dramatically. "Well, well, if it isn’t the birth of a love story," he crooned, and Evan smacked him upside the head, grinning. "Don’t mess up your eyeliner out there, Black. Wouldn't want your little muse to see you all smudged up."

Regulus rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go of your hand, squeezing it once before finally releasing you. His voice drops to a whisper, meant only for you. "Front row, yeah?"

"Front row," you promise, and the world roars back to life around you, the concert mere minutes away—but the real show, you think, is just beginning.

The night wraps itself around you like an old familiar song, each beat pulsing through your chest as you slip into the crowd, heart thrumming with the hum of anticipation. You can still feel the warmth of Regulus’s kiss, his soft promise lingering on your skin as if it were part of the very air. You try to shake it off, try to focus on the moment, but it’s impossible when every thought seems to be tethered to him, to that quiet, powerful connection that never fully lets you go.

Remus nudges your shoulder as you make your way through the throngs of people, his voice a light, teasing note in the noise around you. “Ready to see Slytherin tear it up?”

You smile, but it’s tinged with something deeper, something heavier. “You know I am,” you reply, though your voice is soft, almost distant, pulled into the pull of the night.

The venue swarms with energy, the crowd a living thing, each person a pulse in the same rhythm. You find yourself at the front row, drawn to the stage like the inevitable pull of gravity. The air crackles with tension and excitement, the promise of something electric hanging on the edge of every note that’s yet to be played. You don’t know if you’re more nervous for the performance or the unspoken promise between you and Regulus that seems to pulse with every beat.

The lights above you flicker, and then, in an instant, everything stops. 

The lights blazed emerald and silver, sharp as shattered glass, spilling over the stage in jagged patterns. The curtains peeled back like a secret unfolding, and the crowd detonated—a single, roaring beast that surged forward with the force of a wave crashing against rock. Bodies pressed and jostled, hands stretching toward the stage like it was salvation itself. The room was suffocating with sweat, smoke, and the tang of adrenaline, vibrating with the hum of anticipation that crackled through the air like static before a storm.

Barty emerged first, drumsticks twirling between tattooed fingers, grinning like a man with a secret. He held his arms out wide, basking in the screams that rattled the walls, before throwing himself behind the kit with the grace of someone who was born there. He cracked his neck, tapped the sticks together four times, and the crowd screamed with every count—one, two, three, four.

{play tell me im a wreck by every avenue}

The first beat slammed through the room, a thunderous crack that shook the floorboards. The lights pulsed in time with it, flashing green and silver like lightning strikes. Barty’s hands blurred over the drums, each strike sharp and deliberate, like he was carving out pieces of the universe and hurling them into the room.

Evan stepped out next, a cigarette dangling from his lips, bass slung low over his hips like it belonged there. His fingers teased the strings, coaxing low thrums that snaked through the floor and crawled up your spine. He took a long drag, blowing smoke into the air with a languid kind of elegance, eyes flickering out over the crowd with detached amusement. But the second his fingertips danced along the neck of the bass, his whole expression changed—lips curling, eyes darkening, like he’d just come alive.

The crowd screamed louder, fists pounding against the barricades, voices clawing through the air. The stage lights flared brighter, catching the sweat that slicked across skin, the glitter smudged beneath eyes, the desperate clawing hands that reached and reached and reached—like if they just tried hard enough, they could touch the edge of eternity.

And then he walked out. Regulus stepped onto the stage, all midnight leather and silver rings, curls falling over his eyes like smoke. He moved like he owned the world, like the stage wasn’t just his home—it was his kingdom. He grabbed the mic stand with a lazy sort of confidence, head tipping back, jawline sharp enough to cut through glass.

The screams rose to a fever pitch, clawing at the air, and he just smiled—slow and dangerous, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You felt it, the way the whole room shifted, bending around him like gravity.

His eyes scanned the crowd, indifferent and sharp, until they snagged on you, lingering for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. A flicker of something—recognition, curiosity, a dare.

Then his gaze slid away, and he raised the mic to his lips. The room seemed to hold its breath. He leaned in, voice pouring out like molten silver:

I could have been easier on you…

The words dripped from his mouth, low and smooth, weaving through the crowd like smoke curling through air. His fingers tightened around the mic, rings gleaming under the lights as he stepped forward, head tilted, eyes half-lidded like he was singing a secret.

I could have been all you held onto…

The roar from the crowd swelled, hands reaching up, bodies pressing tighter, like they were desperate to drown in the sound of him. The guitar screamed to life behind him, snarling and vicious, and Barty hammered the drums with reckless joy.

I know I wasn't fair… I tried my best to care about you…

Regulus’s eyes flickered shut, and he leaned into the words, pouring them out like a confession, like he was carving pieces of himself out just to throw them to the crowd. Sweat beaded at his temple, catching in the green light, and his jaw clenched, sharp and unyielding. Evan’s bassline thrummed low and relentless, filling the spaces between each lyric, wrapping the melody in something dark and steady. The crowd screamed the words back at him, hundreds of voices clawing through the air, matching his cadence, his rhythm. Regulus stepped forward, lips curling into a smirk, and the crowd surged, bodies crashing into the barricades, hands reaching, stretching. He dropped to one knee, eyes locking with yours from across the sea of people, and for a second—just a heartbeat—it felt like it was only the two of you. His voice dipped lower, rougher:

But I always had to have the upper hand…

The scream that erupted was deafening, raw and unrestrained. Regulus didn’t flinch. He just leaned into the mic, silver rings glinting, curls falling over his eyes as he sang like he was pouring his soul into the lyrics, tearing it out and setting it on fire for everyone to see.

I'm struggling to see the better side of me…

His voice cracked, just a little, just enough, and you felt it like a punch to the chest. He was bleeding on that stage, every word a wound, and the crowd devoured it, hungry and unrelenting. The chorus hit like a lightning strike, shaking the room to its foundations:

When you tell me I'm a wreck… you say that I'm a mess… How could you expect anything less?

He threw his head back, hair wild, eyes shut, voice cracking on the high notes as he poured everything into it. The crowd screamed the words back, fists punching the air, bodies swaying and crashing like waves. Evan stalked forward, cigarette crushed under his boot, fingers dancing along the bass strings, and Barty slammed the drums with the kind of reckless abandon that made your heartbeat stutter. Regulus looked out over the crowd, eyes dark and glittering, lips curling around each word like it was something dangerous.

You latched onto me… then cried I strung you along…

He took a step back, dragging his fingers through his curls, eyes finding yours for a sliver of a moment—sharp and deliberate. His mouth curled into that familiar smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and you felt your breath catch.

I told you when you asked… I knew this wouldn't last…

The lights flared, spilling green fire across the stage, casting shadows over his jawline, his collarbones, the sharp lines of his leather jacket. He looked like something carved out of midnight and broken dreams. The final verse hit hard, slamming through the crowd with the force of a storm. Regulus’s voice dipped lower, rougher, his grip on the mic tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His head bowed, curls falling forward, and for a moment, it was just him—the music, the lights, the crowd screaming his name.

I guess you never knew me at all…

The last beat crashed like thunder, rattling through your bones, and the lights dropped out, plunging the room into shadow. The crowd erupted, screams clawing at the air, desperate and hungry for more. Regulus stayed still, chest heaving, head bowed, curls hiding his eyes. And when he straightened, just before the lights flared back to life, you could have sworn his eyes found yours—steady, sharp, and burning with something you couldn’t quite name.

The concert ended with a roar that shook the floor, lights flaring one last time before the stage plunged into darkness. Regulus vanished into the shadows, the crowd still chanting his name. Your heart hammered as you pushed through the throng, slipping past swaying bodies and spilled drinks, weaving your way backstage.

The hallway buzzed with leftover energy—roadies hauling cables, crew members barking orders, laughter spilling from doorways. You moved through it all, unnoticed, until you found the dressing room marked with a crooked silver star, his name scrawled beneath it.

You pushed the door open. Inside, leather jackets were draped over chairs, sheet music scattered across tables, half-empty bottles of whiskey lined up on the vanity. And there he was, perched on a stool, hair damp with sweat, leather jacket slipping off his shoulders.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him, fingers tangled in his hair, red lipstick bright against her smile. She held a comb, murmuring something that made him laugh, low and husky. Her nails trailed down his neck, slow and familiar, and he just leaned back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in that lazy smirk.

Heat flared in your stomach, sharp and bitter, clawing its way up your chest. Her laugh rang out again, fingers lingering at the back of his neck. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away—just smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped forward, clearing your throat.

Regulus’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and alert, and something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or relief. His smile softened, just a fraction, but it was enough. “There you are,” he murmured, like you’d just saved him from drowning.

The hairdresser glanced over her shoulder, eyes raking over you from head to toe with barely concealed disdain. She straightened, hand slipping from his shoulder, but her expression didn’t falter. “Didn’t realize you had company,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, but her eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking.

You forced a smile, stepping closer until you were right beside him, hands slipping into your pockets to hide the clench of your fists. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement sparking to life in the dark green. “I wouldn’t test her,” he drawled, leaning back in the chair, one brow raised. “She bites.”

The hairdresser’s smile twitched at the corners, but she stepped back gracefully, comb still in her hand. “I’ll be around if you need me,” she said, her voice feather-light, gaze lingering on Regulus for a moment too long before she turned and strutted out of the room.

Silence settled like dust in the wake of her departure. You stared after her, jaw tight, heart still thrumming with leftover adrenaline and something you didn’t want to name. Regulus watched you, eyes glittering with something sharp and knowing. “What was that?” he asked, voice lazy and dipped in amusement.

You shrugged, gaze still fixed on the door. “Nothing. Just didn’t want you to be late.”

He raised a brow, lips quirking. “Right. Didn’t seem like nothing.”

You finally turned to him, arms crossed over your chest. “She’s awfully familiar with you,” you said, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Regulus just grinned, slow and unhurried, leaning back in the chair until it creaked. “You jealous?” he asked, voice softening, gaze never leaving yours.

Your cheeks flared with heat, and you rolled your eyes, stepping further into the room to avoid his stare. “In your dreams, Regulus.”

He watched you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth tilted in that infuriating smirk. “Funny,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, like a secret pulled between you. “You seem like something out of mine.”

The room went still, his words hanging between you like a thread stretched too tight. You swallowed hard, fingers curling into your palms as you met his gaze head-on. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink, just watched you with the kind of intensity that made your heart stumble over itself.

“C’mon,” he finally said, voice breaking the tension. He stood up, hands smoothing down the lapels of his jacket, hair still tousled and messy from her hands. “I promised you something, didn’t I?”

You blinked, the world snapping back into motion. “Yeah,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt.

He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame, glancing back at you with a tilt of his head. “Better not keep me waiting,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something electric. His gaze dipped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “I’ve got a date tonight, and I’d hate to be late.”

Regulus hadn’t let go of your hand the entire way out of the venue. The air outside was sharp with the bite of evening, cooling the flush that still painted your cheeks from the concert lights. You walked side by side through the London streets, his fingers still loosely laced with yours, neither of you mentioning it, neither of you daring to break the spell. The city thrummed around you, neon lights flickering, cars rushing by in streaks of silver and red, but it all felt far away—distant and unimportant. His hand was warm and sure, his thumb tracing idle patterns over your knuckles as you turned a corner, the street narrowing, growing quieter, softer.

Finally, he stopped in front of a narrow building tucked between two bustling shops. Its exterior was all dark wood and curling ironwork, dripping with ivy that tangled down from the window ledges. The sign above the door read The Violet Hour in delicate script, its edges worn with time.

“Here?” you asked, brow raised, voice hushed by the intimacy of the place.

He nodded, his hand slipping from yours only to push open the door with a flick of his wrist. A bell chimed softly as you stepped inside, the warmth and scent of coffee and lavender wrapping around you like a velvet cloak. The place was small but elegant, dripping with Victorian charm—crystal chandeliers, dark wood furniture, velvet armchairs in jewel tones. The walls were lined with oil paintings—sunlit gardens, sprawling estates, and river landscapes that looked like they were plucked straight from a dream.

Regulus watched your reaction with something like pride, lips curving up when you turned to him, eyes wide. “Didn’t take you for the tea party type,” you teased, taking in the delicate porcelain cups set neatly on each polished table.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied easily, voice smooth and dripping with that careless charm. He nodded to the back corner where a small, rounded table waited, framed by ivy-draped windows that overlooked the river. But before you could take a step, he reached behind the counter, where a wrapped bouquet sat—stark white blooms nestled in parchment paper, tied with a silver ribbon.

Night jasmines.

You blinked, taken off guard, as he handed them to you, the petals still damp with morning dew, the scent sweet and heavy. “I didn’t…” you started, fingers grazing the paper, eyes flicking back to him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “I wanted to.”

There was no smile, no wink, just that steady, unyielding gaze, like he was daring you to argue. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The blooms were perfect, delicate, their fragrance winding around you, making the whole room feel softer, quieter.

He led you to the table, holding out the chair for you before taking his own. The chandelier above flickered, casting soft shadows across his face, sharpening the curve of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones. His fingers drummed lightly against the table, restless energy bleeding through the cracks of his calm façade.

For a moment, you let your gaze wander, trailing across the paintings that hung like secrets along the walls. One in particular caught your eye—a river landscape, stretching endlessly across a canvas of gold and sapphire. Two figures sat by its edge, backs turned to the viewer, close enough that their shadows bled into each other.

Regulus followed your gaze, his eyes softening as they landed on the painting. “Do you like it?” he asked, voice low, almost a murmur.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “There’s something about it... It feels familiar.”

He smiled, soft and fleeting. “It’s one of my favorites.” His eyes lingered on the painting, something unspoken passing through his expression. “I like to think they’re waiting for something. Or someone.”

You looked back at the painting, studying the lovers by the river’s edge. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for each other.”

Regulus’s gaze snapped back to you, something tender and raw flickering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice hushed like a secret. “Maybe.”

The tea arrived, delicate cups clinking against porcelain saucers. He poured it for you, hands steady, eyes never leaving yours. You sipped quietly, the warmth spreading through you, anchoring you to the moment. His gaze was unyielding, soft but sharp, like he was memorizing the curve of your mouth as you took another sip.

“What?” you asked, setting the cup down, heat rising to your cheeks under his stare.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out, eyes still fixed on you. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a long moment. “How strange it is that you’re here,” he said softly, his voice slipping beneath your skin, tangling with your heartbeat. “Like I’ve known you for a long time. Longer than I should.”

You swallowed, fingers curling around the bouquet of night jasmines. “I was thinking the same thing.”

A smile ghosted across his lips, slow and secretive. “Maybe we’ve met before.”

You raised a brow, leaning forward just slightly. “You believe in fate, Regulus Black?”

He chuckled, low and dark. “Not fate. But maybe… something.” He looked down at his hands, a flicker of something almost fragile crossing his expression. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

A pause stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. You couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. His eyes were searching, peeling back the layers you thought you’d hidden well, and you wondered if he saw it too—that inexplicable familiarity, like you’d crossed paths in another life.

"Thank you for the flowers," you said softly, just to break the silence, just to breathe again.

He smiled, fingers toying with the edge of his cup. "I wanted you to have something beautiful."

The conversation flowed easily after that, winding through lazy anecdotes and silences that felt more comforting than empty. He told you about the first time he picked up a guitar, how the strings bit into his fingertips until they bled, how he learned to love the sting of it.

You told him about your favorite hidden spots in London—the old bookstore with dust-draped chandeliers, the hidden garden behind the wrought-iron gate where willow trees dipped low, whispering secrets to the water.

He listened with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. And you realized, with quiet awe, that Regulus Black held onto things—moments, words, glances—like they mattered.

When the tea had long gone cold and the staff began closing up, he walked you outside, the night air cool against your skin. The streets were empty, washed in moonlight and silence. For a moment, neither of you moved, lingering in the doorway of The Violet Hour as if stepping away would shatter the fragile magic between you.

He held the door, waiting for you to step out first, but you paused, turning back to him. "Thank you for tonight," you said softly.

Regulus's eyes softened, his hand still resting on the doorframe. "It's not over yet," he murmured, stepping out to join you.

The bouquet of night jasmines hung between your fingers, petals brushing your wrist like a whisper. His gaze flickered to it, then back to you. "Do you want to walk for a bit?"

You nodded, and he fell into step beside you. The city was quiet, the hum of cars a soft backdrop to your footsteps. You wandered without aim, his voice spilling into the stillness as he spoke of lyrics and late-night studio sessions, of how he always seemed to be awake when the world was sleeping.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, softening as you walked, until it settled into silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that made you feel like you’d slipped into a dream. He stopped at a bridge, leaning his elbows on the stone railing, eyes fixed on the river winding dark and glittering beneath you.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmured, coming to stand beside him.

He glanced at you, moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “It is.” But he wasn’t looking at the water.

A shiver crawled up your spine, but you didn’t pull away. His gaze held you, steady and searching, like he was memorizing the shape of your eyes, the way the light curved against your skin. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat, wild and unsteady beneath your ribs.

Before you could speak, he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. “You have this look,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Like you belong somewhere else. Someplace… softer.”

You swallowed, the weight of his hand still warm against your skin. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He blinked, surprise flickering across his features before it softened into something more tender, more vulnerable. His hand dropped back to his side, and he cleared his throat, gaze flicking back to the river. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure of that.”

A smile broke free before you could stop it, and he caught it, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. The air between you felt charged, electric, humming with words unspoken. You didn’t move, neither did he. The city seemed to pause, holding its breath as if waiting for something to shatter.

But then he stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I should walk you back,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.

You hesitated, part of you wanting to reach out, to take his hand again. But you nodded, falling into step beside him as you made your way back through the winding streets. The silence was heavier now, charged with unspoken promises, with threads you weren’t sure how to untangle.

At your doorstep, he paused, hands still tucked away in his coat pockets. “You’ll be around?” he asked, voice softer, almost hesitant.

You looked up at him, feeling the weight of his gaze settle on you like a familiar ache. “You’ll always find me, Regulus,” you whispered, something ancient slipping into your voice, something you couldn’t name. “If you look closely enough.”

His eyes flashed, something sparking there, quick and sharp. But he didn’t say anything, just nodded once, the shadow of a smile curving his lips. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice rough like smoke.

“Goodnight,” you replied, the door clicking softly behind you, but his silhouette lingered on the other side for a heartbeat longer before disappearing into the night.

One date turned into two, two into three, and before you realized it, weeks bled into months, your days knitted together with threads of conversation and starlight. He’d take you to studio sessions, where you’d sit curled up on the worn leather couch, watching as he poured his soul into lyrics that felt like confessions. 

His bandmates grew used to you, nodding in acknowledgment when you slipped into the room, always with that bouquet of night jasmines he’d given you, now pressed into the pages of your favorite book.

Some nights, he would show up at your door, hair mussed and eyes wild, dragging you out into the night with nothing but a grin and the promise of adventure. Other nights, you’d sit in silence, curled up on his couch, his head resting in your lap as you combed gentle fingers through his hair, the weight of the world slipping off his shoulders for just a while.

Regulus Black, the rockstar with the sharp eyes and sharper words, had become a constant. A rhythm in your life that you didn’t want to lose, didn’t know how to lose. And somewhere in the quiet spaces between the chaos, you’d realized you’d fallen for him.

For Regulus, it starts quietly. A whisper of something warm curling in his chest whenever you laugh—really laugh, unrestrained and wild, head tipped back and eyes crinkling at the corners. He isn’t sure when it begins, exactly.

Maybe it’s that night on the rooftop when you look out over the city like you own every fractured light, whispering the kind of secrets you don’t tell just anyone. Or maybe it’s that afternoon in the hidden garden behind the studio, your dress catching in the breeze as you twirl beneath the willow trees, unburdened by the weight of expectation that seems to press on everyone else.

Regulus begins to notice things. The way your fingers drum absentmindedly against your thigh when you’re deep in thought, mirroring the rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. The way you always pause before you speak, like you want to taste the words before offering them up. He likes that about you—that you never speak just to fill the silence.

But it’s more than that. It’s the way you never flinch from his darkness, the way you meet it head-on, unafraid. The way you see past the sharp edges and the carefully constructed walls, down to the parts of him that still bleed from old wounds. Regulus isn’t used to someone staying. He isn’t used to someone seeing the cracks and not running the other way.

Some nights, when the world grows too heavy, you show up at his door unannounced, rain-slicked and shivering, a smile bright enough to cut through the London fog.

He pulls you inside, draping a blanket over your shoulders, hands lingering just a little too long. You tell him you couldn’t sleep, that the city feels too loud, too restless. And he makes you tea, sitting beside you on the couch, his shoulder pressed against yours as the rain streaks the windows. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to.

When the nightmares claw their way back—shadowy remnants of memories he can’t quite shake—you never pry. You just sit with him, steady and unyielding, your hand slipping into his, grounding him. 

He hates how he shakes, how the dreams steal the breath from his lungs and leave him raw and frayed. But you never look at him with pity—only patience. Only understanding.

Sometimes, when the trembling won’t stop, you pull him close, your hand stroking through his hair, whispering words he can’t quite hear but needs all the same. He doesn’t realize how much it matters, how much you matter, until you start showing up before he can even call.

And sometimes, when the strain of tour life drags him under—when the late nights blur into early mornings and the weight of expectations presses too hard—you steal him away. You pull him out of the noise, the crowds, the chaos. You drive aimlessly through the city, windows down, music loud enough to drown out his thoughts. You never push him to talk. You never ask for explanations. You just hand him your lighter when his hands shake too badly to find his own and lean your head back against the seat, eyes closed, humming softly to whatever song crackles through the speakers.

He doesn’t tell you, of course. He barely tells himself. But he feels it growing, unfurling like wild ivy across his ribcage, wrapping around his heart, squeezing just enough to make him ache.

Soft isn’t something he has ever been. But when you’re around, it’s harder to keep his edges sharp. He finds himself laughing more. He finds himself caring more. He finds himself reaching for your hand without thinking, seeking out your gaze when the room gets too loud, the world too heavy.

It terrifies him. It consumes him. But for the first time, Regulus doesn’t feel like running.

Because you’re there, right at his side. And even when he stumbles, even when he falls into the darkness that sometimes claws its way up his throat, you pull him back. Quietly. Gently. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And Regulus, who has only ever known how to destroy, finds himself wanting to hold on.

The days bleed into one another, heavy with the weight of unspoken things, of glances that linger too long and touches that ache with the promise of something more. But it’s there, hanging over you both like smoke—your departure, the unraveling thread neither of you has dared to tug.

Until today.

It’s drizzling when you find him in that familiar café, the one with the river painting and the soft, perpetual glow of afternoon light. He’s already seated at your usual corner, fingers curled around a cup of black coffee, his expression shuttered and distant. The bells jingle when you step inside, rain clinging to your coat, dripping from your hair. He glances up, eyes sharp and searching, and you can already tell—he knows.

You slide into the seat across from him, and there’s a pause, thick and suffocating. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to shatter whatever fragile thing you’ve built between you, but the truth is a living, breathing thing, clawing up your throat.

“I’m leaving in three days,” you finally say, the words dropping between you like stones.

Regulus doesn’t move. His fingers tighten around the cup, knuckles whitening, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Right,” he says, voice flat. “Three days.”

You want him to fight. You want him to tell you it’s ridiculous, that you can’t go, that London is your home now, that he is your home now. But he just sips his coffee, gaze unwavering, mouth pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

“That’s it?” you press, your voice sharper than you intend. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” His tone is razor-edged, cutting and cool. “You want me to beg?” He leans back, crossing his arms, a picture of indifference—but his eyes, those storm-tossed eyes, tell a different story. “You were always going back, weren’t you? This was just…a holiday.”

You flinch, fists curling in your lap. “You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” He laughs, sharp and humorless, and it cuts right through you. “Because it feels like you’ve been planning this for a while. Like you knew you were going to walk away, and you just let me—” He stops himself, jaw clenched, eyes slipping away from yours.

“Let you what?” you whisper, voice trembling. “Let you care? Let you feel something?”

His silence is answer enough.

“God, you’re impossible.” Your hands shake as you reach for your coat, stuffing your arms into the sleeves with frantic, angry movements. “You know what your problem is, Regulus?”

He raises an eyebrow, arms still crossed, gaze infuriatingly steady. “Enlighten me.”

“You’re a wreck,” you spit out, voice cracking. “You’re an absolute wreck, and you hide behind this—this mask of indifference like it’ll make you hurt less, but it doesn’t. You push people away before they can hurt you, and then you sit there and wallow in your loneliness like it’s some kind of penance.”

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “Stop.”

“No,” you say, voice rising, fists trembling at your sides. “I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of pretending like you’re fine when you’re not. You’re not fine, Regulus. You’re a mess. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you don’t sleep. You think I haven’t noticed the way your hands shake sometimes? The way you flinch when you think no one’s looking?”

“Shut up.” His voice is low, dangerous, but you’re too far gone now, the floodgates wrenched open.

“And you know what?” you continue, leaning forward, palms flat against the table. “You push me away now because it’s easier. Because it’s easier to ruin it before it can hurt. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Destroy things before they can destroy you.”

He slams his hands on the table, and the cups rattle, a few patrons turning to look. But neither of you care. Not anymore. His eyes are wild now, desperation bleeding through the cracks. “You don’t know me,” he hisses, voice trembling. “You don’t know anything.”

You laugh, the sound brittle and raw. “Don’t I?” You straighten, grabbing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. “Then why does it hurt so goddamn much, Regulus?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve reached him, that you’ve cut through the armor and touched something real. But then he straightens up, brushing invisible dust from his jacket, expression smoothing over like glass. “Have a nice flight,” he says coolly, voice steady and indifferent.

You stare at him, at the way his hands clench at his sides, the way his jaw works like he’s biting back words that could split you both open. And for a second, just a second, you swear you see it—a flicker of something in his eyes, something ancient and aching, like the echo of a promise left unfinished. But it’s gone before you can name it.

You turn on your heel, the café door slamming shut behind you with the finality of a tomb. The rain meets you head-on, biting and relentless, but you barely feel it. Your breath comes out in ragged puffs, eyes burning, heart thrumming painfully against your ribs.

You’re a wreck.

The words hang in the air, suspended like smoke. And Regulus, sitting alone in the café with the rain streaking the windows like veins, doesn’t move.

-

The rain is relentless. It drums against the windowpane with a kind of desperation, as if it too is pleading for you to stay. You don’t listen. You shove another sweater into your suitcase, cramming it down until the zipper strains. Your hands are shaking—useless things that fumble with the fabric, that wipe at your eyes even though the tears won’t stop coming. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, but the sob claws its way up your throat anyway, jagged and unyielding.

The knock at the door is gentle. Not demanding, not sharp—just a soft, considerate tap that nearly undoes you right there. You freeze, hand clenched around the strap of your bag, willing yourself to stay quiet. Maybe if you pretend you’re not here, if you stay perfectly still, they’ll leave.

But of course, they don’t. The door creaks open, and Sirius steps inside, rain-slicked and wild-eyed, with Mary close on his heels. Her eyes are wide, mouth parting in something like disbelief when she takes in the mess of your room—the open suitcase, the scattered clothes, the plane ticket peeking out from beneath your coat.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispers, voice cracking on the words. She crosses the room in two quick strides and pulls you into her arms.

You go stiff at first, arms pinned awkwardly to your sides, but Mary’s hands are gentle, and her grip is fierce. You fold into her, just a little, and something in you gives. A sob rips from your chest, raw and broken, and she just holds you, rubbing slow circles into your back.

Sirius hovers by the doorway, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, eyes cast to the floor. When you finally pull away from Mary’s embrace, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, he looks up. There’s no anger there, no sharpness—just understanding, soft and unyielding.

“So,” he says quietly, his voice careful like he’s handling something fragile. “This is it, huh?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I—I just need to go,” you whisper. “There’s no point in dragging it out.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, sending droplets scattering onto the floor. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it cracks something in you that you weren’t prepared for. “If you need to go, you go.”

Mary’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “Are you sure you want to leave today? You’ve still got a few days left… You don’t have to rush off.”

You shake your head, blinking back the tears. “If I stay… if I stay, I won’t leave.” The admission comes out broken, shattering between you, and Mary just nods, like she understands exactly what you mean.

“Did you tell him?” Sirius asks gently, though his eyes already hold the answer.

“No,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I can’t.”

He nods slowly, stepping forward to wrap you in his arms. It’s unexpected, the warmth of it, the way he just holds you, steady and sure. You didn’t expect it, but maybe you should have. Sirius has always been braver than anyone gives him credit for.

“You do what you need to do,” he murmurs against your hair. “We’ll be here.”

You nod into his shoulder, and he holds you just a moment longer before pulling back. His eyes are red-rimmed but steady. He looks like he wants to say something more, but Mary steps forward first, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Promise you’ll call when you get there?”

“I will,” you say, and the words are ironclad, binding.

She pulls you in for one last hug, whispering something you don’t quite catch against your hair. It feels like goodbye. It feels like breaking.

When you pull back, Sirius hands you your coat. “I’ll walk you to the car.”

Outside, the rain is still coming down, sheets of water pooling on the slick pavement. Sirius holds an umbrella over you as he walks you to the waiting cab, silent but solid at your side. When you reach the door, he turns to you, his gaze soft and knowing.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”

You nod, throat too tight to speak, and climb into the backseat. The door closes with a soft click, and Sirius taps the roof twice before stepping back, his figure blurring through the rain-slicked glass.

You don’t look back. Not even when the car pulls away, not even when the city blurs behind you in streaks of gray and gold. You just watch the rain splatter against the window and wonder if it’s really possible to miss someone who isn’t yours to keep.

The airport is suffocating. The lights are too bright, and the air smells like stale coffee and goodbyes. You stand in line at the check-in counter, arms wrapped tightly around your chest as if you could hold yourself together just by squeezing hard enough. People move around you—families chattering in rapid bursts of excitement, business travelers tapping impatiently at their watches, lovers tangled in lingering embraces. You’re just another face in the crowd, just another person leaving.

You fumble with your ticket, the paper crumpling in your grasp, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat—thick and heavy. It drowns out the muffled announcements overhead, the distant hum of engines. 

You don’t even remember handing over your passport or weaving through security. You just follow the blur of people, head down, eyes fixed on your feet as you make your way to the gate.

It’s only when you’re settled into the stiff leather of the airplane seat that you let yourself breathe. You turn toward the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass, and watch as rain streaks down in thin rivers. 

London blurs before you, all fog-drenched buildings and glittering streetlights. You think of him. His hands, ink-smudged and calloused; the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were something he’d been searching for his whole life without realizing it.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the tear slip off your chin, a warm trail against the chill of your skin. You swipe at it, quick and irritated, but the motion draws the attention of the woman sitting beside you. 

She’s old, with hair like silver threads pinned back with delicate combs, and eyes the color of river stones—sharp and knowing. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, fingers adorned with rings that look older than you are. There’s a soft-spoken elegance about her, like she belongs somewhere ancient and untouched by time.

“Tough flight?” she asks after a moment, voice rich and slow, like she’s in no rush to get anywhere. Her accent is lilting and soft, dusted with something foreign and familiar all at once.

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Something like that.”

The woman hums, leaning back in her seat, her eyes not leaving your face. “It’s the leaving that’s the hardest part,” she says. “Always has been.”

You nod again, throat too tight to speak. You fish your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through photos like you’re searching for something to hold onto. Your finger stops on one—blurry and crooked, taken backstage during one of Slytherin's rehearsals. Regulus is in the middle of laughing, eyes crinkled, hair falling messily into his eyes. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand and flipping off the camera with the other, and you’re just off-frame, your arm visible around his waist. You stare at it, thumb brushing over the screen like you could touch him, just for a moment.

The woman leans over slightly, peering at the image. “He looks at you like you hold the sky,” she murmurs, and you blink, startled.

“What?”

She straightens up, smoothing out invisible creases in her dress, her gaze never wavering. “People don’t look at someone like that unless they’ve known them a long time,” she continues, voice soft and sure. 

“Longer than a lifetime, sometimes.” Her eyes turn distant, like she’s remembering something long buried. “Some loves are carved into the marrow of your bones. You can’t shake them, even if you try.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, sharp and sudden. “I don’t—” You pause, your voice cracking. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

The woman’s smile is a little sad, like she knows something you don’t. “The universe has a funny way of bringing back what’s meant to be found,” she says. 

“Sometimes in pieces, sometimes all at once. But always, always, in its own time.” Her hands fold gently in her lap, rings glimmering under the pale overhead lights. “You know, I’ve lived a long life. I’ve seen people come and go, cross paths and lose each other, only to find their way back again. Sometimes it takes lifetimes.”

You stare at her, the words clinging to you like mist, threading themselves into the cracks of your heart. “Lifetimes?” you echo softly.

She nods, her eyes twinkling with something that feels almost like mischief. “Oh yes, my dear. Souls that are meant to find each other always do. One way or another.” She pauses, then tilts her head, her gaze sharpening. “What’s your name, darling?”

You hesitate for a moment, the answer caught in your throat before you finally release it. “Y/N.”

Her smile deepens, something gentle and knowing threading through the lines of her face. “Y/N,” she repeats, tasting your name on her tongue like it’s something familiar. “I’m Dalia.”

“Nice to meet you,” you manage, voice cracking slightly.

“The pleasure’s mine.” She adjusts her rings, glancing back out the window. “Hold on to that picture,” she says softly. “Sometimes, a memory is all you need to find your way back.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just clutch your phone tighter, your fingers whitening around the edges of it. 

You think of Regulus. His hands, his laugh, the way he looked at you like you were something fragile and powerful all at once. You wonder if he’s thinking of you now, cigarette dangling from his lips, dark eyes staring out over the London skyline.

The plane’s captain crackles over the intercom, announcing the descent. You press your lips together, nodding at Dalia before turning back to the window. London is a maze of lights beneath you now, vanishing inch by inch into clouds and distance.

When the plane finally lands, your hands are trembling. You fumble for your phone, nearly dropping it as you swipe to Regulus's contact. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the call button, heart thrumming like it’s about to break right out of your chest. Then, before you can think better of it, you press call.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

You hold your breath, eyes squeezing shut, his name burning against the screen.

But there’s nothing. Just the hollow, empty echo of his voicemail, his voice scratchy and distant: “You know what to do.”

You navigate through the crowd on autopilot, head bowed, hands clenched tightly around the strap of your bag. Outside, the sky is smeared with twilight, the city humming beneath it, stretching wide and indifferent.

You’re just about to step out onto the curb when your phone vibrates in your pocket, a sharp jolt against your hip. You pull it out, screen flickering to life. A notification flashes, bright and unyielding. Slytherin Live at the O2 Arena – Tonight, 8 PM.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. 7:52 PM.

Eight minutes.

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden, your fingers curling around the edges of your phone. It’s happening. Right now, across the Atlantic, Regulus is stepping onto a stage under a thousand lights. 

You can almost picture it: the crowd screaming his name, the low hum of the bass reverberating through the floor, the way he’d roll his shoulders back just before he took the mic, eyes sharp and cutting through the darkness.

You swallow hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes. Eight minutes. He’s probably backstage right now, cigarette dangling from his lips, letting Barty fix his collar while Evan jokes around in the corner. Maybe his hands are shaking—he always got nervous before a show, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t realize you’re staring until the cab driver honks from the curb, impatient. You blink, snapping back to the present, stuffing your phone into your pocket. Outside, the city waits for you—loud and bright and pulsing with life. But your mind is still somewhere else, somewhere under London’s stormy skies, with him

-

Somewhere in London, the city thrummed with electric light, neon signs flickering like fractured stars against the midnight haze. The streets were alive—pulsing with the rhythm of footsteps and laughter, headlights carving paths through the mist. And in the heart of it all, beneath the glow of towering marquees and thunderous roars of anticipation, a stage waited, shimmering with promise. Somewhere in London, Regulus Black was about to sing.

The stadium was a living thing—pulsing, breathing, screaming. Lights splintered across the dark, casting shattered constellations onto the walls and ceiling. Regulus stood in the center of it all, head bowed, fingers tight around the microphone like it might slip away if he loosened his grip even slightly. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his heart was racing, drumming wildly against his ribs.

Barty slapped him on the back, laughter sharp and bright. “You ready for this, Rockstar?”

Regulus didn’t answer. His eyes were somewhere far away, somewhere with cracked sidewalks and jasmine blooms, with cigarette smoke curling lazily between soft-spoken secrets.

The countdown began. Three fingers, then two, then one. The crowd roared, a beast made of thousands of voices, and the curtains drew back. The lights flared, and Regulus stepped forward, the noise slamming into him with the force of a tidal wave. But he stood steady, unmoved, eyes scanning the masses—not for them. For her. And she wasn’t there.

He raised the mic, and the crowd fell silent, the hush spreading like wildfire until all that was left was his breath crackling through the speakers. He hesitated, jaw clenched, then spoke.

“I, uh…” he started, voice unsteady. He exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for half a second before opening them again, gaze sharp and unyielding. “Before we start, I want to dedicate this one. To a girl out there... in Brooklyn.”

The crowd murmured, whispers flitting like moths through the dark, but Regulus held up a hand, and they stilled. He swallowed hard, eyes bright beneath the stage lights. “I’m not good at this,” he confessed, voice shaking just enough to catch.

 “I’m not good at... saying the things that matter when they need to be said. But she—she made me want to be better. She made me want to try.” His eyes swept the crowd, as if daring anyone to look away.

“She’s not here tonight. I don’t blame her.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “If I were her, I wouldn’t want to be here either.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a second, he seemed to forget there were thousands watching, waiting, hanging on every word. “But if you can hear me, if somehow you’re listening... I’m sorry. For all of it. For being a wreck. For not being good enough to hold onto you.”

The silence stretched, a heartbeat, then two. He licked his lips, voice lowering into something raw and broken. “But I love you. I love you in this life, and I swear, I swear I’ve loved you in every life that came before this one. And if there’s another after, I’ll love you then too. I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he sucked in a breath, sharp and jagged. 

“Because you—you are the only place I have ever called home.”

{very much suggest listening to only place i call home by every avenue, here!!!}

The audience erupted, screams and cries like crashing waves, but Regulus just stood there, eyes locked on the mic, fingers curled tight. “This one’s for you,” he whispered, just loud enough for the words to shiver through the speakers. “I hope you’re listening.”

The first strum of the guitar hummed low and aching, sliding into the melody like a promise, and Regulus closed his eyes, the words spilling out of him like confession:

Leaving your tears on my shoulder while your eyes beg me to stay

We were finally changing It's our luck, we're a little too late

I'd take you with me if there was a way Sorry, don't cut it so I say…

His voice cracked, raw and unrestrained, bleeding into the music with a desperation that rattled the stadium walls. But it wasn’t the crowd he was singing to. It was her. It had always been her.

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

You may be untrue, but I know I'm always coming back, you can bet on that

You're the only place I call home.

The lights flared, illuminating his face—sharp angles softened by anguish, eyes closed as if he could see her there if he only tried hard enough. He poured himself into every line, every word, as if the song itself could bridge the distance, as if the lyrics could bleed into her skin, settle into her bones, make her understand what he never could say when she was in front of him.

Near or far, where you are is where I want to be

Every lonely night

Every drunken fight

Couldn't make it right, I know If it hurts you bad, put it on my tab I can pay it back tenfold

You're the only place I've ever called my home.

His eyes squeezed shut, head tilting back as the drums crashed around him, the guitar screaming through the speakers like thunder. He could feel it, that ache that stretched across lifetimes, that weight pressing heavy on his chest.

If I had my way, you’d fill these empty beds

Someday I'll come back for you And never leave again.

His voice climbed higher, a prayer, a promise, one hand pressed to his chest like he was holding himself together with sheer will alone.

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

You may be untrue, but I know

I'm always coming back, you can bet on that

You're the only place I call home.

The final note hung in the air, vibrating through the silence, lingering like the echo of something sacred. His head dropped, curls spilling forward to hide his eyes, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but stillness. A held breath. A whispered promise.

Then the crowd exploded, screams rising like a wave, crashing against the stage with unyielding force. Regulus didn’t move. His shoulders heaved with every breath, fingers still clenched around the mic. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he looked out over the masses as if searching, as if he still believed she might be there.

But she wasn’t.

And in the echo of the crowd, in the roar of thousands of voices calling his name, Regulus had never felt more alone.

The roar of the crowd still pulsed like a living thing, echoing through the walls of the venue, but Regulus was already slipping through the backstage chaos, his heart hammering with something that felt like hope and desperation intertwined. 

Glittering lights and muffled shouts of celebration blurred around him, fading into static as he pushed past roadies and stagehands, barely hearing their congratulations, their shouts of triumph. His mind was somewhere else—half a world away, where he hoped she still waited. Where he hoped she still wanted him.

Outside, the London night stretched wide and endless, fractured by the rain that came pouring down in relentless sheets, slicking the streets with shimmering rivers of light. He pulled his hood over his head, ignoring the way the water clung to his lashes, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he strode toward the parking lot. 

His footsteps splashed in shallow puddles, the cold biting through his boots, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

His hands shook as he reached into his coat pocket, fingertips grazing the edges of a plain white envelope. It felt heavier than paper should—like it carried the weight of every unsaid word, every reckless heartbeat, every lingering regret. 

It was wrinkled and smudged from where he’d held it too tightly, her name written across the front in his slanted handwriting, softened by the brush of his fingertips.

"Regulus!"

The voice cut through the patter of rain. He turned sharply to find Sirius standing under the dim glow of the streetlamp, the light casting long shadows across the puddles at his feet. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his coat was pulled tightly around him, darkened by the downpour. "Where the hell are you going?"

Regulus paused, his breath a cloud of mist between them. For a moment, neither spoke. The rain dripped from the edge of his hood, tracing icy lines down his cheeks, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled low and deep.

"I’m going to Brooklyn," Regulus said finally, voice raw but certain. He took a step forward, fingers still tight around the envelope. "I already booked a flight. Leaves in a few hours."

Sirius’s brow furrowed, disbelief flickering across his face. "Are you out of your mind? You just walked off stage, Regulus. What the hell are you doing?"

Regulus’s jaw clenched. He looked down at the envelope in his hand, the corners crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it. "I have to find her," he whispered, voice soft but threaded with something unbreakable. 

"I love her, Sirius. I love her in ways I didn’t even know I could. And I’ve been a bloody coward. I’ve been selfish and cruel and—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "But I can’t let it end like this. I won’t."

Sirius’s gaze softened, something tender slipping into the sharp lines of his expression. He stepped closer, rain dripping from his collar, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "You really think you can fix it?"

Regulus’s eyes darkened with resolve. "I have to try," he murmured. "I should have tried sooner."

A silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken things. Finally, Sirius’s eyes flicked to the envelope. "What’s that?"

Regulus hesitated. His thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. "It’s...everything I never said. Everything I wanted to but couldn’t. It’s hers," he whispered, voice catching. "It always has been."

Sirius nodded, and for a moment, there was something almost fragile in his gaze—an understanding that neither of them spoke aloud. He reached out, clapping Regulus on the shoulder before his grip tightened, pulling him into a hug. It wasn’t the kind of embrace they were used to—the rough, back-slapping sort that masked feeling behind bravado. This was unguarded, raw, Sirius’s arms wound tightly around him, like he was afraid that if he let go, Regulus might slip right through his fingers.

Rain pounded against their backs, soaking through layers of fabric, but neither moved. Sirius’s hand came up to clasp the back of Regulus’s head, fingers curling gently as if trying to hold the moment together. "You bring her back," Sirius murmured, voice gruff with the kind of emotion he rarely let show. "You make it right."

Regulus’s breath shuddered, his hands fisted into the back of Sirius’s jacket. "I will," he whispered fiercely. "I swear it."

The hug broke with a reluctant pull, Sirius’s eyes shining with something too heavy for words. Regulus stepped back, nodding once, the rain masking the way his eyes stung.

 He turned on his heel, striding through the downpour toward his car. The headlights flickered to life as he threw the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat, rainwater pooling beneath his feet.

He barely registered the wetness that clung to him, his fingers clenching around the steering wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead as the engine roared to life. Tires splashed through puddles that glittered like fractured glass. He glanced at the passenger seat, expecting to see the envelope perched there, but he didn’t notice its absence.

The rain blurred the city lights as he pulled out of the lot, headlights slicing through the sheets of water pouring from the sky. His heart pounded with something fierce and unrelenting as he hit the motorway, eyes fixed on the road that stretched out before him.

Behind him, Sirius stood beneath the rain, water slipping down the collar of his coat, pooling at his feet. His eyes flickered to the ground where they had stood, to the glimmer of white paper half-soaked by the rain, ink smudging and bleeding at the edges. The envelope lay crumpled on the asphalt, abandoned in the urgency of the moment.

"Regulus!" Sirius shouted, voice cracking against the howl of the storm. He bent down, scooping up the envelope, shielding it with his coat. "You forgot this!"

But Regulus was already gone. The taillights of his car blinked once before disappearing entirely into the rain-soaked night, swallowed by distance and desperation.

Sirius stood there, chest heaving, fingers clutched tightly around the soaked envelope. His jaw clenched, and he stared after the place where his brother had vanished, the rain pouring down like a thousand unspoken regrets.

And in his hands, the envelope dripped rainwater, ink bleeding like the echo of words that still waited to be said.

Rain bled from the sky in furious torrents, the kind that blurred the world into streaks of silver and shadow. Regulus gripped the steering wheel with hands that shook, knuckles white, veins taut beneath pale skin. 

His foot pressed hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring against the howl of the storm, and still, it wasn’t fast enough. The rain smacked against the windshield, a thousand tiny fists, blurring the city lights into fractured constellations that smeared past his windows, and still, it wasn’t enough.

I’m coming. The thought thrummed in his mind, a heartbeat, a prayer, a promise. I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming. He repeated it like a mantra, like it could bring her closer, like it could reach across the ocean and drag her back to him. His chest ached with it, ribs splitting under the weight of longing, sharp and unyielding. 

His phone buzzed beside him, vibrating violently across the cracked leather seat, Sirius’s name flashing again and again. He ignored it the first three times. He couldn’t think—not with her face burned into the back of his eyelids, the way she had looked at him, eyes rimmed red, voice cracking with the weight of goodbye.

You’re a wreck, Regulus. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. I know. I know. But I’m trying, I swear it. The rain crashed harder, sluicing down the windows in angry rivers, and his phone buzzed again—persistent, relentless. He grabbed it with one hand, fingers fumbling against the screen. “What?” he snapped, voice cracking like shattering glass.

“You absolute idiot,” Sirius’s voice crackled through the line, urgent and raw. “You left the letter.”

The letter. 

His breath punched out of him, knuckles slackening just slightly against the wheel. He’d written it the night before she left, hands shaking so badly he’d nearly torn the paper. It had taken him three attempts just to get her name right. He hadn’t slept. He’d just sat at his desk, scribbling and scratching out lines, pouring everything onto that single page: the things he couldn’t say, the things he hadn’t been brave enough to whisper when she looked at him with those eyes that saw right through him. He’d poured every raw, aching thing into it—how he loved her in this life, how he would love her in every life, how he would find her if it took him until the end of everything.

And he’d left it behind.

“Reg,” Sirius said, softer now, but the edges of his voice trembled. “Come back. I have it. I’ll bring it to you. Just—slow down, okay? Just slow down.”

Regulus’s gaze flickered to the passenger seat, empty and rain-slicked with water pooling in the seams. He could see it there, folded neatly, her name written in his jagged scrawl, edges creased from his restless hands. He should have told her. He should have given her something real. He blinked hard, the rain blurring into white streaks across his vision. “I can’t,” he breathed, the words cracking on the edges. “I have to get to her.”

“Regulus—”

“I have to get to her, Sirius. I—” His breath came out ragged, shaking. He could barely hear his own voice over the thundering rain, over the roar of the engine beneath him. “I love her.”

He said it like a confession, like a prayer, like an apology. The line went silent for a heartbeat, just the sound of rain crashing like waves against the windshield. Then Sirius exhaled, shaky, fractured. “Then come back. We’ll figure it out. Just turn around.”

But Regulus was already shaking his head, even though Sirius couldn’t see him. “I can’t,” he whispered, voice hollow. “I won’t lose her.”

The rain screamed against the car, drumming its fists against the roof, blurring the world into streaks of gray and shattered light. Water pooled in the dips of the road, headlights shattering off slick pavement in jagged lines like broken glass. He pressed the gas harder, the engine growling, the needle on the speedometer quivering as if caught between fear and fate. His hands were iron on the wheel, knuckles pale, veins thrumming with something raw, something desperate.

The phone lay in the passenger seat, screen aglow with Sirius's name, voice spilling through the speaker like a lifeline fraying at the edges.

Regulus's eyes were pinned to the road, heart a wild, unsteady thing in his chest. “I can’t,” he breathed, voice taut with something unspoken. “I can’t. I have to get to her.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Sirius snapped, voice cracking around the edges. “Just wait out the storm. Call her back. She’ll understand.”

But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not when she didn’t know. Not when he hadn’t said it yet—not properly, not in a way that could be held and kept and replayed a thousand times over. 

He thought of her in Brooklyn, waiting by the phone, her fingertips brushing the cord like it could somehow tether him back to her. He thought of her eyes, wide and wondering, the way she’d looked at him like he was something holy, like he was more than just the broken pieces he pretended not to be.

And then he saw it—the truck, barreling through the intersection, headlights flaring like dying stars. He slammed the brakes, but the rain had turned the world to glass, and the tires shrieked against it, slipping, sliding.

Time fractured. It splintered like bone, cracking open to show him everything he’d never have: her smile in the morning light, her fingers brushing through his hair, the way she whispered his name like it was something fragile and worth keeping safe.

He saw her spinning in the rain, barefoot and laughing, saw her curled up beside him, tangled in sheets and moonlight. 

He saw Brooklyn, brick buildings and graffiti-stained alleys, the apartment window with the crooked blinds and the potted tulips she insisted would bloom despite the cold.

The world tilted. Metal screamed—an unholy sound, something that came from the center of the earth, ripping through steel and bone and memory.

The windshield exploded into a thousand shimmering fragments, glinting like tiny stars as they scattered. His head snapped back against the seat, breath shuddering out of him like a final confession.

The car spun once, twice, the headlights casting dizzy arcs of light before slamming into something immovable.

His phone lay shattered on the floor, Sirius’s voice tinny and desperate, crackling through the speaker. “Regulus! Say something! Please, just say something.”

Rain dripped through the broken windows, pooling across the leather seats, washing away blood and glass and regret. The headlights flickered once, twice, then surrendered to the dark.

Somewhere, Sirius was still screaming his name, voice cracking, splintering, breaking apart like the sky.

“Regulus? Reg, please. I’m begging you. Answer me, please”

But there was only the rain. Only the slow, relentless rhythm of it, whispering against the pavement like a requiem. Only the sound of it washing over everything he’d left unfinished—the letter still clenched in Sirius’s hand, her name smudged with rainwater and the inked promise of a thousand lifetimes that would never come.

Sirius's voice cracked through the static, a thread of hope unraveling into despair. "Please," he whispered, and the rain answered for him, soft and unyielding.

Somewhere in Brooklyn, the phone would ring and ring, its call unanswered, its promise unfulfilled.

And the jasmines would bloom anyway, bright and stubborn against the gray, as if hope could grow in the absence of everything.

Seven Years Later.

London is colder than you remember. The rain hasn’t stopped since you arrived, slipping down glass panes like ghosts running from the sky. The city is heavy with fog, the kind that clings to your coat and settles in your lungs, turning every breath into smoke. You pull your scarf tighter around your neck, hands trembling from the chill—or maybe it’s something else entirely.

The bell above the door of the café jingles when you step inside. The sound is bright and familiar, a soft echo of another time.

The café hasn’t changed—still caught in its delicate Victorian splendor, walls lined with paintings of rivers and gardens, chandeliers hanging low like stars trapped in crystal. You pause, rainwater pooling at your feet, eyes trailing across the room until you find it.

Your spot. His spot.

It’s empty, of course. The small, round table by the window that overlooks the street. You make your way over, fingers brushing the back of the chair before you sink into it.

The seat sighs beneath your weight, as if it, too, remembers. As if it, too, is holding grief in its bones.

Outside, London breathes with its usual indifference. Cars push through puddles, umbrellas bloom and fold, people blur past in streaks of grey and black. You watch them for a while, eyes unfocused, chin resting on your hand. Time moves differently here. It always has.

The waitress—Margot, you think her name is—approaches with a gentle smile. She’s older now, hair streaked with silver, eyes still as soft as you remember. “Back again, love?” she asks, voice hushed as if anything louder might shatter you.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Back again.”

Margot’s gaze flickers to the empty chair across from you, and something like pity settles into her features. “The usual, then?”

“Yes, please.”

She disappears into the back, leaving you alone with the rain and the silence and the memory of him. You pull your hands into your lap, fingers brushing against the edge of the envelope.

It’s worn now, edges fraying, the ink smudged from where your hands have held it too tightly, too often. Regulus’ handwriting sprawled across the front, looping and sharp—To My Fate

You hadn’t opened it. Not yet. Not ever. It had arrived a week after the crash, left on your doorstep with Sirius’s handwriting scrawled on the side: I think this belongs to you.

You remember the way his voice had cracked when he handed it to you, eyes rimmed red and jaw clenched like he was holding the whole world together with his teeth.

You run your thumb over the edges of the letter, feeling the weight of it press against your palm.

Seven years, and you still can’t bring yourself to look inside. Seven years, and the wound still bleeds, fresh and aching, every time you think of him.

You glance up, and your breath catches. For a moment, just a flicker, you could have sworn you saw him—leaned back in that chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest.

His hair would be a little longer now, maybe. He’d probably still wear those ridiculous rings, the ones that clinked against guitar strings when he played. He’d still smile like it hurt, all soft edges and unspoken things.

But he’s not there. He never is.

The tea arrives, steam curling from the surface like whispers, and you thank Margot with a nod. She hesitates before leaving, her hand squeezing your shoulder gently, as if she knows. Maybe she does. Maybe she’s seen the way you come back here every year, how you sit alone and watch the rain and hold that letter like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

You look back out the window. Across the street, a willow tree leans heavy with rain, branches dipping low enough to brush the pavement. Your chest tightens.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

Your fingers curl around the letter. It’s soft from age, familiar in your hands, and you know if you opened it, if you unfolded the paper and looked at his words, it would unravel you.

Seven years of distance would collapse into a heartbeat, and you’d be nineteen again, watching him on that stage, your heart in your throat and his voice cracking like he meant every word.

“I may be a wreck, but I’m a wreck for you.”

Your tea has gone cold by the time you finally press the letter to your lips, eyes slipping shut. It’s raining harder now, the sky split open with grief. You breathe him in like smoke, like memory, like something you can still touch if you close your eyes tight enough. 

You wonder if he’s out there somewhere—maybe in another universe, maybe in another life—waiting for you by some rain-soaked airport, headlights flashing through the fog, hands tapping nervously against the steering wheel. 

You wonder if you’ll find him there, if you’ll run to him this time. If maybe he’ll still have that envelope pressed against his chest, creased and worn, your name scrawled across the front in his looping, reckless handwriting.

But here, in this world, the rain keeps falling. The city moves on without him, and you are left sitting by the window of a café that still smells like him, that still holds his ghost in the shadows of its corners.

Outside, the willow tree sways, heavy with rain, its branches dipping low like it’s bowing to something sacred.

You close your eyes and rest your hand over the letter, feeling its weight press back against your palm.

Seven years, and still it aches. Seven years, and you haven’t stopped looking for him—in crowded train stations, in the flicker of headlights, in the shadowed corners of every café you step into. You haven’t stopped waiting for him to walk through the door, rain-soaked and breathless, eyes wild with the kind of longing that makes you believe in impossible things.

And then, like a whisper from a dream, Dalia's voice drifts back to you from that airport terminal, the memory of her eyes so steady, so knowing: “Some loves are not bound by time, my dear. Some loves are stitched across lifetimes, always finding their way back, no matter how many times they’re lost.”

You shudder out a breath, clutching the letter tighter, like it might slip through your fingers and vanish into the fog. And yet, you still hold on—still keep that crumpled envelope pressed to your chest as if the words inside are the only thing keeping you tethered.

And maybe that’s all love really is—waiting.

 Holding on when there’s nothing left to hold. Believing, even when the world tells you to forget.

You breathe out softly, fingertips brushing the edge of the envelope, and for a moment—just a moment—you swear you hear his voice in the rain, whispering your name like a promise.

Somewhere, deep in the folds of your heart, he is still waiting at the airport. Still chasing you through the rain. Still driving too fast and holding on too tightly.

And you whisper back, voice breaking on the syllables: I’m still here.

To My Dearest Y/N,

I’ve tried writing this a thousand times. Crumpled pages, scratched-out lines, ink smudged from hands that never stop shaking when it comes to you. I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe with that first night—the one where you dragged that cigarette like you had something to prove. I still think about the way you laughed after, smoke curling around your smile, and how I felt like I’d been set on fire. I never told you, but I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were stubborn enough to stay.

I go back to our spots sometimes. The willow tree by the river where the world felt too quiet, too soft. That hidden garden behind the studio where you’d twirl like the whole universe was spinning with you. And our table at the café, the one by the window with the crooked leg and the chipped porcelain cups. It always rains here. You used to say London was crying for something it could never have. I think I understand that now.

I’ve written songs for you. Pages of lyrics tucked away in notebooks, scrawled across the backs of receipts and napkins. I never played them for you. I was always too afraid you’d hear the parts of me I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But they’re all about you. They’ve always been about you. You make everything else fade away. When you walk into a room, I forget how to breathe. I forget everything except the way you look at me, like I’m something softer than I really am.

I think about you singing sometimes. About your voice carrying through the room, unafraid and unbroken. I think the world would stop if it could hear you. I promised you I'd make you sing for me one day and I plan on doing that. I know I would. 

You always said I was reckless, a mess of sharp edges and bad habits. You weren’t wrong. But for you, I’d try. For you, I’d make sense of all the chaos. I’d carve out a place for you in all the parts of me I never let anyone see.

I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a fool, but I love you. I’ve loved you since that first night, I think. Maybe even before then. Maybe in some life I don’t remember. I love you in ways I can’t undo, in songs I haven’t sung yet, in words I’m still too afraid to say. I love you, and I’m done pretending I don’t. I’m yours if you want me. I’m yours, even if you don’t.

Loving you feels like rooftops under fractured stars. Like stolen cigarettes at midnight, smoke curling in the spaces between us. Like tea dates by rain-soaked windows, your hands cradling chipped porcelain, eyes bright with something I still can’t name. Like having breakdowns in hotel rooms, broken whispers and promises made in the dark. Like dancing in secret gardens and laughing under willow trees. Like looking at paintings we can't name. Like singing songs you have no idea are about you. It feels like every song I’ve ever written, every chord that’s ever burned under my fingertips. It feels like coming home.

I hope you can forgive me. I hope you’ll let me love you in this life.

Yours always, your wreck who’s foolishly in love with you,

R.A.B.

taglist: @kysidctbh @tuttifrutt1 @primroseluna

a/n: so guys? don't worry i cried too..idk why i keep doing this to myself and other people but hey! as the saying goes: if dalia is sad, she will make it everyone's problem!

[andy-15-07]

The Soulmate Connection

Pairing: Pedro Pascal!characters x female reader

Word Count: 4525 | requests are open! (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Ancient Rome (Marcus Acacius)

The sun burned over the Colosseum, its relentless rays glinting off bronze armor and sweat-slicked skin. General Marcus Acacius strode through the chaos of the training grounds, his presence commanding respect and silence. Soldiers moved aside instinctively, their chatter dying down as his sharp gaze swept across the field. Each step he took echoed with authority, his crimson cape trailing behind him like spilled wine on the sands of war.

In the corner of the grounds, Y/N knelt beside a young recruit who had taken a nasty fall during drills. Her hands moved with practiced ease, pressing a damp cloth to the boy’s forehead and inspecting the gash above his brow. The faint scent of medicinal herbs clung to her like a second skin, an aroma Marcus had come to associate with the healer who had become an unspoken presence in his camp. As she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration, stray tendrils of hair slipping free from her braid to frame her face.

“You’ve been busy,” Marcus observed as he approached, his voice low but carrying authority. The young recruit stiffened and attempted to sit up, but Marcus waved him off with a quick motion. “Stay still. Let her finish.”

“And you’ve been reckless,” Y/N replied without looking up, her tone as sharp as the scalpel she carried in her kit. She tied off the bandage with a practiced flick of her wrist and finally met his gaze, her eyes steady and unflinching. “Your men need rest, not endless drills.”

A rare smirk tugged at Marcus’s lips, the expression softening his otherwise stoic features. “A healer with a sharp tongue. I’ll remember that.”

“You’d do well to listen,” she countered, rising to her feet. Though he towered over her, she refused to be intimidated, standing her ground with a quiet confidence that intrigued him. “They’re not machines, General. Push them too hard, and you’ll break them.”

“They’ll endure,” Marcus said, though his tone lacked its usual certainty. “They have to.”

Their exchanges became a regular occurrence in the days that followed. Marcus would find excuses to visit the infirmary, his inquiries about the health of his soldiers gradually giving way to questions about Y/N herself. He learned that she was the daughter of a merchant, her life upended by a raid that had left her orphaned and destitute. She had joined the army’s retinue out of necessity, trading her skills as a healer for protection and a sense of purpose.

“I’ve seen enough death to last a lifetime,” she admitted one evening as they sat by the fire, the flickering flames casting shadows across her face. “If I can save even one life, it feels... worth it.”

Marcus listened in silence, his own thoughts a whirlwind of conflict. He had spent his life taking lives in the name of Rome, his hands stained with the blood of countless enemies. Yet, in Y/N’s presence, he found himself yearning for something he couldn’t quite name—a sense of peace that had always eluded him.

Their bond deepened with each passing day, their connection forged in moments both grand and mundane. Marcus would seek her out during the quiet hours of the night, their conversations ranging from the stars that glittered above to the burdens they carried in their hearts. He found solace in her sharp wit and unwavering compassion, and she, in turn, was drawn to the depth of his resolve and the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

But fate, as it always did, intervened. Rumors of a plot against the empire reached Marcus’s ears, forcing him to leave for a dangerous campaign in the northern provinces. The night before his departure, he found Y/N in the infirmary, her hands busy mixing a salve for a soldier’s burn.

“You’re leaving,” she said without looking up, her voice tight with emotion.

“I have no choice,” Marcus replied, his tone heavy. “Rome comes first.”

Y/N set down the mortar and pestle, turning to face him. “And what of the promises you made? The future we spoke of?”

“I will return,” he said, stepping closer. “If the gods are kind.”

“The gods are fickle,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Marcus.”

He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek. “I swear to you, I will come back. No matter what it takes.”

Their lips met in a kiss that spoke of all the words they couldn’t say, a desperate attempt to hold onto something that was slipping through their fingers. When Marcus rode out the next morning, the memory of her touch lingered like a brand on his soul.

Weeks turned into months, and the letters from Marcus grew sporadic before ceasing altogether. News of his death reached the camp in the form of a weary messenger, his words a dagger to Y/N’s heart. She retreated into herself, her grief a silent storm that left her hollow and aching. Yet, even in the depths of her despair, she clung to the hope that their story wasn’t truly over.

Late at night, she would sit by the fire, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if willing Marcus to return. She whispered his name like a prayer, her voice carried by the wind to places unknown. And though the world moved on, a part of her remained anchored to the memory of the man who had promised to find her—if not in this life, then in the next.

Medieval Dorne (Oberyn Martell)

The sun was merciless in Dorne, its rays caressing the sands like a lover, burning hot and relentless. Oberyn Martell reclined lazily in the shaded alcove of his family’s palace, a cup of Dornish red wine balanced in his hand. The languid heat made time feel suspended, yet Oberyn himself was always a restless force—a man who thrived on movement, passion, and the art of indulgence.

It was in this heat that Y/N arrived at Sunspear, her caravan dust-streaked and weary from weeks of travel. She was a healer by trade, summoned by Doran Martell to aid in the care of the sick and injured in the city’s outskirts. Word of her skills had reached even the ruling family, and Doran, pragmatic as always, saw the value in employing someone of her expertise.

Oberyn first saw her in the palace gardens, where she tended to one of the servants who had taken ill from the heat. Her hands moved deftly, her touch gentle but firm. She was not like the noblewomen who adorned the court, their beauty polished and distant. Y/N was raw and real, her hair tied back to keep the sweat from her brow, her clothes practical rather than ornate. Yet there was something about her—an energy, a quiet strength—that caught Oberyn’s attention.

“Do you always work so hard, or is this just for show?” he asked, his voice smooth and teasing as he approached.

Y/N didn’t look up, her focus remaining on her patient. “Do you always interrupt people who are busy saving lives, or is this just for fun?”

A laugh escaped Oberyn’s lips, rich and genuine. “I like you already,” he said, settling himself on a low wall nearby. “You’re different. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a dangerous one.”

“I’d say the same about you,” she retorted, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding, and Oberyn found himself grinning like a boy caught in a prank.

From that moment on, Oberyn made it his mission to get to know her. He found excuses to visit the infirmary where she worked, bringing with him fresh fruit, wine, and an endless stream of stories. Y/N, initially wary of his charm, soon found herself disarmed by his wit and the surprising depth of his intellect. He spoke of love and loss, of battles fought and lovers mourned, and she saw beneath the surface of the infamous Red Viper—the man who lived as if every day might be his last.

“You hide your pain well,” she remarked one evening as they walked through the gardens, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air.

Oberyn shrugged, his expression unreadable. “We all have scars, Y/N. Some are just easier to conceal.”

“And some fester if you don’t tend to them,” she replied, her gaze steady.

Oberyn stopped, turning to face her fully. “And what of your scars, healer? Do you tend to those?”

Her breath caught, the weight of his question pressing against her chest. “I try,” she said softly. “But some wounds... they never truly heal.”

Their connection deepened as the days turned into weeks, their conversations a dance of words that left them both breathless. Oberyn was captivated by Y/N’s strength and resilience, while she found herself drawn to the passion and vulnerability he so carefully hid beneath his bravado. They were two souls marked by the weight of their pasts, finding solace in each other’s presence.

But Dorne was a land of intrigue, and Oberyn’s life was a web of alliances and rivalries. When a plot against the Martell family came to light, Y/N found herself caught in the crossfire. She was abducted by a group of mercenaries hired to destabilize Doran’s rule, their goal to use her as leverage against the family.

When Oberyn learned of her capture, his fury was like a storm unleashed. He rode out with a small band of loyal fighters, tracking the mercenaries to a secluded hideout in the mountains. The rescue was swift and brutal, Oberyn’s spear cutting through his enemies with deadly precision. When he finally found Y/N, bound and battered but alive, his relief was palpable.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his voice raw as he knelt before her, his hands gently untying the ropes that held her. “I can’t—won’t—lose you.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “You’re not rid of me that easily, Martell.”

In the aftermath of her rescue, their bond only grew stronger. But Oberyn was a man who lived on the edge, and Y/N knew that their time together was fleeting. When he left for King’s Landing to champion Tyrion Lannister, she begged him not to go.

“There’s no justice there, Oberyn,” she pleaded. “Only death.”

“I cannot run from this,” he replied, cupping her face in his hands. “You know that as well as I do.”

“And what am I supposed to do if you don’t return?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“You’ll live,” he said softly. “You’ll live, and you’ll remember me. And one day, we’ll find each other again. In this life or the next.”

When news of his death reached her, Y/N felt as though the world had been torn asunder. But even in her grief, she held onto his words, believing that their story was far from over.

1980s Colombia (Javier Peña)

The humid air of Bogotá felt thick, stifling even in the late hours of the evening. Javier Peña leaned against his desk, eyes scanning the reports that covered the table. The war on drugs was a relentless force, but even the ever-present threat of violence couldn't quite quell the worry gnawing at him. Y/N had been sick for weeks now, and though she assured him time and time again that it was nothing serious, Javier could see the signs—pale skin, hollow eyes, and a cough that wouldn't quit.

Their first meeting had been purely professional. Y/N was a healer who had come to the city to assist with the growing number of injured due to the escalating cartel violence. Javier had been struck by how different she was from everyone around him: calm in the midst of chaos, capable of soothing pain in the way words never could. He had found excuses to stop by the clinic where she worked, asking for updates on the injured, only to leave with far more than he had bargained for. Over time, those visits became personal, the line between work and something deeper blurring in ways neither of them had expected.

Tonight, however, was different. Her condition had worsened, and he had asked her to meet him, hoping she would finally admit the extent of it. The door to the small apartment creaked open, and Y/N stepped inside, her presence as magnetic as always, despite the illness that weighed her down.

"You look like you've been working yourself to the bone," he said, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. "You should be resting."

Y/N gave him a half-hearted smile as she set down her bag. "I told you, it's nothing. Just a little fever."

Javier didn’t buy it, but he didn't push either. Instead, he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Y/N. This fight, this constant danger, it's not the only thing on my mind anymore."

Her gaze softened, and she sat down beside him. "Javi, I knew who you were when I met you. The risks, the danger, they come with the job. But you're not alone in this."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their unspoken connection filling the space between them. But as the night wore on, the reality of Y/N’s condition became more apparent. When she tried to stand, her legs buckled beneath her, and Javier caught her, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Y/N..." His voice cracked, a rare break in his otherwise composed demeanor.

"I'm sorry, Javier," she whispered, her voice faint. "I didn’t want you to worry."

"You don’t have to do this alone," he insisted, holding her close. "You’ve been a part of this fight with me from the beginning, and I’m not going anywhere."

But as much as he wanted to believe those words, Javier knew the truth. The doctors had warned him that the illness Y/N was fighting was too far advanced, that there were no more options. And now, as he held her in his arms, it felt as though the clock was ticking down on the time they had left.

In the days that followed, Javier found himself in a battle not against cartels, but against time itself. He spent every possible moment with her, trying to keep her spirits up as her health deteriorated. The clinic was full of wounded bodies, but it was Y/N’s fragile one that haunted him.

"Promise me something," she whispered one night, her voice barely audible. "If I don't make it... don’t let this break you. You have to keep fighting."

Javier’s breath hitched in his throat, but he nodded. "I promise, Y/N. I’ll carry you with me, always."

Her hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers cool against his skin. "In another life, maybe we could have had more time."

Javier felt his chest tighten. "In another life," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion.

The night Y/N passed, the city outside seemed quieter than usual, as though even the world itself was mourning her loss. Javier sat by her side, his hand clasped in hers, as the light slowly left her eyes. And in that moment, he promised her, just as he had when they first met, that no matter what, he would carry her memory with him—for in this life or the next, they would find each other again.

Post-apocalyptic America (Joel Miller)

The world outside the small cabin was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that spoke of impending doom. Dust settled in the corners, and the dim light filtered in through broken windows, casting long shadows on the cracked floor. Joel and Y/N sat on opposite sides of a weathered table, their bodies worn and their minds racing, as the unmistakable symptoms of the infection began to creep over them.

They had known it was inevitable. The bite marks on their arms had not been deep, but the fever, the dizziness, the way their bodies felt foreign as the infection spread—it was all too familiar. Joel had seen it happen before to others, and he knew the pattern. There would be no cure. No miracle. They weren’t going to make it.

Y/N’s face was pale, her breath ragged, and her eyes carried the weight of a decision neither of them wanted to make. Joel’s own body was betraying him, the strength he’d fought so hard to keep fading with each passing second.

“We can’t let it happen,” she whispered, her voice raw, hoarse. She met his eyes, the unspoken truth between them louder than words. “We’ve seen what happens, Joel. You’ve seen it. The infected—what they become.”

Joel gripped the edge of the table, his hand trembling as he tried to steady himself. He didn’t need to say anything. They both knew. The terrifying thing about the infected was not just the physical change, but the loss of self—of humanity. They would lose who they were. The memories, the connection—they’d all fade away until nothing remained but a mindless, flesh-hungry creature.

“No,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “We can’t... we can’t let that happen to us. Not like that. Not after everything.”

The weight of that final decision hung between them, suffocating. Joel had never been a man for big speeches or long moments of reflection. He had done what he had to do, lived how he had to live, always in the moment. But now, facing the end, he found himself wanting more time. Time to hold her, to savor what little they had left.

Y/N stood slowly, the weakness in her limbs a stark reminder of how close the end was. She moved across the room, her feet unsteady, and pulled a knife from her pack. The blade was dull, but it was sharp enough for what they needed. It wasn’t about speed—it was about choice.

“You understand what this means, right?” she asked, her voice low and steady as she placed the knife on the table. “We end it. We take control, before the infection takes us.”

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, but there was no hesitation in his response. He nodded. “Yeah. We end it on our terms, Y/N. No turning into them.”

The room felt colder now, the silence louder than ever before, as they both stood there, each knowing what the other had already decided. There was no more running, no more hope left to grasp at. The world they had fought for was gone. The people they had loved were gone. And now, it was just the two of them.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she picked up the knife. She took a deep breath, and in that moment, everything that had led to this final choice—the losses, the betrayals, the sacrifices—flashed before her eyes. But through it all, one constant had remained: Joel. Her partner. Her equal. Her everything in this broken world.

“We go together,” she said, her voice breaking.

Joel stepped closer, his face drawn in grief, but his eyes steady. He was a man who had lived a lifetime in fear, in loss, but now, with Y/N beside him, there was no more fear. There was only this—this moment of agency, this moment of defiance against a fate neither of them had wanted.

He took her hand, his fingers cold but still strong. “Together.”

There was no more time to waste on words. Without another glance, they moved, placing the blade against their skin, ready to take the decision that had haunted them both for so long. Y/N’s eyes closed, her grip tightening on Joel’s hand, and they both exhaled one final time, hearts pounding, blood rushing through their veins.

The pain was brief, sharp. The darkness came quickly.

Ordinary World (Pedro Pascal & Y/N)

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the bustling city streets. The world around them was alive with motion—people hurried along, cars rumbled by, the distant hum of conversations blended with the soft rhythm of the urban landscape. Yet, in that moment, nothing felt more real than the quiet, unspoken bond between Pedro and Y/N.

They walked together, side by side, the simple act of moving through the world feeling oddly sacred, as if they were part of something greater than the ordinary life they led. The breeze ruffled their hair, and the weight of the world seemed lighter when their hands brushed lightly, a touch that felt like it belonged in every moment.

Pedro glanced at Y/N, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His gaze lingered, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there, walking beside him. "Do you ever get the feeling that... we’ve been here before?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but carrying the weight of a thought he couldn’t shake.

Y/N met his eyes, her heart giving a little flutter as she felt the same sensation. It wasn’t just a fleeting thought, a passing fancy. It was a truth that resonated deep within her chest. "I do," she answered softly, her voice trembling just slightly. "It’s like... it’s like I’ve always known you. Like we’ve known each other for hundreds of years. Maybe even longer. I don’t know why, but it feels so... right."

Pedro stopped walking, his hand instinctively reaching out to hold hers, as if the act itself was the most natural thing in the world. He studied her face intently, as though seeing her for the first time, but also knowing every inch of her. "I don’t know how to explain it," he murmured. "But every time I look at you, I feel like I’ve been waiting for you—waiting for this moment, for this life, for us. It’s like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be."

Y/N squeezed his hand, a gentle, almost protective gesture. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, but it was the kind of shiver that didn’t come from fear—it was a feeling of being home, of being exactly where she needed to be. "I feel it too," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Every lifetime, every moment... I’ve always known it was you. I just... I just never understood how or why. But now... now I do."

They stood there, rooted to the spot, their hands entwined, the world around them continuing as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. There was an undeniable pull between them—an energy that had been building for lifetimes, for eons, and had finally come to a quiet crescendo in this ordinary, fleeting moment.

"I’ve searched for you," Pedro said, his voice hoarse with an emotion he hadn’t been able to put into words before. "I’ve lived through so much, and I always felt like something was missing. Like I was missing you. But now that I’m here with you... it feels like I’ve found everything I was meant to find."

Y/N’s eyes welled with tears, but they weren’t tears of sorrow—they were the tears of someone who had been lost and had finally found their way home. "I’ve never been afraid of the unknown," she said, her voice steady, though the weight of her words hung heavy in the air. "But for so long, I wondered... where were you? Why couldn’t I find you? And now, it feels like... like I was always supposed to find you. Like this was always the way it was meant to be."

Pedro gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, tracing the path of a tear that had escaped. His eyes softened, the weight of everything they had been through, and everything they still had to face, reflected in his gaze. "I don’t care about the how or the why anymore," he said, his voice fierce with a quiet intensity. "I only care that I’m here. That we’re here, together."

Y/N smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with a love so deep, so unshakable, that it felt as if the entire universe had conspired to bring them together. "And I’ll always find you," she replied, her voice a soft vow, a promise that had been made long before either of them had ever spoken the words. "In every life, in every world, I’ll find you. You’re not just someone I’ve met—I’ve always known you. And we’ll always be together. Always."

They stood there, wrapped in each other’s presence, the weight of time and eternity pressing upon them in the most beautiful, unspoken way. The city continued to move around them, people rushing by, lives continuing, but for Pedro and Y/N, time had slowed. They had found something far greater than the ordinary world around them. They had found each other—soulmates who had crossed paths through lifetimes, drawn together by a force that could not be explained, but only felt.

Pedro leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers. "I don’t know what the future holds, but as long as it’s with you, I’m not afraid of it," he whispered.

Y/N closed her eyes, her soul at peace for the first time in her life. "Neither am I," she whispered back, the world around them fading as all that mattered was the connection between them.

In that moment, they were timeless—two souls reunited, destined to walk through this life and every other, always together.

"I know you more deeply than anyone else, in a way that doesn’t make sense."

Y/N squeezed his hand gently, a tear slipping down her cheek despite the warmth of the day. "Maybe we’ve always been waiting for each other," she whispered, the words carrying an unspoken truth neither of them fully understood. "Maybe we’ve crossed paths in every life... just to find each other again in this one."

Pedro’s thumb gently traced circles on the back of her hand, his gaze never leaving hers. "It’s like I’m meant to be with you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And it feels like... like we’re not just starting something, but continuing it. As if there’s no beginning or end—only us, always."

Y/N nodded, a quiet sense of peace settling over her. "Maybe we’ve always been soulmates," she murmured, the words slipping out like a prayer. "Just waiting for the right time, the right life, to meet."

They stood there for a long moment, the noise of the city fading away as they held onto that shared truth. The weight of past lives, past connections, and the profound sense of knowing each other was more than just a fleeting feeling—it was their history, their destiny, woven together across time.

And in that moment, surrounded by the hum of an ordinary world, they realized that nothing about their bond was ordinary. The love that had carried them through every incarnation, every twist of fate, was now a living thing between them. Their journey was far from over, but they had found each other again, in this life, in this world—and that was all that mattered.

"We’re not lost anymore," Y/N said softly, her voice filled with a quiet certainty.

Pedro smiled, his heart full. "No," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "We’re home."

[pankowcrumbs]

Crush X multiple male actors (Requested)

MasterList

Everyone is crushing on the reader

Reader X Will Poulter, Joseph Quinn, Charles Melton, Kit Connor, Noah Centineo, Timothée chalamet, Chris Hemsworth ,Chris Evans, Sebastian Stan, Andrew Garfield, Austin Butler, Tom Holland, Jacob Elordi, Paul Mescal.

Warfare

There are red carpets, and then there are Red Carpets.

Tonight was the latter. The premiere of Warfare, the newest blockbuster about gritty soldiers, impossible odds, and enough slow-motion action shots to make your head spin. It boasted a stacked cast, all of whom were gathered at the Odeon in Leicester Square looking painfully handsome in their tailored suits and cheeky grins. And then there was me, standing at the centre of the chaos, in a floor-length satin gown that made even the photographers pause.

I wasn't even in this movie I had just been invited to watch and show my support.

I’d barely taken three steps onto the carpet before I heard my name.

"Y/N!" someone shouted. "Over here!"

I turned, greeted by Will Poulter’s signature smirk as he swaggered over, hand in his pocket like he owned the place.

"You know," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, "I was going to play it cool, but then I saw you and forgot how to speak."

I laughed. "Well, you seem to have recovered quite quickly."

"Still not entirely sure I have," he quipped, then winked and walked off.

Before I could catch my breath, Joseph Quinn appeared, seemingly out of thin air. Dressed in an immaculately tailored black suit and looking like he’d just sauntered off a magazine cover.

"Is it just me," he said casually, "or is the air a bit thinner when you’re around?"

I rolled my eyes playfully. "You lot are worse than rom-coms."

"Right, but rom-coms are classics," he replied, grin spreading. "You can’t go wrong with a classic."

I was still smiling when Charles Melton slid in beside me, sipping champagne like he hadn’t just photobombed us.

"If you don’t let me take you to dinner," he said with a completely straight face, "my publicist says it’s career sabotage."

"Bold of them to assume I'd say yes," I teased.

"They’re very optimistic."

Then, Kit Connor. Sweet, boyish Kit, who looked like he’d just barely survived the walk down the carpet without combusting.

"Hi," he said, a bit breathless. "You’re, uh... brilliant. I mean, you always are. I...sorry, I’m rambling."

"Kit," I said, taking pity on him, "do you need a glass of water?"

"I need a new nervous system," he muttered, cheeks flaming.

And just when I thought I might escape into the venue unnoticed, Noah Centineo bounded over like a golden retriever in a tux.

"You’re here! I’m here! It’s fate. We should totally do something crazy. Like start a rumour or a band."

"A band?"

"Yeah, called 'Y/N and the Desperate Co-stars.'"

I couldn’t stop laughing. "You’re all absolutely insufferable."

"We try," Noah said with a mock bow.

As the guys mingled and good-naturedly teased each other over who had the best shot with me (which, apparently, was the main topic of conversation in every interview that night), I ducked into the theatre, cheeks aching from smiling.

Oscars

The Oscars. The pinnacle of Hollywood pomp, elegance, and just enough chaos to make it interesting.

As I walked past a line of press doing live interviews, I caught snippets of conversation.

"Y/N L/N just walked in," one host said breathlessly. "That dress... wow."

"She’s the reason I wore cologne tonight," said Timothée Chalamet, half-laughing, clearly not realising the camera was still rolling.

Behind him, Paul Mescal turned toward the camera with an amused smile. "That makes two of us. I’m not sitting next to him if he smells like desperation."

"Says the man who practised saying 'hi' in the mirror," Timothée shot back, grinning.

Inside, the room sparkled like a jewellery box. Chandeliers glittered above, cameras flashed, and champagne flowed like water. I slid into my seat at a circular table near the stage, only to be met by three stunned expressions.

Andrew Garfield, Rege-Jean Page, and Jacob Elordi.

"Oh wow," Andrew said, eyes widening. "They really just sat you here like that? Without a warning label?"

"I would’ve worn armour," Rege added, lifting his glass with a grin.

"Or at least taken a shot first," Jacob muttered.

I laughed, waving them off. "You three need to relax."

"Impossible," Andrew said, already pulling out my chair. "You’re like a walking plot twist."

Across the room, during another press segment, Austin Butler was being interviewed.

"So who are you hoping to run into tonight?" the interviewer asked.

"Honestly? Y/N L/N. I’d die happy if she just looked my way."

Back at the table, Tom Holland appeared out of nowhere, clearly eavesdropping.

"Don’t let Austin fool you," he said, sliding in with a mischievous grin. "He rehearsed that answer. Twice."

Jacob groaned. "Great. Now Spider-Man's here. As if we weren’t already outmatched."

"Speak for yourself," Rege said, straightening his tie.

I could barely keep a straight face as they gently ribbed each other, their egos only half-serious. It was a playfully chaotic energy, and I was dead centre in it.

And yet, through all the flirting, teasing, and harmless posturing, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next event would bring.

Because if this was the competition... the bar had been set pretty damn high.

Talk show

The Marvel cast on a talk show was always gold. You knew there would be jokes, ridiculous behind-the-scenes stories, and at least one moment that would go viral by morning.

This episode was no exception. Chris Hemsworth, Tom Hiddleston, Anthony Mackie, Sebastian Stan, Simu Liu, and Letitia Wright were all crammed on the couch, bantering like a group of siblings who'd had too much sugar.

The host grinned mischievously. "Now, quick question for the group. Who here has a celebrity crush?"

A beat. Then Chris Hemsworth said, deadpan, "We all do. It’s Y/N L/N."

The room exploded. Everyone started laughing, groaning, and throwing cushions at Chris.

"Way to out us all at once!" Simu said, burying his face in his hands.

Tom Hiddleston laughed softly, blushing. "She's incredibly talented. And kind. And... yeah. You walk into a room and she’s there, you forget what you were saying."

Letitia nudged Sebastian, who was unusually quiet.

"Go on," she teased. "Tell them."

Sebastian gave a lopsided grin, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, fine. I may or may not have a massive crush on Y/N."

Mackie clapped dramatically. "Finally! The Winter Simp speaks!"

Sebastian groaned, clearly regretting everything.

"She's just so... good. Not just talented, but warm. Funny. She makes everyone feel like they matter. And when she looks at you, it’s like you’re the only one in the room."

The studio audience awwwed, and Chris reached over to pat his shoulder. "Mate, that was dangerously close to poetry."

Sebastian shook his head with a sheepish laugh. "I’m doomed."

The host leaned in, grinning. "Well, Y/N, if you’re watching this... consider this your official Marvel fan club introduction."

[lysarion]

( ♗ ) 𝓑𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐋𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝓣𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄

━━━━━━━━ a royalty au sunday series.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: in the glittering glory of penacony’s cathedrals, where hymns are masked with secrets and crowns as shackles, you are not offered a future—but an escape from your family’s garden. branded as “babylon’s treasure”, you are sent across the stars as a prized offering for penacony’s high priest, sunday. 

but you can’t overlook that behind every porcelain smile, a prophecy is whispered—penacony’s first disharmony where the sky choir sings not for joy, but for your inevitable fall. you are blamed, watched, and revered—never loved. your only warmth is the choir’s star and your husband-to-be’s sister who reminds you of simpler times where you spent afternoons lazing around the academy gardens and forgot your duties. 

and your betrothed? he deludes himself into thinking you don’t exist—that your fate will never come to pass, even as he carries the kingdom’s burden all alone.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: use of f!reader, regency time inaccuracies, misunderstandings, miscommunication, manipulation, mentions of abuse, toxic familial relationships, power struggles/imbalance, assassination attempts, religious symbolisms/control, slowburn; will be updated as the series goes on.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: not started.

𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: and here comes another project lined up for the summer. most of the chapters will be lengthy as i love word vomiting when it comes to this au. certain chapters may be taken out or added as this is still a work in progress and subject to change. art credits to @/renjianshilian0 on twitter for the art used on the masterlist banner and to @strangergraphics for the divider!

all works are property of @lysarion do not plagiarize, repost, or translate without my knowledge or consent!

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐈: 𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐘

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐍

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐕: 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐓

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈: 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐋𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓

━━━━ 𝓐𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈: 𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍

━━━━ if you’d like to be tagged please reply to this post! ( 4/50 )

@kurogira @chokifandom @bubbles-in-foam @axolotsofluv

[whimsymoonpages]

chapter 36. moon river and me

cw: wedding, happy tears

evan rosier had never cried over anything with quite this level of theatrical commitment. not at funerals. not at that one quidditch match where his broomstick exploded midair. not even when pandora shaved off his eyebrows “for art.”

but today? today was pandora’s wedding day. and evan was a puddle in pinstripes.

“you’re wrinkling the veil,” you murmur, attempting a gentle rescue mission as evan clutched the shimmering fabric to his chest like it had personally betrayed him.

“i love her,” he wailed, sounding personally victimized by love itself. “she’s my twin. my chaotic, glitter-addicted, kaleidoscope-using twin. and she’s marrying xeno! the boy who once tried to convince her to train fireflies to write poetry!”

“you helped him,” you remind him, prying the veil free at last. evan goes stumbling backwards.

“exactly. i’m an accomplice to fate.” he huffs from the floor, his white-blonde hair contrasting the darkness of his skin.

pandora was perched serenely in front of the mirror, her fingers trailing through a bowl of crushed flower petals and shimmer dust. her gown flowed like spilled moonlight, cascading layers of silk stitched with golden beetle wings and embroidered swirls of constellations. “i still think firefly poetry has merit,” she said vaguely, her voice airy. “xeno agrees. he says the fireflies understand enjambment better than most poets.”

you exchange a look with evan, who was now fanning his face with the veil. “i don't even know what you mean, pans, but you're probably right.” she told pandora warmly.

“and glowing,” pandora replied. “don’t forget glowing.”

in the guest room next door, xenophilius lovegood was locked in a battle with his hair.

“why are my curls like this?” he muttered, pawing at the stringy white curls that cascade down his shoulders. “they’re conspiring against me. they've teamed up with the nargles. BLAST!”

arthur weasley sat cross-legged on the floor, tying his shoelaces with mild confusion. “they’re charming,” he said. “pandora’ll love it. she married you for your spirit, not your hair.”

"she chose me because my head isn't full up with nargles, arthur. and right now, my head is full up with nargles!"

regulus black, perched elegantly on the windowsill like he belonged in a painting , sipped his tea and added, “do you think she’d still marry you if she had a vision of the two of you arguing over nargles for the rest of your lives?”

xeno froze, his hands still tangled up in his hair.. “is that going to happen?”

“probably,” regulus said blandly. “but what do i know."

arthur choked on his tea. “just remember,” he said, recovering from regulus' bluntness. “getting married’s easy. it’s deciding who has to clean the cauldron explosion in the pantry that gets dicey. just know, xeno, it's you. it is always you.”

xeno looked alarmed. “there might be cauldron explosions?”

regulus grinned. “oh darling. love is basically just creative disaster management. especially with you two.”

the aisle was carpeted in soft moss and enchanted blossoms that chimed softly when stepped on. you, looking beautiful as you glow in a dreamlike gown of soft lavender silk and star-thread, walked beside evan, your arm looped in his as he valiantly tried not to cry again.

“you’re radiant,” he whispers, his eyes welling with tears again. “and emotionally devastating. this whole thing is emotionally devestating. she better cry this much when i marry reggie.”

you glance up at him. “you okay, ev?”

“define okay.”

as you walk down the path of rocks and moss to the end of the aisle, you allow your eyes to wander through the rows of wedding guests. you see loads of your fellow slytherins, xeno's family, pandora's mother, plenty of eclectic looking people you had never seen before, and of course, the boys.

james blows you a kiss from the middle row and mouths, ten out of ten. devastating.

you see remus shove him to be quiet as sirius snickers.

regulus followed behind the both of you alone, glancing sideways at the crowd with a mild expression that screamed: i’m here against my better judgment. arthur trailed after, giving thumbs-ups to anyone who made eye contact. what a strange guy.

the ceremony began beneath an arch of fluttering paper cranes enchanted to hum lullabies. pandora and evan’s father wore a suit made of pressed flowers and held his wand like a conductor, swaying slightly as he spoke.

“love,” he began, “is not neat. it’s socks in the sink and toast crumbs in the bed. it’s asking someone if they’re okay and them replying ‘define okay.’ it’s the strange, wonderful alchemy that turns mutual bafflement into a home.”

pandora squeezed xeno’s hand and beamed. her vows are absolutely amazing, as you expect. they scream pandora in every way. 

"i vow to always be the whisper of starlight tangled in your hair, the unexpected twist in your favorite spell. i promise to keep dancing through the thunderstorms of our lives, barefoot and laughing, and to never stop chasing the impossible, because with you, impossible is just a myth." 

you blink back tears as you see how much pandora's words touch xeno's heart, and you have to fight them from spilling when he starts to speak. "my spellbound tempest, my keeper of secret gardens...i vow to be the soft echo to your wild heart, the crooked grin in your quiet moments, the ever-shifting page in your book of wonders. i promise to cherish the peculiar music that only we hear, to hold your hand through labyrinths made of dreams and dust, and to love you like a forgotten charm rediscovered beneath a pile of autumn leaves, endlessly and without question, even if the stars decide to forget their names.”

"i knew you were going to say that." pandora beams before pulling him in for a big, loving kiss.

they kissed to wild cheers, and hundreds of sparkling lights twirled into the sky.

the reception was a swirling, laughter-laced blur. pandora and xeno’s first dance involved hopping, spinning, and a brief moment where they both lay on the floor giggling. you dance with james, who keeps whispering nonsense into your ear just to make you laugh.

"i met some very nice people tonight," you say to james before he spins you around and pulls you close to his chest. "one of them works in the ministry."

"yes, arthur," james nods thoughtfully. "i think he's over in the misuse of muggle artifacts department. bloody loves anything to do with muggles."

you hum. "maybe we should take him to that halloween store!"

james groans and throws his head back. "i'm never going back there again. no way."

“they want to bring their boys by the rescue center,” you murmur against his shoulder, referring to molly and arthur.

“how many boys?”

“five.”

james pulled back, aghast. “five? do i need to build you a mini fortress?”

“yes,” you say solemnly. “preferably with snack compartments.”

“done.”

nearby, sirius dips remus dramatically. remus rolls his eyes, but didn’t resist.

“i think,” remus whispers against siri's ear. “i might just have to give you those ten rings, sirius black.”

sirius gasped. “you do love me!”

“mm,” remus said, kissing his cheek. “even when you force me to allow you to dip me.”

"i'm good at dipping!"

"yes, pads, but i'm taller than you. i should be the one doing the dipping."

"pish, posh!"

later, the cottage was quiet. you change into comfy clothes—a hoodie that had once belonged to regulus and socks with tiny moons on them—and wander into the living room.

the boys are still in their suits, sprawled across the couch like elegant corpses. remus sits up slightly and pats the cushion beside him. “come here,” he said.

she curled up next to him. sirius dropped his head onto her shoulder. james leaned in from the other side like a sleepy satellite.

“what do you think about us getting married?” remus asks softly, bringing your hand to his lips. "like, really married."

sirius nods, his body bouncing with excitement. “remmy promised me ten rings. that’s at least three for you.”

“are you serious?”

“yes,” sirius says happily, then groans. “not a name joke. not this time. we’re serious-serious.”

"as opposed to sirius-serious." james grins.

you look at each of them—their messy hair, their hopeful eyes, the way they reach for you after all this time.

“okay,” you finally speak. “let’s do it.”

outside, a lone paper crane settles on the windowsill, glowing quietly in the moonlight.

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard

[mariaxxxxx]

The gods also love

Summary:After centuries apart from Kukulkan—the god who left her with a silence deeper than the sea—Yáa K’áak’ (YOU), goddess-mother of the ocean, finds solace in raising two children born from loss and longing. But when Kukulkan returns, long-buried truths rise with the tides, and the past crashes back with divine force. Between ancient currents and immortal hearts, they must face one question: can a love that once shattered them now be what binds them?

Warnings: anguish, cute children, single mother, snake, ambiguous whether there was betrayal or if the children are divine (this is left to your imagination.)

A/N:I wrote this story for @qt-meetyo-booty, who lovingly blessed me with this wonderful idea. I gave my best to create a story worthy of your idea and worthy of you. I truly hope that you like it, and if you don't, just let me know; I'm always open to constructive criticism. My readers, eager for the water daddy, more stories will come, just wait. Once again, thank you @qt-meetyo-booty

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

Work count: 3.186

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Narrated by you, the mother goddess of tides and eternal silences.

You don't remember exactly when it stopped hurting. Time, for us eternal beings, is just a tide that slowly recedes, carrying with it fragments of pain. And even though you are a goddess, made of light and sea and silence, you have known the void—the one Kukulkan left when he turned his back on you, centuries ago.

She remembers the day. The salty smell in the air, his golden scales glistening in the last ray of the setting sun. His farewell was brief, and yet it took ages for it to dissipate from her body. His absence became an invisible presence that whispered in the underwater caves and echoed in the deep currents.

But you survived. And like all mothers created from pain, you were reborn through others.

Attuma was the first. A wild, strong baby, dissatisfied with the fate that the ocean had offered him. You found him in a whirlwind of fury, eyes like a storm, fists clenched as if he were fighting against the world itself. And yet, you welcomed him.

Then came Namora —soft as the foam on the waves, but with a fire behind her eyes that reminded you so...so much of him. Kukulkan . You never dared to admit it, but you always thought the gods sometimes toyed with the fates of children who weren’t theirs.

You raised them with care. With firmness. With a love you had never directed toward anything before. Love without possessiveness, love without end. A mother's love.

It was on a golden afternoon, while the two played among the singing choirs, that you felt the presence.

He hadn't changed. Kukulkan —majestic as a sunken sun, his eyes glittering like restrained lightning. The heart in his chest beat so strongly, so human, so alive, that for a moment you forgot about immortality.

"I came to see the children," he said in the voice that still lived in his earliest dreams.

You hesitated. You felt the water around you shudder, as if the sea itself was holding its breath.

"They're not kids anymore," you replied, feigning firmness. "But they're okay."

He came closer. So close that you could feel the familiar vibration of his power, that electricity that once lit stars in his divine womb.

"You raised them well, Yáa K'áak ' ," he whispered, using the ancient name that no one else dared to speak. The name that only he spoke with tenderness. With reverence.

You wanted to run away. You wanted to swim to the depths where memories couldn't reach. But his eyes... they still knew all the secret entrances to your heart.

And then, for the first time in centuries, you let your defenses down. He saw. Oh, how he saw.

The care you gave Attuma , even in his fits of rage. The way you braided Namora's hair before the ceremonial dances. The stories you told him on moonless nights. He felt it all, he understood it all.

"And you?" he asked, voice low as the deep currents. "Who takes care of you?"

The question hurt more than a thousand goodbyes. Because you knew the answer. No one.

You smiled, one of those broken smiles that gods learn to disguise with wisdom. But Kukulkan was never fooled by you. And there, among the ancient waters, among the whispering shells and the children who would one day be kingdoms, he touched your face.

"I still love you," he said.

You trembled. Not out of weakness. But because, for a goddess, to love is to become vulnerable before the universe. You didn't answer. You just took his hand and brought it to your heart — where, despite time and wars, his name still pulsed like a whisper. Kukulkan . And there, in silence, love began again.

That night, you didn't sleep.

Not that gods need sleep—but you always liked to pretend. You liked to lie among the golden seaweed and listen to the song of the lightfish dancing in the currents, as if their song could lull the parts of you that still dreamed. But tonight, the sea was restless. You felt every swirl, every shift in pressure as if it were your own skin. Kukulkan was still there. Somewhere above the coral bed, watching over the sleep of children who were not his—and yet he looked at them as if they were.

You asked yourself, with a heavy heart: Why did he come back now?

Was it love that survived the centuries... or just curiosity?

Her body moved automatically through her maternal routines. Adjusting the pearls that Namora wore as earrings. Collecting Attuma 's training weapons that he always left scattered as if the world was in constant war. And as she did so, his thoughts infiltrated her. Like a lightning bolt piercing the cracks of her memory.

You remembered the last time he had kissed your forehead. It had been on a forgotten beach, before the first sunken cities. Kukulkan held your hand with an almost reverent care—as if he knew that even though you were made of sea and power, you were still made of pain. He had left because the gods love in silence, but rule in noise. And the two of you... there were too many gods to fit into one destiny.

You swore you'd never give in again. But then you saw him, that morning.

Kukulkan stood at the entrance to the pearly ivory hall, watching Namora train. His eyes were slightly crinkled—not from time, but from feelings too contained, from memories too heavy.

"She has her courage," he said.

You approached without thinking, your bare feet on the damp stones. "And the anger of the father you never had."

He was silent. It hurt him. But you were bleeding inside too.

"I never thought I'd see myself here again," he murmured. "And I never thought I'd see... you like this."

"Like what?" you asked, crossing your arms, raising your chin with the same haughtiness he always loved.

"Beautiful. Stronger. But with a tiredness that wasn't there before."

You laughed. A bitter laugh, loaded with the weight of centuries. "Because I loved alone. And loving alone... is tiring."

There was silence. And then, without warning, he came closer. So close that the tide around you stopped. Time, perhaps, too.

"You did not love alone."

His words came like a gentle current, sweeping everything away. You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your heart was caught between anger and longing. Between pride and the desire to throw yourself into his arms and cry like a mortal.

But gods don't cry. Not where they can be seen.

“You didn’t have to come back,” you whispered finally. “They’re not yours.”

"But you are."

What to do with it? How to carry, again, this love that destroyed cities inside you? And yet... you wanted him. You wanted him to stay. That night, you invited him to sit at the table with the young people. A rare thing. Almost sacred.

Attuma was suspicious, his eyes narrowed as if he sensed a storm. Namora, on the other hand, smiled. "He looks like you when he smiles, Mom."

You hid the tear that insisted on welling up. You hid the tremor in your voice as you answered softly:

"Maybe because one day... we smiled together."

And at that table, under the light of the bioluminescent corals , you felt — for the first time in a long time — that maybe, just maybe, it was still possible to love.

Even after everything.

Even though she is a goddess.

Even though my heart is made of sea.

The silence that followed your sentence at that dinner was heavy, but it had something of reconciliation. The smell of the roasted fish mixed with the freshness of the seaweed. The soft light of the corals illuminated the faces of your children, who were now quieter, observing the unspoken words that floated between you and Kukulkan.

He never needed words, you thought. The power he carried within him was not in his speech, but in the way his eyes roamed the water, as if everything he touched was transformed into pure energy. And his children—his children... the thought that they might not be yours, but his, washed over him with the force of a tidal wave.

Namora was the first to notice him. Always so attentive, she looked at Kukulkan , her eyes shining like dark waters that never reveal their secrets. She had been created to hunt and conquer, but there was something delicate about her, like a rare flower that does not bend to the winds, but blooms among thorns.

"Mother..." She hesitated, her voice a whisper that carried through the stone room. "You never told us about him."

You didn't know what to say. The revelation, so subtle and so long ignored, now seemed to pulse like an electric current that ran through the room. You and Kukulkan had always known, deep down, that his presence was there, even before he became visible.

You looked at Attuma . His eyes were fixed on Kukulkan , but there was no anger, no jealousy. Just... understanding. It was as if he knew, deep down, that this had always been part of a bigger story.

“The gods have no need of words, daughter,” you said, trying to keep the calm in your voice. “Neither do their children.”

Namora frowned, confused. But Attuma —always the calmer of the two—looked at you, his eyes seeming to see right into your soul. “You didn’t tell us,” he said, his voice grave. “And that makes us feel… distant from you.”

Those words cut you more than any coral sword. He wasn’t complaining, he wasn’t demanding. He was just sharing the pain he felt at not having been fully embraced by the truth. Not being truly his, perhaps, had made them both feel like children of a wandering wave—without a source, without an anchor .

It was then that the truth fell from your mouth like the tides breaking against the rocks. "I created them alone," you whispered, "but their hearts... their hearts are made of the blood of Kukulkan ."

The silence that followed was heavy, but there was also something ancient about it, something that sounded like a cry shared between generations of immortal beings, a truth that had never been spoken but that now, somehow, made the universe feel more... whole.

Kukulkan looked at you with a look that mixed surprise and a sadness so deep that you could barely contain it. He didn't speak, but his eyes never left his children, as if trying to find an echo of himself in them.

"How?" Namora asked, curiosity taking over her tone. "I don't understand... you and him?"

“We didn’t know,” you said, more firmly now. “Our fates were not always the same. The blood that runs through your veins is an ancient lineage—and yet, you are mine. I raised you, every second. I taught you to breathe underwater, to see the world not as it is, but as it can be.”

Kukulkan sighed, and for the first time since he had returned, he seemed deeply affected. His presence—always imposing, almost majestic—now became more... human. As if the truth was too heavy for the god to bear alone. His eyes softened, as if the weight of the past was finally becoming visible to him.

"Life... life always has its own ways," he muttered, almost to himself. "I never knew. I never knew... they were with me."

You nodded, speechless. There was no need. The truth was in the air, like a storm about to form.

It was Attuma who, surprisingly, stepped forward. His large hand touched hers, immensely strong and yet gentle. “We don’t care,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “What matters is that we are your family. You made us who we are.”

Namora followed him, her eyes sparkling like the surface of the sea at a still dawn. "You created us with love. And if the blood of Kukulkan runs in our veins, then that is the only bond we need."

Those words were more powerful than any spell, more touching than any oath between gods.

Kukulkan looked at you, and you looked back at him. There was no more distance, no more secrecy, just a silent understanding. He came closer, now not as the distant god who had once departed, but as the father who now understood the weight of fatherhood.

"I am your father," he said, and the words sounded new, like a promise finally being fulfilled. "But you, Yaa K'áak ' , you will always be their mother. You will always be the one who made them."

You didn't answer. You just stood up, walking towards your children. They weren't children anymore, not anymore. But they were yours. The children of Kukulkan , their souls forged in the depths of the ocean and the fires of the sky. Your children.

And in that moment, with Kukulkan by your side, with your children around you, you finally knew what it was to love without reservations. What it was to be complete, without forgetting who you were, without losing who you could still be.

Night descended upon the underwater kingdom like a soft blanket. The ocean was calm, without the furious crash of waves against the reefs, as if the sea itself were in awe. Moonlight filtered through the waters, creating a silvery light that made the corals look like floating stars at the bottom of the world. There you stood, at the edge of the sacred emerald pool, watching your children.

Namora and Attuma trained with relentless discipline, each fighting the elements of the ocean as if they were the forces of nature itself. You had always known that the blood of Kukulkan ran in their veins, but now, seeing them, with their graceful and fierce bodies, like true warriors, you understood the magnitude of their heritage.

“They are extraordinary,” Kukulkan said, his voice low but full of admiration.

He was standing behind you, so close that his presence was like a subtle heat that made the air around you move. You didn't look at him right away, but you knew he was watching the same scene you were. It was as if the energy between you, the same one that had once driven you apart, was now creating a new bond.

“They are everything you and I could ever be together, Kukulkan ,” you replied, turning to him. His eyes shone with starlight, and you felt the weight of his presence beside you—no longer as the distant god who had departed, but as the man who had once been yours, and who now, perhaps, was again.

Kukulkan took a step forward, the tension between you growing with each movement. “I see them too, Yáa. K'áak ' . But more than that, I see their future... and our future.”

There was something in the tone of his voice, something deep and almost intimate. The salty smell of the water, the scent of the wet earth in the background, it all seemed to swirl around you. He took another step, and now he was so close that you could feel his breath, warm and soft, against your skin.

“And what do you see, Kukulkan ?” You asked, your voice a whisper, almost lost among the currents of water that surrounded you. It was not an ordinary question. It was an invitation. Not of words, but of a soul that, at last, allowed itself to feel.

He smiled, a subtle smile, but with an intense glow, as if everything that had happened between you had been a long preparation for this moment. “I see a future where our children, no longer divided between the sky and the sea, become immortal with the strength of both. I see a future where they, under our gaze, will be warriors ... but also, they will be gods.”

You felt his warmth against your side, almost as if the tide had risen, drawing you once more to him. But instead of pulling away, as you had done so many times in the past, you stayed. Stuck.

“I never imagined a future like this...” His voice trailed off a little. “But you were right, you always were. They are the union of everything we were, Kukulkan . And now, perhaps, they can also be what we always wanted to be.”

His gaze softened, as if the years of distance and silence had been a preparation for this—for this new truth. He touched her arm gently, almost as if testing the closeness, as if the words that said nothing still needed to be said.

“I love you, Yaa K'áak ' . I have always loved you, even when the pain was greater than the memory. But now... now I see that the pain was what brought us here. And there is nothing left, nothing that holds me back, that prevents me from making you my consort, my everything.”

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. The truth was there, clear as the moon reflected in water. You felt Kukulkan ’s heart align with yours. The heat of him, the strength of his touch, the heat of desire and the past—it all merged together, creating something new. Something only the gods could understand.

“I love you too, Kukulkan ,” you replied, with a softness that was almost not yours. “I have always loved you. Even when we tried to run away from each other, the sea always brought us back. But now, together, we will be more. For our children... for ourselves. For the future.”

He stepped closer, his voice lower now, more intimate, but filled with deep meaning. “Yes, together, we will be more… not just gods, but warriors. And with you by my side, Yáa K'áak ' , nothing can separate us.”

The words fell, heavy and soft, between the two of them. It was as if the entire world was suspended, as if immortality and humanity met there, in the silence of the ocean, only to be lived between the shadows of the night and the silver light.

Kukulkan touched your face, a gesture so delicate it seemed almost sacred. And for the first time in a long time, you were not afraid to surrender. Not to the force of the sea, not to the fierce currents of fate, but to what lay between the two of you.

The tide that had once separated you now united you, and you knew that nothing else mattered. Eternity would be the stage where you would write the story of your children, warriors and gods, intertwined like the waters that dance in the depths of the ocean.

The kiss that followed was not urgent, but enough to make the sea around them tremble. Wordless, but with promises deeper than any oath a god could make. It was the promise of a future where, together, they would be invincible—not just as warriors, but as those who had always loved each other, even when time tried to tear them apart.

And in that embrace, in the warmth of the ocean, you knew that their war, your war, was just beginning. But it would not be a war of destruction. It would be a war of creation, where in the end the warriors would not fade into the shadows—but would rise, glorious, in the dawn of a new world.

[frayededges-archived]

[ MSG: trint ] i get it [ MSG: trint ] but i think we can take near death experiences down to like one a week [ MSG: trint ] including the mcdonalds ones

REPLY to @blakesque / trinten riley *

[asterifish]

Can I request a Seonghwa x male reader heavy angst

reader and Seonghwa used to date because he and Seonghwa are in the same dance group, Seonghwa then became a trainee which made reader pissed off because he is leaving them. Seonghwa and reader had a fight, then asked if it was really worth it becoming an idol if it meant Seonghwa would leave him. Seonghwa got quiet but before he could reply reader is gone, Seonghwa waited for reader even when he had to go to Seoul, all of his family said their goodbyes and his dance group except for reader.

on 2018 after debut Seonghwa visited jinju again for his family, before asking about reader, his mom then replied that reader and his family moved to another country a year before.

Fast forward to present, Seonghwa meets reader again who is now an actor and a solo idol who became successful and debuted on 2022, Seonghwa saw him during an award show, the same date they broke up, and during backstage seonghwa wants to talk to reader who only ignored him as if he was a stranger. Seonghwa then cried to himself before a certain member comforts him, Seonghwa still loves reader.

And the plot twist to it? Reader got into a car accident during his time in another country, loosing his memories but still wanted to become an idol.

( reader is a month older than Seonghwa, it's not important but I just wanted to tell you whdhehehehe )

~🎀

I've loved you all this time...

Author note: HEYYY!!!! Sorry it took me so long to get to this, I wanted it to be perfect and I had to completely rewrite it🙏

(It was an actual debate between (Still here and ODAAT for this fic😭)

╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩╦╩

Genre: 🫂

Type: One-Shot (words: )

Extra Notes: reminder that ⭐ stands for M/n, and happy reading!! Please feel free to send an ask and lmk if you like this!!

Story under the cut!!

Jinju — 2015

The studio smelled of worn-out sneakers and old wooden floors. Seonghwa could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his chest, faster than the muffled beat of the speakers in the corner. His arms crossed tightly as ⭐ stood in front of him, eyes wide, lips parted, struggling for words.

“You’re leaving,” ⭐ spat, his voice sharper than he meant. “You’re leaving *us*. You’re leaving *me*.”

“It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it, Hwa?” ⭐ blinked fast, but the tears burned anyway. “You said we’d make it together. Same stage, same dream—”

“This *is* the dream,” Seonghwa whispered, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His trainee contract sat in his backpack by the door. “It’s… a step closer.”

“And a step further from me,” ⭐ shot back, his voice cracking. “Is it really worth it? Becoming an idol, if it means you’ll leave me behind?”

Seonghwa opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat bobbed, jaw tense, but the words refused to fall. And before he could figure them out—

⭐ was gone.

⭐ didn’t show up at the dance group’s farewell. Seonghwa’s family hugged him tightly, wished him luck, but ⭐’s absence screamed louder than anything else.

Seonghwa waited.

For days.

For weeks.

But ⭐ never came.

And then… ⭐ disappeared entirely.

---

Jinju — 2018

The first thing Seonghwa did after his debut was come home. His heart felt heavy walking the old streets, now foreign under city lights. His family was waiting, warm and proud. But ⭐—

⭐ wasn’t there.

“Where’s… him?” Seonghwa finally asked his mother, hesitant, as if saying ⭐’s name would shatter him.

She hesitated too. Then sighed.

“They moved away last year,” she said quietly. “Another country. It was sudden.”

His chest tightened.

“Another… country?” His voice cracked on the last word.

She only nodded, sorrowful eyes meeting his.

---

Seoul — 2022

Fate has a cruel sense of humor. The award show glittered, crowded with idols, actors, cameras flashing nonstop. Seonghwa stood frozen backstage, heart clawing at his ribs.

Because there ⭐ was.

Standing under the spotlight. Same sharp jawline, same fire in his eyes—older, polished, successful. A solo idol. An actor. A star.

His heart screamed ⭐’s name.

The same date ⭐ left him. The anniversary of heartbreak carved into his memory.

He tried to approach after ⭐’s speech, weaving through the crowd. His fingers trembled as he reached out, breath caught—

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking, “It’s… it’s me.”

⭐ looked at him. Blank. Cold. As if Seonghwa were nothing more than another stranger in the sea of fans.

“I’m sorry, I—” ⭐ tilted his head politely. “Do I… know you?”

The floor collapsed beneath him. His world tilted.

⭐ walked away.

Seonghwa’s vision blurred as the realization sank like ice into his veins. ⭐ didn’t remember. He *couldn’t*.

Behind him, Wooyoung’s hand landed on his shoulder, grounding him as his knees buckled.

“You okay, hyung?”

Seonghwa shook his head, biting back tears. His voice came out barely a whisper.

“I still love him.”

---

Later That Night

He scrolled through endless articles. ⭐’s face plastered everywhere—award-winning actor, chart-topping idol. ⭐’s name lighting up every headline. And buried in the older interviews…

The accident.

⭐ had lost his memories.

He still chased the dream.

But forgot the boy he promised to never leave.

Seonghwa closed his eyes, fists trembling.

“I’ve loved you all this time,” he whispered to the empty hotel room.

And maybe… maybe one day, ⭐ would remember loving him too.

---

Works belong to @asterifish | reblogs help me a lot!

2023 | © @asterifish

[doodle-pops]

I’ll Wait For You

Amras x reader

A/N: This was based on the Arranged Marriage headcanons I wrote for the Fëanorians a while ago. Enjoy!

Warnings: arranged marriage AU, anxiety attack (minor), comfort, fluff

Words: 2.3k

Synopsis: With the recent union of your and Amras’s arranged marriage and thrust into the world of rivalry, you and Amras find yourselves in the comfort of each other’s company.

The palace of Tirion was a marvel, its white walls gleaming under the light of Telperion. Every corner of the grand hall was adorned with ornate decorations—garlands of gold and silver, and chandeliers that glittered like the stars themselves. Your new family knew how to display their wealth and power, and tonight’s gathering was no exception. The grandeur of the event was enough to take one’s breath away, but it also made you feel as if you were drowning in an ocean of expectation.

You had anticipated a certain level of formality when you were informed of your arranged marriage to Amras. The news had come swiftly, with little time to prepare, and you had barely caught your breath before you were thrust into the role of his spouse. The marriage itself had been a quiet affair, a ceremony marked by propriety and duty rather than celebration. You had accepted your fate with as much grace as you could muster, but it did little to calm the nerves that now gnawed at your insides.

This evening was your first official appearance as part of the House of Fëanor, and you were unaccustomed to the grandeur, to the sheer volume of people—nobles from every corner of Valinor, all dressed in their finest silks and jewels. Their eyes had been on you from the moment you entered the hall, assessing, judging. You could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on you, and you wondered if they could see how out of place you felt.

Amras had been at your side like a quiet reassurance in the midst of the chaos. He was a man of few words, and his quiet demeanour had been a comfort to you in the whirlwind that had followed your marriage. Yet, despite his calming presence, you could not shake the feeling that you were a stranger in this world of rivalry.

The rivalry was heated, an undercurrent that ran through the gathering like a silent storm. Fëanor and his half-brother Fingolfin had long competed in every aspect of their lives, and now it seemed that even the marriages of their children had become another arena for their contest. Each noble family seemed to be evaluating not just you, but the alliance your marriage represented. It was too much—the grandeur, the scrutiny, the sense that you were nothing more than a piece on a chessboard, moved by forces beyond your control.

As the evening wore on, the noise and the crowd began to overwhelm you. Every smile felt forced, every word strained. The music, once beautiful, now felt like an assault on your senses. Your heart raced in your chest, and the walls of the grand hall seemed to close in around you. You needed to escape, to find a place where you could breathe without feeling the weight of so many eyes on you.

Making your excuses as politely as you could, you slipped away from Amras’s side with a murmured promise to return soon. His reply was a simple nod, though, the slight furrow in his brow questioned your decision, nevertheless he had let you go without question. You wound your way through the throng of people, past the servants carrying trays of food and drink, and finally through a side door that led into one of the many corridors of the palace.

The quiet of the corridor was a welcome relief from the noise of the hall, but it did little to calm the storm that raged inside you. Walking quickly, your footsteps echoing against the marble floors as you sought out a place where you could be alone, where you could gather your thoughts and still your racing heart. And it seemed as the corridors twisted and turned, leading you deeper into the palace, you found yourself at the entrance to the gardens.

The scent of jasmine and roses filled the air, mingling with the cool, crisp scent of the night. A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and the sound of running water from a nearby fountain provided a soothing backdrop to the otherwise still night. The path before you was lined with stone benches and flowering bushes, their petals glowing softly in the light of the stars above. Briskly you followed the path, your feet carrying you deeper into the garden until you reached a secluded corner where the night-blooming jasmine grew thick and fragrant.

Here, at last, you allowed yourself to breathe as you sank down onto one of the stone benches, your hands trembling as you buried your face in them. The tears you had been holding back all evening spilled over, hot and unwelcome, and you felt a sob catch in your throat. It was all too much—too fast, too overwhelming. You had barely had time to process your new life, and now you were expected to be a part of this grand family, to fit into a world that felt completely alien to you.

You knew that Amras was kind, that he would understand if you told him how you felt. But you didn’t want to burden him with your fears, not when he had his own struggles to contend with. He was a quiet man, often overshadowed by his more outspoken brothers, and you wondered if he felt just as out of place in this grand gathering as you did.

Caught in your whirlwind of emotions, a soft rustle of leaves behind you made you freeze, and you hastily wiped the tears from your cheeks, trying to compose yourself. You turned, expecting to see a servant or perhaps one of Amras’s brothers, but instead, you found yourself looking into the concerned eyes of your husband.

“Amras,” you breathed, your voice shaky as you attempted to stand. You hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t expected him to follow you.

He didn’t say anything at first, simply watching you with those piercing green eyes of his. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and knelt in front of you, halting your actions, his gaze searching your face for answers.

“Please, no need to stand. Are you all right?” he asked softly, his voice full of concern.

You wanted to lie, to tell him that you were fine, that you just needed a moment to yourself. But the words caught in your throat, and all you could do was shake your head as fresh tears welled up in your eyes.

Immediately, his expression softened, and without a word, he reached out to take your hands in his. His touch was warm, grounding you at the moment, and the gentleness of it made your heartache. “It’s all right,” he said quietly, his voice soothing. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

You nodded, biting your lip as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over again. “I–I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to run off like that…it’s just…everything is so much, and I don’t know how to—”

Amras squeezed your hands gently, cutting off your words. “I know,” he said softly. “It is overwhelming, isn’t it? This is all so new, and…so much has changed so quickly.”

You nodded, biting your lip as you tried to rein in your emotions. “I don’t belong here. I can't fit in…or never,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to…to be what they expect me to be.”

At your whimpers his eyes softened as he reached out to take your hand in his. His touch was warm and reassuring, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You’re not alone in feeling that way,” he admitted. “I’ve lived with my family my entire life, and even I feel out of place sometimes. They can be…a lot.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. He was quiet by nature, often overshadowed by his more boisterous brothers, but in this moment, you saw the depth of his understanding and his own struggles.

“It’s just that everything happened so fast,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I barely had time to process the arrangement before we were married, and now…now I’m here, surrounded by all of this, and it’s like I can’t keep up.”

“I feel the same way,” he confessed. “I didn’t expect things to move so quickly either. I thought…I thought we would have more time to get to know each other, to adjust.”

He paused, his gaze searching yours as if trying to find the right words. “I want you to know,” he said slowly, “that I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be someone you’re not, or that you have to meet anyone’s expectations—least of all my father’s.”

“You don’t truly mean that?” you whispered brokenly.

In response, he offered a genuine smile and a nod of his head. “Oh, but I do.”

You felt a rush of gratitude at his words, and your grip tightened on his hand. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I—I’m so relieved to hear you say that.” You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, and for the first time that evening, you felt like you could breathe. The weight that had been pressing down on you lifted slightly, and you looked at his with newfound gratitude.

Shaking his head, his expression gentle. “Perfection is overrated,” he said softly. “And it’s not what I want from you. I just want us to be able to talk, to get to know each other as we really are—not in feeling out of place. I understand how overwhelming it can be, especially when you’re suddenly thrust into the middle of all this expectation.”

His honesty touched you deeply. You had always admired him for his quiet strength, but hearing him admit his own vulnerabilities made you feel closer to him in a way you hadn’t expected. The idea that you weren’t alone in your feelings, that even someone as composed as Amras could feel out of place, gave you a sense of comfort and camaraderie.

“I’ve always felt like an outsider,” you confessed quietly, turning your gaze to the flowers blooming around you. “Even before all this. I’m not used to being the center of attention, and it feels like I’m constantly under scrutiny now. I’m afraid of making a mistake, of disappointing you or your family.”

While his expression softened, he hesitantly reached out to gently cupped your cheek, turning your face so you could meet his eyes. “You could never disappoint me,” he said with quiet conviction. “And as for my family…they’re a lot to handle, I know. They’re just…well, they’re a passionate lot, and sometimes that passion can be overwhelming. But you don’t have to worry. Take as much time as you need to settle in, I’ll be patient.”

His thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped.

For a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, simply holding each other’s gaze. The garden around you seemed to grow even more tranquil, as if the night itself was offering its blessings to your newfound understanding. The gentle rustling of the leaves, the sweet scent of the jasmine, the distant chirp of crickets—it all became a comforting symphony that wrapped around you like a blanket.

As you sat there, you began to notice the little things about Amras that you hadn’t had the chance to before—the way his hair caught the moonlight, the gentle strength in his hands as they held yours, the quiet confidence in his voice that belied his earlier confession of uncertainty. There was a depth to him that you were only just beginning to understand, and it made you want to know more, to explore the facets of the man who had become your husband.

Eventually, Amras broke the silence, his tone lighter as he said, “You know, I was thinking…perhaps we should try to slip out of these gatherings more often. I’m sure my father and uncle would be too busy trying to outdo each other to notice our absence.”

You laughed, the sound bright and genuine, and it felt good to release some of the tension that had been weighing on you all evening. “You’re probably right,” you said, a twinkle in your eyes. “They seem more interested in their competition than in who’s actually present.”

“True,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “and when I was younger, I used to hide out in these gardens whenever family gatherings became too much. My brothers would be off making a spectacle, and I’d sneak away to find some peace.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the image of a young Amras hiding among the flowers, seeking refuge from the chaos of his family. “I suppose it’s no wonder you found me here, then,” you replied, a hint of amusement in your tone.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “The gardens have always been a place of solace for me. It seems fitting that we’d find some peace here together.”

As the night wore on, you and Amras continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily between you. You spoke of small things at first—your favorite places, your hobbies, the things that brought you joy. And in return, Amras opened up about his own struggles, his feelings of being overshadowed by his brothers, his desire to find his own path.

The more you talked, the more you realised how much you had in common. You both longed for a sense of belonging, for a place where you could be yourselves without the weight of expectations.

As the night grew later and the chill in the air deepened, Amras finally stood and extended his hand to you. “Shall we make our farewells?” he asked softly, sensing that you were ready to leave.

“Sure, why not,” you murmured. “I think it’s high time we returned home.”

Masterlist

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[frayededges-archived]

it made complete sense, and alice had to fight the urge to swat charlie's hand away from her hair. it did look good, but it wouldn't if she started touching it. then there was lydia. "well first of all, you absolutely can." lydia was forgiving like that. sure, she could be absolutely terrifying, but she wasn't going to respond badly to someone trying to compliment her back. "she makes people flustered on purpose, she's used to it." if she was interpreting what charlie said right, both outcomes were compliments towards lydia. she may have stuttered like crazy, but she hadn't insulted her. "besides, she is beautiful so there really isn't a way this went wrong for you.

@frayededges | sister time <3

"Then Lydia said my hair looked cute..." and the blonde was getting flustered all over again thinking about it. Guy giving compliments? Easy enough. Girls giving her compliments? She was an absolute stuttering mess. Her hands came up to brush her hair from her face. "And I'm not sure if I responded your hair looks beautiful too. Or that I think she's beautiful. I don't think I can ever face Lydia ever again."

[dragonsarecool]

Febwhump Day 6 - Forced to Stay Awake

Day 6 - Forced to Stay Awake

A/N: Julian finds himself overwhelmed on the Teplan homeworld. Set during 'The Quickening'.

He was tired.

He was so tired.

He hadn't been this tired since his first year of medical school, where late nights and early morning beverages had been his constant companions.

Julian finished the third cup of his ration-pack coffee, staring wearily around the room. Much to his surprise, moonlight was still peeking through the gaps in the dirt layering the windows. Seriously? Feels like it's been days in here…

He pushed the closest one open and took in a fresh breath of the night air, relieved to be able to step away from Ekoria's labour for a moment. None of the local midwives or physicians had offered to lend their assistance, and despite going out into the streets and pleading with the villagers a few hours' prior, Julian remained Ekoria's sole support and care provider.

But eighteen hours of non-stop labour care was beginning to take its toll on both the doctor and his patient. Despite Ekoria's repeated insistences that he take the time to sleep properly, Julian refused to abandon her.

Yawning so hard he thought his jaw would dislocate, Julian rubbed his eyes furiously as Ekoria roared with another contraction. By his calculations and limited knowledge of the planet's rotation, it was roughly just after four in the morning.

He took a moment to admire the stars, glittering like billions of sequins across the horizon. It'd been a long time since he'd seen them this brilliantly from a planet; the Earth had far too much light pollution these days, and those from the station were usually dimmed by Bajor's rotation.

"GAHHHH! JULIAN!"

The young man was startled out of his sleepy daze. The change in pitch of Ekoria's cry was a promising sign, and he prayed it was indicating that their trial was nearly at an end. He closed the window and rushed back to her side. "I'm here."

Ekoria heaved herself onto her elbows, raising her sweaty hair from the equally drenched pillowcase. She gritted her teeth as she grunted, pulling on the sheets beneath her. "Julian!"

"Talk to me, Ekoria," Julian grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently. "What are you feeling?"

Her only answer was a mix between a scream and a grunt, but it contained all the information he needed. "Are you feeling lots of pressure?"

Muted with pain, Ekoria nodded hysterically.

Excellent. Looks like active second stage is about to commence. "This is good, Ekoria. This is good!"

Without hesitation, Julian sprinted to the kitchen and began filling a bowl with hot water. Hopefully this won't take as long as I think it will.

****

"Push!" Julian ordered, adjusting his hands as a greater portion of the baby's head came into view. "I can see his head, Ekoria. Push! Keep pushing!"

Ekoria only groaned in reply, pulling the bedsheets beneath her into the palms of her hands. She arched her head back, scrunching her eyes closed as she obeyed Julian and pushed. "Gahh!"

He'd barely opened his mouth to coach her through the next push when the baby's head suddenly fully emerged, cringing as he saw Ekoria's flesh distort and tear around the child. He had to dodge to avoid receiving a fateful of blood and amniotic fluid. Ekoria caught her breath before giving another involuntary push, and Julian managed to catch the child before he was spurted out onto the floor.

For a moment, all he could do was stare.

His flesh!…

A weak cry gurgled in the baby's throat. Julian grabbed the nearest cloth and began drying the infant, refusing to stop until the whimper reached a satisfactory volume. The baby began to turn pink, flapping his arms around so much that Julian had to tighten his grip to stop him from falling.

His eyes widened as he took in the child's pristine skin. Taking an edge of the towel, he tried to wipe away the remaining patches of vernix, his eyes scouring every inch of flesh for any signs of the Blight.

"My God!…" Julian could barely contain his joy. He held the spotless child out to Ekoria, giggling with tears in his eyes. "It all makes sense now! That's why there's no antigen in your system. It's all been absorbed through the placenta!"

Struggling to sit up, Ekoria gave him a confused look. The fatigue was obvious in her face, and she panted wheezily for breath.

"Ekoria, he doesn't have any lesions," Julian reiterated tearfully. "He doesn't have the Blight!"

It took a moment for Ekoria to process the news. A few tears escaped her eyes as she ran a trembling finger across the baby's forehead. Her breath rattled in an eerily familiar manner; a cold sweat came over him as Ekoria slumped into the mattress, her eyes fluttering closed.

No…

"Ekoria?!" Julian's voice began to tremble. "No, Ekoria, don't…not now!"

He rubbed her sternum viciously and ignored the disgusting cracks coming from her brittle bones, praying for some sort of response. "Ekoria!"

Pressing against her jugular, his heart sank as the artery remained still beneath his fingertips. He watched her lifeless diaphragm for the longest ten seconds of his life, finally accepting the reality he'd been presented with.

The baby cooed in his arms, and he found his eyes drawn to him. A warm tear ran down his cheek and onto his forehead. Julian hurried to wipe it away, stroking the child's face tenderly.

"Oh, little one," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry…"

A tiny hand clutched around his finger, accompanied by a wide pair of innocent blue eyes.

The baby wailed, and he too began to sob.

[mytangerine98]

Stay with me

Pairing: Choi Era x Kwon Soonyoung

Premise: Premise: At her best friend's wedding, ERA CHOI meets KWON SOONYOUNG—a loud, dramatic lawyer who's her best friend's soon-to-be husband JEON WONWOO's friend and who’s nothing like her type. She swears she’d never fall for someone like him… but fate clearly had other plans.

Inspired by Hoshi's STAY and Kim Se-jeong's LOVE, MAYBE.

Genre: Rom-Com, Slice of Life, Slow burn, Fluff, Enemies-to-friends-to-lover.

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Chapter Two

Definitely, Absolutely, 100% Not My Type

“So let me get this straight,” Seungkwan said, mouth full of kimchi pancake. “You threw her clipboard. Into the air. On purpose?”

“It was an elevation of creativity,” Soonyoung defended, holding his chopsticks like drumsticks. “The clipboard was too... clipboard-y.”

I rolled my eyes and stabbed a dumpling. “You're an elevation of a headache.”

“Ouch,” Joshua muttered. “Direct hit.”

We were all squeezed into the outdoor seating area of the little hanok-style guesthouse Wonwoo booked for his groomsmen. A casual group dinner before the official wedding rehearsals kicked in tomorrow. I’d come reluctantly—Ela begged. I didn’t want to spend more time with him than necessary.

But now he sat two people down from me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, leaning way too close to Vernon as they passed around grilled meat like this was some cozy campfire scene from a movie.

It wasn’t. This was my professional zone. And Soonyoung was ruining the aesthetic with his offbeat charisma and starry eyes that didn't belong at a wedding table.

“Ela, your best friend hates me,” he said dramatically, raising his glass of barley tea. “Toast to my suffering.”

“I do not hate you,” I snapped.

“Progress!” Minghao chirped. “She despises you,” Seokmin clarified. “Big difference.”

Everyone laughed. I didn't.

Later, as the group split up—some moving inside, others staying to clean—I went to the edge of the yard, needing air. A million string lights glittered above us like stars caught in a net. It was beautiful. It should’ve been peaceful.

And yet—

“I thought you didn’t hate me,” came the voice I was hoping to avoid. I didn’t turn around. “I don’t have time to hate you, Soonyoung. I’m busy.”

He walked up beside me anyway, hands in his hoodie pocket. “You didn’t have to come tonight.” “I didn’t want to. But Ela asked.”

“You know…” he began, then paused. “You talk to everyone else. Even Mingyu, and he talks in puppy barks. But you never talk to me unless you’re yelling.”

“Because you’re always doing something to yell about.” He laughed softly. “Fair.”

Silence.

The kind that shouldn't feel heavy, but did.

“I just don’t get you,” I admitted quietly, eyes on the lanterns. “You’re everywhere. Loud. Always joking. It’s like… you’re trying too hard.” His smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes shifted. “Maybe that’s how I survive,” he said.

And then he left.

Just like that.

And I stood there, alone with the lights, my chest inexplicably tight.

Meanwhile, Inside

Joshua elbowed Jeonghan. “Did you see that?”

“Mm-hm.”

“She’s starting to think about him.”

Jeonghan smirked. “He’s been thinking about her.”

“Since the flower girl compliment.”

“Since she didn’t laugh at his tiger joke.”

The two exchanged a knowing look.

Across the room, Seungkwan whispered to Chan, “We're gonna need popcorn for this one.”

The Day Before the Wedding

"Place the centerpieces gently, please! Those roses were flown in this morning, not grown in a field next door!" I yelled, clapping my hands twice as the florists adjusted the table settings.

The venue was chaotic in heels. The main hall looked like a dream already—soft cream drapes cascading from the ceiling, pale gold accents dancing in the sunlight, and florals layered like frosting. Everything was on track.

Until he appeared.

“Kwon Soonyoung, no—put that ladder down!” I barked from across the aisle. “You’re not touching the lighting!”

“I was just helping,” he replied innocently, clearly not helping. “You’re not certified to help.” “You think I’m a hazard?”

“You Are A Hazard.”

That’s when I yelled it. No regrets. Just fire.

“I’m telling you, KWON SOONYOUNG, stay out of my way!”

A beat of silence.

Seungcheol, who was helping Mingyu with a backdrop near the entrance, raised his brows. Wonwoo stopped mid-conversation with Jun. Even Seungkwan slowly turned away from adjusting the guest table placements.

I probably hit a nerve or two. Maybe ten.

Good.

If that meant Soonyoung would keep a ten-foot radius between us, then I was all in.

He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at me for a moment with a strange expression. Not anger, not teasing. Something unreadable. Then he nodded once.

“Got it.”

And walked away.

And just like that, the air felt too quiet. Too… strange. Why did that actually sting a little?

Later That Day

“So you yelled at him again,” Ela said while getting her nails done, her gaze fixed on mine in the mirror. “I didn’t yell. I communicated boundaries.” “You screamed boundaries. You basically declared war.” “I just want this wedding to be perfect,” I muttered. “No clowning, no distractions, no—” “No Soonyoung?” she teased.

“Yes. Exactly. No Soonyoung.”

“Except he’s everywhere,” she added with a little smirk. “And maybe he’s not the distraction. Maybe it's something else that’s bothering you.”

I glared at her. “I’m fine. He just grates on my nerves.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. That smug look on her face said everything.

Meanwhile, at the Groomsmen’s Suite

Soonyoung sat with his head tilted back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“You alright?” Joshua asked, flopping down beside him.

“She hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She yelled my full name,” Soonyoung said, deadpan. “It was spiritual.” “Maybe it’s reverse psychology.” Soonyoung scoffed. “Or maybe I should just stay away like she wants.”

Jun looked up from his phone. “Will you, though?”

The silence that followed said enough.