#but that thread is going to haunt me for the rest of the night

[trafficlife]

if joel could, he'd make a deal with god and get him to swap his and jimmy's places.

and he did try to make that deal, but god wouldn't accept it.

[rafesangelita]

♡ bsf!rafe reads something he wasn’t supposed to..

warnings: use of the name ‘daddy’ (kinda a lot, so if you don’t like this nickname, don’t read pls), male masturbation, handjob (but not really??), suggestive ending

ding—!

rafe’s ears perked up at the sound of your phone going off, a series of notifications ringing out as you sat in front of your vanity. applying the lipgloss rafe loved so much, you eyed his reflection in the mirror as he laid sprawled out on your bed, patiently waiting for you to be done with your makeup so you two could go out for dinner. “can you check my phone, please ray? it’s probably one of my girlfriends.” he grabbed the device from where it sat on your nightstand, your playlist playing softly in the background as he unlocked your phone, opening your recent text threads.

scanning down the list, his eyes zeroed in on the name ‘josh ♡’, his jaw clenching as he clicked on the contact. you were too busy singing along to your favorite song and spritzing your face with setting spray to notice rafe scrolling through your private messages with another guy, his eyes scanning down the flirtatious advances and even a few selfies here and there. you looked amazing in them, of course, and he couldn’t stand that you had granted another person to see you looking that good. scrolling down to the most recent messages, he read the texts you two exchanged just last night.

[8:21 PM] josh ♡ : why won’t you just call me daddy? like how do you expect this to go any further if you don’t call me what i want you to?

[8:27 PM] do you hear yourself? if me not calling you daddy is what’s going to be a factor in us not speaking to each other anymore, then that’s perfectly fine. you aren’t even ‘daddy’ material.. my best friend has more grit than you do.

“what was it?” your voice made rafe jump, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head, trying his best not to show that you had completely flipped his world upside down with a single name. “oh, just some text alerts from sephora.” he cleared his throat awkwardly before excusing himself to go to the bathroom. once he was away from you, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his mind racing at what exactly you were insinuating in your text. he didn’t know what to think. were you alluding to the fact that he was indeed ‘daddy material’ or were you just trying to piss off that loser?

putting his own kinks aside, rafe cursed under his breath as he imagined you referring to him as that god forsaken word, the dirty thoughts in his head only being fueled by him not even having to ask you to call him something as depraved as daddy. he envisioned you so many times crying out for him, his fantasy of fucking his best friend haunting him every single night. groaning at the reminder that you were basically forbidden fruit, rafe sighed out in frustration when his jeans suddenly felt two sizes too tight. “rafe, i’m ready!” you sung out, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor in the hallway.

rafe panicked, shouting out a “o-okay, i’ll be right out!” as you snapped pictures of yourself for your instagram story. while you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone to pass time, rafe was splashing cold water on himself in a poor attempt to get his cock to stop straining against his pants, a groan leaving his lips as he palmed himself through the denim material. you froze when you heard the sound, your eyes lifting up from your phone as you fixated your gaze on the door knob. “rafe? are you okay?” as soon as he heard your voice, he shut the water off to the sink. “fuck— yes! yes, i’m fine!”

you continued waiting, now sitting at the top of the stairs while rafe struggled to tug one out. “come on, what the fuck?!” he whispered to himself, his cock aching mean and rock hard in his fist. “i’m starving!” you whined, resting your forehead against the staircase. “okay, that’s just unfair. i waited nearly two hours for you to get ready and now you can’t wait for me when i have an actual problem going on?!” rafe grumbled, his jaw ticking as he only made himself feel more embarrassed than he already was. problem? you turned around, walking over to the door.

you could hear him breathing heavy, a slick sound making your eyebrows knit in confusion. biting your cheek, you whispered a ‘fuck it..’ before opening the door, your jaw dropping to the floor at the sight. “oh, shit—!” rafe cupped himself, hiding everything from your view as you stood there dumbfounded. “why would you come in here?!” he shouted, your eyes raking down his form until they settled on his hands. “that’s why you’re taking so long? because you’re too busy jerking off?” rafe watched as you stepped closer, his eyes screwing shut as you leaned against the counter.

“i’ve been trying to make it go away,” he shifted uncomfortably, “it’s not like i can control this.” you were standing just a few feet away from the very thing that’s made you lose sleep just thinking about. you two had it so bad for each other and neither of you had a single clue about it. rafe stared at you as you blinked up at him, a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “sooo.. what happened?” he shook his head, feeling slightly guilty that you caught him doing this in your bathroom. “look, we don’t need to go over anything—”

“you saw my texts with that guy, didn’t you?”

rafe swallowed thickly, a sigh leaving his lips before he nodded. “how did you know?” rafe asked, embarrassed. “i looked at my phone when you ran off over here and saw that the messages had been opened.” he narrowed his gaze at you, a shock of realization hitting him. “you knew i was going to see them. that’s why you asked me to check who was texting you.” rafe watched as your lips curved into a smile, his eyes turning dark as you put your hand over his. “i would’ve called you daddy a long time ago if it meant finding you like this.” you pulled his hand away so he wasn’t concealing himself from your view anymore, his jaw clenching as you took him in your palm.

he felt hot and heavy as you stroked him, his forehead falling against your shoulder. “oh, fuck,” he moaned, pulling you closer to him so that you could feel his bulge poking your tummy, “say it again.” rafe lifted his head, both of you sharing a knowing look before you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. he immediately tasted the sweet vanilla of your lipgloss, both of you pausing to take in the fact that you were actually kissing each other after all this time of just being friends. bringing your mouth close to his ear, you pecked the sensitive spot on his neck before whispering.

“daddy, will you please take me back to my room?”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[leneemusing]

devoted, yearning & obsessive

❝ you occupy my thoughts. day and night, even in dreams you're there. i want you to never stop haunting me. ❞

❝ i am eternally yours. until the stars go out. and maybe, even after that. ❞

❝ my heart bleeds the color of your soul. i would cut it out and put it in your palms if i could. ❞

❝ it's like you have knit yourself around my ribs. i could no more cut you out than i could remove my own lungs. ❞

❝ you are woven into my soul and i dare not cut a single thread. ❞

❝ i am yours, body and soul, to do with as you wish. ❞

❝ i don't require you to love me back, or to care for me as i do you. only let me be here, let me devote myself to you. that would be enough. ❞

❝ i want to trap your smile in a bottle and take it out when no one else can see. ❞

❝ you belong to me and i to you. ❞

❝ do not look away from me. i cannot bear it when i do not occupy your vision. ❞

❝ i will follow you. to the ends of the earth, to the very gates of hades and whatever might lay beyond. ❞

❝ i will always be here. no matter how far you go you can always come home to me. ❞

❝ tell me all the places you have been hurt, every rejection, every scar. let me love you in all the places where you have burned. ❞

❝ i will not ever let you go. ❞

❝ you cannot escape this. you cannot run away from the love we share. ❞

❝ what we have is deeper than words could capture. ❞

❝ i will be anything you desire. i pluck out the parts of me you find distasteful and stuff your love in the craters left behind. ❞

❝ tell me what you wish of me and i will do it. ❞

❝ i could spend all day merely watching the air in your lung. i would count every blink. i would cherish every sigh from your lips. i could watch you merely exist for the rest of my life. ❞

❝ don't let go of me. i think if you lost me i would die. ❞

❝ i will cut out the tongues of every man who has wronged you. ❞

❝ i wish i could crawl inside you and make a home out of the hollows of your bones. ❞

ACTIONS:

WATCH: for sender to watch receiver sleep.

WATCHED: for sender to wake up and find receiver watching over them.

DISCOVER: for sender to find a journal full of sketches receiver made of them and sender finds them looking at it.

DISCOVERED: for receiver to find a journal full of sketches receiver made of them.

FOLLOW: for sender to stalk receiver, claiming they're doing it to protect them.

FOLLOWED: for receiver to stalk sender and claim they're protecting them.

GOING: for sender to take receiver to a secluded cabin for a romantic getaway.

GONE: for receiver to take sender to a secluded cabin for a romantic getaway.

SACRIFICE: for sender to kill someone who wronged receiver as a grand gesture.

SACRIFICED: for receiver to kill someone who wrong sender as a grand gesture.

CAUGHT: for sender to catch receiver staring at them.

CATCHING: for receiver to catch sender staring at them.

REVEAL: for sender to slowly undress themselves while receiver watches, but doesn't touch.

REVEALED: for receiver to slowly undress themselves while sender watches, but doesn't touch.

BATHE: for sender to bathe receiver, meticulously and tenderly as if serving them.

BATHED: for receiver to bathe sender, meticulously and tenderly as if serving them.

[mikkies]

「 TODAVIA PUEDO SENTIR TU TACTO INCLUSO EN LA OSCURIDAD. 」

Chance x Fem! Clothing Designer! Reader (no mentions of she/her)

warnings: mentions of itrapped (he should be a warning on its own).

notes: thanks for the title help AHEM AHEM... sighhh... ANYWAYS PART 2 OF my THIS exploring the way Chance is towards the reader (reader is eerily similar to Itrapped yet so different)

HE’S SITTING ON the edge of the porch, one arm resting over his knee, the other cradled against his side where the wound hasn’t finished healing yet.

You’ve offered to re-stitch it properly—said he was healing wrong, that it was gonna scar messy—but he waved you off with a lopsided grin and a “scars build character” quip.

You let him sit with it. Not because you agree.

But because some things he needs to choose on his own.

It’s late. The sky glows a dull orange from the breach hanging far over the forest, never fully night here, never fully day. The whole world stuck in between, just like him.

From inside the cabin, you watch his silhouette as your fingers work without thinking, threading ribbon through a jacket collar you’ve been trying to finish for weeks now. It was meant to be for him—like most things you make lately. But you haven’t given it to him yet.

Because something's off.

Not new. Just... growing.

He flinches when you touch his shoulder now. Laughs a little too loud when you tease him.

And when you patch him up, he never looks you in the eyes anymore.

That used to be your favorite part. The way he’d smile down at you—cocky, always pretending he didn’t need your help—but grateful. Silent. Loyal.

Now? His loyalty feels heavier. Like it’s chained to something you can’t see.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped working until you feel your magic dim under your skin.

The jacket falls silent across your lap.

And you finally go outside.

He doesn’t turn when he hears the door creak open. He just says, “...You ever feel like someone's haunting you, even when they ain't dead?”

You pause in the doorway.

“I think,” you say carefully, “there are worse things than ghosts.”

Chance chuckles. It’s humorless. “Yeah. Like still loving the person who put the knife in you.”

You move slowly, taking a seat beside him on the porch. You don’t speak right away. Just sit, close enough he can feel you, but not touching.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then,

“You remind me of him.”

That’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

You turn your head. His expression is unreadable—shades reflecting the broken sky.

“iTrapped,” you say.

He nods.

“He didn’t build anything,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t make things the way you do. He didn’t even fix his own mistakes. Just... left ‘em. Let me clean ‘em up. Let me follow him into worse and worse messes like some stupid stray. And I did. ‘Cause I thought that’s what love was supposed to feel like.”

He laughs bitterly.

“‘Die for me,’ he said once. I thought it was a joke.”

You say nothing.

“I played every game he asked me to. Lost things I’ll never get back. He told me I was lucky, and I believed him. Even when my luck ran dry and my hands were shaking and I couldn't even tell which pain came from the game and which came from him. I loved him.”

Chance grips the side of the porch railing hard, metal groaning beneath his fingers.

“And then I met you.”

You look at him.

“I thought maybe I was finally over it. That what I felt for you was new. Real. But sometimes you touch me and it’s like I’m back there again. And I hate that. I hate that my body doesn’t know the difference between someone hurting me and someone holding me.”

Your chest aches. “Chance…”

He finally looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And it’s terrified.

“You’re kind. And soft. And strong in ways I don’t know how to name. But you’ve got the same patience he did. The same way of watching me. The same quiet hands, same soft voice when I bleed. And I’m scared that I’m doing it again.”

Your voice shakes. “Doing what?”

“Falling into someone else's gravity.”

You want to say he isn’t. That this is different. That you are different.

But that wouldn’t be fair.

Because he's right.

You are patient. You do patch him up. And maybe, maybe, he was never taught the difference between affection and obedience.

Between care and control.

Between you and iTrapped.

So instead of trying to prove him wrong, you say:

“I won’t make you stay.”

He tenses.

“I won’t ask you to prove yourself. Or test your love. I won’t drag you into things you don’t choose. If you ever feel like I’m becoming him—walk away. I mean it, Chance. You are not leashed to me.”

His breath catches.

“But,” you continue, voice quiet but unwavering, “if you do stay, I need it to be because you want to. Not because you’re afraid to be alone.”

He doesn’t answer.

He just leans into your side, carefully, like he doesn’t trust his body not to shatter from it.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” he whispers.

“You’re not going to.”

“Even if I see him in you sometimes?”

You reach out, gently sliding his shades up onto his forehead. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. Honest.

“Then I’ll stay long enough for you to see me instead.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it for months.

And finally—finally—he rests his head against your shoulder. Not like a loyal dog.

But like someone learning how to be human again.

[strayingawayy]

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 2: trending naked

read introduction here

chapter 1

word count: 2500 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content, emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, repression, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: after a month of banging my head, here's chapter 2. i'm not that proud to present it but i sincerely hope you all enjoy it. to a certain extent atleast.

playlist.

─── Some things weren’t meant to be seen.

Not by cameras. Not by friends. Certainly not by the entire world before breakfast. Some truths weren’t meant to come out, not this fast, not like this, and definitely not with a scandal trending in thirty countries.

And some mornings…

Well, some mornings arrive like a car crash in slow motion—silent, bloody, and impossible to stop. This was one of those mornings.

And by nightfall, it wouldn’t be the only thing that had exploded.

Because the scandal was just foreplay.

Minho doesn’t give too many fucks. That, perhaps, is exactly why the media can’t get enough of him. His reputation for ignoring paparazzi—walking past flashbulbs like they were beneath him, brushing off scandal like lint from his shoulders—only fuels the curated image the world has built for him: rich, cold, handsome.

The kind of man who never apologises, never chases, never looks back.

A man with cufflinks that cost more than most people’s rent and a gaze sharp enough to file lawsuits.

He never fails to live up to the version people have conjured of him: an aloof enigma who seems to have stepped straight out of a bloody Wattpad story with a dark past, a tailored coat, and a five-star attitude. Ice in his veins. Designer cologne on his skin. The untouchable heir to a corporate empire.

Which is why it was, in fact, utterly unacceptable that he had woken up to find himself trending worldwide.

Naked.

Trending naked.

His bed, once a haven of order and pristine thread counts, was now a battlefield of duvet limbs and existential panic. And just as he stirred—blissfully unaware that his dignity had been annihilated in high definition—his bedroom door was kicked open with the force of a raid.

“BLOODY HELL, MINHO, WAKE UP, YOU ABSOLUTE WEAPON!”

Three things happened in rapid succession.

First: his brain registered Han Jisung’s voice at an inhumane decibel level.

Second: his eyes opened to the sight of said menace launching himself bodily onto the bed.

Third: he was being shaken so violently he momentarily forgot his own name.

“YOU’RE ON THE NEWS,” Jisung screamed, as though this were the beginning of a film and not, as it would turn out, the single most embarrassing day of Minho’s entire existence. As though the evening of the engagement wasn't enough.

Minho groaned, shoving weakly at Jisung’s hyperactive limbs. “So? I’m always on the news.”

Jisung’s eyes went white with incredulity. “NOT LIKE THIS.”

As if summoned by the very chaos vibrating through the room, Changbin barrelled in behind him, phone clutched in hand, screen already aglow with doom.

And there it was.

The headline that would haunt Minho for the rest of his natural life, and potentially a few reincarnations after that:

LEE MINHO & FIANCÉ(E)’S PRIVATE MOMENT LEAKED — SCANDAL OR SECRET LOVE STORY?

Minho blinked. “...Private moment?”

Jisung, ever helpful, snatched the phone from Changbin with the reflexes of a pickpocket (we’re going to ignore his experience in this regard) and began scrolling like a man possessed.

“The media’s trying to be classy about it,” he muttered, squinting at the article, “but, mate, it’s a full-blown sex tape.”

“That’s not possible,” Minho said, more to the universe than anyone in the room.

Changbin inhaled slowly, as if preparing to deliver last rites. “Oh, but it is.”

Jisung tapped ‘play’.

And there.

There.

On the screen: Minho. You. A luxury hotel bed with gold-accented sheets. Your leg hiked over his shoulder like a Cirque du Soleil audition. The unmistakable cadence of debauchery. There was a brief moment of hope—it could be someone else, blurry or cropped footage—

But no.

There was his face, though not evidently visible but definitely his. His body. His hair slightly mussed in that aesthetically criminal way. And then—just to ensure he’d never sleep again—audio.

“Oh my God,” Minho breathed, horror pooling behind his eyes like storm clouds.

Changbin nudged him, eyes still on the screen. “Bro, you gripped the headboard.”

Han let out a noise so ungodly it might’ve summoned spirits. “Nah, why did Y/N tell you to shut up and you actually did?”

Minho’s hand shot out, slamming the phone screen-down against the mattress like it would do him any good. “I am going to pass away.”

But alas. The gods of disgrace were only just getting started.

Because the next moment?

Jisung—bright, chipper, and holding a remote like a harbinger of doom—turned on the television.

And there, in crisp HD on national news, was a panel of analysts dissecting Minho’s thrusting technique.

“So, if you pause at 1:15, we see Minho taking the lead.”

“Briefly.”

“Right, so that’s where you can see the power shift. Minho thinks he’s leading, but actually Y/N takes control.”

“Fascinating power dynamic. Wonder if that’ll affect the company in the future. And at 2:03, we see a rare moment of desperation—”

“And a rare moment of his perky arse—”

Minho buried his face in his hands. “This is not happening.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Jisung corrected, practically vibrating with mirth.

And just when Minho thought he’d reached the peak of his humiliation—

The door slammed open.

You.

You looked like a mythological fury: hair askew, eyes burning with a fury that could level cities, your phone clutched so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered under the force of your wrath.

Minho had faced hostile shareholders. Ruthless competitors. Once, even a death threat from a rival conglomerate.

He had never been this afraid.

“YOU,” you spat, striding towards him like a vengeance incarnate.

“Me,” Minho squeaked.

You hurled your phone at him—a Samsung-shaped missile of fury. He only just managed to catch it before it smacked him between the eyes.

The screen?

A live press conference.

“We are deeply concerned by this invasion of privacy—”

“Yes, but let’s focus on the real issue. What does this mean for Lee Corp’s reputation?”

“More importantly, what does it mean for his stamina?”

Minho launched the phone across the room like it was cursed.

Han and Changbin were now weeping on the bed with laughter, occasionally slapping the duvet for oxygen. Like that would help.

“FIX THIS,” you snarled, stepping closer.

Minho gulped. “Okay. But, um, how?”

You were incandescent.

“I don’t know, Minho, maybe by explaining why THE WHOLE WORLD JUST WATCHED ME DOMINATE YOU IN A FIVE-STAR HOTEL?”

Jisung wheezed.

Changbin slid off the bed entirely.

Minho inhaled a dust bunny from the mattress and promptly choked on his own spit.

“First of all,” he croaked, his ears practically glowing, “I would not say ‘dominate’—”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. Full force. Righteous and deserved.

“THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”

He held up both hands. “You’re right. Not funny. Very serious.”

You exhaled sharply, pacing now like a tiger in a cage.

“This is huge,” you muttered, half to yourself. “My career? Ruined. My name? Dragged through the mud. My family? Calling me to ask if I’ve ‘forsaken God’—”

Minho blinked. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

You stopped dead, eyes wide.

“DRAMATIC? MINHO, I HAD TO BLOCK MY AUNT ON FACEBOOK BECAUSE SHE CALLED ME A JEZEBEL.”

A beat.

“…What century is she living in?”

“FOCUS.”

Minho sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair.

And for the first time since this entire trainwreck had begun, he really looked at you.

Your arms were folded tightly across your chest, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. Your breathing was uneven. And underneath the righteous fury, the fire, the rage—

He saw it.

Humiliation.

Fear.

This wasn’t just a scandal to you. This was your life. Your reputation. Your family.

Your safety.

Minho straightened, cleared his throat and managed to muster enough courage to find his voice.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. Calmer. “We’ll fix this.”

You laughed—a bitter, brittle thing. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Minho’s jaw locked.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

But whoever had leaked that footage? Whoever had thought they could reduce you to gossip and grainy pixels? Humiliate you and smear your life across the tabloids like it was theatre?

They had made the single worst mistake of their lives.

And Lee Minho was going to make sure they regretted it.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Twenty minutes later, however, Minho was sitting in his office, head in his hands, while his PR team screamed at each other like contestants on a reality show.

“Do we deny?”

“We can’t deny! It’s him! We can literally see his face!”

“Okay, but how do we spin this?”

“Maybe say it was deepfake technology?”

“Oh, so AI Minho was out here breaking beds now?”

“WE NEED AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT!”

Minho groaned. “Jesus Christ, can everyone just—”

“Shut up?” one intern offered, ducking as a binder went flying across the room.

The office was a warzone. Papers. Coffee cups. Screaming. Someone crying softly in the corner. Possibly the Head of Crisis Communications. Hard to tell through the chaos.

Minho sat slumped at the conference table like a cursed prince in a kingdom of flaming paperwork, flanked by twelve PR specialists and zero solutions.

He hadn’t even had coffee.

“The stock’s dipped five percent in the last hour,” a voice piped up from the end of the table.

“Five?” another gasped.

“Six,” corrected a third, refreshing a graph with trembling fingers.

Minho exhaled through his nose. “So what I’m hearing is: we’re all doing really well.”

“I have a plan,” said a voice.

Silence.

All heads turned.

It was Felix.

Felix, in his immaculate blazer and pixel-perfect skin, who—until this very moment—had been watching from the window like a gothic Victorian ghost. Now, he stepped forward, chin raised, golden hair gleaming like divine retribution.

“You’re not going to like it,” he added, with the kind of grim solemnity usually reserved for war generals.

Minho gestured weakly. “Let’s hear it.”

Felix tapped his phone. The smart TV blinked to life.

LEE MINHO: THE MAN BEHIND THE HEADBOARD. A Love Story.

Minho said, “No.”

“Listen,” Felix said. “We lean in. We make it a love story. A passionate, uncontrollable, deeply consensual love story between two people thrown into an arranged engagement who—oh no!—accidentally fell into bed before marriage.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m a visionary, hyung.”

Jisung burst into the room. “It’s not insane. It’s working.”

“What?”

“Your ship tag is trending. #MinYN. There’s already a Tumblr fic called Cuffed By Fate and it’s got 4200 likes. Wish people reblogged more these days though.”

“In one hour?”

“Internet moves fast," Jisung supplies with a shrug, cheeks stuffed with grapes he had managed to grab in the midst of this chaos.

Changbin followed in, tablet in hand. “You’re not going to like this either—but your dad called.”

Minho sat up. “What?”

“He says this whole ‘sex tape’ thing? It’s good for business.”

Everyone stared.

“The engagement was polling terribly. Now people think it’s romantic. Reckless. There’s a petition for you two to star in a K-drama.”

Minho leaned back slowly.

“I want everyone out.”

They scrambled. PR scattered. Jisung took three pastries and saluted on the way out.

Only Minho, Chan, and Felix remained.

“I want to know who leaked it.”

Felix nodded, smile gone and work mode locked in as he adjusted his glasses. “We’re tracing the footage. CCTV. Remote access. Not an accident.”

“Who the fuck has that kind of access?” Minho’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Chan’s arms folded, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. Then, in a low, careful tone: “Someone high up. Someone close. Possibly… family.”

Minho felt the walls tilt. His mind raced—replaying every meeting, every forced smile, every curt nod exchanged with your father. Protection. Control. The words echoed in his skull.

Had the engagement ever been about safeguarding you—or about cementing ownership?

He pictured the hidden CCTV feed, the silent transmission, the deliberate timing. This wasn’t an accident. It was precision.

Minho’s chair scraped back as he stood. His pulse hammered in his ears. “Where are they?”

Chan hesitated. “Left with their father’s driver.”

“Willingly?” Minho’s question trembled on the edge of accusation.

Silence stretched. Then: “I’m not sure.”

Gears turned in Minho’s mind. Someone orchestrated this. Someone who knew every code, every security hole, every blind spot. Someone trusted. Someone inside.

He tugged on his coat, fingers brushing the gun at his hip. Outside, the city pulsed with oblivious life. But here—right here—Minho understood the stakes had just become lethal.

He stepped toward the door. His jaw clenched.

He only wished he knew the true target.

...

taglist: @imfoive @jisunggy @hyunebunx @peskybirdysya @rockstarkkami @knowbites @mischievousleeknow @thepoeticpurplepotato @artemesiareads @valreifang @alisonyus @jisuperboard @8minho @robinnotgood24 @sarahfirecrystals-blog @lmnhx @maskedcrawford @bluesoobinnie @butterflydemons @pinkpunkdynamite @stickymusictale @lazymfblog @krssliu @halesandy @vcordova1460 @gnusihcom @cutecucumberkimberly @coldcraftmusiclight @superwholockiancrackhead @starfishblobblob @privatespotyk @thingsiwannaseelater @loveunt0ld @showingmafandomlove @2minpov @hantaechan @skyinkpop-blog @helpijustgothere @herejusttemporary @kpopenthusiast143 @miyaluvvsyou @shuuporanglinos @abbiestearsricochet @pixie-felix @loxgirl2004 @met30c1ty @feelikecinderella @uhhhhhokay @moon0fthenight @cashtonsbetch

[leighsartworks216]

You're My Favorite

Sylus x gn!Reader

Very self indulgent fic for me. Started replaying Pokemon Shield and the au thoughts have been haunting me. But instead of that what if cuddle with big man while play game??

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, cuddling, kissing, Pokemon references, literal sleeping together, rain, the author's obvious love for ghost type Pokemon

Word Count: 964

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Rain patters softly against the windows. It pours down the glass, painting the outside world in a waterfall haze. The glowing lights of the cityscape shimmer and shine in a vibrant bokeh. All the way up here in the penthouse, none of the noise of traffic and disputes reach.

The living room is dim, lit only by the light of the TV. The sound is turned down low. Upbeat music and exciting battle themes, barely loud enough to hear over the rain. Your character runs around on the screen. The controllers sit comfortably in your hands, and Sylus rests comfortably in your arms.

It’s a lazy night in. You wanted to return to a game you haven’t played in a while, a Pokemon game. Sylus decided to join you, if only to cuddle. Which is how you ended up laid back against one of the couch armrests, and how Sylus ended up sprawled across the length of the couch, his arms wrapped under your back and his head on your chest. When you get into a battle and can play one-handed, your other hand finds its way into his hair. Those are his favorite moments. Your quiet confidence or underlying anxiety about the fight on screen, all the while your fingers thread through his silky hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. You always win. He hasn’t seen you lose a single battle yet, even though you make a habit of saving before the important ones just in case.

For now though, you’re exploring one of the wide open areas. Little creatures hop around the grass. Some occasionally chase you around. One manages to catch up, starting up the battle theme. In one hit, the fight is done.

A blue screen comes up with one of your Pokemon in the center. A blue and black bird with red eyes that you’d had since the very start of the game, affectionately named Mephisto. He��d teased you initially, saying it looked nothing like his beloved surveillance pet. You get giddy beneath him, sitting up slightly and playing with his hair as Mephisto is bathed in white. In its place, a large black raven appears.

You tap against his back to get his attention. “See? Doesn’t it look like Mephie now?”

He grins softly. “It does. You were right, sweetie.”

“Mhm.” You linger on the screen for a minute, just looking at your newly evolved partner. “D’you think you’d have one of these for a Pokemon?”

“I already have one mechanical bird, and he’s much more reasonably sized.”

You snicker, finally clicking off the screen. You pick a move to be replaced with Steel Wing. Then your hand leaves his hair, and you continue running around the digital world.

“What Pokemon would you have?” he asks. He scoots himself up further, pressing his face into your neck, nuzzling against your collarbones. He’s such a cat. You almost expect him to make biscuits against your stomach.

You rest your head against his. You can feel your eyes starting to get heavy. Lids starting to droop. You stubbornly play on. Just a little longer. You don’t want to get up yet, not when Sylus’s weight presses down on you so perfectly and his lips brush your neck like delicate flower petals. A yawn slips through, regardless. “I don’t know. I guess it depends.”

He hums. “On what?”

“Whether I’m a gym leader or a normal trainer or, like, a normal person.”

You can feel the curve of his smile on your skin. He loves when you’re passionate about your interests. When you put more thought into it than others would. “All of them. What’d be different?”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, mindlessly going into menus and healing your Pokemon team as you think. “Well, if I was a gym leader, I’d be a ghost one - easy. And I’d have a Mimikyu, and maybe a Chandelure. Hmm, an Aegislash. And my ace would be a Dragapult.”

“Mhm.”

“And if I was a trainer, I’d want a balanced team of my favs. I’d still have Dragapult, and a Vaporeon, and a Mephisto.” He huffs a laugh. “And three others… And I’d train them all and be friends with them all.”

You’ve lingered on your Bag’s menu screen for a while now. You hug him a little tighter, muffling a yawn as you rest your eyes for a moment.

“If I was just a normal person… I don’t know what I’d wanna do. For a job. ‘Cause there’d be no Wanderers for me to deal with… Maybe I’d have a cute little cottage. I think if I did, I wouldn’t wanna have a fight-y Pokemon. Just one that I can chill with…”

He kisses your pulse. Squeezes you around the waist. “What would it be?”

You hum sleepily. “If you were a Pokemon, what would you be, Sy-sy?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d want my Pokemon to be you…”

“What if I lived in that cottage with you, as myself?”

“Then we could have a Mephie…” you murmur. The soothing sound of the rain has caught up with you. Your breathing becomes rhythmic, long and slow and even. The controller slips from your fingers. He catches it from hitting the floor with his Evol, depositing it safely on the coffee table. Your hands, now free, gravitate back to his hair. You play limly with the hair at the nape of his neck, petting the shorter hair at the back of his head. “An’ a Dragapult…”

He chuckles, low and content. He nods slightly. “Okay. We’ll have a Dragapult. That must be your favorite, hm, kitten?”

You rub your cheek against his head. “You’re my favorite…”

“You’re my favorite, too.” He hugs you tighter. “Sweet dreams, my beloved.”

“Mnmm… G’nigh’, Sy-sy…”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[lowkeyren]

YOUR DOCTOR AT BAY, KEEPS THE NIGHTMARES AWAY!

in which — your boyfriend comforts you from a nightmare

pairing —dr ratio x gn!reader

"an apple a day, keeps the doctor away" lol get it, short comfort fic ft our favourite doctor, from req: here!, reblogs w comments are vv much appreciated, anyway please enjoy!!! <3

the air constricts around you like a tightening vice, each breath coming harder than the last; your quiet sobs fill the room as the darkness envelops you like a shroud. the recurring nightmares haunt you each time you close your eyes, never failing to ensnare you in their chilling embrace.

the suffocating darkness presses in, its weight bearing down on your chest as you struggle to breathe; you curl into yourself, sweat lining against your back, clutching the bedsheets as if it’s your only tether to reality. the sheets twist and damp from your restless movements, you let out a yelp involuntarily, a desperate cry that echoes in the oppressive silence of the night. 

your heart races, pounding in your chest with each beat reverberating through your entire body, amplifying the fear coursing through your veins. your breathing now erratic, your eyebrows furrowing as you feel the walls around you slowly closing in.

in the midst of your turmoil, a gentle touch breaks through the chaos. dr ratio’s hand finds yours, his touch cool and reassuring against the feverish warmth of your skin. 

“you’re safe with me.” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering fear.

with his other arm, dr ratio draws you close, enveloping you in his comforting embrace. his heartbeat, steady and strong, reverberates against your chest, reassuring that you’re indeed, safe with him.

“i’m sorry i woke you up. i’m fine i—” you say meekly, unable to steady the shaky tone in your voice. “shh,” he squeezes your hand lightly, “you don’t need to apologize, i will be here for you, no matter what.”

you subconsciously lean into him, the scent of his skin a familiar anchor in the swirling maelstrom of your mind. he strokes your back gently, the tension in your brows loosen as you nestle into him. the fear and dread gnawing at your mind slowly dissipates, replaced by the soft touch of dr ratio tracing gentle circles on your back.

he notices stains of tears glistening on your cheeks, and your figure trembling slightly. “look at me,” you look up to meet his gaze as he wipes away the lingering tears with his thumb, “take a deep breath, it was just a dream.” his voice is tender and soothing, breaking through the remnants of fear. 

“i'm here,” he leans down, his breath warm against your hair. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

his arms are wrapped securely around you, the warmth of his body seeps into yours, chasing away any lingering chill of fear. he continues to stroke your back, the tender motion helps to unravel the tight knots of tension that have taken hold of your muscles.

“everything will be okay.” gradually, the room around you starts to feel less oppressive as you feel the walls that once seemed to trap you now loosening and expanding. “you’re safe with me,” he repeats, his gaze locking with yours.

you nod at his reassurance, opting to bury your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear slowly lulling you back to sleep. he continues to hold you tightly, his fingers gently threading through your hair in soothing motions. 

he presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head, "sleep well, my dear." 

with those final words, you finally allow yourself to fully relax, the safety of his embrace guiding you into a deep, restful sleep. 

no matter what nightmares may come, dr ratio will always be there to hold you through them; even in the darkest hours, you are not alone. no matter how irrational “love” may seem, he knows that he will never fail to pull you back from the abyss that threatens to consume you, not when you’re safely cradled in his arms.

masterlist

[skmhlml]

Hi, may I ask how did Burning Spice meet Sweetheart wife reader even though they are COMPLETELY opposite, I LOVED YOUR BURNING SPICE X SWEETHEART READER !!!

Can you make a one shot please of how they meet ??

Date request: 6/28/2025

Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart!Reader

|One-Shot|

he wind that carried ash always knew its way to the Spiced Wastes. That desert, cracking and dry, had been Burning Spice Cookie’s kingdom long before he bore fangs or madness.

He didn’t need others. He didn’t trust them.

But you…you weren’t others. You were wrong for that place, soft in your smile and wrong in your warmth. The kind of wrong that haunted a warrior like him.

He found you collapsed near a patch of volcanic glass. A caravan overturned, crushed by a Sandwurm’s fury. The rest of the party? Gone.

You were curled like a delicate flower beneath his shadow, weak from heat and fear, trembling like your spirit hadn’t caught up with your body yet. And still—you smiled when he approached.

“You’re not… going to eat me, are you?” you asked, voice dry and parched, but gentle. Joking. Sweet.

He blinked. He’d seen desperation before. He’d seen warriors fall, children scream, nobles beg. But you smiled, even as the sun beat you down like a drum.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “Don’t move.”

You didn’t. But the smile stayed.

⸻

He didn’t mean to keep visiting…

He claimed it was out of guilt. That no one so soft should’ve survived, and maybe by bringing you water, dried fruit, and sharp words, he was just keeping the balance.

But when he stood outside the cracked tent you’d pieced together from his old tarp, your voice always lit up.

“You again? Thought you hated sweet things.”

“I do,” he grunted, tossing a bundle of food at you. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he stayed a while. He always did.

⸻

Over time, you made him tea with dried cactus blossoms. It was terrible. You hand-stitched him a scarf for the cold desert nights. He grumbled and left it behind—only to return wearing it, pretending it was someone else’s.

You asked him questions no warrior should answer.

“Isn’t it lonely? Wandering alone?”

“Better than betrayal,” he said, eyes dark with memory. “Soft things like you don’t last.”

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

And you were. Each time, like a miracle. A quiet, undeserved constant.

⸻

Then he snapped.

The Wastes had turned red. Something was changing inside him—his skin cracked with unnatural heat, his veins surged with ancient fury. He could feel the corruption threading through him, curling like smoke into his mind.

He vanished for days. You followed his trail.

You found him crouched by a fire, trembling, clawed hands curled over his ears like he could block out the roar in his head.

“Don’t come near me,” he growled.

You did anyway.

“Get. Away.”

“You’re hurting.” You knelt, tears stinging your eyes. “Let me help you.”

His head snapped up. “Why? Why do you care about me? I’m not—I’m not good.”

“I know,” you said, voice cracking. “And I still want to stay.”

His hands dropped.

He broke.

You held him as he wept into your lap, a monster to some, a man to you.

⸻

You didn’t fix him. He still burned too hot. Still had nights where he stood at the edge of the cliffs to scream into the void. Still kept his sword by his bedside like the world might betray him again.

But now, he woke to your arms around his shoulders.

You pressed honey to his lips when he was too angry to eat. You kissed his burns when they flared. You made him want to be soft.

“I thought I hated sweet things,” he whispered once.

You smiled. “You just didn’t know which kind you needed.”

His forehead leaned into yours.

“If I lose control,” he murmured, “promise me you’ll run.”

“I won’t...”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

He kissed you like that. Full of panic and love and the aching terror of a man who’d never had something worth protecting until now.

⸻

And when he did become a Beast…

He still remembered that first smile, dry and sunburnt and kind.

Even madness couldn’t burn that away.

[colouredbyd]

Time Cast A Spell On You III: The Rockstar

reincarnation au: Regulus Black x fem!reader

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

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

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

prologue lifetime I lifetime II lifetime III masterlist

lifetime III: The Rockstar

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

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

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

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

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd erupts. The world splinters.

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

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

{play kiwi by harry styles}

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

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

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

Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect...

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

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

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

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

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

Such a pretty face on a pretty neck..

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

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

She sits beside me like a silhouette...

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

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

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

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

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

It’s electric. It’s ruinous.

It’s everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not inside. Neither is he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A willow tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Prove it.”

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

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

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

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

And so it slowly began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{play tell me im a wreck by every avenue}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could have been easier on you…

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

I could have been all you held onto…

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

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

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

But I always had to have the upper hand…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess you never knew me at all…

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night jasmines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His silence is answer enough.

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

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

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

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re a wreck.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

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

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

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

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

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

Eight minutes.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

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

You're the only place I call home.

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

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

Every lonely night

Every drunken fight

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

You may be untrue, but I know

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

You're the only place I call home.

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

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

But she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Regulus!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re a wreck, Regulus. 

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

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

The letter. 

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

And he’d left it behind.

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

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

“Regulus—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven Years Later.

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

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

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

Your spot. His spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not there. He never is.

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

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

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To My Dearest Y/N,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.A.B.

taglist: @kysidctbh @tuttifrutt1 @primroseluna

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

[bullet-prooflove]

The Destroyer of Men: Declan O' Hara x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989

Declan doesn’t intend to fall in love you. It happens over a series of months while you work alongside each other at Corinium.

The destroyer of men is what Rupert Campbell-Black calls you because it was you that tanked his first marriage with pictures of his numerous affairs.

The best damn private investigator in the country is what Declan calls you after you dig up the truth behind that film star’s sex tape.

Tony hires you exclusively after that, sends you delving into the sordid lives of the rich and famous. Your official job is Research Consultant but they call you The Hound because you have a knack for sniffing out a secret. After all you were the one to learn that Maud was going to leave him, it was you who had run into her outside the solicitor’s office when you were hunting down information on another client.

The divorce should make him bitter, closed off, but it doesn’t because Declan comes to understand he didn’t fail at his marriage, he gave Maud everything he could. It just wasn’t enough, because nothing would ever be enough for Maud. He should have learned that early on especially after the first time she fucked Malhar.

His life, he finds is infinitely better without Maud. There’s no forlorn ghost haunting The Priory with it’s insane moods, driving the family further into debt. His girls are much livelier, much happier especially Taggie who starts to flourish with her catering career without her mother’s cruel words. Every morning he wakes up to a smile on his face, his daughters laughter ringing in his ears as Taggie creates something wonderful and Caitlin reads out the newspaper.

He tells you about it one night when you’re tucked together in his office, going through the information packet on Rupert Campbell-Black, days before his interview.

“I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and that’s because of you.” He whispers as his thumb trails over the apple of your cheek. “Thank you.”

“Well that’s the first time anyone has ever thanked me for ruining their marriage.” You tell him, your lips brushing over the base of his palm as his forehead comes to rest upon yours. “I suppose it did come with some benefits.”

He fucks you that night, your legs spread in front of dressing room mirror, his face buried in the curve of your throat as he watches you take every inch of his cock. Fuck you’re beautiful, a little wild, a little untamed, everything he’s spent entire nights imagining. The noise you make when you come, it’s the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard. His grip on your throat tightens, his eyes locked on yours as he spills his release, hard and deep.

He keeps you spread in front of him, his cum leaking out of you as he kisses a heated trail along your neck until your clenching around him and Declan, he has no choice but to fuck you all over again because you, you make him completely insatiable.

“Come home with me tonight.” He murmurs into your ear, his arms wrapping around you, cradling you close. “My girls are away and I want…”

He wants more than just a fuck in the dressing room, he wants you, all of you.

“Tell me.” You mumble, reaching behind you, your fingers threading through his unruly curls, tugging just enough to make his hips arch, his cock thrusting deep.

“You.” He whispers, his eyes meeting yours once more in the mirror. “I just want you.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[becertainlust]

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is whispered about with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends—think Galliano meets Alexander McQueen, but darker, smoother, and infinitely more elusive.

He didn’t go to fashion school. He didn’t intern under anyone. He emerged out of nowhere—an underground gem of a debut show held in an abandoned cathedral in Florence. Ten looks. Ten models. Candlelit. Every piece hand-stitched, laced with real silver thread and monograms only visible under moonlight. People thought it was a myth until Vogue Italia dropped an exclusive feature titled:

“The Lingerie Saint Has Arrived.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is more than a designer — he is an artist of intimacy, a storyteller through silk, lace, and silhouette. With every piece he creates, Suguru weaves emotion into fabric, tailoring not just to bodies, but to souls. He believes that beauty speaks many languages — and his mission is to make women feel beautiful in all of them.

From Tokyo to Paris, Lagos to São Paulo, his creations have turned runways into temples of self-love. Each design is a love letter to femininity — powerful, soft, wild, sacred. His talent quickly caught the attention of the world, landing him on magazine covers, international talk shows, and fashion panels. But despite his meteoric rise, it’s his humility and warmth that continue to captivate everyone he meets.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is so deep in the art medium pulling ethereal designs that catches many off guard and cause him to rise above the rest and whose inbox is flooded with an offers to take the creative directors seat by various fashion brands. He has a right to become picky but in the end decides to establish his own name.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who attends events after event, never growing tired of meeting new faces and hearing fresh ideas and conversing with new people. Quite the extrovert in the midst of his interests. God forbid he's actually excited 'You're really a conversative person Mr. Suguru' the interviewer giggled and he would have the prettiest smile that the viewers would gush much about across the media #suguru'ssmile trending for an entire month.

Lingeremaker! Suguru who when he sees you—you, gliding effortlessly through the chaos of the room, framed by golden light—who stops dead in his sentence brows knitting in frustration, hushing up the white haired model, that never seems to learn the word silence at crucial times Gojo screws his face up as Suguru claims he can't see you properly as he yapped on. 'who is that'

With a raised brow he pushes his hand away from his line of vision, 'Marketing agent, one of the best in the fashion world' he would whip his head back to Gojo in disbelief 'not a model?' Gojo would scoff throwing his hand around the male 'what you like what you see, I can set you up"

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who rejected Gojo's help, downplaying his interest in you on the spot. But he should have known better than leave his personal sketches and scribbles around his studio unguarded mentally punching himself for not storing latest works higher and further from his lanky ass.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who later that night, long after the champagne glasses clinked and cameras dimmed, he’d find himself at his sketch table again, candles flickering, Gold thread unraveling beside him. Your silhouette haunts him. Not in a ghostly way—but in the kind of way muses do.

Pages fill. The collection changes. The theme shifts from “Divinity” to “She Who Walks Like Daybreak.”

When asked on a French morning show what inspired the shift, Suguru simply says: “I saw someone who reminded me that beauty doesn't beg to be seen—it just arrives, and the world rearranges around it.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who receives a message for Gojo late at night as he is sorting his pallet for the collection, 'i told you I got your back' which Suguru responds with a question mark before concluding that he was weird for the gazillion time shaking his head then turned his attention back to his computer screen, the soft light lit hitting his face.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who the next morning would be woken up by his blaring door bell throughout the condo and when he switches on his camera and see's your face his eyes, done pops out of his head. 'what the fuck'

thinking of making this a fully fleshed fanfic series with smut on both ao3 and here.

[never-rxne]

──── sputnik

“Ever since that day, Sumire’s private name for Miu was Sputnik Sweetheart. Sumire loved the sound of it. It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of space. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?” —Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart. 

notes: she just deserves to rest what can i say. :( have this little- i don't even know what this is. domestic vignettes?

concept: listen to the rain whispering outside. it is a steady white noise that lulls Sevika to sleep when nothing else could. time slows to a stop. late morning; you let the minutes tick by without consequence. there is nowhere to be. you and Sevika lie in bed with Sevika’s head resting on your chest. you keep your arms around her, running your fingers lazily through her hair, threading through the streaks of grey among the dark, straight strands. she is safe here in your arms. no one is out for her. nothing is haunting her. her heart beats in rhythm to your own, so that if you close your eyes you can imagine you are breathing as one body. Sevika stirs, mumbles something in her sleep. her soft snoring covered by the gentle song of rain.

concept: listen to the music playing from the record player. Sevika picks from the vinyls as carefully as if they determine the course of her life. her favorite jazz musicians, bossa nova artists, lined up neatly in the crate. she likes to play the music while she fixes up her prosthetic, and you sit quietly near her holding the tools. you know she doesn't need any help, but you like to rest your head on her shoulder and watch her at work. she hums along to the songs sometimes.

slow evenings with the music, dancing in the small kitchen with the lights off and candles lit. Sevika says it's corny but she'll give you a spin and then dip you, lip-syncing to ella fitzgerald. stay in this moment. fall deeper in love with her. her hair is still damp from the bath earlier and she smells like soap. a hint of the scent of spices cling to her hands from making dinner earlier. she is happier than she has been in a long time.

concept: listen to the silence after a fight. the dripping water in the sink. you both have said things you didn't mean. you have both hurt each other. Sevika doesn't apologize, but you can feel her remorse permeate the air. you can feel it in the way she closes the doors, the way she stops briefly outside the room you're in.

later at night you lie in bed as you usually do but the silence still hangs heavy over you. the moon is high and bright outside the window, and looking over you can see the profile of Sevika's face watching its nocturnal ascent.  

into the darkness she says, you know when they sent the second satellite out they put a dog named laika in the spacecraft. it was never recovered and the dog ended up dying. imagine it, drifting and drifting alone in space. 

you know she means, please don’t let me go. please don’t release me when i lose control, don’t let me be lost to space. the gravitational forces that allow us to meet for just a moment in this vast circle of eternity, then part again—they aren’t for us. 

so you close the space between you, wrap your arms around her neck and hook a leg over her waist, clinging close to her and burying your face in her hair. she doesn’t look away from the window, she keeps watching the clouds pass over the moon. but she pulls you close to her with her one arm. you press your lips to her cheek. we’re not like the satellites, you whisper. and i will not leave you. 

i will not leave you.

[bangtangalicious]

nexus (m) part 6

pairing: jungkook x reader, taehyung x reader ft. hobi x reader, namjoon x reader, yoongi x reader

smut: taehyung x reader, jungkook x reader, some hobi x reader

premise: a notorious casino conglomerate took you in when you were young. you grew up alongside their sons; inseparable from the oldest, infatuated with the middle, and engaged to the youngest. after a shocking murder, a detective with a vendetta drags you into unraveling a web of dangerous lies that cause you to question who you trust, and who you love

genre: 18+ slow burn romance mafia elite arranged marriage murder mystery thriller

characters: detective jungkook, heir taehyung, ceo namjoon, arms dealer hoseok, bartender yoongi, doctor jimin, best friend/heir seokjin

wordcount: 6.2k

warnings: 18+ multiple smut scenes, oral (f and m), fingering, sexual tension, like a lot of sexual tension, a lot of subtle touching, grinding, kisses, possessive behavior, tsundere!taehyung, implied bipolar disorder, angstttt, betrayal, light yandere undertones, taehyung gets his first kiss...and some other things too ;) breast play, hella teasing, did i mention sexual tension idk taehyung is hot ok but hes also scary do with that what you will, declarations of love, jungkook tryna be sweet we been knew ig, as you might imagine this sets the foreplay for loads of smut in the next part LOL, its a lot of slow burn build up and evident thirsting over this taehyung okay im not sorry

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“I can’t lose you”

Taehyung’s words haunted you as you stared aimlessly at the tiled ceiling. The hospital room chilly, the smell of alcohol—the sanitizing kind, unfortunately—overwhelming your senses. There were other things you could be thinking about. Namjoon in jail. Jimin dead. Hobi betraying your trust.

But no. It had been Taehyung’s eyes that were on your mind—was it concern? Worry? Taehyung with emotions was a rare sighting. You were practically cherishing the moment.   

“It’s late”

The devil in question sat by the windowsill of your private hospital room, minding his own. Reading. Fingers bending the corners of a paperback novel as his eyes trailed over the pages with interest.

Even in the dark hue of the night, the faded moon seemed to hit his face just right.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Go to sleep” His answer was frank, “None of that matters until you get better”

“How can I not think about it?” You snapped. “Namjoon went to jail for me. Because I was an idiot and trusted Hobi. Bet my ass he killed Dr. Park too. I’m probably next. And if he murders me—you won’t get to, Tae”

The corners of Taehyung’s lips curled ever so slightly.

His uninterested eyes steady on the pages of his novel. Not bothering to glance your way.

“Have you ever considered just keeping yourself out of dangerous situations? Whatever it is you’re trying to prove…that you’re powerful, like your mother…that my family wronged you—all it does is show that you’re still their puppet.”

He exhaled sharply, a dismissive scoff that tore your confidence thread by thread, finally meeting your eyes.

“It’s pathetic”

You’d had just about enough of him. Fingernails digging into your palms.

“You’re an asshole Taehyung” You informed him. He shrugged.

“I’m honest” He countered. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to being babied.” Finally setting his book aside, he walked up to your bedside, kneeling down until he was at your eye level.

“Now will you please sleep?”

The look in his eyes perplexed you. You couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed, or if he genuinely cared about your health.

Deep down, you knew he was right. Everything you’d done had been to prove a point.

Taehyung rested his head on the armrest. Watching you intently, his eyes tired, dropping unconsciously.

“You’re the one who needs sleep, idiot” You muttered under your breath, letting your fingers run through his soft, wispy black hair. “Taehyung” You nudged him. He barely opened his eyes. 

“Get in here” You shifted over, giving him space. He didn’t question it in the moment, he was probably too tired. He didn’t face you. Kept a decent distance between you both.

You were paralyzed. Aware of his every breath. Aware of the way he shifted himself to get comfortable—you could sense the intention in his avoidance of touching your skin even slightly. His scent was more prominent.

“Do you miss your mother?”

His question was so quiet, you weren’t even sure it was real.

And it occurred to you then, that you’d never thought about it. That you’d never even been asked. In the chaos of your mother’s death, your move to the Kim’s and Taehyung being sent away—you barely even processed anything. All you remembered was Jin being so patronizingly worried about you—convincing you that he was all you needed. That you moving in with him would fix everything.

You blinked wildly. Trying to piece together a coherent answer.

“I liked her” A smile creeped onto his face. Or so you thought, as you turned to see the side of his face—his eyes steady on the ceiling fan. “She’d always get me hotteok”

You watched him. Inspected the mole on his neck. The curve of his cheek. The way his long lashes merged when he’d blink. The way the night sparkled in his eyes. The same eyes that would bend your will so easily.

Young Taehyung would give you one look and you’d give him the world. And he’d known it too.

It was so quiet. But your chest was beating loud in your ears.

You must have fallen asleep despite yourself. Dreaming of Jungkook had become a standard practice. This time, he was drowning. You were him, and he couldn’t breathe. You reached out to him as he screamed for you. He was terrified. Falling. Dying.

Breathe.

You tried to tell him. Swim to the surface. Breathe. Something chained him down.

Your eyes shot open.

It was dark.

You. You couldn’t breathe.

Suffocating you, the cotton tasted bitter on your toungue. You squirmed. Thrashing, trying to grab for someone—anyone. You screamed out, for what it was worth. Scratching at the strong hands that held the pillow down over your face.

Adrenaline surged. It occurred to you to kick your legs. You did.

Suddenly the grip loosened.

Taehyung was on the floor.

Panting.

Hyperventilating.

The pillow inches from his palm.

He was quivering. Eyes shot—looking down as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was doing.

You stared at him. Trying to comprehend. Trying to rationalize.

“Taehyung” His name left your mouth in a more accusatory manner than you meant it to. Was it a question or a plea—you were unsure. He met your eyes, and you saw fear. As if he’d been pulled out of a trance.

“I—” He couldn’t form the words. He receded into himself, moving back until he was as far from your hospital bed as he could be. Back pressed against the wall as he hugged his knees to his chest. His voice was shaking, “I don’t—”

“Were you trying to kill me?” You yelped, looking around suddenly for your phone. Grabbing it you held it to your chest, ready to call for help if he tried anything. You almost wanted to laugh—thinking for a moment that you were safe around Kim fucking Taehyung.

You should’ve known better.

Taehyung’s eyes were overcome with horror. Disgust, at himself. He looked at his hands as if they weren’t a part of his own body. Then back at you.

“Princess” He was breathless, “—I swear, I didn’t mean to. I was d-dreaming, I didn’t know”

You gulped. Your fingers curling around your phone as you tried to think.

Maybe he was telling you the truth. Taehyung didn’t know to lie to you. He was honest if nothing else.

“Come back” You let your voice soften, but your body remained tense. “Go back to sleep Tae”

Taehyung gave you an uncertain look.

You rose from the bed, the hospital gown falling loosely around your curves. Kneeling down, you met his eyes at his level. Taking the pillow from the ground, you reached your other hand out to him.

“Maybe,” You sighed, “Maybe being in a hospital is triggering for you” It was a stretch, but you needed to believe there was something. Something that wasn’t that Taehyung hated your guts. Resented you, and would go as far as to kill you in your sleep because of it.

“It is”

He confessed quietly, still not meeting your gaze.

The pout on his lips, evident.

“You didn’t have to stay”

He looked at you.

He said nothing.

“Why don’t I call Yoongi, hm?” You reasoned, “He can take you home” And then you can call Jungkook and get the fuck away from him.

The phone rang.

Jungkook groaned, shoving his face into his pillow.

It kept fucking ringing.

Knowing deep down it might be the precinct, reluctantly, he put the phone to his ear.

“Hey”

Your voice was an aphrodisiac.

He felt it straight in his chest. Awake, now. Worried, seconds later.

He rubbed his eyes, checking his phone to see how late it was.

“Y/n? Baby, is everything okay? Are you still at the hospital?”

“I’m fine.” You weren’t. He could hear the tremble in your voice, “I just sent Taehyung home. Can I come to your place?”

Jungkook sighed. “Sure. I’ll be there soon”

Perks of having a police vehicle. Traffic was never an issue for him.

Entering the hospital, he noticed Yoongi and Taehyung in the lobby, heading towards the back exit. Yoongi had his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder. Seemed to be reassuring him.

Jungkook wondered what happened. You called Yoongi to the hospital so late to take Taehyung home.

He got in the elevator. He knew what room you were in. He’d been the one to bring you to the hospital, before the staff kindly reminded him he was not family—or rather, he wasn’t a Kim, and therefore couldn’t go into your room.

Then Jimin’s body was found. Duty called.

Three gunshots. He didn’t see him, but the autopsy report was eerily similar to that of his own fathers.

You were waiting at the front desk of the inpatient ward. Signing what he assumed were your discharge papers. You noticed him, eyes lighting up immediately.

Jungkook placed his calloused palm against your cheek. Your eyes were so fucking beautiful it stung him just to look at you.

“You’re okay” He breathed, reassuring himself more than anything. His voice trembled softly into a chuckle as you nodded, covering his palm with your own.

“Yeah, I’m okay” His lips neared yours, not touching, but enough for you to feel his breath scrape against your nerves.

He took your hand in his, and led you out of the hospital to his car. It was a short drive to his apartment. It occurred to him that you’d likely never stepped foot on this side of the city. The streets were narrow. Crippling houses dotted his peripheral—a faint scent of smoke through his windows.

He parked on the edge of the street, in front of an average-sized apartment complex.

“The Jeon Manor” He joked lightly.

You pouted, grabbing his hand. Fingers lacing with his.

“You know I don’t care that you’re not rich”

Jungkook wanted to scoff. But he held it back. If only you knew. If only you realized what could have been his, if it hadn’t been for—

“I don’t care where we are, I just want to be with you”

You brought his hand to your lips.

“Stop” He exhaled.

“W-what?”

“Stop saying shit like that when you won’t fucking commit”

You gulped. His stare was intense as he pulled his hand away from you, running in through his dark curls.

“Jungkook” You reached for his shirt, tugging the fabric towards you but Jungkook’s jaw hardened. He turned away. “Jungkook I’m serious”

“You won’t leave Nexus for me, you told me that. You won’t fight for me”

You tugged harder. He grabbed your wrist, harsher than he meant to. Glaring at you.

You didn’t understand. Jungkook should have known. Why would you? This was personal for you. Running Nexus was a point you had to prove, he understood that. But it was the very thing he needed you to give up. If not, then you’d never forgive him for what was coming.

“I love you”

Jungkook’s eyes clenched shut, almost out of regret. He felt tears but pushed them down.

“No.” He shook his head. Shit. He had let this go too far.

For as much as he’d wanted to hear it, it was a wake up call. The two of you couldn’t be together.

“You can’t”

Then he kissed you. His heart was erratic, breathing too. A desperate kiss, fierce with need. Your body fell limp, melting into his touch. Falling into him because he was everything and all you needed.

-

Somehow, he brought you to his apartment. Kicking the door closed.

He lifted you onto the counter, not letting you breathe—not letting you think, but fighting a sweet war with your lips. You were spinning. Losing yourself every passing second—seconds which passed so slowly as the moment consumed you.

His hands which rested on the sides of your hips, crawled beneath the hem of your shirt. Delicately they explored your skin, rising to the curves of your chest. Caressing your breast, he deepened the kiss, tongue pushing past yours, tangling together.

“Jungkook” You whimpered. His mouth slanting down your jaw, to your neck. Where he tasted your sweet skin and you arched into him. His fingers drawing across your nipples with intention, causing fire to pulse through you.

You could feel him pressed against you, hips locked. Rocking ever so slightly.

Your phone began to vibrate. Jungkook hissed in irritation, backing away as you answered the call.

“Y/n”

Your blood ran cold.

That voice.

“Run”

You could see Jungkook’s eyes narrow at you. The line went dead. You were too stunned to speak.

“Who was it?” Jungkook inquired, looking at your phone. Gulping, you shook your head.

“I-um—just remembered that I need to take care of something”

His fingers hovered over your waist. “Okay, I can drive you” You stiffened as he kissed your neck again. “Or we could go after 20 minutes” His voice was husky.

Run.

Jungkook’s lips dipped to your chest, pushing the hem of your t-shirt up. Leaving pronounced kisses on every inch of skin he could find.

Run. Run. Run. Run.

You squinted behind him. There was an old family photograph hanging on the wall.

Two young boys. A father.

Their suits. Well-tailored. Designer.

Your breath hitched, Jungkook’s fingers slid across your slit.

“I love you baby” He mumbled as his lips returned to yours. “So fucking much, I almost hate you for it”

Two boys. A father.

Two.

“You’re an only child, right?”

Jungkook’s actions halted.

“Yeah,” He wiped his lips, “My mom died when I was young.”

“Any, other relatives…?” You slid off the counter carefully, pieces in your mind beginning to fit together.

Jungkook’s face hardened. Jaw stiff.

“Did Jimin say some bullshit to you?”

Oh God. Jimin had been hinting at some connection between Jin and Jungkook all along. You thought it had been a joke. A way to toy with Jungkook’s head.

That day. After you fucked Jungkook for the first time. Jin saw him. Jin knew him.

What if Jimin had been right? What if he had been the only one who was truly looking out for you all along?

“Did you kill Jimin?” The question had no sound. The air was still. The two of you, frozen in time.

“Come on, Y/n.” Jungkook sighed, “Jimin got what he deserved, but no I did not. He hurt you. He’s insane”

You flinched when he reached for your wrist.

He knew you figured it out.

You stepped outside the apartment. Running down the steps until you were back on the street. Outside Yoongi stood, leaning against the stone wall across the street as though he were expecting you.

“You knew” Was all you said.

Yoongi sighed, “I knew about Jungkook, but I needed to make sure if my hunch about Jin was true.”

You laughed bitterly. “That’s why my mother hated Jin. Because,” You couldn’t even say it. It made you want to vomit.

“Jin is a Jeon”

You blinked back tears. “But, why would he kill his own father?”

“Unless, he didn’t”

“Oh my God. You think…” You exhaled, feeling weak again. Yoongi held you upright. “Taehyung?”

He shrugged lightly, “It’s possible. More believable that a mother sends away the son who killed her lover than a son who simply witnessed something”

You were silent.

“You need to be careful” He made his voice as soft and kind as he possibly could. “I know about Hobi, but I’m honestly more suspicious of Jungkook.”

You nodded. The sun seemed to peak out from the horizon. A new day. A new betrayal.

Then the sound of the voice on the phone hit you. Run. So familiar. Like a ghost.

“Yoongi?”

“Yeah love?”

“Did you call my phone earlier?”

He shook his head. “No…why?”

“You’re back early” Taehyung answered the door, “Figured you’d spend the whole night with the Detective” His bland tone seemed to have been revived. You were too bewildered to care. You pushed past him, Yoongi following behind. Taehyung greeted him nicely. “Hyung”

You slumped into the couch immediately. Hand on your forehead as if it would ease the pounding.

Yoongi watched you, concerned. Taehyung looked to him for an explanation.

“So listen,” Yoongi cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but we still need to stay focused on pushing Hoseok out. The shareholders will be at the casino this evening for the anniversary gala”

“Yoongi” You laughed bitterly, “I don’t want to—”

“Y/n,” He responded, adamant, “This is what it’s like. You can’t hide just because shit’s hard. You’re not Jin’s princess anymore, you have responsibilities if you want back what’s yours. Taehyung isn’t ready to handle society on his own. He needs you”

A tear rolled down your cheek.

“Get some sleep” Yoongi rested his hand on your shoulder, caressing it gently. “It’s 7 AM, you’ve got plenty of time to get yourself together” His gaze diverted to Taehyung. “Black tie formal. I’ll send a suit for you. Make sure this one starts getting dressed at least 3 hours before we leave—she takes forever”

You let out a sad laugh, knowing Yoongi was trying to cheer you up but failing epically when all you had was a broken heart and impending doom.

Yoongi left, but Taehyung remained standing in front of you. A safe distance away, he simply observed you.

“You can sit you know” You grumbled.

He didn’t react. Didn’t move an inch.

“What’s wrong?” He inquired after a moment.

“Nothing,” You chuckled, “Just another missed opportunity for you to be the cause of my misery.”

“Was it,” Taehyung took a deep breath. Pausing, considering his next words carefully, “Was it him? Did the Detective hurt you?”

His eyes seemed to flash with something you couldn’t quite read.

“No” You stood up finally, “No the Detective is just another lying, manipulative asshole like the rest of you”

You walked past him, heading towards the foyer.

“I thought you loved him”

You whirled around. How he had managed to pick that up, you had no idea.

“I’ve decided I’m done with love” You stated confidently, “I end up falling for liars anyway”

You proceeded to storm up the stairs.

You were woken up by the sound of soft footsteps. Squinting, the evening sun blaring into your room, you noticed Taehyung pacing nervously outside of your room.

He was dressed.

Yoongi must have come by with the suit. It fit him perfectly. His dark hair was styled, tousled but neater than usual. His shoulders were prominent. The tailoring was perfect for his lean figure, and long legs. A gold watch on his wrist. It looked natural. He wore it so well.

Just like his brother.

Run.

“You’re awake” Finally, Taehyung stepped inside your room.

“Get dressed” He motioned towards a dry-cleaning bag that lay on your desk.

“Taehyung,” You sat upright, wiping the drool from your lips, “You look very handsome”

He blinked at you. Then walked away.

If you had any lingering doubt in your mind that the man by your side was in fact, Kim Taehyung—they were utterly dismissed. His Kim colors were shining. Despite his typical cold nature to you, Taehyung was the embodiment of charm.

Stepping into the casino, he had been initially overwhelmed by the stimulus: the lights, the slot machining whirring with bright colors, the crowd. You could feel him visibly tense even though he remained an appropriate distance away from you at all times. Close enough that folks knew you’d come together. Far enough to show you that he hadn’t forgotten about what happened.

The first few people who’d approached you had been friends of his mothers. You knew everyone well, everyone knew you. Taehyung would be quiet, shy at first, but it was that very aspect of his personality that made him alluring. He knew exactly what to say. His observant nature allowed him to navigate the different dynamics, pick up on cues expertly.

The elders respected his aura. The young were entranced by his mystery.

Every person he talked to was ready to trust him with their life. And if that wasn’t a Kim trait, you weren’t sure what was.

The only hiccups would arise when folks would bring up the past.

“Aren’t you two getting engaged?” Mr. Lee, one of Kim Enterprises’ stakeholders, asked politely, “So tragic what happened to dear Seokjin. But have you rescheduled?”

With speedy hesitation, Taehyung slid a hand onto the small of your back, looking into your eyes. There was a genuine passing of emotion, ever so subtle. He spoke, to Mr. Lee, but really—to you.

“In time” He smiled slightly. Looking back to Mr. Lee, “We are still mourning, in our own way”

“I’m sure Jin would be so proud of you”

You felt Taehyung tense at the implication. He maintained his composure, nevertheless, but you could see the turmoil stirring within him. Mr. Lee excused himself, and you turned to Taehyung, searching his eyes.

The mere mention of Jin had been pushing him closer and closer to the edge all night.

“Tae” You sighed, caressing his arm. “Want to take a break?”

“Please” His response was curt, but you could see his other hand balled up in a fist. Jin’s name had such a radial effect on him—one that reminded you that despite his ability to play the social field, he was dangerous.

Taehyung followed you to the backrooms where a younger crowd was immersed in pool, poker, and other debauchery.

“They loved you”

Taehyung merely shrugged. “Play the man, not the game” His eyes ghosted over you, “You taught me that”

You snorted lightly, as you found a quieter spot away from the buzz, Taehyung leaned against a wall, looking at ease.

“Taehyung, do remember how to play pool?” You asked suddenly as the billiard table came into your vision.

Taehyung thought for a moment. “Not really. But I’ll learn”

“Winner makes a wish, loser fulfills it” You challenged him. You really couldn’t help yourself. Being in the casino made you crave risk. But Taehyung wasn’t ready for high stakes, you knew that.

“Fine”

You start off expertly. Taehyung handed you the pool cue, the smooth wood cool against your fingertips.

"Alright, let me show you the basics," you said, positioning yourself near the table with a practiced ease.

He watched intently, his eyes following the calculated movements of your hands as you lined up a shot.

You demonstrated the proper stance, the controlled grip, and the delicate finesse required to send a ball into the pocket. With each shot, you explained the strategy, the physics of the angles, and the importance of precision.

You hit the shot expertly. With a smirk, you put down the pool cue and motioned for Taehyung to take your place.

"Your turn, Tae."

He eyed you skeptically but took the cue, positioning himself for the shot. You stepped behind him, your hand gently guiding his.

You’d never been so close to him. Not since the day you reunited, and he hugged you. And asked: are you scared of me, Princess?

Ever since then, there were oceans between you that you could only dream of crossing. He smelled good, you couldn’t help breathing in his fresh aura. The dimly lit room seemed to fade away just for a moment, and you wondered if he was effected like you were.

"Now, focus," you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear, though you maintained a level of indifference in your tone.

Taehyung's breath hitched imperceptibly, but he composed himself, focusing on the game. With your guidance, he took the shot, sinking the ball into the pocket expertly.

"Perfect," you praised, the ghost of a smile on your lips. "See, you’re a natural yet again. A true Kim”

Taehyung turned to face you, his gaze intense. "Anything I am is because of you”

You stiffened. His words were both a compliment and an accusation. God, seeing this side of him made him even more terrifying, because you didn’t trust yourself not to buy into the fact that he was some pure, innocent version of his older brother. He wasn’t. Kim Taehyung was unhinged. Any second he could snap, and you were on eggshells.

“Your turn” He handed back the cue. A few shots later, the two of you were neck and neck. The ocean between you two drying up slowly with every exchange of banter.

“Done with love, huh?”

You circled him as he lined up his next shot.

“What exactly did the Detective do to make you say something like that?”

You pursed your lips. “Why, gonna go beat him up?”

With a flick of his shoulder, the ball went in. Taehyung stood straight. “Maybe. What’d he do?”

He leaned against the table, handing you the cue as you positioned yourself. “He lied. He betrayed me. And I’m tired of loving liars”

“Didn’t you also lie to him?” He challenged. You shot him a glare. “Why haven’t you told him everything?”

You hit your mark. You missed. Taehyung’s blatant honesty was always unnerving. He wasn’t one to play games. “It’s complicated. I didn’t trust him. I still don’t trust him”

“And you expected him to trust you” Taehyung shrugged blandly. He stole the cue from your hand and before you could blink, he snapped the final shot. “Seems fair”

Taehyung’s last ball went in.

He beat you.

“Well” Taehyung huffed, trying to hide his gleaming pleasure. You almost wanted to roll your eyes. “I suppose that’s that” He looked at you expectantly.

“Okay Kim Taehyung, what wish can I grant you?” Cue in hand, you pretended to curtsy. Taehyung grabbed the end of the stick, using it to tug you towards him.

The space between you vanished. Only the cue between you, until Taehyung pulled it from your grip and set it aside.

There was something unrecognizable in his eyes. He licked his lips unconsciously.

“Well?” You looked up at him, suddenly aware of his height.

His fingers held your chin, tilting your face upward. Except his touch wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t painful.

Taehyung inhaled.

Your eyes widened as he closed his mouth over yours. His eyes shut—kissing you with a depraved delicateness. As if he was drinking your soul like he was the devil himself.

A touch so tender, and yet it seemed to steal away every last bit of purity within you, leaving behind a raging storm. Activating something so sinful—so wicked. All due to the decadent taste of his delicate lips.

He pushed your mouth open, deepening the kiss. And you—you were lost. Still utterly shocked that—Kim Taehyung was kissing you. The Kim Taehyung that wanted you dead. The Kim Taehyung who blamed you for everything—was actually kissing you.

It wasn’t like you’d never thought about it. The two of you no longer had to get engaged, but you lived with the man. And he was gorgeous. His quiet, mesmerizing charm. Enigmatic, smoldering and yet so calm. Who knew beneath that cold demeanor there was a tsunami waiting to be unleashed? 

He didn’t give you an opportunity to question him. His lips felt too good on yours for you to care. The casino around you seemed to vortex—everything spinning: the colorful lights—until you were airborne.

Floating. Dizzy. Afraid to fall but so fucking glad you were in the sky.

His mouth coaxed out your fierceness until you began to feel impatient. You placed your hand on his pounding chest, a light push until he sat down on the bench. You slid into his lap, no longer thinking—no longer caring that you were in public. That there was a room full of people in the casino who could be staring. Taking pictures. Gossiping.

They were all dead for all you cared.

You gasped audibly, a soft moan as he pulled you impossibly closer. You were losing your breath. On the verge of fainting—overwhelmed with sensations. Everything was heightened—everything felt alive.

His hand was behind your neck, the other one on the small of your back. Both yours in his wavy black—cloud like hair.

He pulled away, finally—barely. Catching his breath. His chest rising as fast as yours, offset by his erratic heartbeat. He was nervous.

Was that his first kiss?

He swallowed, uncomfortably on edge. His eyes were dark with desire. An angry kind of lust.

You searched your mind for words. Something to tell him that he did so good. That you loved it—and you wanted more. He was searching your gaze for something, but you were speechless.

So you kissed him again. Because how the hell else are you supposed to communicate.

“Taehyung” Your hands moved to cup his cheeks. You shifted, letting your body roll against his. Grinding against him slow and sensual, letting your movements mimic those of your lips. He was hard—painstakingly so. And he felt so good tucked between your legs. Throbbing for you. Both his hands lowered to your hips, then back up your back as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you—or maybe he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hold was strong—not rough. Touch intentional but not desperate. He took his time with you as if he had all the time in the world, but was still somehow starved. Drinking from you was his only salvation. You—you were his salvation. And he was your ruin.

He pushed you away, suddenly. You blinked, dizzy from the loss of touch. Sensitive and damp, heart throbbing fast. He didn’t meet your gaze.

“Fuck”

You could see the judgmental stares all around. Rolling your jaw you smirked at the crowd.

“We own this place. I’d mind your business”

The chatter dissipated. You redirected your attention back onto Taehyung.

“Taehyung?” Your voice was soft. “You okay?”

You noticed how tightly he was gripping the table. His head down, looking anywhere but up at you. Eyes wide, spiraling in thought.

“I—” He exhaled, closing his eyes again.

Was he--?

You couldn’t help yourself. You knew he’d despise you for it—but Kim Taehyung already despised you. You weren’t going to pass up a chance to feel him cum.

You shifted his chair so he was facing away from prying eyes. Carefully you snuck under the pool table, clawing at his pants.

His fingers pulled your hand away. A warning glare.

You yanked your hand away, unzipping his pants and letting his pretty cock spring free.

You clicked your tongue. Poor thing was ready to burst.

Licking your lips, you let your tongue glide from his base all the way up his length where you left a soft, sweet kiss on his tip. You slid his tip into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

Flattening your tongue, you let his cock rest there. Like a dog, you waited for him to cum all over you.

Then you looked up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours—and they were wild.

He hissed, shooting into your mouth. You drank up everything he had to give—and it was quite a bit. He bucked over, knuckles turning white. The bite into his lip released blood with how hard he was trying to stay quiet. You let him push his cock into the hollow of your cheek and spurts continued to flow out of him. You rested your hand on his knee, and his hand covered yours. Holding it tenderly—as if he were thanking you.

You cleaned him up quickly, before returning to your seat, adjusting your dress inconspicuously.

You grinned at him, but he was not amused at all. Still panting.

“Was that your wish?” You beamed at him. He chuckled softly.

“I just wanted to know what it felt like”

It was an innocent intention. Almost heartwarming.

“And, what do you think?” You leaned into him, “Did I rock your world, Kim Taehyung?”

“You are my world. There was never a doubt”

His eyes glossed over. You wanted to melt in his gaze. Unravel. Instead, you were plunged into cold water.

“Fancy seeing you two here”

The hairs on your body straightened. Chills seeping over you at the familiar voice, laced with betrayal.

“Jung Hoseok” He extended a hand to Taehyung, “Pleasure’s all mine baby boy” Taehyung skeptically shook it.

-

Hobi was extremely amused at what he had walked in on. Of course, a whore like you would take a matter of days to wrap the young Kim boy around your finger.

“Nice job leashing the puppy” He muttered, cigarette at the edge of his lips. The smoke wisping past your unamused expression.

“I should kill you” Hobi grinned at your response.

“No need,” He tapped the cigarette ash on the edge of the ash tray. He had brough you to his private booth. Leaving Taehyung for the wolves.

“What do you want, Hobi? I don’t want to leave Taehyung alone too long”

“Why?” He leaned closer to you. His hand resting on your bare thigh. Your dress was so fucking slutty, he loved it. He always loved the way you’d dress to gamble. As if your body gave you an edge—it did. He knew you crumbled rich playboy’s resolve with one bat of your pretty eyes. “Are you so desperate for dick you’d take your lover’s little brother’s virginity?”

You rolled your eyes. “I asked you a fucking question,”

“A birdy told me that you found out about Jin’s daddy”

You squinted at him. “What about it?”

“Don’t you want to know the whole story?” Hobi’s fingers hooked under the straps of your dress, playing with them. “Of the infamous Jeon family? And your mother—the woman who tore down a legacy”

His hand slid between your legs.

“Long long ago, the entire arms distribution business lay in the hands of one famous Korean gangster. Jeon Junghyun.”

He brushed against your clit. Gentle circles while he gazed into your eyes. A wicked grin. Like he could kiss you or stab you in the back.

You latched onto his arm as he lured you towards an orgasm. His face burying against your neck, breathing you in as he continued to touch you. Nothing except your soft whimpers in the air.

The heat from his body infected your every nerve. His breath scalding over your cheek.

“Then there was this clever little bitch” You inhaled sharply, edging forward towards your high. He could tell—because he pressed a little harder.

“Who manipulated her way to the top. Gained favor of everyone under him and took him out with a stab to the back” His hands roamed your body, sliding up your dress. He pushed the fabric up until it bunched up above your breasts which he grabbed at eagerly.

Thumbs rolling over your nipples, he continued “She took everything from him, leaving him and his two sons to rot. But she wasn’t cruel. She let him stay as her right-hand”

Hobi left a soft kiss against your left breast. Then another. And another. His thumb back onto your clit, he licked and suckled you. You gasped—looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Curving into his touch.

“She grew the business. An arms distribution pipeline can be used for a lot of things. She went legit. Bought out other companies with the blood money. Began distributing just about everything.”

He licked your lips. The sensation like that of slowly sinking into absolute, soft bliss. Licking down your jaw, fluttering desperate hisses across your neck.

Then, he slipped one finger in—your face heating at the sound. You clenched around the protrusion and he reached deep inside. Working you slowly, carefully—before adding in another.

His kisses trailed back up to your mouth. His breaths were heavy, swallowing your moans. It was hauntingly intimate.

“Hobi” You pleaded, gripping onto him as you shook. Orgasm sweeping over you like an earthquake. Tremors from your heart to every finger and toe in your body. He was so wildly aroused that he couldn’t look away. His fingers were steady nevertheless, pumping you through it. “Fuck, Hobi please”

“Jeon Jungkook wants you dead sweetheart” The pain from his words pushed you over the edge. You soaked over his fingers, twitching wildly. “And so did his hyung. Kim Seokjin.”

-

The brisk night air bit at your skin as you seized Taehyung's wrist, pulling him outside. People were chattering, smoking cigars, the lights from the casinos madness still polluting the air. Limousines, sleek and imposing, formed a line ready to usher the remaining guests to their destinations.

Waving down a driver, you led Taehyung inside one. The plush leather seats cool against your exposed legs. The interior lit so you could see him in front of you, clear as day.

The light shut. Instead there were light sparkles on the ceiling of the limo as it began to move. The champagne swirled in your mind as you leaned back, looking out the window. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Like a rush, you wanted to lose yourself.

Your eyes shut for a moment. Remembering the way the light danced on your fac when you were with Jungkook that night at the club. Yearning for his touch, the look in his eyes when he told you how he felt.

You swallowed thickly, heart in too much pain to go down that road. You looked at Taehyung next to you, instinctively reaching out to touch his face. Gently, you took hold of his chin, coaxing his gaze to meet yours.

Your thumb traced over his cheek. Fingers dancing over his soft, delicate skin. His eyes fluttered close as you did. Teasing the edge of his lips ever so lightly. He really was a beautiful man. His lips looked soft. Devastating, with the way his shaken breath made them tremble.

He leaned into your touch, your fingers sliding up over his ear, pushing his hair out of his face. It felt like you were getting kicked in the chest repeatedly. Every part of you feeling numb but simultaneously sensitive to even the slightest movement of air.

He exhaled. The flow of his breath wavering. Or was it a moan, you weren’t sure.

You were about to pull your hand away, until Taehyung’s over fingers gripped your wrist. He stared at you, pupils wide. It was these moments where you felt like you could see him. His soft, vulnerable side, behind those concrete walls.

To your surprise, he brought your hand up to his face, kissing the inside of your wrist.

His lips softly melted into the sensitive area. Your breath hitched.

It was furiously intimate.

Holding your hand still, his eyes blinked back up at you. Almost as though he were asking permission.

Your throat was dry. The alcohol loosening the knots on your sense of logic.  

His eyes traced over you, dipping down your entire body. The way he sat, leaning so his knees almost touched yours. The leather suddenly felt so hot against your skin. Under his flaming stare.

He inhaled, steady, before leaning into you. Tracing his nose behind your ear. You shivered. His touch making you dizzy. Needy. Quivering.

“You looked beautiful tonight”

They were plain words.

When he said them, they meant the world. Something bloomed inside you. You were spinning and breathless, mouth parting in shock. His lips barely grazing under your jaw.

He backed away, putting distance between you yet again.

-

Namjoon stood in the foyer, waiting for you to come home. The moment the door swung open, you darted into his embrace. It felt like a familiar haven, and he effortlessly hoisted you up, cradling you in a desperate hug, afraid you might vanish if he let go.

"I missed you," Namjoon murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before reluctantly releasing you. His gaze then shifted to Taehyung, pride in his voice. "You too. You look great, Taehyung. I heard you went to the casino."

Taehyung's response was measured. "Are you out on bail?"

"No," Namjoon replied with a hint of bitterness, "Yoongi blackmailed Jungkook into letting me go."

Your heart tightened at his name.

"Where is he? I want to see him”

“Absolutely not” Namjoon was firm. “We don’t know how dangerous he is. I have some of my guys looking into it with Yoongi. He sure as hell had been in contact with Jin in the weeks leading up to his murder”

Namjoon cupped your face. “But other than that, it’s over. He won’t contact you. You’re free. I don’t want you worrying about this anymore”

You wanted to laugh at the term. Free. Especially since Namjoon was already back to telling you what you could and couldn’t do.

“What about Nexus?”

Namjoon smiled, taking your hand in his. “Come with me,”

You followed him. Taehyung a few paces behind. Namjoon brought you into the garden. There were a million fireflies. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at Taehyung, wondering if he remembered your tender moment in this same spot.

Namjoon lowered onto one knee.

Fuck. It was one of those moments where everything was so still. So quiet yet extremely loud in your chest. He smiled. Eyes meeting yours. Brimming.

“Marry me”

Your mouth was dry. The moisture building in your eyes instead. It hurt, deep inside because your mind took you to a certain tattooed, mean and yet tender man who you had left behind.

“Let me give you everything, Y/n” Namjoon continued, “The papers. The stocks. The business. You deserve it all and I will give it to you. I’ve done you wrong, and I know you aren’t where I am. I know you loved someone else”

His proposal hung in the luminous space. His words echoed in your ears. His gaze held both sincerity and vulnerability. He waited for your response, standing up so his fingers could brush against the side of your face. The fireflies flickered like stars behind him.

“I hope someday, it can be more than an arrangement. Someday you might love me the way I love you. But for now, I wanted you to have the option. I will give you everything, I promise”

Tears blurred your vision, and you took a steadying breath. "Namjoon," you whispered, your voice fragile yet resolute. Suddenly, with the prize standing in front of you, waiting for your claim, you realized how serious your answer was. If you married Namjoon, you were signing a deal with the devil. There would be no going back.

"I need time."

His eyes reflected understanding, and he stood, pulling you into a tender embrace. "Take all the time you need," he murmured against your hair.

You could still feel Taehyung watching the scene unfold. His expression unreadable, he retreated into the shadows.

Namjoon walked you to your bedroom, and you kissed him goodnight. He urged you not to stress. To take all the time and he’d be there, waiting when you were ready. No rush. This is what you’d wanted.

So why was it so hard to say yes?

Jungkook’s face engraved into your mind. Your gut flipping. You needed to find him. Needed to talk to him without Namjoon finding out. Your phone began to buzz. Hope coursed through you. Maybe it was him.

You answered quickly, excited.

“Don’t marry him”

There was no way.

“You’re mine”

series navi | join taglist | masterlist | scream in my asks

a/n: its been a fucking MINUTE. idek how to do thia anymore, please enjoy and let me know what you think !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TAEHYUNG omfg come scream with me pls thanks

and thank you for reading you hawtie <3

[sugusama]

꒰🫧꒱﹒ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ﹒⟢ featuring: katsuki bakugo ‧₊˚ . ꣑୧ part 2 🌸

sypnosis ☆ bakugo never expected to fall for a girl halfway across the world… especially one with a six-hour time difference and a laugh that lives in his head rent-free. lets see how their first date goes, yeah? ⸝⸝ ᰔ ̫ ᰔ⸝⸝

content warnings ☆ fluff, comfort, ua based, black female reader, she/her used, lowercase intended, not proofread, bakugo has broken english, italics = japanese ๑•́ ₃ •̀๑

authors note ☆ hello! here is part 2 as requested! sorry its a little short.. i didnt know wether i should have made it longerrr & like extended it butttttt… part 3 comin soon? somethin spicyyy? i dunnooo !! ^_^ 🍰

he doesn’t know how he ended up here.. barefoot in hot ass sand, squinting at the sun while your fingers brush against his like you’re still too shy to really hold his hand.

the train ride to the beach was quiet, filled with soft music through shared airpods and you leaning your head on his shoulder, dozing off somewhere between musutafu and the sea. katsuki had spent the whole ride pretending not to stare at you. the way your lashes kissed your cheeks when you slept. the way your fingers curled in your lap like you were still dreaming.

he still couldn’t believe you were here. in japan. with him. real.

“you tired?” he asks gruffly, his english thick and slightly clumsy.

you smile, slow and sleepy. “a little. but i’m good.”

the beach is quieter than he expected, all soft waves and wide sky and a few families further down, chasing toddlers and building sandcastles. katsuki sets the bag down and frowns at the sunburn risk. you’re already pulling off your shirt, revealing the pink swimsuit underneath—brown skin glowing, eyes catching the light like honey.

his brain breaks a little as you catch him staring. “what?”

“nothin’.” he looks away fast, ears red. “you jus’… look good.”

you giggle, loud and warm and from the belly. that laugh that’s been haunting him since the first time you ever teased him over a call. the one that made him fall just a little too fast for a girl six thousand miles away.

you tug his hand this time, threading your fingers through his. “come on, grumpy. let’s go to the water!!”

he follows, of course he does, grumbling something under his breath in japanese that only makes you laugh more.

you splash him first.

he scowls, wipes the water from his face. “you wanna die?”

you just smile cutely. “maybe.”

you end up soaked, chasing each other in the shallows like you’re five years old again. he lets himself laugh—like really laugh, the sound rough and boyish and rare. you look at him like it’s a gift.

when the sun starts sinking into the ocean, you both collapse on the blanket, breathless and dripping. katsuki lies on his back, one arm behind his head, the other stretched toward you. you roll closer without thinking, resting your cheek on his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat lore you into calm.

“mm. you comfy?”

“mhm. you?”

“…yeah.”

quiet. then: “you’re warm.”

he snorts. “you cold.”

he wraps his arm around you anyway.

the moment stretches. peaceful. full of things unsaid.

“i’m glad you came,” he says finally. voice quiet. nearly lost under the waves.

“i’m glad i came too.”

he turns his head, noses at your temple. he wants to say more—wants to tell you how he waited for this day for months, how your voice helped him sleep on bad nights, how your photos made the walls of his dorm feel less gray. but english is hard. feelings are harder. so he settles for this:

“you stay… long time?”

you smile into his chest. “as long as you’ll have me.”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead—quick and rough and perfect.

“forever good?”

“forever’s good.”

the sea sings for you both as the sky turns pink. and for the first time in a long, long while, katsuki bakugo feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

taglist ☁️ — @gold24fish

[felassan]

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 2. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Three]

The dev team really wanted to deliver on Emmrich's romance [source]

Sylvia Feketekuty has now left BioWare so there are likely some things she can't answer now "just because I can't look them up with certainty anymore" [source]

When Emmrich is first introduced, he has a skull helmet. Why does it never ever appear for the next 40-100 hours? "The helmet does indeed look wicked! I believe it actually shows up on his shelf in the Lighthouse eventually. (If I had been a smarter writer I would've asked if we could have it appear again, that one's on me.)" [source]

User: "In another post you mentioned shops in Nevarra City near the Necropolis. How far IS Nevarra City itself is from the Necropolis? Do only senior MWs get to go?" / Sylvia: "I'm reluctant to say what the distance is since I never defined it in game so it's Unknown™. But I imagine they can either walk or take a carriage, depending. Also I never imagined junior MWers are forbidden from going into town or such. It could be they have set hours and times where they're allowed. But got to get all those chores done first..." [source, two]

On the DA:I goat scene ([link]) - "The GOAT! God bless them, that was a delight." [source]

Brian J. Audette, on [this thread] - ""Better late than never" addendum to this thread. I just noticed that Isle of the Gods' writer Sylvia is on here now and I'd be remiss not to tag her in this thread. I can't say enough wonderful things about having worked with Sylvia on this mission." [source] / Sylvia: "Thanks Brian! You tackled an absolutely jam-packed mission with aplomb." [source]

Jo Berry: "Thank you for everything and everything else, on both Veilguard and Inquisition. Sunlight on your road, wherever it goes." [source] / Sylvia: "Thank YOU for all your writing Jo. Seriously, you were a godsend on Veilguard and DAI both." [source]

Trick Weekes: "It's been fantastic working with you, Sylvia, and I know you're going to crush it with whatever you do next. Thank you for finally letting me make you "the person who has to do journals so Trick doesn't" on one of our projects." [source] / Sylvia: "Thank you Trick! I'll miss working with you. It was an honour to finally be given the awesome responsibility of the journal system that still haunts my dreams." [source]

John Epler: "sylvia did you see i told the world Emmrich sleeps standing up like a horse" [source] / Sylvia: "It's days later but: yes. Yes I did." [source]

User: "As someone who also has a truly debilitating fear of death, Emmrich is so special to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it represented in such a clear and concise way." / Sylvia: "Thanks, definitely felt that fear myself. I really wanted to express it clearly and was hoping would resonate with others." [source]

User: "Do you have any thoughts or opinions on what nickname Emmrich might have gotten from Varric if he'd ever gotten one?" / Sylvia: "Oh man that's a good question, but ultimately since I didn't write Varric, that must remain a mystery. Nicknames can only be bestowed. ("Bones" like someone suggested below is funny though.)" [source]

User: "If Emmrich's hobby is alchemy/plants, Vorgoth's is art, and Audric's is architecture... what's Myrna's? (Next to Emmrich, she's my favorite Watcher - sorry Vorgoth!)" / Sylvia: "Myrna has a one off line, you may not have heard it yet, where she talks to Vorgoth about getting tickets to the Sword of Drakon.* She enjoys a night out at the theater, whether it's a play or an opera. *(I think that's the play I named, I hope I'm recalling my own line haha.) It's a bit indulgent of me, but I chose Sword of Drakon because it was one of the plays I made up for a series of codices in DAI about Orlesian theater. I had a lot of fun with these and wanted to give them life once more. [link]" [source, two]

User: "During Rook’s disappearance in the prison, how did Emmrich react? Considering their intense romance, did he fall into depression, or did he show a more vulnerable side? Could his fear of death have influenced the situation? In the immortal romance💀, Emmrich promises that nothing will separate them, not in this world or any other. How likely is that? Would he go to great lengths for Rook, even crossing boundaries? Or, at some point, would he accept Rook's death?" / Sylvia: "1) Very strongly! I think it's a bit more interesting if I leave details to your imaginations, but Emmrich feels things deeply and probably had some sleepless nights. 2) So this I can't say much on even though it's a juicy topic. The truth is, I wouldn't even know unless I was actually sitting down to write it. Again, Emmrich feels things very passionately, but this is the kind of scenario where I might want the player's choices to have an effect." [source, two]

User: "Any chance that color scheme [of Emmrich's coat] was based off the corpse flower?" / Sylvia: "I couldn't find anything on the colour scheme and the corpse flower. Afraid this one's a mystery to me." [source]

User: "I'm really curious if there's a Nevarrese language? We have Orlesian, Antivan, Tevene, Qunlat..." / Sylvia: "I wondered that myself, especially given its ancient ties with Tevinter and also Orlais which would certainly have affected the languages of power and influence. Could also have roots with the Planasene. We never talked about one though, as far as I know, so the answer remains...unknown. 💀 (I did introduce tomb-script, the language you see etched into stone in the Necropolis, but I thought of it as more of a specialist's language for occult and magical things specifically.) (If we did define a Nevarran language in some corner of the lore, now I'm going to feel embarrassed, but I don't BELIEVE we did.)" [source, two, three]

User: "I wanted to ask if you have anything you can share about MW grave dowry jewellery - is it the sort of thing they keep on at all times? Also, would Emmrich like jewellery gifts or give them to Rook?" / Sylvia: "I figured it would be something they wear most of the time, or at least in public. You don't want to be without your grave-gold if you pass away! Emmrich would love to get jewellery, especially if it marked a special occasion like his other pieces do! He'd also probably like to gift Rook a piece of grave gold himself, though he knows a non-MW Rook might look at that part askance." [source, two]

User: "Question: how much if anything can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding the emergence of Emmrich's magic and him going to the Mourn Watch? In my mind, his parents' death could certainly be a catalyst for the emergence of mage powers, but I'm so curious why the butcher's boy goes to what seems the equivalent of Nevarran Harvard instead of a regular Circle unless he immediately demonstrated outstanding ability?" / Sylvia: So timeline wise, I think his magic manifested after he was taken in. This part isn't canon, so much as a background thought I had that maybe the spirits of the Necropolis nudged the MW to scoop up this future corpse-whisperer. It seems like a kind of place ripe for that sort of omen. That said, it could've also been a kindhearted Watcher who saw how shattered and alone this young boy was, and thought an upbringing in the Grand Necropolis would be the better place to deal with his grief. It's the kind of thing I want to leave open unless someone goes back one day to fill it out!" [source, two]

User: "what’s the overall Mourn Watch opinion on the whole Weekend at King Markus’s the other Mortalitasi are pulling? I can’t blame Emmrich for not wanting to be involved with that political mess!" / Sylvia: "No clue what you're talking about. King Markus is in the finest of health!!!!! ahahahahaha (To my mind Emmrich's response indicates a tension between the orders, but that they're going along with the polite fiction to avoid a mess. I can't say what the future holds though.)" [source]

User: "Ah, one last note: whoever decided “DA liches are immortal protectors and not always evil?” Chef’s kiss. It’s all I’ve ever wanted!" / Sylvia: "Thanks again! It was in Emmrich's first draft. The other writers and editors gave me good feeback on lichdom and the philosophy behind it especially" [source]

User: "I'm an ICU nurse, and that is imagined to confer a comfort with mortality. Suffice to say Emmrich has been a huge comfort to see." / Sylvia: "Thanks so much. I really wanted him to struggle with it while also engaging with it, because it's something I find hard as well. And I hoped it would find purchase with players." [source]

User: "If you’re willing, can you share a bit about the other orders within the Mortalitasi? Is there a rivalry with the Tevinter Imperium?" / Sylvia: I'm afraid I don't have much, sorry. I left the other Mortalitasi orders a big open canvas in case we wanted to invent more some day. (We've mentioned the palace Mortalitasi are separate from the Mourn Watch, so there's one. As you probably caught, Emmrich's not a fan of theirs.) Is there a rivalry with the Tevinter Imperium? I can't really point to anything in the game talking about that, so I hesitate to call it canon. But to my mind it would be very natural and also very funny. So if that ever manifests, I approve." [source, two]

User: "was any of Emmrich's design or personality modeled on British actor David Niven? I think there is resemblance just wondering if that was intentional." / Sylvia: "Oh I love David Niven. But the more direct actor influence for me was Peter Cushing in a few old Hammer Horror films." [source]

User: "just wanted to say thank you for creating the character of Josephine in Inq!! Helped me learn some stuff about myself when I was younger and meant a lot." / Sylvia: "Thank you so much on all counts! I'm glad the lovely Lady Montilyet was there for you (and enormous credit to her actor, Allegra Clark. She absolutely nailed Josephine, straight away.)" [source]

User, on Emmrich: "He mentions he thought he would marry - is that permitted for Mortalitasi when it wasn't for regular Circle mages? Can they now raise their own children?" / Sylvia: Mortalitasi have a lot of power. I imagine the Nevarran Chantry might grant them permission to marry outside the Circle more regularly than in places where mages are given less respect. (Mages can also marry within Circles, so no permission needed in those cases.) The same might be true for mages raising mage-born children in Nevarra, but I say that with less certainty. I think that's a topic I would've wanted to discuss with the rest of the narrative team." [source, two]

User: "is there a particular reason why emmrich is always wearing a glove on one hand?" / Sylvia: "I like to think it's mostly because he works a lot with his hands. The glove seems useful if he has to, say, grip a rough outcrop of rock when traversing the Necropolis, or deal with a bitey corpse." [source]

User, on Emmrich: "On my 1st run I played a trans Rook and romanced him. It felt incredible how he was so accepting of Rook's identity, and in return she could support him as he did a transition of his own as well. Beautiful mirroring!" / Sylvia: "Thanks very much! If those scenes worked, it's thanks to some people at work who kindly gave feedback that helped get the tone right." [source]

User: "I've been wanting to thank you for writing Luck in the Gardens for 4 years. Hollix was the first time I ever saw a non-binary character given a real voice." / Sylvia: "I loved writing Hollix in that story, they were a treat, and I'm glad they meant a lot to you. (And a shout out to a nb friend who gave me some good feedback on the character, I don't think the story would've been as clear without their help.)" [source]

User: "I was curious about Audric from TN, and if he originally was planned to have an appearance in veilguard, and what he's up to now" / Sylvia: "Love Audric, but I never planned to bring him into VG. I'm not AGAINST it, but I didn't want the short stories to feel like required reading for the game, and I liked where his arc ended in DatDM. That said, I dropped in a few references to Audric to let people know he's around and well. And I imagine he's doing what he loves: being a force of order, in the library. (And reading books during the more quiet hours below.)" [source, two]

User: "As a consumer of (and probably future creator of) so called "erotic" fanficfion, I'm wondering how you feel about the fact that fans make it about a character you created?" / Sylvia: "No issues with it whatsoever. We put sex and romance into the game itself, after all. I think people use fan art and fanfiction to extend their time with a story they've grown fond of, or to figure things out. So it feels like a natural extension of that." [source]

User: "Maybe one day my rook will join the mw!" / Sylvia: "Well, the Grand Necropolis is always eager for more company...🪦👻" [source]

User: "did the flame eternal (short story) come first or the flame eternal (quest)? i’ve been wondering if the quest was named after the story or vice versa" / Sylvia: "I wrote the scene first, the short story came after. But I named the quest AFTER the short story had come out, so I'd say the quest is named for the story because I liked the callback." [source]

User: "1.I know John answered already that Emmrich sleeps like a horse but is there really no bed for this man? 2.How would he react to a bouquet made for him?" / Sylvia: "1. Unknown. Perhaps he brings out pillows and a blanket for the slab in his room (after scrubbing it, of course!) Perhaps he goes home to an elaborate silk-covered bed in his Necropolis apartments. Or the horse thing. (TBH: I never decided myself, so I've leaned into impish mystery). 2. Emmrich would be absolutely delighted and flattered by being presented with a flower bouquet." [source, two]

User: "I hope it's okay to pop here but it might interest you to know a lot of us have been headcanoning that he has a secret bedroom behind one of his bookshelves! It seemed to line up with his sensibilities somewhat." / Sylvia: "That would honestly be great. Pull out the right book and snooze time." [source]

User, on the cemetery date: "This makes me feel like Mourn Watchers include the dead in important personal milestones/events and, if so, I love that so much. Like they want to share these events and the joy/love/excitement/etc. with those who have passed (and perhaps linger.)" / Sylvia: "That's absolutely how I thought of it too." [source]

User: "was there any game/book/show/film that inspired the Mourn Watch and Emmrich? When I saw them in the preview content, I got reminded of the Locked Tomb series by Tamsyn Muir and playing through the game cemented those vibes." / Sylvia: "I hadn't read any Locked Tomb when writing Emmrich, I think we must both just have impeccable taste. (I actually tried to stay away from contemporary stuff on necromancy when writing him, out of a superstitious fear I'd be unduly influenced. I do want to talk about influences later though!)" [source]

User, on Josie: "Do you think she’s open to having kids/adopting with the Inquisitor? Lord Ontranto and Yvette are so ahead!" / Sylvia: "I think that falls firmly within the category of what you imagine she and your Inquisitor's romance looks like, which means: absolutely, if that's where you imagine life would take them." [source]

User: "Emmrich, his story & everything surrounding him absolutely played a huge part in helping to lift me up & connecting me with new friends online" / Sylvia: "Thank you! And I'm very glad to hear Emmrich and his fellow Watchers helped you out when you needed it. He'd be pleased to know so himself." [source]

User: "Was it ever considered for him to appear in the game?" / Sylvia: "(short answer is no, but I wanted to let people know Audric's doing well.)" [source]

User: "I enjoyed your short stories in Tevinter Nights. Emmrich mentioned working out in the morning. What does his morning routine look like, and what kind of exercise does he do?" / Sylvia: "Thanks so much! Those stories have a special place in my heart, so that's especially nice to hear. On exercise: He likes a brisk stroll, and does morning stretches, and for something more strenuous, he likes to go swimming. Why? It's a workout where you don't have to worry about sweating. That just seemed to align with his fastidiousness in a funny way to me. (I also imagine exploring the Necropolis keeps him active, climbing all those stairs and crumbling ledges and the outsized walls of hallowed tombs, etc.)" [source, two]

User: "Harding will turn to a MW Rook who's been talking nerdy necro shop with Emmrich, and goes (paraphrasing), "You're so different when you're talking about this stuff than you are when you hang out with us!" and I loved that" / Sylvia: "Yes indeed! And thanks. I really wanted a beat where you realize MW Rook has learned to swap between being a fancy nerd and talking a bit more like "regular" people in Thedas. It seemed like a fun trait for that background." [source]

Sylvia, on how she came to BioWare: "No formal training. The closest to practice I had was running tabletop RPGs for friends, which actually helped me a lot with understanding the different kind of RPG players out there and what people want out of a story. And honestly: I just kept applying, over and over. That was my main virtue. I was rejected the first couple times I applied to BW. And rightly, I think, I wasn't ready and practicing in between really helped me become a stronger writer." [source, two]

Some more on this topic ^ from Sylvia: "To be honest: mostly luck, some perseverance, and then writing skills, in that order. I was rejected at least twice from BW before I got in, and I think they were right to do so. I wasn't ready yet. The third round someone I knew passed on my sample to a writer there, I did two more rounds of samples while taking feedback and revising over the next month. And then I was lucky enough they liked it enough to interview me. I wish I had better advice than perseverance. I think having a small, completed game, even something text based or a mod, isn't bad either. Even if it's short, it shows you finished it. But: my entry was over 15 years ago now, and to be honest I'm not sure what BW's applicant process are anymore. I don't want to be discouraging though. I would say keep applying, and make friends with like minded people who also want to make games, and best of luck." [source, two, three, four]

User: "I've been wondering something about Mourn Watch Rook's background - their bio says they were found as a baby + raised by the MW, and they reference it in-game, but then they also say they were a street kid and left their old life behind to join the MW to Taash. I'm just curious how one - being raised by the MW - lead to the other - street kid era. I just hc'd it as a euphemism for my Rook's party girl phase lol but it did leave me a little confused." / Sylvia: "This is a case of the background changing slightly over time, and me not squaring it in time with dialogue. In my mind: MW IS found by the Mourn Watch, raised by them, and work for them. But MW Rook also had period(s?) growing up where they explored Nevarra city, to explain why they're more. street savvy and worldly than your typical Watchers who never leave the city. I've seen people noting some discrepancies, and in a perfect world I would've caught those lines in time to smooth them out to encompass the whole story. But perhaps your Rook gives slightly different answers to different people for their own, mysterious reasons! (Or, in reality, it's writer error.)" [source, two, three] "Anyhow, I encourage any head canons that help square these discrepancies" [source]

User: "I romanced him on a Rook that I perceived as about 42ish and my running interpretation of the lines acknowledging her being young were either Emmrich not realizing how old she is, a running bit between them, or some cute form of flattery to not remind her of her own age haha" / Sylvia: "That's adorable, I love it" [source]

User: "1. What would Josie's ideal date be? 2. Could adopted kids be heir of the Montilyet estate or would it go to Yvette? 3. What does Josie think of the Crows?" / Sylvia: "1. I think she'd try to structure something, but the Inquisitor taking her away from her strictly scheduled routine to relax would actually be better for her. A picnic in a garden, a stroll around a lake followed by a meal in a quiet little restaurant. Something with a soft evening. 2. I don't think I ever said so in the game, but to my mind Josephine had some nieces and nephews in line to be heir. If she adopted a child and thought they'd be a better candidate, they could absolutely inherit the estate. (And of course, she could bequeath money or personal effects as she liked.) 3. She thinks of them as a necessity in Antiva, and that it's important to appease them. There's probably highly placed Crows she would get along with. But she'd never be comfortable with them. At the end of the day they're contract killers, and she's no lover of violence. (If I actually DID mention who Josephine had lined up to inherit the estate after her, but just forgot, I will ask for mercy because the game came out over 10 years ago.)" [source, two, three, four]

User: "Would you ever consider making a playlist on spotify of the sort of music you could picture Emmerich listening to? Or perhaps sharing any of the music you listened to while writing Emmrich?" / Sylvia: "I actually have an itunes playlist of what I listened to when writing Emmrich on my old computer. If I dig it out, I'll post a screenshot! (A lot of ambient stuff, probably unsurprisingly)" [source]

User: "I utterly, completely adore the way Josephine was written, she's such a wonderful and complex character. Her history as a bard, her ruthlessness, her kindness and sweet nature and how CUTE her romance is." / Sylvia: "Lady Montilyet herself would be flattered to hear you liked it." [source]

User, on Sylvia's comment about Peter Cushing being a go-to for what Emmrich would be like: "This makes me so unbelievably happy given my love for Peter Cushing 😭 my love for Emmrich was inevitable." / Sylvia: "I want to talk a little more about it later but Cushing was such a wonderful actor. Wish we'd had him around even longer." [source]

User, on death and working in death care: "In the end, it’s always about memory." / Sylvia: "That's so true. We want to be remembered, or to have something that lets people know even a little about who we are. (It's why I'm glad newspapers still print obituaries, you can read about the most amazing lives.)" [source]

User: "I was starting to think the game was reading my mind and tailoring to me once he said his favorite color was lilac, and I was given the option to say darker purple." / Sylvia: "I'm glad you enjoyed Emmrich and his romance. And that the bit about colours worked for you, I was trying to think of what would be something fun there, and purple is one of my favorites too. (Fine taste!)" [source]

User: "“Down Among the Dead Men” is one of my favorite chapters from Tevinter Nights. I loved Audric and I was so happy when Myrna mentioned him in Veilguard! Was there any chance he might’ve appeared in game?" / Sylvia: "basically I didn't plan it, but I wanted to let TN readers know Audric is living well" [source]

User: "If Hezenkoss was also you ALL of that was a sheer stroke of brilliance!" / Sylvia: "Thank you! Hezenkoss was me, so glad you liked her. She was a blast to write. Oh my god, I meant to write Hezenkoss was one of my favorites not "me". (I think I snipped out something and consequentially sound like a maniac in that post above. SORRY. She is not me, I wish I had that kind of confidence.)" [source, two]

User, on behalf of their friend: "Well, spontaneously I'd be interested if she can say any more about Emmrich's past romances. Was there someone really serious among them, or all just fun and casual? I'm also curious how the whole mage training works in Nevarra. Are some trained from the start by the Mourn Watch or does everyone go to the Mortalitasi equivalent of a Circle first?" / Sylvia: "1. I think there was probably a mix of more serious romances and more casual ones over Emmrich's life. The serious ones just never panned out. (Until Rook, if you're romancing him.) 2. I pictured the MW taking in promising members from other circles, but I left their selection criteria vague on purpose, in case we needed to define it later. Of course, there's also exceptions. We've seen they take in some orphans or foundlings (MW Rook and Emmrich, for example) when fate, chance, or pity allows it. (I had an idea spirits might sometimes nudge MWers to take in someone, but that's not in the game, so it remains, I suppose now, my own head canon.)" [source, two, three, four]

User: "Emmrich is every bit the warm and kind academic that I looked up to in my undergrad/postgrad days, and I have taken time in the game just to wander the Grand Necropolis and take everything in." / Sylvia: "My pleasure, and thanks very much for saying so. (Props to all my teammates, it took a lot of people to bring those characters and places to life, and they were all so enthusiastic about our weird gothy corner of Thedas.)" [source]

User, on Emmrich's dream: "One of few cases where writers don't go for "actually immortality is lame" lesson to appease the audience for whom immortality is unattainable. Refreshing to have a character who wants to live forever, can do it, and it isn't treated as a mistake. One of the boldest bits of writing in the game." / Sylvia: "Thanks Mary - that was one of my aims, because so many times in stories, immortality is a fool's errand. I wanted it to have its rules, and its price, but not something disastrous or out of reach." [source]

User: "The MW as a whole was beautifully done and the way they handle life and death was deeply healing and aided tremendously in my own personal journey with grief." / Sylvia: "I'm very glad meeting Emmrich and the Watchers helped even a little, that means a lot to hear." [source]

User: "Amazing work in veilguard and inquisition honestly and the flame eternal was such a fun read! Unless it’s been answered before my query is where do the Mourn watchers live/sleep? Is it a case of they live in the higher parts of the Necropolis or do they live in the city and commute?" / Sylvia: "Flame Eternal was a fun one, hadn't written a story that short before but I enjoyed introducing Johanna and Emmrich's dynamic back in their good old days... As to your question, there's one line of banter between Emmrich and Neve that talks about this (so, very easy to miss.) The Mourn Watchers live and sleep in the upper (safer) levels of the Necropolis." [source, two]

User: "does mortal!Emmrich return to the Necropolis or spend more time in the world first? He plays detective with Neve & camps in Ferelden with Harding feels like he’d want to experience more of the world before returning home." / Sylvia: "Impossible for me to say what the future will hold with certainty, but I think Emmrich's enjoying exploring the world too much to go back to living in the Necropolis full time just yet. He'd certainly want to keep visiting regularly, but there's so much more to see." [source]

Sylvia: "The Watchers have a special place in my heart." [source]

User: "I just wanted to say how much I love Emmrich" / Sylvia: "Thank you very much! I'm so glad to hear you enjoyed getting to know him." [source]

at this point tumblr stopped letting me add to this post !

[shelovesosa]

꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷

GrimReaper!Sukuna, who lingers over your body as you start to wake up. Your car is crumpled against a tree, your chest barely rising. Blood seeps from your temple. He crouches beside you in the rain.

GrimReaper!Sukuna, clad in black robes that ripple in the windless air. His skin is pale, almost inhumanly so, and twin marks streak down his face like cruel ink. His hair is swept back, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are glowing red, slitted like a predator's, bored and knowing.

“You’re late,” he says.

You stare at him. “What… who are you?”

He smirks. “Sukuna. You can think of me as your escort.”

“Escort…?” Your voice trembles.

“To the other side.”

You, slipping out of your dying body into a quiet limbo, barefoot on wet pavement.You blink—alive, but not. Rain passes through your skin. The wreckage behind you is still. You’re standing, whole again. Just… not alive.

waiting in the in-between with arms crossed, annoyed you’re not crying yet.

“You humans usually scream,” he says, unimpressed. “You? Just staring. Boring.”

You, numbly asking if you’re dead—and him refusing to sugarcoat it.

“You’ve got one foot in the dirt,” he replies. “Clock’s ticking.”

The two of you sitting on the guardrail, watching the rain fall in silence. He tells you what people never ask: what regret feels like when it’s too late. You listen. You don’t cry. Neither does he.

You, noticing how lonely he sounds—and how he never looks away from you. “You’ve done this a thousand times,” you whisper. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m not sure,” he answers.

GrimReaper!Sukuna,shocked when you ask him if it’s okay to be scared. “Scared?” he repeats, voice softening. “You’re allowed to be. Even now.”

A subtle pull—your body still fighting to survive. Something tugs in your chest, invisible but relentless. Sukuna notices it first. “You’re being pulled back.”

You, asking what happens if you return. Him? Going quiet.

“You’ll forget me,” he says, voice rough. “Everything we said. This place. Me.”

GrimReaper!Sukuna, for the first time, begging someone to stay.

“Stay a little longer,” he murmurs. “Just until the rain stops.”

“But I’ll die.”

His voice is quiet. “You’ll die anyway. Eventually. Everyone does.”

You look into his eyes—red, dangerous, eternal. “You’re lonely,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but not into a smile. “Death doesn’t get to be lonely.”

“That’s not the same as not feeling it.”

He says nothing. But the way his eyes hold yours—the way he slides just close enough that you can feel the echo of warmth in him—tells you everything.

Sukuna is death incarnate.

But he is tired.

And something about you has made him feel alive.

The thread grows tighter. A pressure against your chest. You stumble slightly.

“I’m going, aren’t I?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

You reach for him. He doesn’t stop you.

Your hand rests against his chest. It’s not warm—but it’s real. And it matters.

“I won’t remember this,” you say, your voice already echoing.

“No.”

“But you will.”

His jaw clenches. “I always do.”

You lean in.

And press your lips gently to his cheek.

Not a goodbye.

A thank you.

But when you're gone—he stays behind in the rain.

You, waking up in the hospital with no memory—just a strange ache in your chest. Your mother weeps beside you. The doctor says you’re lucky. But that night, when you close your eyes, all you see is crimson and rain.

GrimReaper!Sukuna, watching from the edge of your room, breaking every rule just to see you breathe. “She doesn’t remember,” he says to no one.

But it’s not you who’s haunted.

It’s him.

Still… he lingers. Watching. Waiting.

For something that can never be his.