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solemnlysour · 1 month ago

Note

Ok wait Paul with cute aggression???? I imagined him doing the Darcy hand flex in that fic 😭😭

Hi, hello, I know this wasn't a request but it literally gave me inspo and it took forever I'm sorry—

Summary: The Three times you were just too much for Paul and the one time he acted on it and feared for his life.

Warnings: none besides shaky writing and rushed ending! Word count is 7k! Yikies!!!

He snuck into your chambers.

But it's nothing new— it's an action he's done time and time again since you were children. To play longer, to talk, to find comfort in the arms of his best friend– Paul Atreides doesn't make it shy that your bed despite it not being your bed is his favorite place to sleep, that your room is his favorite place to exist.

“But only when you're here.” He remembers telling you. You were both too young to understand what that truly meant, baby fat still lingering on your bones and limbs too short. “When you're gone I don't like it here.” He whispered to you like it was some type of world-ending secret. “When you're gone, everything that's yours is mine again. I don't like it.”

“I could take it with me.” You had giggled, the thought of packing a whole room up when you left was funny. Where would another bed fit when you had one at home? Where would the dressers or desk fit? What use would you have of all the greens, blacks, and red hawks?

“No.” He had turned to face you then, pink lips drawn into a pout. “If you take it then I'd have nothing to remember you by.”

You giggled again and it made a smile pull at his lips. “Then what should I do?”

“You should stay.”

Paul has snuck into your room countless times when you were both younger, children wishing to be children– clinging to their childhood before it's pried away from them and they're forced to be Grand Dukes and Pretty ladies in pretty, stuffy gowns. But the two of you are no longer children– you are no longer clinging, you'd loosen your grip and let yourself fall gracefully into gowns that left him speechless and tickled his cheeks pink.

Yet, he is left behind, still a boy, still sneaking.

“Wake up.”

You groan, swatting at the hand that prods at your cheek. “Go away, Paul.”

The boy sucks his teeth loudly, poking your cheek again– he pinches your skin with his knuckle and thumb, not hard enough to hurt, only enough pressure to make your eyes pop up in an annoyed glare. “You promised.” He starts loftily, his nose turned upwards in the gentle light that floats in through your open window. It's still night, you can tell by the sleep that still clings to your eyelids and the chill in the salted air. Paul doesn't seem to care that it's night though, “You promised you'd watch the meteor shower with me.”

“You promised me you'd be less annoying.” You mutter turning away from him and his too white pajamas. The moonlight casts a hauntingly blue-white glow against your skin and its light can be seen even behind your closed eyelids– still, you make no move to get up and close the curtains or turn back towards Paul and his pestering. You simply pull your blanket up till it touches your nose and clench your eyes tighter.

The bed behind you dips and the Atreides boy whines– it's a mess of your name, and maybe a curse and he pulls at the blanket. “You swore on it, promised on the brightest star.”

“The star will still shine if I don't go out with you tonight.” You muse, you let your blanket go and he thumps against the bed lamely. His back hits the mattress as you turn, staring at him with a small wisp of a smile. “There will always be another meteor shower.”

In the glow of the moonlight, you look otherworldly. A beauty he's only ever seen in painting or heard in songs– but even then, it doesn't truly compare. A silk hair wrap keeps the hair free from your face, allowing him to trace the slope of your nose with his eyes. The moonlight blesses him with light, gentle enough to hide the sight of his face from you but bright enough for him to trace the curves of your lips when you smile sleepily. It sends a strange pain through his chest and he realizes all too quickly that he wants to kiss you.

He wants to kiss you as if it would take the pain in his chest away, he wants to kiss you because for the lack of better words– you've never been more beautiful than in this moment. He wants to pull your face close and press his lips to yours but then what?

He's never kissed a girl before, hell, he's never truly kissed before. There were pecks shared between mother and son– a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, or nose. There were kisses pressed to hands out of respect and loyalty– There was a kiss back a few summers ago, he was only fourteen when he kissed the first son of Rhylme house. A pretty boy with mismatched eyes and a fanged smile. It was only a peck, a brief brush of lips and he held his breath the whole time in fear he still smelt and tasted like the garlic bread he had at dinner.

It hadn't meant anything, they were just children– boys clinging to childhood and petty little ways they could disappoint their fathers if they ever found out. A kiss that was barely a kiss is all Paul knew and if he kissed you now what would happen? Would you kiss him back? Would you see him as a man and not as he is, a boy?

Paul wants to kiss you– his lips pout and hand twitches at his side but he can't. He won't.

“There will never be another tonight.” He finally says. “There will always be a tomorrow but never another now.”

You only hum, soft and airy– Paul can tell you're already falling back to sleep and he lets you. That strange pain in his chest stopped him from bothering you any more than he already had. “Look out the window, Paul.” When he doesn't move from your side, only gazing at you with the oddest look, you muster a smile. “The stars are falling, Atreides. Don't miss it because of me.”

He blinks, once, twice then he lifts himself just enough to peer out through your window from your bed. Falling meteors streak the sky in a colorful hue of light– they vary from the brightest reds to pearly blues, they fall like danger stuck in an everlasting waltz, some twist and turn around each other in colorful coils, nearly touching but just out of reach from each other. He opens his mouth to speak, to gasp maybe– he's never seen something so, so…

You shift in your bed curling towards the warmth that pours off him and you yawn when he looks down. “Happy birthday, Paul. May the stars always shine upon you.”

Beautiful. The pain in his chest quadruples and he swallows harshly as he tries to blink it away. Paul can not kiss you, not when he was still a boy clinging to his past, a boy clinging to a childish hope that the girl– now a young woman could ever like him back.

Paul can't kiss you but one day, he hopes he can.

***

“Master Atreides.” You curtsy.

“Lady Zalmunna.” He bows.

The two of you make eye contact from your bent positions and you can't help it – he looks truly odd bent at the waist staring up at you– you giggle. A giggle that turns into a deep belly laugh when he raises a brow and dips even lower, his brown curls sweeping across the floor. “I see how it is.” His voice is pinched, a bit nasally but he doesn't move from his bow. He simply turns his head and throws you a grin, “A man bares his honor on his neck when he bows before a lady and you laugh.”

“Only because you look so silly.” You promise mirthfully, your eyes glinting as you wave a hand and he stands straight as a board. “One would think I am the one with a higher position with the way you peacock for my attention.”

Paul's face tints pink under the golden light of the ballroom and he opens his mouth to protest but both your parents had enough of your little song and dance.

“I want you both to mingle.” Your mother sighs. Dressed in a pretty pale pink gown with white accessories, she looks like the odd one out in the sea of Atreides that surround you both. Even you had gone with a neutral gray gown paired with even paler green hair clips and earrings to both honor your host and fit in. “No standing in the corner all night.”

“No gossiping,” Lady Jessica adds softly, though she's smiling at the two of you and there's an inkling in you that she doesn't truly care if you do. “No gambling on your peers. Do not drink too much but–”

“Do not drink too little.” Paul finishes then he groans. “We must look like we enjoy ourselves even if we want crows to peck out our eyes. Must we go through this every time?”

Your mother tuts at him but doesn't answer, taking a step forward to fix the pins in your hair and pinch your cheeks. To add color, she once said. She had found if she pinched hard enough even the darkest skin bloomed a pretty red. “Remember what I told you, dear.”

Right. You try to smile but it's only a pale imitation of your real one. “Of course.” Paul shoots you both a curious look as his father murmurs something to him that makes him smile. “I won't let you down, Ma. I promise.”

“I know you won't.” She says simply. “Do enjoy yourself, now; Shoo, shoo.”

You tuck yourself onto Paul's arm, instantly pulling his attention from his parents. He quickly bids them goodbye before you pull him into the stream of people– you are both greeted as you walk, some bow only to Paul. Pretty girls with their pretty mothers' curtsy deep and low, their eyes searching through thick lashes as they hold a fan over their face. Some bow only to you– a few are girls, the ones you've spent time with within school or weekends at their house. They don't curtsy fully, only half-hearted before the launch to their feet again and pull you into hugs. Some giggle at the sight of Paul and you glare– you know childish songs and taunts hang on their tongue when they wiggle their brows at the both of you and you quickly pull him in a different direction.

Some who bow to you, are boys– men, really. The chubby-cheeked boys who once pulled ponytails and chased girls around with little dead things are now sharp-jawed and tall. They bend at their waist and kiss your hand– they spin tales of your beauty and their admiration for your family in a span of one breath as their stone-faced fathers and bright-eyed mothers watch from behind them. You think you handle it well– you are used to it, already considered a woman and an available one, boys have been bowing to you since you were sixteen, hoping to get in your good books before your mother opened your metaphorical marriage doors.

Now they are blown open and men come and go, some see you as a challenge. A girl raised under a single mother but in the company of some of the universe's strongest soldiers– they enjoy the chase you could offer but you are seldom to run and face them head-on. They were the ones that usually did the running.

Paul Atreides, freshly eighteen and freshly recognized as a man is not used to this. When the ladies curtsied, he had cringed into your side– muttering something about seeing down their dresses as he pulled you away, when the boys kissed your hands and sang to you about your beauty, he didn't try to hide his snort. He met their glares head-on, raising a disinterested brow when he leered at him. Paul Atreides may be a man in age but parts of him still cling to the boy you grew up with and that thrills a hidden part of you.

“Tell me, Paul.” You begin as you both settle in the very corner your mothers told you to stay away from. “What is a woman without her pretty gown?”

Paul blinks. “Nude.”

The look you give him sends him into a fit of chuckles, you wait a moment before speaking again. “I am serious, you know. Outside of the pretty gowns, we are people– with hopes and dreams. Look there, at the girl in the orange–” You point a gloved finger towards a huddle of girls, focusing on the one you've met in passing. “Her name is Basma, her house doesn't matter, not truly when all she wants to do is study medicine and help children.”

“She’s pretty.” He comments and you scoff.

“Of course she's pretty, we are all pretty. We are bred for it, like show ponies. Look, that there is Delora, do you remember her? She used to cry over the littlest things growing up, do you know what she wants to be?”

Paul follows your gaze and frowns at the sight of the girl. She's pretty in a ghostly way– too pale skin, paired with charcoal hair and ruby red lips, she looks like a creature of the night. She moves across the ballroom floor gracefully, bowing her head when spoken to and smiling softly when needed. All of it is very practiced and a far cry from the girl who cried when he looked at her funny all those years ago– she, like you, had seemingly blossomed into a woman overnight. It sparks that strange feeling in his chest, a tight squeeze at his heart– he feels as if he's being left behind again, forced to follow in the shadow of your steps.

“Well?” You draw his attention back to you. “Any guesses?”

“A dancer.” He tries. “She moves like one.”

“Close.” You smile, dipping your head in greeting when Delora turns her head and spots the two of you. Paul rushes to do the same. Your voice drops into a weedy whisper as she draws closer, “She wants to be a singer. Her voice is heavenly.”

And you're right but it's not a surprise, you're rarely wrong– Delora’s voice is a pleasant hum when she says your name, deep, soft, and drawn out. She leans forward and kisses your cheek and it lingers for only a second too long and it hits Paul like a train.

Paul's right-hand twitches as it always does– it twitches when he's overwhelmed, it twitches when he doesn't know what to do, it twitches when he's annoyed. This time, it twitches as he fights the urge to push the girl away from you. There's a look on her face, a look he's familiar with when it comes to you, a look that usually dances across his own– She likes you. Delora with a pretty voice, a pretty face, and high standing in society– she likes you and if she pitched a fit about it she could have you if you wanted her.

She greets Paul dully. It's almost disrespectful seeing as she was standing in his home, in his ballroom talking to his best friend. And he greets her with the same lackluster tone.

“Atreides.”

Crybaby. He wants to greet, but he doesn't. He tilts his head and gives her a once-over that doesn't linger. How could he ever think she was pretty when she was the competition? “Yasu.”

You blink only once, studying the situation with raised brows before you plaster another smile on your face and step in between them. You let your back fall against Paul's chest and hold your hands out– for a moment it looks like you were going to surrender on his behalf but you don't, you grasp the other girl's hands instead. “You look beautiful, Delora. I'm happy you took time out of your night to greet us.”

“Only you, My dear comet–” Paul's hand twitches but the girl continues uninterrupted. “I was sent to ask if you were going to Orbit.”

“Oh!” Your voice jumps an octave and you cast an uneasy glance to Paul for just a moment before facing your friend again. “I would love to, truly but I can't – I already promised Paul I would spend the night with him.”

Huh. Paul shifts behind you and you let more of your weight fall against his chest – it forces his hands to shoot up and steady you at your waist and Delora's eyes are drawn to the movement. She frowns.

“I see…” Her eyes linger on his hands before they slide back to your face with a tight smile. “Well, if you need better company tonight– you know where to find me, Comet.” She nods once and turns so sharply, the ends of dresses snap like two fingers.

“What is Orbit?” Paul questions once the other girl is far enough.

You tense in his arms and try to pull away but he only holds you steady against him. “Paul…” You whine and he only chuckles.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“It’s nothing really.” You start awkwardly, “Orbit or orbiting is a group of us… available people mingling, seeing if we get along without the watchful eye of our parents.” You pause only for a moment to spare him a look from the corner of your eye. “Since this is taking place at your home, we would orbit near the ocean. When it happens at mine, it takes place deep in our garden maze. You should have been invited but I don't think…”

“Delora doesn't like me.” He finishes and you nod uneasily.

“She doesn't like anyone, honestly. But we've been buddies since we started orbiting at the same time. She's soft on me.”

Paul squeezes your hips, drawing you closer to him for several moments to laugh – his nose brushing against the cusp of your ear and a shiver runs up your spine just as he lets you go.“It's because she likes you.”

“Don’t be silly–”

“I’m serious,” Paul says. “She looked like she was going to bite me just because I was holding you.”

“You were holding me rather tight.” You joke, snickering when Paul rolls his eyes. “And I saw the way you were looking at her.”

“You weren't even facing me.”

“But I have eyes on the back of my head, Master Atreides.” You say poshly, grinning as he huffs. He goes to turn away from you and probably to grab a drink off a passing waiter's tray but you step in front of him with a shit-eating grin. “Tell me, Paul, were you jealous?”

Who in their right mind would admit to jealousy, it's a sickly emotion. One that creeps in on you and before you could blink– it swallows you whole, drawing you in its waves of green stomach fluid. Jealousy was something he would never admit to, not to you at least. So he huffs, rolling his eyes instead. “What was your mother talking about?”

You freeze for just a second, your pretty face going blank in the blink of an eye– it's gone as fast he blinks. “What?”

“Your mother told you to remember something.” Paul says, “Don’t tell me it's nothing and don't lie to me. I can tell when you're lying.”

“What? No, you can't.”

“Yes I can– We are not doing this, you aren't changing the subject either. What do you need to remember?”

You have to find a husband. Your mother's voice is a hushed whisper in your ear. Or at least entertain the idea of one. I won't be here forever, I can't protect you forever. You had to find a husband because your mother thinks you're doomed without one– you had to find a husband because when your mother lost your father it had weakened her heart and spirit so greatly that she was ill. You had to find a husband because one day you will wake up and find yourself an orphan with nothing but a title to lean on and your mother thinks a husband would be able to guide you through her loss– to allow you a grace period she didn't get to have.

The thought of it makes you ill– marrying for security rather than love, marrying because your mother said so. She did not care for love if it meant keeping you safe and you had tried to understand it when you were young. You had slipped into dresses too tight, stuffed socks into the heels of your shoe till they fit, you had become a diamond under her pressure but it still wasn't enough. It will never be enough till you have a husband.

“My mother…” You search for the right words, wetting your lips as you do. “My mother's wish is for me to find a husband before my nineteenth birthday– or at least, secure suitors before I take her place as an advisor.”

“But you have suitors– you– a husband? Doesn't she think you are too young to sign your life away to someone who–” Words fail the Atreides boy, his eyes blown wide as he takes a step back and cards a hand through his hair. Flirting, courting was one thing– it was nothing but shy smiles and trading flowers, necklaces, and treats, it was something that you could take a step away from, something to hold off overbearing parents for the season. But marriage? Marriage was a death trap where you each put a foot into a boiling pool of water and wait for the other to jerk away first. One gets away with minor injuries, one gets to heal while the other is left behind with their foot in the water– skin peeling, raw, and falling off the bone.

He has seen the scars his father's first marriage has left him– even if he hides it well, shielding his fear of remarrying under the guise of keeping it open for political reasons, Paul could still see the pink that clings to his dark skin. He can still see the bone. He's seen what marriage did to your mother– your father hadn't jerked away but he had slipped and fell into that pool of water, gone before you truly had the chance to meet him and your mother still keeps her foot in that water because she can't move on.

Paul can't see you like that– he refuses to bear witness to the destruction of you before you are even built. If you crumble because of a weight on your ring finger, he'd follow– he'd always follow because he was your friend, because he loves you even if he can't bring himself to utter the words.

“My life was signed away from me the moment I was born under the Zalmunna name. My mother says my father left me an empire and endless riches but what he truly left me was… a curse. A curse that I must deal with to keep my mother happy– after all she has done for me, I can at least do this for her.” You finally shrug when he couldn't find the words to continue, “I don't mind, not really.”

You lied. Paul can see it in your face, in the way you're starting to hug yourself and shy away from his gaze. He wonders how he's looking at you for you to pull away from him– he wonders if you know how sad you look. How the sadness in your eyes suddenly added age to your face, no longer eighteen, no younger a child but a woman surrendering to her fate.

That strange pain in his chest is back, a pain he only ever gets around you and Paul thinks he wants to steal you away. Steal you away from both your responsibility, from your fates and loveless marriages. He'd take you anywhere you'd ask, he'd do anything you asked at that moment if it meant you would be forever happy. It pinches and steals his breath– the urge to kiss you is back, though it never truly leaves. Void swallow the ball, he wants to scream, to pitch a Delora Yasu-size fit until he gets his way. He wants the void to swallow your fears, your responsibilities, he wants the void to take everything that would ever harm you. Void consume them all if it means he could have you.

“If I could save you from this…” He starts but you wave a weak hand.

“I do not need saving, Paul.”

“Pretend you do. If only for a moment– if only to humor me,” He takes a step forward, his hand pulling yours toward him to lace fingers. “If I could save you– would you let me?”

“This is hardly a proper conversation to be having in the open.” You whisper, you cast an uneasy glance around the room– hoping, willing for someone to be watching the both of you. Basma, Delora, hell– you'd even talk your mother coming over to scold you both to escape his gaze.

But alas, for once, no one even glanced in your direction.

Paul squeezes your hand and draws your attention back to him, his face set in a neutral frown, not angry, not happy. He's thinking, waiting. “If we had this conversation alone, you would hold your breath to make yourself faint.”

Your heart flutters at the memory. “I haven't done that since I was eight.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile–then he squeezes your hand again, pulling you close. “Would you let me save you, Lady Zalmunna?”

He's staring at you again. With that odd look that makes your heart skip several beats, he's staring at you like the world could disappear around him and he'd never notice. You squeeze his hand in return, speaking before you could think yourself out of it.

“Maybe but in a perfect world Master Atreides, I wouldn't need saving. In a perfect world it'd only be me and you and I think we'd be happy.”

Paul pauses for just a moment, his heart thundering. “Are we not happy now?”

“I think we are comfortable. Happiness doesn't feel like a leash and collar.”

You pull away then, clearing your throat. You say something to him but it's lost in his hazy thoughts. You say something about being thirsty, a small whisper about lemonade and he hears himself reply– you nod and stumble away from him with a frown that he's sure he's copying.

In that moment, Paul swears he'd make this world perfect for you.

***

Paul Atreides is toeing a fine line between being annoying or cute.

The day after the ball and the following week– you appreciated the doting, the whispered words of kindness and him checking up on you every few hours through holo-call— something you both hid from your parents, not because you couldn't talk to each other but the fact that they would take the devices away. Fear built on top of old superstition– certain technology just shouldn't exist. We do not need another war.

So, the first week was spent in your rooms in stolen moments, talking, complaining, gossiping. For the first week it was fun, refreshing but as time bleeds into the second week Paul Atreides has become something of a thorn in your side. A cute hazel eyed thorn but a thorn nonetheless.

“Let me help you.”

“No, Paul. I am perfectly capable of going through the archives on my own."

There's a pause and you think, finally, he's given up– he'd slink off back to his room or to bother his father but as long as it was in a different direction from you and preferably two hallways away, you didn't care. But luck was rarely kind to you and almost never on your side because as you reach for the scanner, done with the conversation– done with Paul, he perks up with a smile.

“Allow me to keep you company then.”

Your eye twitches as the door slides upward. “I would be horrible company, Master Atreides. My time here is solely for the information in the scrolls, I fear I can't spare a moment to engage in conversation with you.”

Paul shrugs as if he doesn't care– and he doesn't, his lips seemingly stuck in that impish smile he always has when he is around you. “Your presence will be enough. I know you need to work and I'll be as silent as a mouse until you are done.”

You cast your friend a very wary look, your lips pulled into a deep frown but his smile only widens and he sweeps his arm towards the door. “After you, My Lady.”

Your frown slips just a smidge as you walk past him. You try to remind yourself that he means well, that he taking your feelings into action with most things now and you shouldn't be mad but–

Paul steps on the back of your dress and it nearly makes you fall on your ass if not for his hands shooting out. Your head jerks over your shoulder – ready to spit some type of mild poison at him but you turn your head too fast and it dies on your tongue. Your noses smush together– you both are mere inches apart, breathes mixing and eyes wide. For a moment, your eyes dart to his parted lips without meaning to and his breath hitches– eyes widening, his tongue darts over his lips to wet them.

It's enough to break whatever spell that was casted over you because you tear your gaze anyway, completely missing the hurt that dances across his face as you clear your throat. “I’m sorry.”

“No I… it was my fault.” He whispers. “I’m sorry, just.. pretend I'm not here. Quiet as a mouse, remember?”

You thin your lips with a sharp nod and just like that, the both of you fall into a tense silence. You busy yourself with the scrolls– reading, translating dead languages and making note of what needed to be trashed and what could be saved. In the corner of the room, dimly lit by the glowglobe that floats around the room, Paul Atreides sat pretty– a book he managed to find in the mess of scrolls sits on his lap and he thumbs through the pages quietly but you know he's not reading. You know because every time you looked up, he looked down.

It was almost a game, almost cute. How he avoided your gaze but had no problem gazing at you when you weren't looking– it almost bearable if his gaze didn't feel like he was looking through you. It was as if you were nude with the way he was staring at you and you knew you weren't– you had sneakily checked when he wasn't looking, you still had two layers of dresses on, still had your coat and all your buttons were buttoned up. There was nothing for him to stare at– to… to... what's the word?

Your eyes dart up just in time to lock with Paul's admiring ones. Yes, admire. There was nothing to admire about you in your clothes meant for home and comfort but he sat there as loyal as a painter committing an image to memory so they could remember it when they were alone. It unnerved you. But a lot of things he did nowadays unnerved you– he was always staring, always questioning– always touching you in a way that made your heart pound and your throat dry and when he pins you with that look– the look he has now, it makes your head spin.

“Is there something on my face?”

Paul blinks twice at the harshness in your tone then drops his gaze with a sigh. “No.”

“Then why do you stare at it as if something were?” You press. Your pen twirls between your fingers– if he stopped looking at you when you looked at him, fine. You would simply stare at him for the rest of the time, you got more done than you expected anyways.

Paul looks up for only a moment, his lips twitching. “Has it ever occurred to you that you happen to be pretty?”

Your mouth drops open– then when he snorts after catching a glance of you, you snap your lips shut and twist them into a scowl despite your fluttering pulse. “You jest.”

“I’m not.” He says. “You are very pretty and when you are pretty, people will stare. People stare at you all the time and you never snap at them.”

“I did not snap–!” You stop yourself as he raises a brow at you. Instead, you take a breath and plaster on a smile, “Thank you. For calling me pretty but it is different when we are in a room full of people, I can never pinpoint the person staring at me. When we are alone I can look up and catch you staring at me.”

Paul lets out a long hum as he closes the book on his lap and stretches, long legs thrown over countless scrolls that are probably important. You couldn't bring yourself to care, not when your eyes soak in his bulking form. You curse him in your head, for actually taking training seriously, for becoming a man before your eyes.

“Does it bother you when I stare at you?”

“Pardon?”

The Atreides man crosses his arms over his chest and it's almost cute– the words from earlier haunting you, almost cute if it didn't put his arms on full display as he frowns. “When I look at you does it make you uncomfortable?” A pause, then he mumbles. “I could look at you less…?”

You blink and wow, now you feel bad. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you spin your pen between your fingers as you decide how to answer that– truthfully, you didn't mind that he stared, that he followed after you like some type of puppy or that he hung off your every word. Weeks ago, you think him giving you this much attention would have sent you to an early grave but after the night of the ball it all felt like he was doing it out of necessity more than anything else. That your friendship suddenly became a chore, another responsibility for him as the Future Duke of Caladan– he couldn't have his future advisor be miserable.

If Paul wanted to be around you, fine. If he wanted to pester you and drive you up the wall with his nonsense– also fine, you were okay with that as long as it came from him on his own and not because he feels bad for you.

You hated when people felt bad for you.

“It doesn't bother me.” You finally answer, your pen stilling in your hands. “I don't… I don't mind you staring at me but this look is different from all the looks you gave me before and–” Your eyes dart up and there's a faint taste of copper on your drying tongue as he meets your eyes. “– I don't know what it means. Are you angry at me?”

“Never.” is his whisper of a reply and you scoff, shaking your head. Your heart is thudding in your chest and it feels like it might explode but you might as well lay all your cards on the table while you still have the courage– so you push away from the desk and round it. Paul scrambles to stand as you stop in front of him– his mouth opens but you don't give him the chance to speak.

“It feels like you're angry with me, you've been giving me that look and it burns me, Paul! You say it's not anger but it steals my breath, it makes me ill– my heart aches for something I must have done but can't remember, so you must remind– tell me what I did to–”

A warm hand clamps over your mouth and you flinch, a tear falling from your eye. Trying to take a step away from Paul but his other hand hooks on the crook of your elbow. You try to speak but he squeezes your face just a bit with a shake of his head. “Don’t speak– just let me think for a second.”

You let a second pass, then you frown against his palm. Then, he breathes:

“You drive me utterly insane–”

Your heart plummets and again, you try to pull away but he keeps you in place.

“For every night I laid awake thinking of what I would say in this situation– for all my planning to go out the window the moment you shed a tear, I don't know whether to be angry at you or to kiss you.” He takes a loud, shuddering breath, “So I will say this as plainly as my heart will let me: I'm in love with you. Truly those words don't do what I feel for you justice– I stare at you because I am angry for you. I am angry at the universe we live in and how it's tearing us apart, it angers me you think you need to prove yourself to anyone but yourself–”

He blinks hard then, shaking his head. “I am in love with you, I can't tell you when it happened because I think it was always there and I know you're angry at me and this is not going to help but I can't watch you destroy yourself thinking you did something wrong. I could never be angry at you, you could never do wrong in my heart and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for this.”

Over his hand clamped on your mouth, Paul presses a kiss against his skin. He holds it there for only a moment before pulling back to meet your wide eyed bewilderment. “I wish I could kiss you but I will not force my feelings on you.”

He pulls his hand away. “Paul–”

And all at once, there are more voices than his, all sounding pained– some are hushed, barely a whisper and others are loud, clambering– falling over each other to be heard as your limbs lock. “Don’t speak.”

You want to scream at him. Damn him and his ability to use the voice– you try to break the grip on you but it digs, clawing into your very soul with one command: obey.

“You are going to let me leave… You won't chase me, you'll sit here and finish the rest of your work then you will go home and that's when you'll remember what I said to you.”

No, you want to wail. It isn't fair, none of this is fair! But the fight is slowly leaving your body. You try to blink it away but all that leaves you are tears as he gives you a sorrowful smile.

You blink again and you're at your desk, pen in hand with a distant pinch of heartbreak in your chest. Your brows dips as you cast an uneasy glance around the room– the door is shut but there's a slight breeze in a room that makes your bones ache. With a sigh, you place your pen down as the glowglobe floats its way towards your face– dimming as it does.

Huh. Your hand touches your face as the glowglobe shows you your reflection. Why did you start crying?

***

The memories flood you the moment you kicked off your shoes. It overwhelms you– hits you so hard you stumble back grasping at your chest because with the memory comes the emotion you were forced to forget.

I'm in love with you.

Anger is the strongest emotion– especially when it's directed at someone you love– and you do love Paul, you don't let your mind or your doubts talk you out it–you are more angry than you are sad, more sad than you are happy and it spills from your face in fat tears and pours from you in sobs as your body tries to manage the sudden flood of emotions.

You'll kill him for making you feel this way but not before you kiss him– you wish he had less honor for a moment, you wish he had simply kissed you when he had the chance and the ability to make you forget. You ignore the part of you that sings that he didn't.

You're out your door faster than you ever ran, still shoeless– still sobbing. You might punch the Atreides boy before you tell him you return his feelings– friendship and love dance along the same line and you've grown so used to what you had, it never occurred to you that you might lose what you had once you got older.

Fuck getting older, you want to scream. Your feet thunder against your estate floor as you race to the ships made for personal trips. Your mother calls out for you but you ignore her– you could make it to the Caladan Castle in ten minutes if you speed.

***

Paul Atreides is barely holding together while he's talking to his father when there is suddenly a great big crash. It seemingly shakes the castle and for a moment, both Atreides men think they're under attack then after a beat of silence before—

“PAUL ATREIDES!”

The man of the hour pales. “Oh no.”

Duke Leto spares his son a curious look as shouting fills the halls– he hears his mother, he hears your mother frantically questioning you, begging you to slow down. He hears the opening and slamming of doors as you draw closer to his father's study. It's just his luck you'd start on this side of the castle– if he tries to run, you'd surely see him and chase him down and if he were to hide, his father would tell you he's just under the desk.

He's doomed but he doesn't regret telling you he loved you.

“What did you do?” The Duke asks in an almost amused tone, Paul clears his throat.

“I told her I love her.”

The Duke blinks. “Oh?”

“Then I made her forget until she reached home.”

The Duke closes his eyes for a very long moment, not jumping as the door next door slams open. “Stars above, Paul.”

He doesn't try to defend himself as the doors slam open. There you stand, wild eyed and a mess– hair whipped by wind, clothes askew and shoeless. Your eyes lock and you take a step forward, Paul stumbles three steps back.

“I’m sorry–”

“I should hang you by your balls!”

Duke Leto winces, casting an uneasy glance to the two mothers who now linger by the door unsure of what to do.

You take another step forward and Paul darts behind the desk. “You have to understand why I did it–”

“No I don't! You used the voice on me! You made me leave!” You snap, you try to close the distance between the two of you but he only darts to the other side of the desk. “You do not say you love someone and then force them to leave! What is wrong with you?!”

Your mother slaps a hand over her mouth while Lady Jessica's brow shoots up.

“I couldn't bear the thought of you rejecting me– not right then, not right now– stop getting closer to me–” He jerks away from the desk and nearly trips trying to escape you but you catch the ends of his shirt and yank him towards you and do the one thing you wished he did.

You kiss him.

You kiss him and try to push everything you feel for him into the action–your fears, your doubts,your love all put into one action, one moment you will never regret even if it doesn't end well for the both of you. His hand just barely touches your face before a voice clears and the moment breaks– suddenly, the two of you are reminded that you are in a room with your parents with nosy guards and workers passing by. Still, Paul is the first to pull away from you, his cheeks pink as he addresses your parents while you make sure to keep your back to them in pure mortification.

“Well,” Lady Jessica begins, her tone is light as it always is, her hidden amusement now laying bare for all to hear, “I suppose… This will be a first for both our houses. A Duke and his advisor.” She seems to make a hand movement you can't see because the blush on Paul's face darkens and there's a chuckle from Duke Leto and a breath of amusement from your mother.

“At least the wedding will be local.” Your mother jokes and the tension melts from your body. She isn't mad at you, she isn't disappointed with you. “That is if you intend to make an honest woman out of her, Paul.”

“Of course I am.”

A pause, a beat of silence of you staring wide eyed at your best friend then you hear a shift of fabric, she nods.

“Good. We’ll leave you two to talk… No more shouting about hanging someone from their balls, no more running. Just talk.”

Another beat of silence before they shuffle out of the room, and it's only the two of each other. You speak first.

“You want to marry me?”

“I want to do everything with you.” Paul admits, “But marriage is one of them, it doesn't have to be now, it doesn't even have to be five years from now– I can wait for you.”

You shake your head breathlessly, “But you hate the idea of marriage.”

“I hate the thought of losing you more.” He says, “I’ve thought about it, I couldn't stop thinking about it– If you give me the chance, I could make a happy wife out of you. A happy woman.” He takes a step forward, his hands falling on your arms almost unsure of the action like you'd still lash at him. “You return my feelings?”

“Of course I do, Paul.” You relax under his touch, “I think I've always had but our situation– with our positions in life… I think I always put it last, always brushed it off as friendship because if it was anything else we'd get hurt.” You take another step closer, eliminating the space between the two of you as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “What are we going to do, Paul?”

“I don't know.” He whispers,his hand disappears from your arm and fingers dip under your chin, bringing your face up as he smiles at you. “We’ll take it one day at a time.” His eyes dart to your lips, a silent question your heart skips a beat at– your tongue darts across your lips as you nod.

And in his kiss, you knew everything would be okay. In his kiss, you knew your future was no longer grim.

#paul atreides x reader

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solemnlysour · 1 month ago

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Six of Crows: A Comic Adaptation

Part 1, Chapter 4

Page 19

END OF CHAPTER 4

Download the Comics

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solemnlysour · 1 month ago

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this is so perfectly written. i’m still crying half an hour later

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!

103 notes · View notes

solemnlysour · 1 month ago

Text

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

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solemnlysour · 2 months ago

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💋!!!!!!!!!!! JILY !!!!!! 👓🤏🏻

#THIS IS SO CUTE WHATTHEHELL #jily #james potter #lily evans

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solemnlysour · 2 months ago

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Same, Inej. Same.

Six of Crows: A Comic Adaptation

Part 1, Chapter 4

Pages 13–14

Download the Comics

#six of crows #kaz brekker #inej ghafa

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solemnlysour · 2 months ago

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late night after quidditch jily talks

commissioned by @daiziesssart :)

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solemnlysour · 3 months ago

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WE HAVE A TANK!!!

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solemnlysour · 4 months ago

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So I finished reading six of crows. Goooood book good book

Accept my offering dear SoC tumblr fandom

Based on this meme!!

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solemnlysour · 5 months ago

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No way in hell I just saw someone say Jily doesn’t make sense??? HELLO??? ITS THE BACKBONE OF THE ENTIRE SERIES?????

#say this to my face and you’ll find yourself in the hospital when you wake up #jily #james potter #lily evans

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solemnlysour · 6 months ago

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SPENCER REID 2x06 | "The Boogeyman"

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solemnlysour · 6 months ago

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harder to hide

spencer reid x elle greenaway summary: after dying in georgia, spencer revisits elle (angst, smut) warnings: oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, addiction, minor dubious consent as a result of addiction, suicidal ideation, generally sad spencer, this was supposed to be a porn without plot and then it spawned SO much plot word count: 8k written for @imagining-in-the-margins friends with benefits challenge (reupload)

He smells her before he sees her. Maybe it’s his imagination, conjuring some sense memory to prepare his mind for the shock he knows it’ll be to his system to see her again, but he could swear it’s true. The perfume she always wore, a vaguely masculine smell, like leather and vanilla. The air is thick with it, no scent noticeable but hers.

And, sure enough, when he scans the bar, she’s there. Like she promised she’d be. Like he hadn’t believed she’d be. She doesn’t seem happy to see him, but he hadn’t expected she would. Still, his heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

Maybe it’s the Dilaudid, creeping its way through his system, leaving him dizzy and euphoric. Maybe he just missed her.

He reaches where she’s crammed into the corner of a booth, two glasses of neat whiskey in front of her. She’s obviously been sipping hers, a little stain of her lipstick on the glass and the liquid inside half depleted.

“Elle.”

“Reid.” She’s frowning, but then her eyes soften, just a little. Just enough. “You look like shit.”

Something about it, her, makes him smile in a way he hasn’t since Georgia. Everyone has been walking on eggshells around him, scared to tell him the truth. But that’s not her. She doesn’t know about Hankel, and if she did, she wouldn’t treat him like a victim. She’s strong enough to believe everyone else can be too. So he takes a sip of his own drink once he sits down and murmurs, “Thanks.”

If she thinks there’s something strange about that, she doesn’t say it. Just stares at him hard and asks, “Why are we here?”

He doesn’t have a good answer, but he slides into the booth next to her anyway. “How have you been?” he says instead of answering her question.

She doesn’t miss the evasion, he can tell, but she grants him the dignity of ignoring it. “I’ve been good. Better. That job… it would have killed me eventually. And it’ll kill you.”

“It already has,” Spencer mutters before thinking. She raises her manicured eyebrows at him, expectant, so he adds, “It’s- sorry, that wasn’t- I’m fine.”

She doesn’t say anything to him for a while, just watches him like she’ll be able to read his story in his face. If anyone was able to, it would be her.

“What happened to you? I mean, you really look terrible.”

“Yeah, you look great too, Elle,” he snarks, before swallowing hard. It takes a moment to force the question he wants to ask past his lips. “Things have been- I just- how did you… cope with it? Dying, I mean.”

It’s not the most artfully posited question, but she seems to understand.

“I didn’t. I quit the job.”

“But you moved on. You- you watched TV and visited your friends. I feel like I’m… stuck.” It’s more than he’s said about his feelings to anyone, his mother, his team, his Bureau mandated psychologist. But he knows she’ll understand.

She looks at him hard. “What happened, Reid?”

“We had a serial murder case in Georgia where the unsub was calling the police from the home before committing the crime. Initially, because of the different voices on the phone, we assumed it was a group, but it wasn’t. It was one man with multiple personalities-” He stops and inhales deeply. He’d hoped reciting this like they were bland details of an everyday case would make it easier to say, but it doesn’t. He powers through the rest of the story quickly, in short, clipped sentences like that’ll hide the sharpness in his chest. “He abducted me. I spent three days there. One of the personalities killed me. Another revived me. And then I killed him.”

“I’m-”

“Don’t,” Spencer snaps, and sighs. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Everyone keeps saying they’re sorry.”

“You’re right. I’m not sorry. But you didn’t deserve that.”

Spencer laughs harshly. “I don’t think anyone deserves it.”

“No,” she agrees. “But especially not you.”

He doesn’t know what he came here wanting, but it’s not this. The same face of pity everyone else gives him transplanted onto her features. “I don’t want sympathy,” he says, and it’s colder than she deserves.

She raises her eyebrows. “Then what do you want? Why did you call me here? It wasn’t to give me your tragic backstory.”

He almost laughs, a pure, delighted laugh, at the Elle of it all. Never one to take shit from anyone, least of all him. Not even seconds after being told he died. It’s the exact attitude that brought him to her bed in the first place. “I wanted to apologise.”

“For what?”

“That night, in the hotel room. I didn’t understand. I do now, and I’m sorry.” Selfishly, he wishes he still didn’t understand. He could go his whole life without knowing what it was like to see the face of his killer every night in sleep, every time his eyes closed. Never learning that when you return from the dead, there’s a piece of you that stays there, calling sweetly, begging for your return.

But he does know. And she knows. And he thinks, maybe if he’d known that night, she’d still be on the team.

“You couldn’t have changed anything,” Elle says quietly, still a profiler without the name. “Once I died, my time with the BAU was over. I couldn’t trust anymore.”

He can relate, more than he wants to. He thinks of the hospital, Gideon apologising in a low tone for making Garcia stymie the spread of the video. Like silencing the man was more important than keeping Spencer alive. He thinks of days of hope, believing the team would find him before things got any worse, and that belief dying at the same time he did. He thinks of firing the killing shot, and the guilt he’ll have to live with forever, a guilt he could have avoided if the team had found him.

It’s a pitiful bitterness, because he’s not her. He won’t do anything with the feeling. Nothing but lie awake at night, in the moments before the Dilaudid muffles his mind, and wonder if things could have been different. If his blind faith was misplaced, if he damned himself by trusting without caveat. He won’t leave, he won’t kill, he won’t cuss. He’ll just watch them when they aren’t watching him, and wonder if someone else would have saved him. If she might have.

She sees something in his face, because she grabs his shoulder and opens her mouth to say something. He knows what it’ll be: she thinks he should quit. He speaks before she gets the chance.

“Do you remember our first time?” he says softly.

She snaps her mouth closed and looks at him hard. “Of course.”

He’d been sulking after Hotch beat the snot out of him under the watchful eye of Philip Dowd. Stuck in cyclical thought, wondering if Hotch was right and he was a kid who couldn’t shoot, if he was cumbersome and difficult. So she’d knocked on his door, told him he was being pathetic, and kissed him against the door. And that was Elle: rarely nice, always kind.

“You’re the only one who’s never pitied me,” he whispers. “Even that night, when I was pitiful. You never thought of me as a kid.”

“Because you aren’t one,” she says, and her tone is harsh but her eyes are gentle.

Something about the moment seems loaded in the way their conversations always do. Layered, laced with double meaning and possibility. It’s the body language, her body angled towards him, their knees brushing each other, her palm resting on the couch in the scant space between them. It’s her voice, dry and cold, but softening on the last syllable like she can’t bring herself to twist the knife. It’s the crushing weight of a shared history, nights spent sweating in hotels and kissing in shadowy corners of bars on nights out with the team.

He’s not a kid, but he didn’t believe that until he had her.

“I miss you,” It’s a bitter confession.

She sighs. “I know.”

She doesn’t say she misses him, but he dares to hope the hand that comes up to trace his arm means she might.

He doesn’t know if it’s her touch or the drugs that makes him cruel, but he murmurs, “I know why you had to leave the team, but why me?”

Her breath catches and his heart stammers with it. She takes a long time to formulate an answer, and he can almost see her brain working. “It hurt to see you.”

An unjustified flare of anger curls through him, a leakage of the vat of rage that seems to have simmered inside him since Georgia. It’s red and hot and mean, and he’s powerless to stem it once it boils. Before he can measure himself, he hisses, “Do you think it didn’t hurt to lose you?”

“If I kept seeing you, I never could have left,” she snaps, never one to give him the last word. “I would have stayed on the team until it killed me a second time, and I would have died with even more regrets.”

“I don’t want you to rejoin the team. I just want to see you. I want you in my life, is that too much to ask for?”

She seems fragile somehow, fragile like he’s never seen her be before, fragile like she’s not and he is. Like he could break her if he wanted to. As if the wrong words from him could grind her down into nothing.

She’s guilty, he realises with a terrible, selfish relief. Even more regrets.

“I shouldn’t have come tonight,” she says, voice barely audible over the din of the bar. “This was a mistake.”

Spencer’s stomach drops with a violent lurch. “So that’s it, then? You run away?” he snaps, instead of asking her to say, instead of confessing he hasn’t slept a night through since Georgia and his thumb is always millimetres away from calling her once the clock strikes midnight. He wants her back, and it’s selfish and it’s cruel and he needs to let her go but he won’t. He can’t.

“If that’s what you want to call it.” Her voice is frosty, no softness in her face or form. Only a cold, bitter anger. He’s failed, again, to understand her. To give her what she needs. To stop her leaving.

“I don’t-” he sighs. “There are- there are links between losing a friend and poor physical health. When you feel abandoned or lonely, there are certain changes in your immune cells, making them more prone to inflammation and less responsive to the body's natural anti-inflammatory signals. Lonely people tend to have stronger inflammatory responses to stress - a vaccine that triggers an immune response was found to increase inflammation more in people who felt lonely or were recently- recently abandoned.”

“Reid-” she starts, but he’s started now and he’s not stopping.

“I miss you, Elle,” he says, and he can’t stop the desperate tone from creeping into his voice. “I miss you so much. I want my friend back. I don’t care if we never sleep together again, I don’t want you to come back to the team, I just want- I want my friend back. Can’t you please at least just- call me? Once in a while?”

It’s selfish, it’s so selfish, he’s pulling her back to a life she lost everything to escape. But Dilaudid makes him honest and loneliness makes him cruel and she’s in front of him and this can’t be the last time he ever sees her. The only honest person he knows.

Her eyes are shining and her mouth is a tight line. She’s fracturing. It’s his fault. He’s a monster, but he won’t back down. They’re both silent for a long time, no one willing to say something that will break this, break them. The sounds of the bar seem far away, like something on a television, voices from another world. The only thing that’s real is her.

Finally, she breaks the silence with a ragged intake of breath. “I’ve missed you too,” she whispers. It’s everything he’s wanted to hear and the final twist of the knife. It takes a moment for him to talk, so fixated on the sound of it, on the way her lips had looked as she said the words.

He does what he shouldn’t.

He kisses her, cruel and reckless.

They haven’t kissed since before she killed and he died, but they fall back into it like breathing. The ambient sounds of the bar fade away to white noise in his ears as she grabs his collar tightly and forces him closer, not a second of hesitation in it. He gasps into her mouth at the tiny exertion of control from her, so familiar, like they’re the same people they were before she shot an unarmed man in the chest and he started injecting quiet into his veins.

The kiss isn’t kind, and it isn’t loving. It never was with them. Everything they were was a kind of fatal attraction, two exquisitely lonely people fumbling in the dark to ward off the ghosts. They aren’t going to start being gentle with each other now, not when he’s cruel in his addiction and he can tell Elle hates him for making her come back.

She bites down hard on his lip, a flaring point of pain in the haze he’s slipping into, and he has to hold back the keening sound it almost elicits. It’s enough to make him pull back and beg, “Please, Elle. Come back to my apartment.”

She stills, and for a moment he thinks she might slap him. But instead, she lifts her glass and finishes the rest of her whiskey, her throat bobbing as she downs it. She nods, a movement minute, and says, “Okay.”

His face must betray his relief. He picks up his own glass and downs the contents, the liquor burning a line of fire down his throat. “Let’s go.”

Part of him knows if they do this, he’s never going to see her again. But they never got to say goodbye, not really, not properly. She was there one day, gone the next, too brimming with fury and indignation for tearful farewells. She’d fucked him in a hotel room, killed a man the next day, and then quit and changed her number. He’d had to twist Garcia’s arm to track down her new number, and he’s certain it would never have been given to him if Garcia didn’t view him as unstable.

So he leads her out of the bar, a hand grasped loosely around her wrist, and tries not to think about the inevitable consequences. She’s never been one to allow herself to be led, but she follows without argument or complaint. As soon as they’re on the sidewalk, he flags down a cab and opens the door for her, a tiny act of chivalry that does nothing to offset how much he knows he’s hurting her.

He recites his address to the cabbie breathlessly, and as soon as they start driving, he kisses her again. It’s bolder, more uncouth, than he would ever usually let himself be. But it’s been almost two months of missing her, wanting her, and he’s not going to wait around now she’s beside him and willing.

Her mouth on his is angry, and the kiss is more teeth and tongue than anything sweet or loving. It says what they refuse to: what they are is damaging and broken and toxic, and they will do it anyway. He’s barely conscious of the taxi driver in the front seat, hopes vainly he experiences things like this often enough that he’s not going to think they’re disgusting, knows he must anyway. When you strip away everything else, they’re two horny young people, lost kids in their mid 20s who can’t keep their hands off each other. Not killers. Not the undead. He wishes hopelessly that they could be that innocent.

Her hands move from the back of his neck and twist into his hair; his palm roves down her back and settles on her waist. The angle is awkward, both of them buckled into their seats and trying to stay close. He groans as she yanks hard on the strands, she pants into his mouth in response. It’s messy and dirty. His blood is racing so hard he’s dizzy.

It takes him a moment to realise the car has stopped, another to remember what he’s supposed to do. He grabs his wallet and stuffs a wad of cash into the driver’s hand, pants out a breathless, “thank you,” and guides her out of the car behind him.

They keep their hands off each other the whole way up the stairs. He has a horrifying vision of trying to kiss her while they walk and the both of them ending up tumbling down. But as soon as they push open his front door, his shaking hands requiring two attempts to unlock the thing, his mouth is on her. She kicks the door shut behind her as he pulls her in and once it’s shut, he backs her up against it.

She’s letting him have this modicum of control, they both know it. She’s always been able to give him any command and trust in entirety he would follow it. But the control while it’s his is overwhelming. She’s kind enough to grant him a few desperate, opened mouth kisses against the wall before she pushes him back gently and her hands begin working at his tie.

He hadn’t asked to see her tonight wanting this. But as his tie is ripped unceremoniously away from his collar and her hands move to the buttons of his shirt, he stops knowing for sure if that’s true. They were never very good at heartfelt conversations, but this was natural. He’d known, deep down, they wouldn’t be able to stay in the sentimental for long. They’d tried before - after near death on a train in Texas or the night before she’d shot William Lee. But they always got sidetracked. Always left with should-have-saids.

She jerks his arm to yank his shirt off of him and he returns the favour by helping her take off her own. She’s left in a black, lacy bra. The kind she would wear if she was expecting, maybe, for someone to see it. The thought makes his mouth dry. She’d come here wanting this too.

As soon as they’re both stripped of their shirts, he reclaims her mouth desperately. He’s making up for lost time, making up for the radio silence they’ll return to after tonight. She makes a soft sound against him and he thinks a strong wind could knock him to his knees. Most of the time, he’s a creature of logic and reason. When he’s with her, he’s something else entirely.

He’s almost too off-kilter to realise she’s pulling him, leading him in the direction of his bedroom. He stumbles after her like a lost puppy, devoted and trusting. As soon as they’re in the room, they’re back on each other again with wandering, hungry hands. They kiss each other like it’s the last time they ever will. It might be. He tries not to think about that as her hands drop to the button of his pants. He undoes hers in turn and they both kick the garments aside, clad in nothing but their undergarments. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of her - the dark hair ghosting her collarbones, the swell of her chest under her bra, her runner’s physique. And her face, her sharp cheekbones, the slight tiredness of her eyes, the hard line of her mouth.

He can’t help but murmur, “You’re so beautiful.”

She seems spun, briefly unable to answer. After a silence that drags a moment too long, she pulls him back in for a fierce kiss. It’s not an answer, but in a way it is. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

They move back towards the bed as one ungraceful mass, their hands exploring voraciously, their mouths connected. The back of his legs hits the bed and he stumbles, landing on the bed with her in his lap. He’s stunned he gets to have this, have her, stunned he gets to see her like this. One of the most beautiful people he’s ever met, and she’s looking at him like she wants to devour him whole.

He slides his hands up her back until he reaches the clasp of her bra, undoing it in a few fumbling attempts. Usually he’s more dextrous, but he’s high and he’s needy and his brain isn’t working as well as he wants it to. He has another fleeting anxiety - the Dilaudid sometimes clouds his memory. If this is going to be his last time with Elle, he won’t remember it as well as he wants to.

There’s no time to dwell on that as he takes the bra off of her and she groans as the fabric trails across her chest. The noise goes straight to his cock and he bites back his own satisfied grunt, throwing the bra onto the floor and running his fingertips up her sides. She kisses his jaw, and then his neck, and he can’t hold back the groan it elicits as she bites down on the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Elle,” he pants, and he feels more than hears her little laugh against his throat.

“Still sensitive,” she whispers as she pulls away, and he answers her with another fevered kiss, sucking gently on her tongue and revelling in the vibration of her ragged sigh.

“Please, let me taste you. Missed it. Please, Elle.” He’s too turned on to be embarrassed by the pleading edge to his voice. She likes him like that, anyway, likes the power of having him wrapped around her finger and he’s all too happy to give it to her.

Her breath hitches at the begging, and she meets his eyes with a nod. There’s a turbulence behind her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t ask. She crawls off his lap and moves to the middle of the bed, lying down and watching him from the pillow.

He almost can’t breathe at the sight of her splayed out across his bed, and it’s autopilot that moves him in between her legs. He surveys her, the slightly heaving chest, the irises clouded with desire. She’s here and she’s his, she’s all his for tonight. He tries to believe tonight will be enough to satisfy him.

She doesn’t blush or squirm at all under his gaze, just meets his eyes with a challenge in her own. He rises to it, guiding her panties down her legs slowly. They match her bra, black and lace, and his head spins with the idea she might have picked them out deliberately to see him. For him to see her wearing them.

Once she’s bared, he leans down and blows gently on her clit. She shivers, a full body shiver, and makes a tiny little sound that makes blood rush in his ears. His need for her is something physical, tangible, it twists in his stomach and captures his extremities.

He can’t help himself anymore, he flattens his tongue and guides it along her already slick arousal. He’d missed this, the taste of her, the feel of her under his tongue, the way her breath hitches as he finally gives her what she wants. He moves his head up slightly and sucks gently on her clit the way she likes, teasing it with his tongue.

“Reid,” she gasps. He doesn’t know why the use of his last name bothers him so much suddenly. It’s what she’s always called him, they all call each other by last name, it’s the culture of the job. But it seems wrong here, now, when they’re so close to vulnerable. And besides - she’s been Elle to him from the start.

“Don’t call me that,” he begs, and his voice comes out pathetic against the warmth of her. “Please. Not- not tonight.”

She’s silent for a moment before breathing, “Yes. Okay. Spencer.”

He makes a ragged noise against her sensitive flesh and it seems to travel through her in a shiver. It’s like he’s freezing to death and burning alive all at once, his body feverish and his mind hazy. He wonders if it’s the Dilaudid that’s making her seem like a dream, and redoubles his efforts to drown out the thoughts.

She arches against his mouth in a way that sends all the blood in his body travelling south, and he can’t help the bitten off moan that escapes him.

She pants, “Spencer, oh God,” and the sound of her saying his name like that, in that tone, laced with pleasure and desire and unadulterated heat almost makes him come untouched against the bedsheets. Her gasp is followed by a series of pitched moans, and he sucks harder around her clit to summon more of those sounds.

He’s greedy, wants to touch as well as taste, hedonistic in his lust, and he brings his fingers up to just below where his tongue is exploring her. He slides one finger in, crooking it gently and she cries out, her hips jerking upwards in search of more. She’s warm and tight around him and he slides in a second, fingering her with the same methodical care as he might apply to a particularly riveting scientific experiment. He could spend his whole life learning exactly what makes her feel good, testing variables until he discovered the perfect formula to evoke those desperate sounds from her lips.

Her thighs tighten almost imperceptibly either side of his head, and he knows she’s close. She curses as he swirls his tongue over the heated flesh and the curse turns to a wordless cry as he uses his fingers to push her closer to the edge. He wants to hear her come, wants to drink in the sounds she makes in the throes of pleasure, wants to be the reason her body shakes. Distantly, he thinks he could be content with just being hers and nothing else for the rest of his life, a prop to be used to bring her pleasure. It’s the kind of thought one only thinks in the midst of sex, but for the moment, he truly believes it.

“Spencer, fuck, I’m-” she doesn’t get to finish her sentence before she’s arching up against him and clenching around his fingers. He’s dizzy with the sights and sounds of it, drunk on how beautiful she is when she lets go. He’s also so hard it’s almost painful, rutting against the coarse fabric of the bedsheets in a search for friction that would be embarrassing if he wasn’t close to mad with lust. He removes his fingers, but keeps his tongue moving against her gently as she jerks through the aftershocks until she pushes him off gently.

He shifts until he’s on his knees between her legs, drinking in her flushed cheeks and liquid eyes and heaving chest. She’s so beautiful, she always is, but the way she looks after an orgasm makes his heart squeeze painfully.

He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, but she sits up and yanks him into a heated kiss before he has the chance. Their new position makes his cock drag against the skin of her stomach and he gasps into the kiss as electricity sparks across his skin. She laughs at the strangled sound it rips from him and presses even closer, and his head spins at her skin against his.

“Elle, please,” he groans. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, only that he’s desperate and weak against the crushing weight of his desire. He’s pathetic, undone, reduced to the most base and primal of his instincts, but he’s too far gone to care. He wants her, however she’ll let him have her.

As tough as she is, no one could ever say Elle isn’t kind. She pushes gently on his shoulders, and he’ll go anywhere she wants him, so he falls back. It leaves her astride on his hips, straddling him with his legs nestled between hers. It’s an angle of her he doesn’t think he deserves and he’s overcome, briefly, by how beautiful she is. He’s the acolyte of a merciful God, blessed to be granted the privilege of worshipping her. It seems right for him to be below her looking up.

He’s not selfish enough to call this love, but it feels damned close.

“I really did miss you,” she says, and it’s quiet enough he almost convinces himself he’s imagining it. But he isn’t, she’s real and this is real and it’s like a punch straight to the solar plexus for all it winds him. He’s powerless to do anything except pull her down to kiss her again, vicious and needy and desperate.

They’re playing with fire and he can already feel his skin blistering from the heat of it. For all they’ve claimed their relationship to be casual and meaningless, no matter how hard they’ve pretended it’s just company on cases and comfort when the job gets hard, somewhere along the way they crossed a line.

She gasps against his lips and he thinks he wouldn’t care if he burned for this.

He can’t take the waiting anymore, without his lips ever leaving hers he pants, “Elle, please, can-”

“Yes. Yes, fuck, yes,” she cuts him off, and raises herself up on her knees, and both of their hands go between them to guide him to where she’s ready and waiting for him. It’s clumsy, and he means to double check she’s still taking her birth control, but his mind seems to have suddenly slowed exponentially, and he can’t find the words to ask before he’s in. The sound he makes verges closer to animalistic than anything delicate or sensual.

She doesn’t seem to fare any better, a sharp cry escaping her lips as gravity does its job and she sinks down until he’s buried inside her. He’s liquid, formless, the whole universe eclipsed except for the point where they connect. She’s tight around him, a warm vice that makes his eyes cross and his breath stutter. He wants to tell her how good this is, how it’s like he’s finally come home after months lost at sea, how he doesn’t think any other person could ever look as beautiful as she does right now, but all he can muster is a pathetic unh sound.

There’s a moment of adjustment where neither of them move, scared to shatter whatever fragile bliss has overtaken them. After what could be seconds or hours, she groans out a, “Fuck, Spencer,” and begins to move. Something snaps in his brain, some feral instinct that makes his hands snap toward her waist and his hips buck up to meet hers. Their rhythm starts clumsy and unbalanced, both of them far past the point of grace and finesse.

It’s like riding a bike, they fall back on instinct and procedural memory, and everything slips right into place. His eyes roll back as their pace levels out and they start to move in tandem, every upward thrust bringing with it a new, dizzying wave of pleasure. He’s not going to last very long, but he looks up at her face and hears the pitched gasps ripping from her throat and feels and the way she pulses around him and knows she won’t be far behind him. He wants to freeze the moment, stay forever in this time and place where everything is beautiful and pleasurable. But they’re only human and they’re constrained by the limits of their neuromuscular systems and he knows this is going to be something quick and dirty.

“Elle,” he gasps, and he thinks he wants to finish that thought and tell her something, but all conscious thought is torn from his brain as she moans raggedly on top of him. All he’s capable of doing is letting his head fall back and responding with a groan of his own.

“Forgot how good you feel,” she says, and her voice is thin, vacant, lost in their shared bliss. He feels the same. No matter how precise his memory may be, nothing compares to the reality of it. The way they slot together like puzzle pieces carved to click.

He moans his agreement as she tightens around him and his vision goes momentarily white. “Perfect,” he gasps, and it’s only one word of the phrase he was meaning to say, but it seems to sum it up effectively. “Always feel perfect. Made for this.”

His speech is neanderthalian, but he’s proud he managed to produce any words at all with how fogged his mind is. And she nods desperately above him as she bears down on him again, the slide dirty and erotic, so she doesn’t seem to mind his lacklustre sentence structure.

“Not going to-” she starts, but the words evaporate into a long keen as his hips meet hers again roughly.

“Me neither,” he says, and hopes they’re talking about the same thing.

She stiffens suddenly, the muscles in her abdomen flexing and tightening as her spine arches and her head falls back. “Oh, God,” she pants and the grip she has around him is too much to handle. “Fuck, Spencer, fuck, oh.”

She’s coming, and it looks like an exorcism for how much it seems to overtake her body. It makes constrict around him, and his self-control is bad at the best of times, and how can he deny himself this now? He follows her right over the edge, his vision fading at the edges until she’s a vignette above him. He’s a man possessed, and the pleasure comes tumbling down on him in crashing waves that threaten to carry him away. He tries to open his mouth, to thank her, to scream, to tell her he loves her, but all that comes out is a low, ragged, desperate cry. It’s so much, he’s convinced he didn’t exist before this very minute and as soon as it passes, he will wink from reality again. Nothing is real but this. Nothing is real but her.

She slides off of him and collapses at his side, and he whines mournfully at the loss. But her skin is warm against his, and she moves to be nestled at his side, resting between his torso and arm, and the intimacy of it sends him reeling.

They lie in silence for a while, pressed against each other, and it’s like he’s more naked than he’s ever been in his life. Her fingers trace over his skin and a shiver runs through him with the gentle touch. They run over the back of his hand, skim his wrist, little electrical shocks following everywhere her touch does.

The fingertips move up more, running over his forearm in soothing, nonsensical patterns. Something in the core of him is dissolving with the serenity of it all, the sensation muted and dreamy. Until her fingers trail up further, reaching the crook of his arm and his heart stops.

He can’t see where her fingers are touching, his arm obscured by her body, but he knows what it looks like. Tiny injection sites where he numbs his mind, the scars he’s earning for his cowardice. Elle isn’t stupid. She knows exactly what those marks are.

He waits for her to say something, but she’s silent for a long time while his heart races, her fingers gracing the marred skin. Her face is tilted away from his and what he can see of it is unreadable. Eventually, she says, voice hardly above a whisper, “Have you taken anything tonight?”

For a second, he weighs the benefits of lying. But she’s smarter than that, and it’s a night for cruel truth, so he mutters, “Yes. A few hours ago.”

He feels more than sees her nod, the movement making her hair drag across the skin of his pectorals. “What are you on?”

Another long pause before he confesses, “Dilaudid.”

She curses. “You seemed off, but I thought maybe you were drunk. Not…”

He can’t see her expression, but he can almost hear her mind working. Not heroin, but not much better. Addictive, sedative, criminal, impairing. He’s intoxicated, and she spent years working in the sex crimes division. She doesn’t say anything, so he whispers a pathetic, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s apologising for. Not telling her, perhaps. Or maybe telling her now. He thinks he might just be apologising for becoming this in the first place. For not being strong enough.

Her profiler’s mind is clearly ticking over their interactions all night, trying to work out if she could have known. “You’ve been so forward all night. Kissing me at the bar, asking me to come back to yours. Even tracking my number down and organising this, I should have realised. It’s not like you.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. She sighs softly, and asks, “When you were held hostage…?”

He doesn’t need her to finish the question. “He gave me Dilaudid. His was cut with a psychedelic, but I found some that was more pure.”

“Do you take it at work?”

The question is very Elle. Focussed on logistics over feelings. But he can see the concern embedded under it. She’s trying to work out how far gone he is, so she can decide what to do next.

“No,” he lies. He takes it with him on cases, and shoots up at night. It’s risky business, but it hasn’t backfired yet. He’s almost certain Gideon knows, but no one’s brought it up. He’s not naive enough to think it’ll stay that way.

If she hears the lie in his voice, she doesn’t push it. Her fingers haven’t stopped their gentle tracing, and he clings onto that as a lifeline. She hasn’t pushed him away.

“If you’re caught, they won’t be kind to you,” she says as if he doesn’t know. “They won’t care that it’s the job that caused it. You’ll be fired, maybe prosecuted.”

“I know,” he says. He’s thought about that. He’s not sure what he’ll do when it happens. He’ll get a professor job, hopefully, or become some kind of consultant. Or he’ll drive his car into a tree and get it over with. He hasn’t decided yet. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and this time he’s apologising that she knows. His burden has become, temporarily, hers. Dragged back into the soap opera of the BAU,

“I can’t tell you what to do,” she says, finally. “You know what I think.”

He does. “What do you do now?” he asks, and it’s a weak deflection, but he’s curious. Garcia offered to update him on Elle’s life, but he didn’t want to find out through someone else.

She hesitates before murmuring, “Early intervention. Identifying kids who are showing anti-social behaviour.”

It makes sense. Burned out by catching killers, she wants to find them before they even start. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I do,” she says quietly. “Pay is worse, and there’s a lot less excitement, but it… takes less. I feel like a person again.”

He can’t help the little ripple of jealousy that courses through him at the prospect. The hard shell the job has given him feels impossible to cast off sometimes, no matter how hard he tries to stay in touch with his own humanity. But it’s all he is anymore. He doesn’t think he’s capable of going back to a normal job. He’ll still see killers behind his eyelids. But he doesn’t want to say any of that. Instead, he whispers, “I’m glad.”

“I do… miss it,” she admits. “I miss Garcia and Morgan flirting in the middle of cases and Gideon’s pep talks and when I’d make a joke and Hotch would smile and I’d feel special because he never does. I miss your tangents and the way you always confuse the local cops. I miss the feeling of catching the unsub and knowing they’ll never hurt anyone again, and knowing I was the reason someone who would have died gets to live.”

It’s a shocking amount of vulnerability from her, and he thinks for a moment he might be hallucinating. But he isn’t, and he feels gripped by a sudden need to make her understand how much he misses her, how much it hurt when she left. He swallows hard and says, “Before you joined, Gideon was on sabbatical, and it was just me, Hotch and Morgan. Sometimes, it was… lonely. A very alpha male environment. And then you joined, and you never acted like I was too weak to be there. You never wanted to keep me out of danger. You stood up for me. When I came back from visiting my mother during the Fisher King case, you said you didn’t want me to ever leave again. I never- I never told you how much that meant to me. And then you were gone. They filled your spot, and she’s smart and kind and a good agent, and it makes me so guilty that sometimes I hate her for not being you.”

Her breathing sharpens and becomes unsteady, and he thinks he’s said too much. But then she whispers, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. You were the hardest person to leave.”

The words are like a blade, and he hates himself for making her regret doing what she needed to do for herself to survive. “Don’t- I’m glad you’re happier now.”

“I am,” she says softly. After a moment, she adds, “The new agent - try to be her friend. When I started, you were so kind. It made it easier, having someone around who was always kind. Do that for her too. I’m sure she needs it. And you need it too.”

“I will,” he says hoarsely. These are parting words. But he’s not ready for this to end.

They return to silence, a million unsaids hovering over their heads. He tries to think of anything to make her stay, but he can’t do that to her. He’s selfish and cruel, but he can’t force her hand. Not when she’s granted him the boon of a farewell. Eventually, she moves to roll over and stand, and before he can stop himself, his hand is darting out to grab her, the skin of her shoulder soft under his fingers. “Please,” he says, and the desperation in his voice makes him sick. “Don’t go.”

She sighs and stills. His mouth is dry as they stay locked in place. After seconds that feel like hours, she turns back around to face him. “Spencer…”

“I’m not ready for you to go yet. Please.” He’s pathetic, but he can’t just lie there and watch her go. He has to, he has to set her free from him and from the FBI and from the memories that choke them like smoke, but he can’t.

“I’ll call you,” she says softly. They both know she won’t. But it’s a hopeless cause. Once she’s set on something, heaven itself couldn’t change Elle Greenaway’s mind. She goes to move again, but stops. “I won’t tell you to quit, and I won’t tell them you’re using anything. If you quit, it needs to be something you choose to do for yourself. But if you ever do, call me, Spencer.”

It’s an olive branch, and it’s the best he’ll get from her. It’s not an ultimatum - she’s not asking him to pick between her or the job. She respects herself too much to ever let herself be an option. But the message is clear. As long as he works for the FBI, he won’t see her again.

This time, when she moves to leave, he doesn’t stop her. He just watches her put her clothes back on and fix her hair.

As soon as she’s dressed, she turns back to face him and breathes a horrible, shuddering breath. “This is my last week in DC. That’s why I agreed to see you. I owed you - us - that much.”

For all he’d known this was a goodbye, the words carve something deep in the hollow of his ribcage. It’s clear she had no intention of telling him. He wonders what made her change her mind.

“Where-” his voice catches and he swallows hard. “Where are you moving to?”

“Illinois,” she says, voice faux casual. “Chicago.”

He nods stiffly. His head is a twisting maelstrom of things he wants to tell her, but his throat feels jammed and gummed shut. They won’t even share a city. “I’ll miss you,” is all he manages.

She looks like she might cry. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she did. “I’ll miss you too, Spencer.” After a pause, she adds, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

“It’s okay,” he lies. “I understand.”

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong. These are the parting words of cordial colleagues, not those of- whatever amorphous thing they are. There’s still so much to say, so much to confess.

She jerks her head, and turns away, slipping out the door without a goodbye.

The emptiness of his room feels cavernous without her. It takes a long time for him to move, frozen with regret and grief. He wants to chase her, beg her to stay, promise to quit his job and follow her to Chicago and just be hers. But she wouldn’t want him to. And he’s lost too much for his job to leave it now.

For a while, he lets himself slip into memories. The good ones. Scrabble on the floor of the bullpen after a case, walking her home after a team night out at the bar, hiding her in the closet when Hotch came by unexpectedly to discuss a case and laughing together so hard his ribs hurt when Hotch left. His phone is a hard lump in the pile his pants make on the floor and everything in him itches to pick it up and call her.

But he’s been selfish for too long.

So instead, he pulls the little box of needles and vials out from under the loose floorboard next to his bed. The movements are practised by now, securing a tie around his arm to bring out the vein, pulling the liquid Dilaudid into the syringe, releasing it into the vein.

He’s a coward, but it’s better than cruel.

The Dilaudid fills his bones with a heady, thrumming bliss, drowning out the ache of loss. He thinks of her smile. He thinks of her hands. He thinks, finally, of nothing at all.

He puts the box back under the floorboard with clumsy, leaden hands and lays down on the bed, tracing constellations in the popcorn ceiling with his eyes.

The emptiness becomes nothingness and he smiles at the quiet.

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