#sender: ivy

[wakandamama]

Mail Call!: Returned to Sender📨

Here's the sequel to Letter of Lust ya'll! I'm so happy yall loved it as much as I did. Also translations at the bottom! 😊

Part 1: Letter of Lust

----

Smoke returns home from war and makes good on his promises to fulfil his woman.

“Elijah…. Th-the door, baby. Folks gonna see us!”

“Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em know I’m home. Let ‘em know I’m finna eat.”

Smoke returns home and makes good to fulfil his woman’s needs.

Even though the newspapers say that the war is over, Annie is still missing her soldier. It had been a month and not a word, or a letter or a token had been sent her way. It makes her work her root harder in worry, extending that part of her soul out just a tad more to hopefully cover even more of her man. Annie pulls her time piece out of her pocket, holds it close to her ear and sighs to hear it still ticking steadily. 

It is the gift that Elijah sent to her after his first six months in deployment; he had written that it was to make up for how short or sloppy his letters may be. It is a classy and simple pocket watch, silver and white gold with ivy detailing around the border and a capital cursive A engraved on the back. As soon as it was in her hands she tied a red thread around the winding knob and called for eyes upon him. As long as it ticked, she knew Elijah's heart was beating. 

Annie sighs and settles the watch on her vanity then returns to stripping out of the rest of her jewelry and clothes of the day. She gets the fourth button of her dress loose when a sharp creak from her porch step catches her ear. Annie grabs her straight blade and starts to the front door, with a quick whisper to her ancestors for strength before she swings her door open with a hard glare in her eyes. 

Annie’s blade drops to the ground at the sight in front of her. 

There Smoke stood. 

His uniform shirt is neat but sweat soaks around the collar and the jacket rests in the crook of his elbow. His deployment bag is at his feet and a bundle of pink lilies and roses clutched in his thick fist that starts to tremble at the sight of her. Smoke’s other hand was poised to knock, it instead reaches forward and cups Annie’s cheek as he steps on to the threshold of her home.

“Damn, can’t a man at least knock?” He tries to joke, but his voice is thick with emotion and his eyes go watery. Annie grasps his hand so it presses against her skin and she can feel how warm blooded and alive her man is. 

“Ife mi! O ṣeun fun fifun ifẹ mi pada.” Annie breathes, as tears start to flow from her eyes and she kisses the palm of Smoke’s hand. She feels his trembling thumb rub the tears back into her skin for a moment as a look of awe fills his eyes. Annie swallows while bringing her hands up to the sides of his neck, a sigh of relief is shared between them when she presses in and feels Smoke’s pulse under her fingertips.

Strong, steady, lovely and alive. Her Elijah was alive and well and back with her at last. 

Smoke melts at such softness and care. Both of them close their eyes as their forehead gently meets and they share a deep breath together. Annie breathes in the smell of him, eucalyptus soap and cedar. Smoke takes a deep pull of her scent all floral, herbal and citrus. 

Instantly the man tosses the bouquet and jacket to the side so he can surge forward, both of his hands slip forward to hold her face. Smoke locks Annie into a deep and feverish kiss. 

The urgency and power of his strong steps forces Annie to step back as well, her hands slip down from his neck to grasp onto his firm biceps to anchor herself and kiss back just as passionately. Both hum, then moan between the smack of their lips and bump of their noses until finally Annie has to pull back for air. 

“Elijah!” she cries, cheer coloring her breathless pants and Smoke gives her his signature shy grin. Annie hums to see a peak of gold on the left side of his mouth. 

“Annie. Oh my Annie.” he says back, his hands raking down her sides until they rest in their rightful places on her hips. Smoke kisses into her neck like a teasing schoolboy and Annie giggles as his mustache tickles her hot skin. Smoke pauses to kiss her cheek with a wet smack, “Need err’ part of ya.” He groans in her ear with a tooth grazing her lobe.

Smoke starts at Annie’s temple with a tender shallow brush of lips, another faint kiss to the apple of her cheek, both of them chuckle as he pecks her nose. Finally Smoke comes back to her mouth, Annie moans as she takes the taste of tobacco and mint off his tongue once more. Annie grips a fistful of his shirt in each hand as Smoke takes his time to explore her mouth; tongue to tongue, teeth clashing, her bottom lip bit gently then soothed wetly.

Annie’s brows furrow for a moment, her hands go to his belt in a desperate and clumsy attempt to loosen it before Smoke has her eyes rolling back. Smoke lets off her lips to start trailing those kisses down her chin, then down the front of her throat. Annie gives a whiny choke when Smoke presses deep kisses onto the tender and sensitive flesh, lips sucking in time with her pulse until he is right over her heart pressing in a hickey. 

Annie hisses, clutching the leather of his belt then hums in pleasure when Smoke’s hands leave her hip to cup each of her breasts in his wide hands. He presses his callous thumbs in, then circles her nipples until he teases them hard through the linen of her daydress.

 Smoke goes back to licking the sweat off her throat as his hand yanks down through the rest of her buttons and the breeze of the room hits her bare front. Annie gasps at the coolness, her hands going limp at her sides and Smoke surges the two of them back until Annie is forced to sit in the plush armchair in the living room. Smoke stands solid and triumphant between her thick quaking thighs. 

Annie licks the sweat off her upper lip with lustful eyes at the heavy bulge tenting through his uniform trousers, her hand shoots forward and grasps it firmly. Smoke moans to the ceiling at her heavenly touch, slowly she rubs Smoke’s dick through fabric as if trying to sense each part of it by touch. Her nails trace faintly across his balls and Smoke’s bucking makes her mouth water for the girth of him to grace her throat. 

She can only get his belt unbuckled when Smoke abruptly grabs her hand and bends down to start kissing her fingers tips. Annie smiles and tries to pull her hand away but Smoke keeps trailing kisses up the back of it. He then turns her hand and presses his lush lips to the pulse point of her wrist. Going from a bend to a kneel Annie watches Smoke descend down until he kneels between her legs and leaves a hickey on her inner elbow.

 Annie’s other hand cups the back of his head, massaging through his rough curls. A giddy heat fills her belly to know that he had forsaken his brother’s plea for a haircut to get back to her quicker. 

That heat drops to her pelvis as his lips smoothly go from her arm to burying his face in her lap. Smoke uses his nose and a massage to the back of her knees to gently pry her thighs further apart so he can praise the plump flesh with wet kisses. With a teasing tongue he starts at the middle of her thighs. Giving each one a peppering of kisses and light bites, his hand firmly rubbing up and down her outer thighs until his hands grasp the soft flesh of her hips. 

It’s only for a minute before impatience to satisfy a craving, that only a musk covered scarp of her nightgown barely satiated, fills Smoke. Annie whimpers, throwing her head back as he kisses her lower lip with a suckling peck before his tongue drags through the crease made by the meeting of her pussy’s pouch and inner thigh. Annie bucks forward as Smoke’s nails dig crescent into the meat of her hips and her right leg is swiftly mounted onto his shoulder. 

The breeze outside loudly jingles her windchimes on the porch and Annie goes wide-eyed to see she was staring at glittering blue glass and the purple clouds of a sunset through her open front door. A spike of concern and a sense of indecency fills Annie in that moment. She tries to slow her man down by bringing her legs together just to grunt as Smoke forces them to stay open with a new strength that Annie knew promised to wreck her. 

She’s only able to cup the side of his head with a shaky hand, gently pulling at his ear for his attention; she is nearly sent off course again as he teases open her folds with a finger. 

“Elijah…. Th-the door, baby. Folks gonna see us!”

“Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em know I’m home. Let ‘em know I’m finna eat.” Smoke speaks into her pussy, words husky in arousal. 

“Th-the cha-air?” she tries to argue and she flinches with a whine as he brashily slap her tender pussy with his hand. As if to punish that wild thought of modesty.

“Imma getcha a throne. Just be good ‘n fuck dis face, baby.”

Smoke’s minty breath puffing over her core causes Annie to jitter. Her hands clutch the arms of the chair as his nose opens her and he can wrap his tongue around the pearl of her pussy with a sweet suck. 

“Orun ran mi lowo!” Annie whines aloud as Smoke’s tongue coax a heat to fill her belly and she fuck his face back in turn. Smoke peers up at her, nose to beard wet with her juices paired with a lustful glint in his eyes as he forces her to watch two fingers disappear into her body.

“Emi ni idahun re.” he whispers to her clit, flicking that pearl at the end of each word. Annie’s eyes go teary as he holds them in a stare and gives a wide lick over the front of her coozs before swallowing into her again. 

Smoke’s free hand squeezes his leaking dick tightly as Annie's breathless moans excite him. Her pussy rewards him with a juicy squirt that nearly chokes him, yet he swallows and dives his fingers faster into her to coax out more. Smoke finally shakes his belt completely open then pulls down the long zipper of his trousers letting his dick spring free. He’s rock hard and quickly he starts to stoke himself to the taste of his Annie.

“Right ‘ere Poppa, ri-ri, fuck! I can’t stop- ya gotta-her so wet! Elijah! Poppa!” Annie pleads. She bucks when Smoke groans vibrates within her as she tightly grips his curls in one hand. Annie faintly catches on to the obscene slick sound of Smoke jerking himself but it quickly fades away as he curls his finger in a special way to set a coil off in her belly.

“Fuck! I’m gon- I gonna-”

Annie can’t spit out her words past the crying moan as her orgasm crashes upon her and she floods Smoke’s face with the result. Her hand presses his head in deep, her thighs trap him still as she cums, yet her man powers though steadily pressing that button and slurping down every drop her coozs gave him.

Smoke brings his head up with his face dipping, beads of cum and salvia drip through his beard to sprinkle over Annie’s shivering thighs. Her man wipes his face roughly with his free hand then groans as her wets his dick with it leaning back so he she can watch. Annie bites her lips in at the sight of his throbbing and leaking dick bouncing in his hand as he braces himself to stand up. 

Annie strikes forward, her hand snatches into his shirt collar. Smoke gasps as her tight fist rips off the top two buttons when she drags him up and into her face. Smoke has to brace himself on the arms of the chair to not fall over her and Annie uses the angle to her advantage.  

Their lips crash into one another once more. Annie licks herself off his gums and Smoke chases into her mouth further to get it back. The smack of their lips nearly distracts her from her goal but the hot wet tip of his dick pokes her navel and Annie drags her hand down to it. 

“Wait. Baby.” Smoke pleads breathlessly and Annie shakes her head before kissing into his ear as her hand gripes the base of his shaft. Her middle finger curls between his balls before cupping them with a gentle squeeze that makes Smoke hiss and shake his head in disbelief. He pants as he tries to snatch back from her but grunts when Annie bites his ear lobe in reprimand before her soft hand firmly grips his velvety girth and starts to stoke him. 

“Dontcha snatch a’way from me! I been missing that dick, poppa. It ain’t fair you getta taste and I can’t even getta feel.” she grits into his ear before kissing under it and placing her share of hickies onto him. Annie runs her hands through the pool in her lap slicking her hand up before going back to jacking his dick. Her gut clenches every time the head of it pokes her belly and Smoke can’t help but whimper while his eyes roll at her touch.

“Please! I’m already leakin’, Ann. Let me put it in ya.” Smoke whines as he finally staggers to a stand. Before he can try to control the situation once more, Annie scoots forward in the chair! She grabs his hips to force hims still and steady letting his dick tap against her lips and chin as he stabilizes. Smoke looks down in awe at the scene; Annie’s wet and dark doe-like eyes stare him down lustfully, her lips glossed and puffy, her damp tiddies heaving with laborious breath. The pink of her tongue darts out and licks along the curve of him, teasing that vein on the side of his member just as her letters promised to do. 

“Shit.” he whispers as Annie gives his leaking tip a sloppy kiss before taking him down her throat with a heavy gulp. Smoke throws his head back with a groan, hands grasping the afros puffs on either side of her head. He hissing out random cuss words, the nigga couldn’t think of a coherent sentence at all in answer to her actions.

 Annie uses her nails to scratch into his hip then down the V of his pelvis until they brace against the front of his thighs while her head nods on him. Annie lets up until Smoke’s shaft is halfway out her mouth before swallowing back down to the base with a wet suck. It only takes a minute of this before his dick jumps with need and the movement choke Annie as he bucks. 

“Nah, dontcha choke now. You wanted dis.” Smoke tries to tease, he croaks out a chuckle when Annie swats the back of his thigh then quickens her soul snatching pace. Annie’s glare gives him a mild warning before they close once again, tears pearling out the corners, her man was rich tasting in her mouth. 

Smoke goes to speak but is shut up by her humming on him. Annie pulls him out her mouth slowly with the vibrato until his dick drags fully out of her mouth with a plop. Her lips enclose his tip, tongue swirling his head like a honey flavored sucker. 

Smoke cums with a guff shout that echoes out the open door. His only warning is a sharp jerk forward and twisting of Annie’s afro puffs. Annie opens her mouth wide as he nuts over her face and chest, licking it off both lips before swallowing his seed.

“Sorry poppa… I needed that real bad.” Annie says light with a flutter of her eyelashes when peers up at him and Smoke can’t help but cup her face in his steady hands. 

He kisses her forehead, “Dontcha ever apologize for your needs, baby. Never to me, just let me get em for ya. C’mon gotta get to bed.” Smoke says gruffly, Annie yelps then giggles as he bends down and sweeps her up in a princess carry. She tightly hugs around shoulders and tries to balance them so he will set her feet down. Smoke scoffs and dips her the opposite way with a playful kiss.

“Elijah! You ain’t gotta show off.” Annie laughs before humming in approval at the feel of his thick and firm chest. 

“Imma show ya something ‘ight. Mrs. Moore.” Smoke rambles as he finally kicks her front door close and takes her back to the bedroom.

“I ain’t tired!” Annie warns. Smoke gives her a quick kiss as he settles her on the mattress. She pulls the rest of her dress off, tossing it to the floor and leaving herself completely bare in front of him. Smoke eyes survey every part of her, taking in every inch of her rich and soft skin hungry makes his jaw flex to bite into her tender flesh. 

“Who da fuck said a word ‘bout sleepin’ ? Just lay there and breathe, let me get this dick ready for ya.” he tells her. 

Now it is Annie's turn to observe him, his brown had gotten darker from the harsh sun of war, nicks on his shoulders and chest from scrapes and grazes of close calls in combat. Where his muscles were once lean fitting, they had thickened, filled and firmed from his time half way across the world. Smoke’s dick starts to twitch and Annie hums as she goes to turn over on all fours (their usual position), Smoke stalks onto bed like a lion on the hunt and rolls her onto her back.

“Nah, I gotta see that face of yours. Pictures ain’t doing it no mo.” Smoke declares as he nudges her legs open. Annie grunts in surprise then moans as he folds one of her legs to her chest and wraps the other around his waist. 

Smoke settles on top of her, kissing her deep and slow while his limp dick lays against her pussy in preparation. The two lovers make out for a minute Annie rubs him down where she can, noting every ridge of muscle and scar under her finger tips. Finally, her hands rest on the sides of his neck again, feeling his strong pulse and the coarse black cord of the mojo bag on him. Annie sighs in relief as she feels Smoke’s dick harden and bob once again, the tip of it slides across her lower belly before pulling off then slowly entering into her.

Inch by inch, until all seven and a half inches stretches her open with tight fulfillment. God, can Annie still take him? It had been so long, had her pussy forgotten him? Once Smoke bottoms out, he’s moaning in her face and Annie devoured it. 

“Ya so tight Annie, ya grippin me. God I missed ya.” He mutters into her ear pulling out a few inches then trusting back in. They cry out together as the headboard thumps the wall. Smoke gives her three more slow, deep thrusts that keep him pressed into her chest before shaking his head and quickening the pace. Desperate to hear the sounds of her hips slapping his. 

Annie moans out, yes’es and Oh’s of pleasure puff out her lips for him. One hand stays laid against the side of his neck while the other hands grips the sheets in a tight fist. Smoke places his hands over hers, forcing Annie’s fingers to splay out so he can hold it in place for her. 

“Gonna have to measure ya fingers, get em fitted for a ring. You my wife now. Ya know that?” Smoke declares, words barely louder than the creak of the bed. 

“Ye-yessss, s-s-ir” Annie sputters before her mouth stretches out in a silent cry of pleasure. Smoke bites that wet bottom lips of Annie’s, digging her knee further into her chest so he can hit that spot in her again.

“Gonna build ya a shop, can’t have no dusty ass niggas up in my house smellin’ my woman. They don’t needa know how good this pussy is.” Smoke states again, looking into Annie's eyes and smirking as they roll back before she can register the hunger in his.

“Yes-s-s! ‘Lijah! Right… right there Poppa! This hooch all yours.” Annie gasps, tears streak from her eyes as her core tightens and she starts to flood over his dick. Smoke falters for a moment with a moan at the slickness, he locks in pressing both her knees up toward her chest. In and out. In and out. In and out, Annie is dragged over the sheets until one corner pops off the mattress barely stopped from folding in by the pillows. 

Smoke shakes his head as he watches her cream on him, the puddle left under them as he dick disappears inside her and reappears glistening from her juices.

“Imma blessed man looking at this shit baby. This tight puss, wettin’ ma dick. Ya so damn beautiful."

“Elijah!” Annie cries out, her back arching off the bed as she cums again, her thighs twist to lock him in, the blocked action makes her shake in pleasure. Her hands tighten dangerously around the sides of his neck and Smoke gulps for breath at the high of her choke hold on him. Her pussy grips just as firmly and it’s her man’s undoing.  

He drills once. Twice. Three times before bowing over her with a deep, bassy roar as he nuts deep within her. His hips trust with sloppy jerks as he spills inside her.

“Elijiah!” Annie cries out as he lays into her breast, Smoke muffles her whines with a deeply pressed kiss. They both sigh in love, Smoke resting his head on her collar bone and kissing over the mark he left over her heart. He presses his ear to it and prays to it, giving thanks to Annie for her loving soul. For giving him stability in a way that was unreal. 

Annie rubs the side of his head with a euphoric and exhausted smile on her face.

“I’m so glad ya home, my love. I worked every root I had for this moment.” Annie whispers after a while and Smoke chuckles with tears in his eyes at the declaration. He shuffles up so they are face to face.

“Thank you for being my home, Annie.”

TAGS: @brownskincheyenne @lizbehave @bigjh @uzumaki-rebellion @milkywayzard @biancalhurtt @partylikemajima @pastelprintessa @c0tt0ncandi @theethighpriestess @blowmymbackout @nahimjustfeelingit-writes

if you wanna be tagged lmk!💕

Translations:

1: Ife mi! O ṣeun fun fifun ifẹ mi pada. Eng: My love! Thank you for returning my love.

2:Orun ran mi lowo! Eng: Heaven, help me!

3:Emi ni idahun re Eng: I am your answer

[colouredbyd]

Me Before You

regulus black x fem!reader

part of my rom-com celebration event

synopsis: you take a job meant to be temporary—keeping company with regulus black, the closed-off heir tangled in a war he pretends not to care about. but behind sharp words and cold silences is a boy aching to be seen. and slowly, without meaning to, you become the one thing he didn’t plan for.

—or in which regulus survives the cave but not without a cost.

warnings: motional distress, depression, suicidal thoughts, paralysis, physical suffering, family conflict, trauma, mentions of death, really cringe jokes, dirty jokes, vulnerability, caretaker dynamics, terminal illness, war themes, references to dark magic, allusions to torture, PTSD, ableism, lots of crack, regulus being a little shit half of the time.

w/c: 15k (long but so worth it)

a/n: tumblr wouldnt let me post this as one go so i had to divide it into two parts :((

part one part two masterlist

There’s a strange kind of stillness that comes just before things change. Like the world is listening for something. 

That was the kind of morning it was. The clouds hung low, their bellies heavy with unshed rain, and even the birds seemed to be waiting. Somewhere beyond the sky, the seasons were shifting, but here on the ground, everything held its breath.

The letter arrived just after breakfast. Tucked between bills and catalogues and things meant to be forgotten. It was heavy in the hand, sealed in deep green wax that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. No sender or signature. 

The address scrawled at the bottom was one you hadn’t heard in years. Twelve Grimmauld Place. A name that felt less like a location and more like a ghost. You stared at it for a long time, your tea going cold, steam fading into the air like breath against glass. 

There was no mention of who had written it, or why they wanted you, only a line: Healer requested. Immediate need. Duration: uncertain. And a time. That was all.

But you’ve always liked beginnings. You’ve always liked the soft kind of magic that lives in suitcases and train stations and unfamiliar doorways. 

You’ve always been the sort of person who finds beauty in the overlooked things—in wildflowers that grow from pavement cracks, in chipped mugs with hand-painted suns, in the hush before a story starts. So you packed. Not much, just the essentials. 

A few dresses in cheerful colours, a weather-stained book of poetry, your worn healer’s kit, and a jar of honey that reminded you of home. 

London met you with wind and grey skies. The kind that curled into your sleeves and settled in your bones. Still, your boots clicked lightly against the pavement, and you kept your head high, watching the way the rain turned the streets into silver. 

The street was easy enough to find. Number eleven stood straight and proud, its brickwork clean, its garden neat. Number thirteen slouched beneath creeping ivy, windows dulled with time. But between them—nothing. An absence where a house should be.

You blinked, breath catching, and in that breath, it appeared. No groan of stone, no whisper of magic—only a sudden weight in the air. Twelve Grimmauld Place. Tall, dark, its windows shuttered like watchful eyes, its black door sealed tight.

You stood there, rain softening the edges of the world, slicking your hair, running cold beneath your collar. Still, you did not move. The house loomed before you like a riddle, an answer unspoken.

So you stepped forward and raised your hand, only to find the door already open. 

Inside, the air was thick. It smelled of velvet gone sour, of books left to rot, of stone and age and grief too old to name. The floor groaned beneath your steps. The wallpaper peeled like curling fingers. Portraits lined the walls in heavy frames, faces you didn’t recognize watching with painted scorn. 

It wasn’t until you stepped past the stairs that something moved. Small and hunched and wrapped in shadows, the house-elf emerged from the gloom with a blink like a flinch. His eyes were dull, but sharp. He stared for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure if you were real, then gave a stiff bow.

“Miss,” he rasped, and nothing else.

You followed.

The house grew colder as you walked. The floors dipped. The doors were shut. One was charmed so thickly you could taste the spell in your teeth. The elf didn’t speak and you didn’t push. There was a weight to the air here, as though history itself had sunk into the wallpaper, heavy and wet, impossible to scrub out. 

He led you up two flights of stairs, down another hallway, and finally stopped before a room with a peeling brass doorknob and no name. “You will sleep here,” he said. “The green room. You begin tomorrow.”

Your hand paused on the door. “Begin with who?”

The elf didn’t answer. His gaze flicked once to the end of the corridor—where a single door stood half-shuttered, cloaked in shadow—and then he disappeared.

The green room was, in fact, barely green at all. Perhaps it had been once, but now the walls had faded to the colour of over-steeped tea, the curtains hung thick with dust, the air still and sharp. Yet there was a bed, a chair, a fireplace that looked as though it hadn’t burned in years. You set your suitcase down gently, as if the room itself might break beneath the weight of it. Drawing the curtains open, you found the glass so clouded with smudges that the light could scarcely filter through.

You found the elf again, this time waiting. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. Just nodded, chin low.

“He’s awake.”

The words stopped your steps.

“Who is?” you asked.

The pause was long. Longer than it needed to be. Then, quietly, like something slipping through a crack in the door, he answered.

“Master.”

And something inside you shifted, gently, terribly, as if you had just turned a page you could never un-read.

You weren’t sure why you felt so buzzy, like something wonderful was just around the corner. You’d never met the patient but you pictured someone elderly, surely. Someone curled into a high-backed chair, with trembling hands and greying hair, perhaps a little forgetful, probably lonely. 

You’d worked with patients like that before. They usually liked you. You liked them back. 

So when Kreacher appeared in the hallway—quiet as breath, hunched and sharp-eyed—you straightened with a smile already blooming on your face.

The hallway twisted. The carpets grew darker, the portraits more severe. You rounded a corner, following Kreacher through a set of double doors so tall they looked like they belonged in a cathedral. They groaned as they opened, and a sudden hush fell over the world, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

And there she was.

A woman stood in the centre of the room like a blade. Tall, severe, a cold beauty honed to a fine point. Her robes were pressed within an inch of their life, her hair pinned so tightly it seemed to resist motion itself. Her mouth was set, her eyes sharper than knives, and she regarded you the way one might examine a chipped teacup on display, barely concealing the fact that she found you unremarkable.

Behind her, cast in shadow by one of the tall, thin windows, was the wheelchair.

And the boy in it.

It hit you like a gust of winter wind. The kind that takes your breath before you even know it’s cold.

Not a man. Not elderly. Not even middle-aged.

A boy. Your age, perhaps a little older. His frame elegant, unmoving, draped in black like mourning itself. His hair fell in soft ink-dark waves to his cheekbones, his skin pale in that ancient way, like marble left too long in moonlight. And his eyes—

His eyes were the cruelest part.

They were beautiful, yes, but wrong somehow. Like a painting that had been smudged at the center. So dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupil began, framed by lashes far too soft for someone who glared like that. But it wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was what was in the looking. Not pain, not sadness. Bothered.

As if your very existence were something unfortunate he’d stepped in.

The woman stepped aside without preamble, her heels clicking once against the polished floor.

“This is my son.”

Her voice was precise. Clipped. Not unkind, but clinical, like she was reciting an inventory list.

“And this—” she looked you up and down like you were something she hadn’t ordered “—is Miss Y/N L/N, the new appointment. Temporary, unless she proves capable.”

You smiled brightly, still a little stunned, still a little breathless. “Hi! I’m Y/N—”

“Fascinating,” the boy interrupted.

The sound startled you. His voice was smooth, polished, but twisted at the edges by something dry and mocking. 

He didn’t even look at you as he spoke—just tilted his head back slightly, eyes trained on the ceiling like it bored him. 

Then, without warning, he made a series of strange noises—wet, guttural, garbled. Something between a groan and a snarl. Eyes still pointed upward, like he was summoning something.

You blinked, stunned, your smile flickering.

The woman snapped her head toward him, nostrils flaring. “Oh, will you quit it.”

He stilled, immediately. Then, slowly, his gaze slid toward you for the first time—slow as oil. There was a glint in his eye now, something smug.

“I’m Ben Dover,” he said, tone completely flat.

You didn’t react at first. The name took a second to settle.

And then—

Oh.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a soft laugh sputtered up your throat before you could help it, your hand rising instinctively to your mouth. “Right. Of course. Well—hi again, I’m Y/N!”

He blinked. “You already said that.”

Walburga’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Regulus. Stop scaring off healers. This is the third one this month.”

Regulus—because of course that was his real name—sighed long and slow, letting his head fall back against the chair, eyes closing as though you were the exhausting part of this conversation.

You didn’t say anything.

Because you were still reeling a little, not from his words, not even from the insult, but from the sheer unfairness of it. How young he was, how painfully lovely, how deeply, utterly miserable. You’d expected someone old, quiet, worn thin by life. What you got was a boy spitting bitterness like it was the only thing keeping him warm.And yet—you weren’t afraid.

Surprised, yes.

But not afraid.

You tilted your head, smile returning softer this time. 

Walburga adjusted the clasp at her wrist, something silver and ancient that gleamed like frost. She hadn’t so much as looked at you again. Her focus stayed trained on her son, who now stared out the window with the kind of apathy that didn’t even bother to feign interest in the conversation happening around him.

“Kreacher will tell you everything you need to know,” she said, voice clipped and final, as though she were ending a meeting, not beginning a life.

“I’m right here, you know.”

Regulus’s voice was sharp, almost amused—but there was something dangerous curled beneath it. 

Walburga did not look at him. “You’ve made it clear you’re not interested in being helpful.”

“I’ve made it clear,” he said coolly, turning toward her now, “that you don’t have to talk across me like I’m a side table. My brain isn’t paralyzed, mother.”

You blinked, looking between them—him, pale and sharp, eyes lit with defiance; her, still and rigid, like a statue in mourning. Something old and awful passed between them then. Not new hatred. Old disappointment.

She looked at him as though she could still will him into something else. 

“You’re sounding awfully like your disgrace of a brother.”

The words were dropped like broken glass at his feet.

And then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and left, her robes fluttering behind her like a closing curtain.

You stood still, half-wrapped in the echo of that tension, unsure whether to breathe or speak. Regulus said nothing. He stared straight ahead now, jaw tight, shoulders pulled back in a way that looked too proud to be natural. His hands rested still in his lap.

Only Kreacher moved, scuttling from the corner with a sigh like this was routine.

“If you are ready, Miss Y/N,” he said, tone dry as parchment, “I shall explain what Master Regulus needs.”

You glanced toward Regulus once more—he hadn’t looked at you again—then nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Kreacher walked you through it in brisk detail. His schedule, his limitations, the muscle cramps that seized him each morning, the potion he refused to take unless bribed, the way he would not allow himself to be touched unless absolutely necessary. What you should watch for. What you must never, ever suggest.

“And,” Kreacher finished, with the air of someone handing off a cursed object, “do not let his tone frighten you. He is not as fearsome as he pretends.”

“I’m not pretending,” Regulus muttered from his chair.

Kreacher ignored him.

You offered the elf a soft thank you, and he gave a tight nod before disappearing again into the shadows of the corridor, the door clicking closed behind him.

And then it was quiet.

Almost too quiet.

You stood a little awkwardly near the edge of the room, hands clasped loosely in front of you, eyes flicking once more to the boy who hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked, hadn’t blinked, it seemed, since his mother left.

You cleared your throat gently. “So, do you like lemon drops or…?”

Without a word, he reached for the wheels of his chair and rolled forward. As though he were leaving a room he’d already deemed unworthy of his time.

You blinked again. “Okay! You’re on the move. That’s—fun!”

He didn’t look back. The wheels hummed softly on the hardwood. You followed, because what else could you do? You weren’t about to let him disappear into a house you barely understood.

“I know I talk a lot,” you said as you caught up beside him, cheerful and undeterred, “But I promise I’m very good at being quiet too. Or mostly quiet. I mean I can be quiet if you want me to be, just say the word and—”

“Do you ever stop?”

You stumbled for a second, both in your step and your words. “Well… not really.”

“Fabulous.”

You tilted your head and matched his pace.

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

“Good. Then you’ll last a whole extra day compared to the last one.”

You had barely caught your breath when your mouth started moving again, words tumbling out like a rushing river that refused to be dammed. The moment your feet—or rather, your hands—touched the familiar rhythm of his wheelchair’s wheels, your voice picked up where it had left off, light and relentless, a constant melody in the quiet house.

“So, I was thinking,” you began, spinning a little fact about lemon drops and their surprising ability to lift moods, “that maybe we should start keeping some around. You know, for emergencies. Or whenever you need a little sunshine on a particularly gloomy day. Which, from what I’ve gathered, is… quite often? But I’m confident we can fix that! Because I’ve got a whole arsenal of tricks and potions and, well, mostly just really loud enthusiasm, but that counts, right?”

His silence was the only answer you got. He stared ahead, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the peeling wallpaper and dusty light filtering in through the windows.

You kept going, as though talking was a lifeline—your way of threading warmth into the cold corners of this house. “Did you know that daisies are actually a symbol of hope and innocence? I love that. They’re just so simple and pure. Like little bursts of happiness. Maybe we could get some for your room? I promise they don’t require much attention. And, well, if they die, that just means we get to pick new ones. It’s kind of like a fresh start every time.”

You reached the door to his room without realizing you’d slowed, and instinctively, you stopped the wheelchair with a soft squeak.

The silence stretched, vast and sudden.

Then, breaking it like a shard of ice, Regulus’s voice came, dripping with dry sarcasm, “Well, it’s about time you shut up.”

Darkness swallowed everything.

The walls were a suffocating black, thick tapestries hanging like mourning veils, blotting out any hint of light. Heavy curtains, drawn tight and stubborn, refused to let the sun breathe in. 

The furniture, carved of the darkest wood, loomed like ancient sentinels in the dim air. Pillows and blankets, all muted, cold, and folded with an absence of care.

You blinked, then blinked again, blinking through the surprise like a sunrise fighting through thick fog.

“No wonder all of you are so depressed in this house,” you said softly, almost incredulous, your eyes darting around the gloom, “Look at your room.”

You reached out instinctively and pulled at the heavy curtain cords. Slowly, deliberately, the black fabric slipped away, revealing the sun’s golden fingers spilling in, setting the dust aglow like tiny stars caught in a web.

“Will you stop?” Regulus snapped, voice laced with irritation. “You’re going to taint my room with your disease of brightness.”

You grinned, a light that refused to be dimmed, stepping fully inside. “I know your name is Black,” you said, “but being surrounded by so much blackness must surely be exhausting. I mean, how do you breathe in all this shadow without gasping for air?”

You moved around the room with the kind of care and excitement only you could muster—brushing the smooth, cold wood of the nightstand, fluffing the pillows with a gentle insistence, smoothing the blankets as if you could iron out the heaviness hanging in the air.

“This is your space. Your sanctuary, not some tomb.” You paused, watching as his jaw clenched tight, “You don’t have to live buried beneath all this. There’s a whole world outside waiting for you, and I think maybe you deserve to see a little bit of light—even if it scares you.”

He didn’t respond, but the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth told you he was listening, even if he refused to say it.

You perched on the edge of his bed, eyes bright and full of promise. “Look, I get it. You’re grumpy. You’re tired. But that doesn’t mean you have to be alone in it.”

He rolled away toward the window, silent and still, but you followed without hesitation, matching his slow, determined pace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t scare me, Regulus Black.”

You didn’t know what exactly possessed you to make him tea.

Maybe it was the way he hadn’t looked at you once in the last fifteen minutes. Or how, for the briefest flicker of a second, he almost looked… calm. 

Or maybe it was just that ridiculous little idea that bloomed in your brain like everything else bright and irritating about you: that tea made things better.

So you went.

Floating down the hall like some over-caffeinated songbird in your very yellow dress—very yellow, patterned with tiny embroidered daisies and hibiscus and something bright you couldn’t name. You liked it. It made you feel like a walking summer afternoon. 

You knew it was too bright for this house, that you looked like a flower girl lost in a funeral procession, but that only made you like it more.

Kreacher gave you a long-suffering stare as you shuffled through canisters, hunting for the tea leaves.

“Master prefers it black,” Kreacher muttered.

You smiled, already tossing in a generous handful of sugar. “Then he can pretend it’s a dessert.”

Kreacher sighed.

Five minutes later, you returned with the tea and a victorious smile. Regulus was exactly where you left him, in his room, parked by the window in a shaft of reluctant light, looking like the ghost of some long-dead prince sulking in the ruins of his once-grand castle. 

And for a moment he looked at peace. Unbothered. Perhaps even content, because you were gone.

Well. Too bad.

You set the tea down gently in his lap like it was an offering to some snarky, wheelchair-bound deity.

“I made you tea,” you said brightly, settling into the armchair across from him with a sigh. “You’re welcome.”

He lifted the cup without looking at you. Took a sip.

And promptly spat it out in an explosive mess of sputtering and coughing that had you springing to your feet like a woman launched from a cannon.

“Oh my god, are you—are you choking?!” you cried, racing over. “Did I put something bad in it? Oh my god, is it a reaction? Are you allergic to—do you need water? Should I get Kreacher? Or a—do you carry an antidote? Merlin’s beard, you’re not dying, are you?!”

Regulus wheezed, coughed again, then looked at you with utter disdain. “What even is this bloody thing?”

You blinked, clutching his forearm like he might drop dead any second. “It’s just… it’s tea.”

“It’s a cup of liquid sugar,” he snapped. “Did you pour the entire jar in?”

You straightened indignantly. “Excuse me for trying to give you something nice—”

“And must you blind me with that atrocious… dress?” he continued, voice sharp, his scowl deepening as he glanced at you fully for the first time today. “It’s like being assaulted by a flower field.”

You looked down at yourself. “It’s yellow.”

“It’s obnoxious.”

You huffed, cheeks flushed, fists planted firmly on your hips. 

“You know what? You are so—I don’t even have the words—insufferable! Here I am, trying to be kind, trying to bring some color and life into this godforsaken mausoleum you call a home, and you—Merlin—you spit out tea like it’s poison and insult my dress in the same breath! Do you want to be miserable? Because you’re very good at it!”

He wheeled backward with a grunt, clearly ready to escape this whirlwind of floral rage. “You’re worse than the last healer, and she cried non stop.”

“Well I am not going to cry!” you shouted, marching after him as he made a sharp turn into the corridor. “So you can just give that fantasy up, Richard Black!”

He stopped.

You paused mid-rant, panting slightly.

Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder. “It’s Regulus,” he said flatly.

You folded your arms, chin raised high. “I don’t care.”

And then you smiled. With the righteous fire of someone who was not going to be broken by a broody boy in a wheelchair with a vendetta against sugar.

Somewhere down the hall, Kreacher sighed again.

-

Night in Grimmauld Place wasn’t like night anywhere else.

It didn't soften the way the world normally does when the stars creep in. It didn’t whisper or wrap around you like a warm blanket. Here, darkness settled like a punishment. Heavy and absolute. The corridors creaked with memories, and the wallpaper held secrets. But your room—however modest—was clean, quiet, and lined with books you didn’t recognize but promised to open one day.

Kreacher had shown you the way, once again, with a surprisingly polite bow and an even more surprising offer of a hot water bottle, which you declined with a tired smile.

And you had collapsed onto the bed like a daisy folding in on itself at sundown.

Your last thought before sleep took you was that maybe tomorrow would be better. That maybe, somehow, Regulus Black wouldn’t spit tea at you or insult your dress or call you a human disease.

You were wrong.

Because Regulus Black woke you up at five.

Five. A.M.

Before the sun, before the birds, before magic itself, probably.

You were dreaming—something soft and pleasant, a cottage, warm scones, and someone who looked suspiciously like Gilderoy Lockhart reading you poetry—when the knock came.

Not gentle. Not even insistent. No, this was war drums against the door, paired with the unmistakable, cold voice of the man himself:

“Wake up!”

You jolted upright, your hair a frizzled halo, your pink pajama top buttoned wrong. “What—what time is it? Is something wrong?”

“No,” came his voice again, darkly amused. “But you are late.”

You flung open the door in a blur of sleepy limbs and indignation. “Late? It’s not even—" you squinted down the corridor, still shadowed in night, "—morning!”

Regulus sat in his wheelchair at the end of the hallway, a smirk barely playing on his lips, dressed immaculately in black. Of course.

 “Allez. Lève-toi. Tu traînes. Merlin, tu es lente. Mets quelque chose de convenable. Bouge. Plus vite. Merde, c’est pas possible, quel cauchemar.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

He didn’t pause. "Sers-moi du thé. Pas trop chaud. Pas de sucre. Pas de cette horreur que tu as faite hier. Tu m’as empoisonné, tu sais. J’aurais dû porter plainte."

You blinked harder. “Regulus—I don’t—what—are you hexing me?!”

He didn’t even look at you. "Et ne mets pas cette robe rose. Par pitié. J’ai mal aux yeux."

You panicked, wildly trying to remember anything from your third-year elective in Magical Linguistics. “Did you just call me a robe?”

“Incroyable,” he muttered. “Elle comprend rien.”

And then, without another word, he rolled away—down the corridor, muttering fluently and furiously under his breath, arms sharp on the wheels, disappearing into the shadows like some long-suffering specter cursing the ghost of your fashion sense.

You just stood there.

Absolutely stunned.

Still not entirely sure if you’d just been fired, cursed, or challenged to a duel in French.

That’s when Kreacher appeared.

Quiet as ever, clutching a tea tray and looking entirely unsurprised by the commotion.

He bowed slightly. “Good morning, miss.”

“That’s debatable,” you said faintly. “Is he always like this?”

Kreacher didn’t blink. “After the first day, Master Regulus ensures the second is intolerable. He has a routine.”

“A routine?”

“He overwhelms the healers, wakes them before dawn, speaks only in French, issues impossible requests, undermines their methods, undermines their confidence. It is a pattern.”

You stared, absolutely scandalized. “But… but that’s not healing.”

“Indeed.”

You ran a hand down your face, tea tray still wobbling in your other hand. “Okay… but what happens after the week? Does he stop?”

Kreacher tilted his head. “None of them have lasted a week, miss.”

Your breath caught.

None.

You thought of yesterday—the tea, the rudeness, the mockery, the theatrical retreat down the hallway. And now, today—ambushed in the pre-dawn dark by French insults and scathing glances. He was testing you, toying with you, trying to break you like a twig underfoot.

But he hadn’t met you before.

Let day two begin.

Because no spoiled prince of House Black was going to ruin your morning.

You would not be fired before breakfast.

After Kreacher’s solemn warning and a great deal of inner pep-talk in front of the dusty old mirror, you flung open your trunk and got to work.

Pink again? Too predictable. The orange with the sunflowers? Too blinding, even for you. In the end, you chose a soft green tea dress with daisy embroidery and tiny pearl buttons—still bright, still stubbornly you, still perfectly designed to offend the eyes of one Regulus Black.

By five-thirty a.m. sharp — hair pinned, lips glossed, chin high — you found him already in the study, back to the cold half-light of dawn, a book open on his lap but clearly unread.

He glanced up, saw the dress, and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Merlin,” he said flatly. “That dress is even worse than yesterday’s.”

You only beamed. “Good morning to you too.”

He snapped the book closed with a sharp thwack. “Allez. Commence. Dépêche-toi.”

You raised a brow, strolling toward the tea cart with deliberate ease. “I speak plenty of languages, you know,” you said airily. “But French, I’m afraid, isn’t one of them, Richard.”

The wheels of his chair ground slightly as he turned toward you. “Will you—” he snapped in perfect English, tone sharp as flint, “stop calling me Richard!”

You set about preparing his tea, unbothered. “Then stop pretending to be some mysterious Frenchman and speak like the rest of us.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh, dragging one pale hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

“Not at all,” you chirped, stirring the tea. “You’re just not used to anyone keeping up.”

You brought the cup over to him, bright and chipper as spring. He stared at it as though it might explode.

“And no sugar this time,” you added, teasing. “Though I must say, the pink dress and sugar tea combo really seemed to rattle you yesterday.”

“You rattle me either way,” he muttered.

“So,” you began. “What’s the plan for today? More French? More glares? Are you going to have Kreacher dump ice water on me? Or maybe you’ll enlist Peeves to throw stink bombs at my door. I do love a good prank war, you know. I once swapped out my cousin’s shampoo with ink — poor thing had violet hair for a week. Though honestly it looked quite nice, if I do say so myself…”

You glanced at him — no reaction.

Undeterred, you prattled on. “Oh, and if you’re wondering, yes — this dress is intentional. I plan to brighten this house one room at a time, starting with you. And if you think I’ll be scared off by a little muttering in French, you’re sorely mistaken. My great-aunt Briony once hexed me in Bulgarian for spilling jam on her robes — I didn’t flinch. You, my dear Richard, are going to have to try harder.”

The faintest twitch of his mouth, the smallest flicker—still, you pressed on.

“And if I may say — for someone so determined to frighten off healers, you’re doing a rather poor job of it. In fact, I’d say you secretly like the company.”

That did it.

A sharp, sudden bark of laughter escaped him — genuine, unguarded, entirely unwilling. It startled even him, as if he’d surprised himself. He gave a low groan, shaking his head.

You blinked, utterly caught off guard. “Are you — are you laughing?”

He rubbed his temple, still half smiling, voice dry as ever. “Look at yourself,” he muttered. “You look like a deranged daffodil.”

You gaped at him. “A deranged daffodil?”

His lips twitched again, “Yes, sitting there, grinning like a maniac in that ridiculous dress.”

“Well!” you huffed, though you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “I’ll take that as a compliment. At least I’m not dressed like a ghost haunting his own house.”

He let out another faint breath of amusement and wheeled a little closer to the window.

And that was how the day began.

A single laugh — begrudging, accidental — and that tiny crack was all the encouragement you needed.

The moment passed, of course. Just as quickly as it came, that flicker of something faded beneath his usual cool indifference. But you had seen it. And if there was one thing you were — as you had so eloquently put it — it was relentless.

By the time breakfast was done, the soft morning light had brightened into a pale, cloud-streaked sky. Kreacher brought in a tray of cold fruit, toast, and tea, and you chattered through the meal with sunny determination, ignoring the icy silences and unimpressed stares you received in return.

And when the last crumbs were cleared, the tea gone lukewarm, you popped up and declared brightly, “Right then! Shall we?”

He only gave you a slow, narrow-eyed glance, as if regretting every choice that had led him to this moment.

Still, without a word, he allowed you to wheel him from the dining room, down the dark-paneled corridor, through the suffocating gloom of Grimmauld Place.

You hummed as you went, the wheels creaking faintly under your hands, his weight familiar now beneath your grip.

And because silence was hardly your natural state, you began, as always, to talk.

“You know, I never really planned to be a healer,” you said conversationally, rounding a corner, “when I was little, I wanted to be a curse-breaker or an alchemist—something daring, something exciting. But my mum—she was a healer herself—said I had the hands for it, and the heart, I suppose. I used to follow her to St. Mungo’s sometimes. I remember watching her mend a little boy’s broken ribs with such care. I think that’s when I knew.”

No response, no flicker of interest. His gaze remained straight ahead, cold, distant.

Undeterred, you continued.

“I do have good hands though, if I say so myself. I like using them. Cooking, knitting, painting sometimes, though I’m dreadful at portraits. But my favorite thing after healing? Playing the piano. Except, well… we could never quite afford one. Too expensive, too many other things to pay for. A shame, really. I would have liked that.”

You glanced down at him again, still no sign of life, but that was fine—you had all day.

“And, of course, healing stuck in the end. I always liked working with my hands. There’s something about the quiet magic of it, the way you can put someone back together, even just a little, even for a little while… I suppose that’s what drew me to it.”

You wheeled him carefully through the next doorway, not a hint of tiredness in your step.

Then at last, a voice, low and dry, “How charming.”

You smiled to yourself. “Oh, don’t sound so thrilled.”

“You seem very fond of the sound of your own voice,” he said flatly.

“I am,” you answered, bright as ever. “And you’ll be fond of it too, if you give it a chance.”

-

The days passed. Slowly, stubbornly.

Day two bled into day three, and somehow into day four. The sun, pale and reluctant, rose and set in the windows of that old, creaking house. 

Time seemed to slow in Grimmauld Place, thick as the dust that clung to every dark corner, and the hours stretched thin like thread about to snap.

It had not been easy. Not even close. Who could have guessed that a boy who spoke barely three sentences a day could prove to be such trouble?

For all the quiet he wrapped himself in, Regulus Black was a storm in still waters.

There were the small tricks, of course. The endless French mutterings meant to confuse and irritate, which you ignored with your most winning smile. 

The pointed silences when you asked a question. The way he would shift in his chair ever so slightly at the most inconvenient moments, making it impossible to settle into any rhythm of care.

More than once, you’d wheeled him into the dining room only for him to glance sideways at the chair and mutter, “Not hungry,” forcing you to turn all the way back down the long, endless hall. 

Or the days he refused to move at all, sitting in the grand drawing room with eyes shuttered and mouth set in a line, an unspoken dare for you to just try.

He would ignore your chatter completely some mornings, his gaze drifting away as though you were not there. Other times, he would glance up with a look so sharp, so cutting, that it was a wonder the words didn’t wither on your tongue.

It wasn’t just the silences, or the brooding stares, or the French mutterings tossed your way whenever he deigned to notice your presence. It wasn’t the long hours of pretending you weren’t there, or the mornings when he would refuse to let you wheel him anywhere, sitting rigid and unmovable in his chair.

No — it was the deliberate trouble he made of it. The way he seemed determined to drive you mad.

One morning, he had Kreacher wake you at four, instead of five — just because. 

Another, he insisted on being taken to the draftiest part of the house and left there for hours, knowing you’d fret the whole time. He would complain if the curtains were drawn, then sigh dramatically if they were left closed.

And the tea — Merlin, the tea.

No sugar, then too little sugar, then far too much. Never quite right. He never once touched the toast you brought, but if you didn’t bring it, he would ask where it was.

He gave you the wrong directions, deliberately told you the wrong room, even had Kreacher convinced for half a day that you needed to fetch rare ingredients from Diagon Alley (you did not).

A dozen small things. Constant, endless. Not the work of a boy too broken to care — no, this was the work of someone clever, and bitter, and fiercely intent on one thing: making you quit.

You had learned, thanks to a muttered warning from Kreacher, that no other healer had lasted more than six days. And now you knew why.

But you were nothing if not stubborn.

You did not quit.

You smiled instead, cheerfully, through gritted teeth. You brightened the rooms with chatter and color. You brought in flowers, just one small bunch — which he glared at so furiously you had to hide them in your own quarters after.

You ignored the traps he set, the pointed remarks, the endless, calculated war of attrition he waged against you.

And slowly — so slowly you might have missed it, if you hadn’t been paying attention — there were signs. Little ones.

He no longer commented on your dresses. The mutterings in French grew less frequent. He stopped refusing meals quite so often.

One afternoon, you caught him watching you as you moved about the room, straightening cushions, humming softly to yourself. His gaze was sharp, thoughtful.

He said nothing when you noticed, but the look lingered in your mind long after.

By the time the second week neared its end, the rhythm of it all had shifted.

He still did not like you — that much was certain. He still threw cold words your way when it suited him, and made no effort to soften the days.

But you had not been broken. And he had begun to see it.

It was on the fourteenth day, in fact — nearly two full weeks — that Walburga Black appeared again.

She swept into the drawing room, tall and sharp as a blade, black robes trailing behind her. You rose, smoothing your bright blue skirt — embroidered with little sunflowers this time — and met her gaze with as much calm as you could muster.

Her eyes flicked over you, taking in your color, your brightness — your sheer refusal to wilt.

“So,” she said at last, her voice cold, but edged with something like reluctant approval. “You remain.”

You inclined your head. “I do, madam.”

She looked at her son, sitting in his chair by the window, gaze distant, sharp profile outlined by the gray light.

“You are… doing well enough,” Walburga said, cool as ever. “Better than the last three.”

There was no praise in her tone. But for Walburga Black, those words may as well have been a rare kind of compliment.

With that, she swept away, her footsteps echoing in the long hall.

You let out a breath. Two weeks.

You had lasted two weeks. And though it had cost you sore feet, frayed nerves, and more late-night cups of tea than you could count, you had not been driven out.

Regulus Black still glared, still scowled, still met your words with cool disdain. But somewhere beneath it — you could feel it — the ice was thinner than before.

Two weeks. Somehow, two weeks had gone by.

You found yourself perched now at the edge of his bed, quite literally leaning over Regulus Black’s head with both hands tangled in the stubborn fluff of a pillow that refused to cooperate.

It was late afternoon, the rain tapping faintly against the tall windows, the room hushed except for your small, determined movements. 

And for the occasional, low-voiced complaint from the young man lying in the middle of the grand bed, looking every bit the aristocratic heir, even with his sharp scowl and narrowed eyes.

"It is wrong," Regulus muttered, eyes half-closed, voice as unimpressed as ever. "It is crooked."

You shifted it to the left, with great care.

"It is still wrong," he said flatly.

You shifted it to the right, biting back a smile.

"That is worse."

You blew out a slow breath, standing back for a second, hands on your hips. "You do realise," you said cheerfully, "that this is the seventh pillow adjustment I have performed today. Seventh. I should be awarded some kind of honour for this level of service."

He said nothing. His eyes remained closed, the faintest crease between his brows.

You leaned back in and began fluffing again. "And if this is some new tactic to drive me completely mad, congratulations, it is working. Slowly but surely."

"Rectangles cannot be crooked, you know," you added, shifting the pillow once more. "They are literally made to have corners. It is basic geometry."

A very soft sigh escaped him. "You are rambling again," he said, voice so low you almost missed it.

You beamed, undeterred. "That is one of my finest skills. Rambling, tea-making, a bit of knitting, painting sometimes, though nothing terribly good, and first-aid. Oh, and pillow-wrangling, of course."

Still, he lay quiet, though you could not help but notice that his mouth no longer held quite the same tight line.

You shifted the pillow once more, this time more gently, watching his face. Your voice grew softer. "I only ask because… well, I do not want you uncomfortable. Truly. If this is bothering you at all, just tell me. I can adjust it again."

He let out a long breath, lids still heavy over those dark eyes. "It is fine."

You sat back at last, satisfied, and sank into the chair by his bedside. The room was warm, the rain still steady beyond the glass.

After a few moments of comfortable quiet, you glanced at him again. "Regulus," you said softly.

There was a pause, then a quiet sound from him, almost a hum. "Hm?"

You hesitated for a beat, watching him. Then, voice gentle, "I was only wondering. What… what happened? How did you… I mean, how did you end up here?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but the faint tick of the old clock in the corner. You were certain he would not answer. You almost regretted asking at all.

But then his voice came, quiet, a little rough. "I did something," he said simply. Another pause. "It did not… go as I thought it would."

You watched him, heart soft, eyes gentle. You did not press. You only stayed there, the rain falling softly outside, the room wrapped in a quiet you hoped was just a little less lonely than it had been before.

It began, as most things did these days, with quiet determination.

You had spent the better part of that morning tending to Regulus as usual, helping him through the careful rhythm of his daily care. By now, you knew the way of it—gentle touches, a certain tone of voice, patience in spades. The way his body tensed at sudden movements, the careful way you adjusted his position, mindful of every ache and weakness. 

You had learned that beneath his sharp words and stubborn demeanor lay a body marked by suffering—scars tracing jagged paths across his skin, remnants of battles and betrayals no one spoke of aloud. Some were old, pale and faded, others still raw and angry beneath the surface. 

And while he still grumbled often enough, it had grown less sharp, less cutting. You’d caught more than one glimmer of something softer in his gaze when he thought you weren’t looking—fragile moments where the weight of his pain seemed to lift, if only for a breath.

That was why, when the thought came to you — that you could not spend every hour tucked behind heavy velvet curtains in that grand, grim house — you could not shake it.

He needed air.

You needed air.

Kreacher had warned you, of course. The old elf had pulled you aside in the kitchen as you’d hurried about, eyes bright with the plan already taking shape in your head.

“Miss, it is… not wise,” he had said, voice low, glancing about as though the portraits themselves might overhear. “Mistress would not allow it. No soul is to see Master Regulus outside these walls. No one must know.”

You had smiled at him, undeterred. “Then we won’t let anyone see, will we? It will only be a short outing, I promise. We’ll be back before the clock strikes two.”

He had sighed, long and deep, but you had seen the way his gaze softened, the way his shoulders sagged as though he knew there was no stopping you.

And so that afternoon, with sunlight pouring through the tall windows for the first time in days, you were finishing the last touches in your room, tying back your hair with a bright ribbon, tugging on your colourful coat — nothing too loud this time, but cheerful enough.

With a quick check in the mirror, you were off, feet light on the old floors as you made your way down to Regulus’s rooms.

The door stood half open. You knocked lightly on the frame.

“Good afternoon, your highness,” you called playfully, poking your head in. “I have a terribly scandalous plan for us today. Care to hear it?”

Regulus was in his chair already, angled toward the window, though the heavy curtains were mostly drawn. He turned at the sound of your voice, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You crossed the room, hands clasped behind your back. “You, sir, are going outside. Just for a little while. The sun is out, the world is calling, and I have made it my mission to rescue you from this dark and dreadful lair.”

He blinked at you, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, very flatly, “I assume Kreacher tried to talk you out of this.”

You grinned. “Naturally. Which is exactly how I know it is a good idea.”

A faint sigh escaped him, but you swore you saw something flicker behind those eyes — not quite protest, not quite refusal.

“You need not humour me,” he said quietly. “This is unnecessary.”

You stepped closer, voice softening. “It isn’t for me, Regulus. I think you might like it. And besides, no one will know. Walburga isn’t even home.”

He studied you a moment longer. Then finally, the smallest nod.

And that was how it began. You helped him into his coat, carefully adjusting the folds so nothing tugged uncomfortably. The touch of your fingers seemed to linger, softer now, unspoken. 

You wheeled him through the old halls with a conspiratorial air, Kreacher peeking nervously from the shadows.

Out the back entrance, down the hidden path where no neighbours could glimpse, and onto the quiet streets beyond. The world felt new again. Crisp air, the scent of early summer blooms, the distant hum of a city too long shut away from him.

You kept close, hands steady on the chair, voice bright as you pointed out little things — a sparrow darting across a fence, ivy curling through old stone, the glimmer of a bookstore window.

Regulus said little at first, only watching, guarded. But as the hour slipped by, you noticed the small signs. His shoulders eased. His gaze lingered longer on the world around him. The sharpness of his frown seemed less.

You didn’t stay long, no more than two hours. Careful, always, never too bold. You returned him safely before the grand clock could chime. 

And Walburga — well, Walburga never knew. She remained too occupied with her endless errands, her whispered dealings in shadowed corners, barely looking your way except to press a fat stack of galleons into your hand with cold, perfunctory words.

And so it became a kind of ritual. Each day, if the weather allowed and Walburga was gone — which was most days — you would ready him quietly, and off you’d go. Small escapes. Small freedoms.

And something shifted in him, subtle but certain. He no longer scowled when you brought out the bright scarves or colourful coats. 

He no longer fought the outings with the same bitterness. In fact, if you looked closely, you sometimes caught him waiting by the window, as though he hoped you would suggest it again.

Little by little, the city became your secret, and the outside world a place for him to breathe again. 

And little by little, too, the boy who had once seemed all coldness and ice began to thaw — if only when he was far from the House of Black.

And so the days blurred past, one folding into another, light pressing thin against the dark stones of Grimmauld Place. 

A month, maybe more now, since that first morning when you’d dared wheel him out beneath a pale sky, away from heavy curtains and sharper silences. 

You had begun with small strolls, nothing bold — past old shop windows and shadowed alleyways, little courtyards where the ivy grew thick on brick. But Regulus had not complained, not even once, and in time those stolen hours had become your quiet ritual.

You knew the house too well by now — the groan of the floorboards, the must of old velvet, the way Walburga swept in cold as frost, only to vanish again with barely a glance spared for her son. She rarely asked questions. Rarer still, she checked on you both. 

You suspected she didn’t care, as long as your pay envelope remained fat, and her son was not disturbing her greater affairs.

And so it was easy, in time. To slip away. To dress him in wool and dark coats, to tuck soft scarves at his throat and wheel him out into the world, where the air tasted freer than anything that could be found within those walls.

You would not have dared think it aloud, but truthfully — Regulus seemed to prefer it, too.

And on this morning, just as so many before, you found yourself beside him again, helping him through breakfast beneath the pale hush of dawnlight. The clink of cutlery, the soft rustle of cloth, your voice humming light above it all.

He had become used to your presence now. You could tell. He no longer flinched at your touch — not when you gently tucked his hair back behind one ear so it wouldn’t fall into his tea, nor when you reached without thinking to dab a spot of marmalade from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

There was no edge to his gaze this morning, no sharp retort — only a quiet patience, and something near amused resignation as you went on in your usual bright stream of talk.

“...and then there I was, right in the middle of Diagon Alley, can you imagine — three owls swooping straight for me. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous, flailing about with my bags,” you laughed softly, brushing imaginary feathers from your sleeves as you leaned in to help him with another sip.

 “And not a soul stopped to help, mind you. Londoners!”

Regulus let out a faint breath. It might have been a huff of laughter.

You beamed. “Anyway — where shall I take you today, hmm? I’ve been thinking on it all morning. Somewhere new, I think.”

He gave a low sound in his throat, gaze flickering toward you beneath dark lashes. “New again? You never run out of ideas, do you?”

“Well, I do try to keep things interesting, my prince,” you teased, settling the napkin beside his plate and folding your hands on the table. “I was thinking... a garden today.”

Regulus arched one brow, faintly intrigued. “A garden?”

“Mhm,” you nodded eagerly, leaning in conspiratorially as you reached to pour him another cup of tea. 

“Not just any garden— a secret one. Tucked away near the edge of the city. Full of flowers, they say. And —” you brightened, giving him a little smile as you reached to gently adjust his collar, straightening it — “—I wanted to bring a bouquet home for my sister. It’s her birthday soon. And I thought... well. It would be lovely to pick something fresh.”

He stilled a moment, watching you, voice quieter now. “Your sister’s birthday?”

You beamed. “Yes! In a few days’ time. And would you believe — our birthdays are only a month apart. Same weekday. Same hour, even. Mother always called it a blessing. I think so, too.”

Regulus’s eyes flickered, something thoughtful behind them. Then, low and even, “Your birthday is in a month?”

“Mmhm!” you chirped, smoothing a hand over your skirt. “I can hardly believe it. Though honestly — I love birthdays. I love getting older. It’s like turning the page on a new chapter, don’t you think? A whole new year to fill.”

At that, a faint smile ghosted across his lips, but there was something rueful in it. He shook his head slightly.

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “You’re not what?”

He glanced away for a breath, voice softer. “I’m not eager to grow up.”

You tilted your head, brows drawing up. “Why not?”

A long pause. Then, almost too quietly — “When you grow, you’ll understand.”

You puffed a breath, folding your arms with mock indignation. “You sound like an old man, you know. Honestly — you’re barely a year older than me, Regulus.”

“Which means, sir, that you have no excuse for being so gloomy.”

He rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone.

You leaned in again with a playful grin. “And besides — today we’re going to the garden, so you’ll have no choice but to enjoy yourself.”

Regulus gave a soft, resigned sigh, watching you fold the napkin one last time with an almost fond patience.

And just as you gathered your things to ready him for the outing, you shot one last grin over your shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way, Richard —”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the chair. “I thought we were done with that name.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

And so the day began — another small adventure, waiting just beyond the doors.

After breakfast, after the soft cloth wiped gently at the corner of his mouth, after the tea cups were cleared and the scarf was set just so at his throat — you wheeled him carefully to his room, helped him into fresh clothes with your usual featherlight touch and the practiced care of someone who’d long since learned the curve of every quiet injury. 

Today, you took extra care — for today, you had a plan.

And when you left him to finish dressing, you hurried off to change yourself — pulling the lilac-lavender dress from the wardrobe where it had waited for just the right moment. A soft thing, with delicate sleeves and a gentle sway to it, nothing like your usual riot of colors and prints. 

You smoothed it carefully down your front, checked your reflection then gathered your things and headed back.

Regulus was waiting where you’d left him, pale fingers resting on the arm of the chair, gaze flicking idly out the window. 

He turned when you entered, and for the first time that morning, a faint smile touched his mouth.

“Now that’s a surprise,” he said, voice low and wry. “I think this is the first time I haven’t seen you dressed like a bouquet of wildflowers.”

You laughed, bright and warm, as you wheeled him gently from the room. “Oh, don’t sound so disappointed. I thought — well, you’re going to see plenty of bright colors at the garden today. I figured I’d spare you for once, save your sore eyes.”

That earned you a soft laugh — low and real, enough to make your heart skip.

“I doubt anything could spare me from you,” he murmured, amusement in his tone.

You beamed, unbothered. “And yet here you are, surviving me another day.”

The sun was soft through the curtains as you steered him through the halls, careful of every bump and corner. 

You had long since learned which boards creaked, which shadows shifted. Kreacher was nowhere to be seen — though you suspected the old elf knew far more than he let on. You had no doubt he would turn a blind eye to this latest outing.

By the time you reached the front door, the air was fresh and cool, a light breeze fluttering the edges of your dress as you helped Regulus into the street. He tilted his head back slightly, dark hair catching the light, the faintest hint of a smile still playing at his lips.

“What’s your favourite color, Y/N?” he asked suddenly, voice soft as you wheeled him along the quiet pavement.

You blinked, surprised — then laughed again. “That’s like asking me to pick a favourite child. It’s impossible.”

“You don’t even have children,” he said, dry as ever.

“Well, still!” you grinned. “I love all colors. Always have. How could I ever choose? I mean — there was a time when I loved butter-yellow, then cherry red, then sky-blue. But growing up... this lilac, this soft purple — it’s always been my favourite. Like little violets in spring, you know?”

He watched you, eyes half-lidded, the rhythm of the chair wheels soft beneath the hush of morning.

“But,” you went on, voice quieter now, a small smile curving your mouth, “lately... these past few months, I think... I’ve been liking grey.”

You said it looking straight into his eyes.

He blinked, gaze sharpening faintly. “Grey?”

You nodded, lips quirking. “Mhm.”

“I’ve never even seen you wear grey,” he said. “How could someone as... bright as you —” a small huff of breath, almost fond — “love grey?”

You laughed softly, wheeling him gently across the cobbled path.

“Oh, but I do!” you insisted. “Not just any grey, mind — there’s a very particular shade. Not too pale, not too dark — like the sky right before a storm, or the soft stone of old buildings. I haven’t found it anywhere — not in dresses, not in scarves, not even in ribbons. If I could find it, I’d wear it every day.”

Regulus gave a quiet sound — somewhere between a breath and a laugh. “So... is it lilac, or grey? Pick one.”

You grinned wide, leaning in as you pushed the chair a little faster, the breeze catching your hair. “I want to say grey — but only that one perfect shade. And since I can’t seem to find it, lilac will have to remain my favourite, for now.”

He shook his head faintly, lips curving. “You’re such an odd woman.”

You beamed. “I take that as a compliment.”

You laughed softly as you wheeled him down the quiet side street. The familiar sound of the chair’s wheels hummed beneath your hands, smooth now after weeks of use — your steps light, excitement bright in your chest.

Ahead, just a few turns away, was the hidden place you’d been so eager to show him. 

A secret garden, tucked between buildings, wrapped in ivy and shade, where wildflowers grew untamed and forgotten. You’d been saving it for just the right day — and today felt like the day.

The air was soft, summer-sweet, and you could feel him more at ease than usual, shoulders less tense, hands relaxed on the arms of the chair.

And then — with the ease of long habit — you began talking again, filling the silence with your usual stream of chatter.

“What about you, Regulus?” you asked, leaning forward a little, voice bright. “What’s your favourite colour?”

You felt the faintest pause — the way his breath caught, surprised by the question. His eyes flicked sideways, considering —

But before he could speak, you were already laughing, leaning in closer. “Oh wait! — wait, I know! I know what your favourite colour is!”

The wheels bumped slightly over the uneven stones as your excitement got the better of you — the chair jolting a little too fast.

Regulus gave a low, amused laugh, steadying himself. “Careful,” he said, shaking his head.

“Sorry — sorry! But I do know,” you insisted, eyes sparkling. “Just let me guess!”

He tilted his head, faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Go on, then,” he said. “Guess.”

You took a dramatic breath, grinning. “Well — it can’t be red. That’s far too bold. And definitely not yellow or orange — too loud, too bright, not at all your style. And blue, maybe? But not light blue. Not sky blue, no. Too soft. Not pink, though secretly I think you quite liked my flower dress the other day — admit it.”

Another soft laugh from him, a sound that made your heart flutter, pleased beyond reason.

“And black,” you continued. “Well, that would be far too obvious. No, no. I am absolutely certain it’s dark green. A deep green — like the old forest trees, the kind that grow where no one walks anymore.”

The smile that touched his lips now was genuine, his eyes glinting faintly beneath the long lashes.

“You’re right,” he said simply, voice warm.

Your breath caught in delight. “Really? Really, Regulus? I guessed it?”

He nodded once. “You did.”

You beamed, leaning into the chair a little as you steered it gently towards the narrow turn ahead. “Well, I am rather good at reading people, if I may say so myself.”

“I’ve noticed,” he murmured, tone quiet but tinged with amusement.

You laughed again, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you navigated the small archway between the crumbling stone. The path narrowed now — hedges tall and thick on either side, the entrance to the secret garden just beyond.

“And here we are,” you said softly, guiding the chair with care between the branches, easing him into the quiet space.

The garden opened before you — wild and lovely, full of tangled vines and riotous blooms, the air rich with the scent of lavender and jasmine. 

“See?” you whispered, stepping beside him now. “I told you you’d be seeing bright colours today.”

For a long moment, he said nothing — simply looked around, taking in the quiet beauty of the place.

And then, to your quiet joy, he laughed. Low, full, unguarded.

Around you, the flowers seemed almost to hum with colour — great swaths of gold and violet, soft blush pinks tangled with deep indigo, tall foxgloves swaying like bells in the breeze. 

You chattered on, light and happy, hands warm and steady on the handles of the chair as you guided him forward.

Regulus listened — or rather, he listened to you — more than the words themselves. The sound of your voice — bright, unafraid, endlessly alive — was a curious thing. Like water trickling over stone. Soft, but persistent. Impossible to ignore.

He should have been irritated. Or tired. Or simply indifferent — as he had been when you first arrived at Grimmauld Place, trailing colour and noise through darkened halls. But now, two months later, he found himself watching you instead.

You bent forward slightly, gesturing to a burst of yellow marigolds just ahead.

“Marigolds!” you said cheerfully. “Do you know what they mean? Grief. Can you believe it? Such a bright flower, carrying such a heavy thing.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, eyes sparkling, the corners crinkling with warmth.

"Now these here," you said, leaning slightly to gesture at a row of bright orange calendulas, "these are for warmth and gratitude. I think they look like little suns, don't they? All cheerful and round."

Regulus made a faint sound in reply, something between a hum and an exhale.

"And those are peonies," you went on happily, pointing further ahead. "For romance and prosperity. They're a favourite at weddings, you know. Though honestly, I always thought they were too fussy for my taste."

You kept talking as you wheeled him down the winding path. The gravel crunched softly under the chair. 

"Forget-me-nots there," you said, lifting your hand toward a low bed of tiny blue flowers. "For remembrance, of course. So simple and so sad, aren't they?"

You glanced back at him, as though expecting an answer.

Regulus met your eyes for a moment, then said quietly, "You know a great deal about flowers."

You beamed at that. "Oh, I do. I read about them all the time. Not just what they are, but what they mean. Isn't it wonderful how something so small can hold so much meaning? It's like... every little petal has a story."

His gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable, though softer than it might have been weeks ago.

"And these here are lilies," you continued, voice light. "For purity, of course. Though personally I think they’re a bit too solemn. A bit too funereal."

You wheeled him along further, slowing a little as you reached a patch of tall snapdragons.

"Now these," you said, voice warming, "mean both deception and graciousness. Odd pairing, isn't it? I suppose it depends on the colour. And over there, violets for devotion. I love violets."

You leaned to adjust his shawl lightly where it had slipped, hands gentle at his shoulders.

He let you. Weeks ago, he would not have. Now, he seemed almost used to your fussing.

"And here," you went on, pointing at a tangled bed of wildflowers, "is larkspur for lightness and levity. Oh, I do love flowers. They always make me think of music, somehow."

Regulus tilted his head slightly. "Music?"

You grinned. "Yes. Like notes on a page. All the different colours and meanings, blending together. Isn't that silly?"

His mouth curved faintly again. "Perhaps."

You smiled and kept wheeling him further into the garden, until you reached a wider, sunlit space where flowers burst in every direction.

The hidden garden stretched before you, bursting with colour — beds of wildflowers, patches of thick roses, tiny white bells of lily of the valley. 

Regulus was unusually quiet, gaze drifting from the flowers to you, watching the easy way you moved through the space. It had been more than a month now, yet some part of him still found it strange, this bright, maddening girl who somehow never gave up.

"So," you said as you wheeled him slowly into the wider clearing, "since you’ve been subjected to my endless flower lectures today, it’s only fair that I ask — which of these do you like the most?"

Regulus blinked, as if surprised. "I… do not know," he said after a pause. "I have never thought of such things."

You laughed at that, leaning down to adjust the edge of his shawl again. "Well, think now. You must have some opinion, surely. Go on, pick."

He gave a quiet breath, gaze sweeping slowly over the riot of blooms. Then, after a moment, he tilted his head slightly toward a cluster of tall white flowers blooming near the garden’s edge.

You followed his gaze, eyes lighting.

"Oh, the chrysanthemums," you said brightly, voice lifting. "Oh, they are so pretty, aren’t they? I love them. Especially the white ones, they’re so elegant, so pure."

You leaned down a little more, wheeling him carefully closer.

"Though—" you added, with a little thoughtful hum, "white chrysanthemums… well, they do mean farewell. Or leaving someone. In many places, they’re used at funerals. Quite sad, isn’t it? Such a beautiful flower to mean something so heavy. Farewell in death, sometimes."

You glanced at him again, watching his expression. His eyes were unreadable, steady on the pale blooms.

"But still," you went on gently, voice softer now, "I do love them. They’re so pretty, even if the meaning is a little sorrowful."

Regulus’s voice came low, almost to himself. "Perhaps that is why I like them."

You blinked, looking at him with a little tilt of your head. Then your smile returned, bright again though a touch more tender now.

"Well," you said, lightening your tone, "no more talk of goodbyes today. We are here for colour and life, not sad meanings."

You patted his shoulder lightly, fingers gentle.

"Come on," you went on. "There’s so much more to see. And I haven’t even started on the roses yet."

And with that, you wheeled him slowly onward, your voice filling the still afternoon air, naming flowers as you went, while Regulus let himself be led. His gaze lingered on the pale chrysanthemums for one moment longer before following after you.

The afternoon meandered on, golden with warmth and soft air. The garden had all but embraced you both now, its winding paths and bursts of colour like a secret shared.

You wheeled him slowly beneath the tangled branches, your voice never quite still. 

You hummed a little under your breath then, glancing toward a patch of soft bluebells, gathering a few with careful fingers. And before long, your hands were busy again, weaving blooms together — stems folding, threads of green curling beneath your touch.

He watched you from the chair, head tilted. "What is it this time?"

"A crown," you replied brightly. "One fit for a prince. And you, my dear Richard Black, are dreadfully in need of a coronation."

"Must we revisit that name?" he groaned. 

"But you wear it so well," you teased, stepping behind him. "Hold still, Your Highness."

"You cannot be serious."

But your fingers were already gentle atop his head, settling the woven crown in place.

"You will cause me endless shame," he muttered, though the faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

You came around to face him, tilting your head. "Nonsense. You look positively regal."

He let out a low laugh then, warm and surprising, the sound of it settling somewhere deep in the afternoon light.

"You are impossible," he said softly.

"And you are far too serious," you answered, grinning wide. "Balance, you see."

And so the hours wove on.

You gathered more flowers still, wheeled him along every hidden turn of the garden, colours bursting at every corner. Conversation drifted light and easy, your voice filling the quiet air.

The sun began its slow descent, casting a honeyed glow through the leaves, when at last you both turned toward home.

And so you returned — back through the winding streets, back to Grimmauld Place.

That evening, long after the lamps were lit and the house had stilled, Regulus slept with an ease that had eluded him for too long, the memory of your laughter and the garden’s soft riot of colour lingering in the shadows of his mind.

The days continued in their quiet rhythm. Each morning brought more light into those old dark halls, more colour, more breath. 

You still cared for him, still coaxed him into those little stolen outings when Walburga was away. And though neither of you said it, there was something softer now in the hours you shared.

The quiet weeks slipped by. And your birthday drew ever closer.

Your birthday neared without much fanfare — you hardly spoke of it, too busy with your endless tasks, your mornings tending to Regulus, your afternoons spent wheeling him into patches of sunlight, your evenings filled with soft chatter and easy silences. 

The rhythm of those weeks had become so familiar now that even Kreacher seemed to move about with less stiffness.

You were in the kitchen late one morning, sleeves rolled to your elbows as you helped Kreacher with a bit of tidying. The old elf, for all his muttering, had grown oddly fond of you. 

You could tell by the way he grumbled less these days, by the quiet ways he shared tiny bits of information that no one else would.

“I still say you should be careful, miss,” Kreacher was saying that morning, voice low. “The mistress may yet notice how often you take him out.”

“I am always careful,” you replied, tying a cloth around a bundle of herbs. “And besides, it makes him happier, doesn’t it? Surely you can see that.”

Kreacher gave a small huff, somewhere between reluctant agreement and resignation.

It was then that the sound of wheels came faintly from the corridor — soft at first, then louder, more steady.

“Y/N?”

You glanced up at once, already smiling, hands brushing the stray bits of herbs from your skirt. You turned quickly toward the voice, finding Regulus in the doorway, dark hair falling into his eyes, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes?” you answered brightly.

He said nothing at first, only sat there watching you with an expression you still could not always read. And then, before you could ask again, he motioned with one hand, the smallest beckoning.

“I’ve left something for you in your room.”

“Oh,” you blinked, surprised. Then without thinking, you set down the bundle of herbs and hurried forward, brushing a hand over his arm lightly as you passed. “Do you need anything? Are you alright?”

Kreacher, still in the corner, caught that moment — the soft urgency in your tone, the way you looked at him — and though he said nothing aloud, a flicker of something unreadable passed through his old eyes. 

A little too much worry for someone meant to be only a caretaker.

Regulus shook his head with a faint smile. “Just go look.”

You bit your lip, curiosity sparking, and turned down the hall toward your small room. Behind you, the soft click of wheels followed steadily.

You pushed open the door and stopped short.

There, laid carefully across your bed, was a dress. Not just any dress — but a beautiful, flowing gown of purest white, soft to the touch and shimmering faintly in the light. The fabric rippled like water, simple yet elegant, the sort of thing you might have only dreamed of wearing.

Your breath caught.

“Oh… oh no,” you said softly, shaking your head as you ran your fingers lightly over the folds of fabric. “Regulus… I can’t possibly…” You turned quickly, finding him in the doorway, watching you with quiet amusement. “This looks expensive. Why would you… why would you get me something like this?”

He arched a brow, ever the picture of dry humour, though his eyes gleamed. “Don’t let it get to you. I’m not doing this for me. I just can’t very well be seen going to a gala with you dressed in yellow stripes again.”

You gasped, swatting lightly in his direction, laughter spilling out. “I did not wear stripes. That was floral.”

“Stripes. Bright enough to blind the room.”

You huffed, smoothing the dress again, still unsure. “What gala?”

Regulus tilted his head slightly, tone maddeningly casual. “There’s an event. I have to attend. You’re my caretaker, obviously you’ll come.”

You turned wide-eyed. “But… you aren’t even allowed to be seen by anyone. Not according to your mother. If she found out—”

“She would not only fire me,” you said with mock-dramatic flair, “but possibly kill me.”

He let out a low laugh, a real one, warm and low in his chest. “Since when has that ever stopped you from sneaking me out?”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed with him, shaking your head. “True. But still, this is different. What if someone really sees us this time?”

“No one will,” he replied, voice a little softer now, gaze steady on yours. “No one will find out. Just… get ready. Tonight.”

You looked down again at the dress, heart skipping in your chest, something warm and unfamiliar flickering in your belly.

“Alright,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “Alright. Tonight.”

The smile that touched his lips then was soft and fleeting — but no less real.

-

Night arrived softly, slipping over Grimmauld Place like silk, quiet and endless. 

You smoothed the white dress over your figure, hands lingering at your waist, fingers trembling ever so slightly with something that felt too complex to name. The fabric was delicate, the way it moved when you turned, the way it caught the faintest light, felt like something out of a dream. It fit you perfectly.

Never had you worn something so fine, so elegant. And never had you looked quite like this.

You had taken the time tonight. A faint blush colored your cheeks, your lashes darkened with careful strokes. Your hair, usually pinned in loose twists or simple braids, had been gathered into an elegant updo. 

For a long moment, you stood still, watching yourself in the mirror.

There was a strange ache in your chest, tender and aching all at once. You had never felt more beautiful, and yet beneath it all was something quieter, something fragile.

It was not vanity. It was not pride. It was the soft hope, the quiet longing, of someone who wished to be seen.

Drawing in a breath, you smoothed your dress once more and opened your door. The house was silent. You stepped out into the dim corridor, each footfall light, your pulse quick beneath your skin.

And there, just beyond your door, was Regulus.

He sat in his chair, dressed in a dark suit of deep charcoal and silver trim. The cut was impeccable, tailored to perfection, the crisp line of his collar brushing against the pale line of his throat. His hair had been combed neatly, a small defiant lock falling over his brow.

For a breathless moment, you could not move.

How had he managed this? You knew better than anyone the effort it took him to stand, to sit for long. The thought alone drew a pang through your ribs, sharp and tender. That he had done this, that he had dressed himself so carefully, sent a rush of something warm through you.

Three months had passed. Somewhere along the way, things had shifted. No longer was he simply your patient. No longer were you simply the girl hired to care for him.

Though you could not name it yet, it was there between you.

And then his gaze met yours.

A smile, soft and genuine, curved his lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice quiet and steady.

Heat rose to your cheeks before you could help it. Your heart fluttered as you laughed and replied without thinking.

“You look even more beautiful, if that is even possible, Richard.”

He let out a warm laugh, softer than you had ever heard from him before.

“Thank you... Madame Lavender.”

You blinked, startled, and gave an exaggerated gasp.

“Madame Lavender? Whatever do you mean by that?”

Regulus leaned his head slightly against the side of the chair, amusement flickering in his pale eyes.

“You are like some old widow obsessed with colors, always rambling about which shade is best. You chatter endlessly. One could go deaf listening to you.”

Your hand flew lightly to your chest in mock offense.

“I will have you know, I thought I looked rather striking tonight in this dress,” you replied, trying not to smile.

His gaze softened.

“You do,” he said quietly. “You do, Y/N.”

Your heart gave a small stutter. It was not the words alone, but the way he said them. No teasing this time, no dry humor. 

Your breath caught, and you found yourself smiling too brightly. You shifted behind him, resting your hands gently on the handles of his chair.

“Well then,” you said, voice light though your heart thudded in your chest, “we ought not to keep this grand mysterious event waiting. Who knows what excitement lies ahead?”

Regulus glanced back at you, an almost playful glimmer in his eye.

“I must say, I had my doubts whether you would show at all. You took long enough getting ready.”

You laughed softly as you began to wheel him forward.

“And leave you alone on such an occasion? Never. I am your caretaker, after all. It would not be proper to abandon you.”

The words rang too true, their meaning stretching beyond what either of you acknowledged aloud.

You rolled him down the hall, your heart lifting with each turn of the wheels. Something unspoken hung between you now, light and fragile, a thread newly spun.

The evening air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of the city’s night blooms. You wheeled Regulus carefully down the steps, where the sleek black car awaited them. It gleamed beneath the lamplight, the polished door already opened by one of the driver’s assistants.

A pair of sharply dressed wizards waited by the car, their posture stiff and formal, wands at the ready. Everything about this seemed too grand, too polished. You blinked, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Regulus tilted his head toward you.

“Come on, Madame Lavender. In we go.”

You laughed softly. “Still with the nickname, I see.”

He smirked faintly. “You earned it.”

The driver approached, offering his arm, but you shook your head politely, expertly maneuvering the chair. The whole thing had become second nature by now. It felt strange to think that only a few months ago you had fumbled clumsily at every little turn.

With a bit of coordination and Regulus’ quiet patience, you helped him into the car, folding the chair swiftly and settling beside him. The door shut with a soft thud, and the car pulled away, gliding smoothly through the narrow, twisting streets.

You glanced over at him. 

He looked... different tonight. Not just in the perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark hair was combed neatly, but in the small signs — the way his gaze flicked from window to window, the tightness in his jaw.

“Regulus?” you asked softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer at first, eyes scanning the passing shadows outside.

You leaned a little closer, worry creeping into your voice.

“If you’re not feeling well, we can go back, you know. Truly. I won’t mind at all. In fact, I will happily march us right back home. Just say the word.”

At that, he turned his head toward you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No, no. We are going,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry so much.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, but his smile reassured you for now.

The car slowed and turned, and soon the great manor came into view — a sprawling estate, lit with golden chandeliers and glowing orbs of magic suspended high above the gardens. 

The grand steps glittered with enchanted garlands, the air buzzing with soft music and distant voices.

“Well,” you breathed, wide-eyed. “This is certainly... something.”

You helped him from the car, adjusting his suit jacket slightly as you unfolded the chair once more. Carefully, you wheeled him up the long path toward the entrance.

And then something caught your eye.

You leaned in a little, blinking.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, voice laced with amusement. “Is that... oh, Regulus.”

He gave you a quizzical look. “What is it now?”

You tried to hold in your laughter, failing entirely as you gently tugged the back of his collar.

“You left the tag on your suit,” you giggled. “Right at your neck. Look.”

Regulus gave an exasperated sigh, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement.

“Do you happen to have any scissors packed in that fancy little emergency bag of yours?” you asked playfully, patting the side pouch under his chair.

He gave you a look, arching one brow.

“I do not know, Madame Lavender,” he replied dryly. “Believe it or not, I rarely pack it myself these days.” He glanced pointedly at his legs, motioning vaguely with one hand.

You huffed, pretending to be offended.

“Honestly. Impossible. You are impossible.”

Regulus gave a small shrug, clearly unbothered.

You glanced around, then leaned in close to inspect the tag again, lips pursed in thought.

“Well,” you declared, grinning. “Hold still.”

Before he could protest, you leaned down, far closer than propriety would suggest, and carefully caught the tag between your teeth. 

The moment was absurd — you, bent over in your white dress, nearly nose to nose with him, teeth tugging at the little scrap of fabric.

Regulus went utterly still, breath caught somewhere between surprise and mortification. His cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink, pale skin betraying every flicker of emotion.

You gave a sharp little tug, the tag coming free with a soft rip.

“Got it,” you beamed triumphantly, straightening and holding up the offending scrap.

“Good thing it wasn’t stuck in your trousers,” you teased, grinning wickedly.

Regulus, still visibly flustered, mumbled beneath his breath, “I wish it was.”

You gasped, scandalized, and swatted his shoulder lightly.

“Richard Black,” you exclaimed loudly, hands on your hips. “I cannot believe you just said that!”

He gave a low laugh, eyes gleaming with amusement despite the faint blush still warming his cheeks.

“You started it, Madame Lavender,” he said innocently.

Shaking your head with a fond smile, you leaned down and whispered, “Come now, let us get you inside before you cause more of a scene.”

And with that, you began wheeling him up the steps, the two of you laughing softly, the grand doors of the manor opening before you into the bright, gilded night.

The hall was a blur of gold and velvet, of laughter that echoed too loudly against the grand stone walls. You moved among them, wheeling Regulus through the currents of the crowd, but his silence grew heavier with each passing step. He was looking left, then right, too often, too sharply, eyes flicking like a trapped thing.

You slowed, frowning, feeling the tight coil of worry beginning to wind through your chest. And then you heard it — the catch in his breath, shallow and uneven, and the faintest wince crossing his face like a shadow.

Without hesitation, you turned the chair, gliding swiftly through the throng. Past glittering witches in gowns of emerald and sapphire, past wizards with jeweled walking sticks and cold eyes. You found a secluded alcove behind a heavy velvet curtain, hidden from sight.

There, at last, you stopped, heart pounding.

You crouched down in front of him in one fluid movement, eyes scanning his pale face. His breathing was sharper now, lips drawn tight, shoulders held stiff in their fine suit.

"Regulus," you whispered, voice already trembling.  “Look at me."

When he did not answer, something in you broke a little. You reached for him, cupping his face gently between your palms, forcing his gaze to meet yours. His skin felt too cold, far too cold, beneath your fingertips.

"Regulus," you said again, more desperate now. "Please. Tell me what is hurting. What can I do? Just tell me. Please do not shut me out, not now."

His throat worked, as if swallowing back both pain and pride. His lips parted at last, breath ragged.

"It is only my back," he rasped softly, barely more than a breath. "The scars."

And with those two words, understanding seared through you.

The months you had spent at his side had taught you much, though he had never once spoken of the wounds. But you had seen them. You had touched them in silence when helping him dress, your fingers tracing the ragged lines carved across his back, scars that spoke of cruelty too deep for words. 

They were not simple marks, but the remnants of violence, of something that should never have happened.

And sometimes, as you had learned, they would flare without warning. The damaged nerves would awaken, sending rivers of pain through him until it was all he could do to bear it. There were nights you had knelt at his side, unable to ease it, your own heart breaking as he trembled, silent and alone in his suffering.

And now it was happening again, here, in this glittering place of wealth and power.

You exhaled shakily, fighting the wave of helplessness rising in you.

"That is it," you whispered fiercely. "We are going home. Now. This is not worth it. Nothing is."

You moved to rise, to turn the chair. But before you could, his hand reached out, fingers catching yours. The touch was weak but determined.

"No," he said, voice hoarse but certain. "We are not leaving."

Your heart twisted. You turned back to him, still holding his hand.

"Regulus," you pleaded, eyes burning. "Please. You are in pain. I can see it. Do not do this to yourself. Please, we can go. Say the word and I will take you home right now."

He shook his head faintly, breath uneven.

"I cannot leave. Not yet," he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. "I must... stay. Just a little longer."

You stared at him, grief welling in your chest. The strength it must have taken for him to be here at all, dressed in his fine suit, sitting beneath this chandelier of stars. And now, even as pain lanced through him, he refused to turn away.

Whatever reason he had, it mattered to him. You saw that clearly now.

Your voice softened, thick with emotion.

"Then I am not leaving your side," you whispered. "I will stay here with you. But you must promise me... if it worsens, if you cannot bear it, you will tell me. Do not keep it from me, Regulus. Please."

For a moment, his eyes, weary but grateful, held yours. Then the smallest of nods.

You let out a breath you did not know you had been holding. Your fingers brushed his hair back from his damp brow, a tender, lingering touch.

Then you lowered yourself again to your place beside him, kneeling quietly by the side of his chair, hand resting lightly atop his.

And in that small corner of velvet shadows, as the music of the grand hall carried on beyond the curtain, you stayed. Saying nothing, simply holding space for him, as you had learned to do.

For as long as he needed.

You stayed like that for a long while, your head resting gently on his lap, fingers smoothing back the soft, dark strands of his hair. His careful styling from earlier had long since come undone beneath your touch, but Regulus did not seem to mind. If anything, he looked more at peace than he had all night.

You traced the slope of his temple lightly, gaze lingering on the soft curve of his lashes, the faint color returning to his face. 

The noises of the gala felt distant here in this quiet little corner, and though you had arrived with such nerves, now— in this moment— you did not want to move at all.

The thought came unbidden: he was not a patient to you anymore. Not really. Three months had done something to your heart that you had no words for.

And then— sharp footsteps clicked against the floor.

A voice, clipped and sharp with suspicion:

"Excuse me? Who are you both?"

You startled upright, cheeks coloring with warmth as you quickly composed yourself. A tall young wizard stood there now, dressed in crisp black and green, clearly a steward or waiter for the evening. His narrowed eyes swept over the two of you, brows lifting.

"This is a private event," he continued, voice stiff. "Names, please?"

You opened your mouth at once to answer, polite instinct kicking in.

"I’m—"

But before you could finish, Regulus cut smoothly across you, adopting the most absurd, theatrical French accent you had ever heard in your life. His pale eyes glinted with mischief.

"Ah, oui, monsieur. My name is Ben Dover," he announced grandly, with a small, sweeping gesture of his hand.

Your eyes widened. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. 

Oh for Merlin’s sake.

The steward blinked, pen poised. "Ben Dover... and?" His gaze flicked to you again, expectant.

Without missing a beat, Regulus gestured lazily to you.

"This is my most delightful companion for the evening, Miss May Butreeks."

That nearly broke you. You had to press your lips together, stifling the laugh that bubbled up. You were going to kill him. Absolutely murder him.

The steward frowned, pen hovering. "Butreeks?"

Regulus gave a patient nod, slipping deeper into the accent.

"Ah, oui. It is Polish, sir."

You nearly lost it entirely.

The steward looked suspicious now. "And your invitations?"

Oh Merlin, you cursed inwardly, heart jumping. 

You could not believe he had brought you here— here of all places— without a blasted invitation. And worse, you had just trusted him, waltzed after him like some idiot.

Before you could stammer a word, Regulus answered smoothly again, still perfectly composed.

"Ah, we arrived with our gentleman— he had the invitations. You may locate him inside."

The steward narrowed his gaze. "And the name of this gentleman?"

Regulus tilted his head, looking entirely unbothered.

"Hugh Jass," he said softly, fingers steepled. "I am certain you will spot him. He is, how do you say... quite hard to miss."

That did it. A snort escaped you, and you had to turn your face slightly, shoulders trembling as you tried not to burst into full laughter.

The steward frowned darkly now, scribbling notes. "Hugh Jass... hmm. I will be speaking with him. Enjoy your evening... Mr. Dover. Miss Butreeks."

He gave them one last suspicious look and strode away down the corridor.

The second he was out of earshot, you finally gave in, dissolving into helpless laughter as you bent over Regulus’s chair, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Regulus Black— you absolute menace," you gasped through giggles, breathless. "Ben Dover? May Butreeks? Hugh Jass? We are going to get thrown out—"

Regulus looked smug beyond belief, a soft chuckle escaping him, the exhaustion in his face eased for the first time that night.

"You were about to tell him your real name," he pointed out, voice low, still tinged with the ridiculous accent.

You swatted his shoulder, still laughing. "Because we are not supposed to be here! You dragged me to some secret elite wizard gala without an invitation, and now we are about to be chased down by a man searching for Hugh bloody Jass!"

He tilted his head, utterly unrepentant. "You trust me, do you not?"

You shook your head, still laughing, heart racing, cheeks flushed. Merlin help you, but you did.

With a breathless smile, you wiped the tears from your eyes, leaning close.

"Come on then, Monsieur Dover," you murmured. "Before your Polish friend gets us arrested."

And so, with laughter still trembling on your lips, you wheeled him back out into the glittering crowd — lighter somehow, even in this strange place you clearly did not belong. And Regulus, for all his stubbornness, looked far more alive now than he had at any point that night.

Regulus, to your surprise, was far from tense now. In fact, a mischievous gleam had returned to his eyes, sharp and knowing as he surveyed the crowd from beneath his lashes.

And then— leaning in ever so slightly— he began to murmur.

"See that one over there?" he said softly, nodding toward a severe-looking witch draped in emeralds. "Third cousin to the Rosiers. Drinks nothing but thistle wine and once hexed her own husband for snoring too loud."

You let out a soft laugh, steering him carefully through the throng.

"And that wizard in the plum robes by the fountain?" Regulus continued, eyes glinting. "Gambled away his entire family vault in one night. Rumour has it his wand is now held by the goblins."

You laughed again, unable to stop smiling. He kept going— low, dry commentary whispered only for you, half-amused and half-biting. The grand, imposing faces in the crowd suddenly seemed ridiculous, no more than flawed, foolish people with stories and secrets.

And though you had never imagined you would belong in a place like this, silk and gold and ancient names,  the warmth of Regulus’s voice beside you made the entire evening feel somehow less daunting.

You glanced at him often as the hours passed. He was laughing more than you had ever seen, eyes brighter, shoulders no longer tight with strain. 

You had cared for him for three months now, watched him on his worst days, when pain left him trembling and withdrawn— and yet here he was, alive with quiet delight.

It was not a side of him many ever saw.

At one point, as the orchestra swelled and couples took to the marble floor in slow, sweeping dance, you leaned toward him, a teasing smile on your lips.

"You know... we could dance," you said lightly, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. "You did promise to let me dance with you one day."

He gave you a look, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.

"You are relentless," he muttered under his breath. "You know I cannot—"

But you had already moved.

With a soft laugh, you wheeled him carefully into an open space on the edge of the floor, turning his chair so that you stood before him. With a little curtsy, you extended your hand, eyes dancing.

"Then I will do the dancing for both of us."

Regulus sighed, long-suffering, though there was no true annoyance in it. His lips twitched.

"You are impossible," he murmured.

"That is why you like me so much," you answered cheekily, taking one of his hands. The other rested lightly on your waist as you began to sway, the soft strains of the waltz filling the air.

And so you danced— moving gently, laughing together, the strange little pair of you amidst the glittering crowd.

For the rest of the night, Regulus remained your quiet narrator, pointing out familiar faces, whispering scandalous bits of gossip, making you laugh until your cheeks ached. 

And you— well, you could not quite believe how bright and open his smile had become.

It was a night you would not forget. Not for the opulence or the grandeur of it— but because it was the first time you had seen him like this. So alive. So unguarded.

The hours slipped by unnoticed.

At last, as the evening waned and the great hall began to empty, you wheeled Regulus carefully back out beneath the star-filled sky. The car was waiting for you, as before.

In the quiet hum of the ride home, neither of you spoke much. He looked out the window, thoughtful, a faint trace of that smile still lingering on his lips.

You sat beside him, heart warm and full, fingers still tingling from where they had touched his.

And so the night ended, the car drawing up once more outside the dark façade of Grimmauld Place.

You helped him inside gently, carefully, though he seemed far lighter than he had been just hours before.

The door of Grimmauld Place closed softly behind you, the great weight of its frame settling the night in its bones. You had only just begun to slip out of your shoes when you heard his voice, quiet but insistent.

“Go to your room.”

You blinked, turning toward him where he sat in the entranceway, eyes bright, faint color still in his cheeks from the laughter of the night.

“Why?” you asked, half laughing. “Regulus, I—”

He tilted his head, expression unreadable, though a hint of something glimmered there— almost mischievous.

“Just do it,” he said simply. “Go.”

Still a little breathless from the evening, you obeyed, unable to hide your grin. You padded softly down the familiar hallways, your dress trailing over old wooden floors, the faint notes of the party still echoing somewhere in your mind.

As you reached for the doorknob of your room, you heard the soft hum of wheels following behind. You turned just in time to see him, hands resting lightly on the armrests, watching you with that same quiet intensity.

You opened the door.

And your breath left you.

There, in the center of the room, beneath the warm glow of the lamp, stood a piano. 

But not just any piano. It was grand and elegant, its surface a shade of lilac so soft it looked as though it had been plucked from a dream. The polished wood gleamed with a muted sheen, delicate and bright against the tired old walls of Grimmauld.

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide.

“Regulus,” you breathed, unable to form more than his name.

He wheeled forward a little, his gaze gentle now.

“Happy birthday, soleil.” he said softly.

You turned to him, voice catching.

“Oh my god, Regulus. Why would you do this? How... how did you even... You brought this here? This piano? It is beautiful. I have never seen anything like it. In this house of all places. And... a lilac piano? Here? Who even thinks to do something like this?”

You stepped closer, fingers trembling as you brushed them along the smooth keys, your voice rising in disbelief.

“I must be the only guest who has ever wanted to sit and play something like this in Grimmauld Place. Merlin, the portraits would curse me if they knew. Honestly, this is the last thing anyone would expect to find here. I cannot believe you thought of this. It is... it is perfect. But how? Why?”

Regulus laughed softly, the sound low and warm. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction.

“It is not just for this room,” he said. “And not for you to use while you are here.”

You stilled, blinking back at him, your breath caught in your throat.

“It is yours,” he continued. “It is my gift to you. If one day you choose to leave this job, then the piano goes with you. Wherever you go, it is yours, Y/N.”

You felt your heart swell painfully in your chest. The words sank deep, filling you with something bright and overwhelming.

Without thinking, you rushed toward him, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him close as a rush of laughter and tears spilled out.

“Oh my god. Regulus. Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means. I cannot believe it. I do not know what to say. No one has ever done something like this for me. It is more than perfect. It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me!”

You pulled back slightly, only to turn again toward the piano, eyes shining.

“It is so beautiful. I cannot stop looking at it. Lilac. Who even chooses lilac? It is perfect. You thought of everything. I... Oh. I love it so much! I cannot believe you did this. You are insane! How did you even get it here? Did Kreacher have to help you? Or did you summon an entire team of house elves? You would, wouldn’t you? And now it is mine. You are serious? Mine?”

He smiled, voice soft.

“Yes. It is yours. Entirely.”

Another breathless laugh bubbled from you as you turned back to him, hugging him once more, holding him tightly.

“I cannot thank you enough. I truly cannot. I am going to play this every day. All the time. You will regret it when the house is filled with music. I am warning you now.”

Regulus only laughed again, though softer this time, his gaze fixed on you with something deeper.

He watched you as you darted between the piano and him, as your fingers danced over the keys, as you whispered again and again how beautiful it was.

He could not look away.

Because in this moment, watching you like this, bathed in soft lamplight, dressed still in your white gown, cheeks flushed with joy, he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He could not look away.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your quick steps and the soft hum of your voice as you circled the piano in wonder. The lamplight washed over you in delicate gold, catching on the loose strands of your hair, illuminating the satin gleam of your gown. 

You stood in the midst of the old house as though you had stepped from another world entirely, something luminous and alive, untouched by the shadows clinging to these walls.

And for Regulus, seated where he always was, silent and still in the chair that had become both prison and companion, it was as if the very air had shifted.

In the depths of his chest, something long forgotten stirred. His gaze, so often dull with exhaustion or dulled further by the sharp spike of pain, now burned with a heat he could neither understand nor temper. 

Every line of you, from the sweep of your shoulders to the tremor in your voice as you laughed through your disbelief, etched itself into him.

You were joy. You were warmth. And you were standing in a house that had known neither for longer than he could remember.

If this, he thought, if this was what it meant to see you happy, if this was the cost of such a light — then let him pay it a thousand times over. He would drain every vault in Gringotts. He would tear apart the Black family name, reduce its cold fortune to ash and cinder if it meant buying you even one more moment of this joy.

For a man who was unable to feel his body, who had lost everything he had ever given this world, it was unbearable to feel this much. He had not let himself want in years. Not after that night, not after the spellwork meant to kill had instead stolen the life from his limbs, leaving him scarred and silent and bitter in a house of stone. Hope had become something cruel to him, something thin and sharp-edged, a blade that cut deeper each time he reached for it.

But now.

Now his heart pounded wildly in his ribs, a deafening rush in his ears. His skin tingled with a thousand phantom sensations, nerves lighting beneath his scars in a way they had not in so long. His throat had closed, aching with the weight of words he would never say.

Because all he wanted, more than breath itself, was to stand.

He wanted to rise from this chair. He wanted to cross the room with steady steps. He wanted to take you in his arms, to pull you against him, to feel the softness of your hair against his cheek, to hold you until this ache subsided.

He wanted to watch you twirl in that white gown, laugh with abandon, place your hands lovingly over the lilac keys. He wanted to touch your cheek, so flushed with joy. He wanted to whisper your name like a vow.

But he could not.

And that longing, sharp and unrelenting, ached deeper than any wound his body had suffered. It was a pain greater than the slashes that marred his skin. Greater than the ruined nerves that stole his movement. Greater than the cold weight of his own house pressing on his chest each morning.

Because you had brought him something that terrified him more than any curse. 

So he remained where he was, unmoving, his gaze fixed on you with a hunger he could barely conceal. He memorized every tilt of your head, every bright flicker of your eyes, every small, breathless laugh that escaped your lips.

If nothing else, he would keep this image in his mind. He would press it into the deepest part of him, to return to on the darker nights. The sight of you, flushed and laughing, your voice ringing through a house built for silence.

The girl who had brought music, and light, and laughter into the coldest halls of Grimmauld Place.

And behind you, the lilac piano gleamed softly in the low light, its color delicate and strange against the ancient, grey-stained walls. It stood out like a bloom of spring in the heart of a winter that had lasted too long.

It was the brightest thing this house had seen in years, light spilled where shadows had long since settled, life breathed into stone and dust. And to Regulus, you were brighter still, an unbearable, impossible radiance, a warmth he could neither flee from nor bear to lose, the only color in a world he had thought forever drained.

Behind you, he watches, unable to look away.

"Y/n?"

You turn your head, all light and warmth. "Yes?"

His voice catches slightly in his throat but he manages it. "Will you play something for me?"

Your entire face lights up again, wide-eyed and eager, as though he has given you yet another gift simply by asking. 

"Oh my god, of course I will," you say, bouncing in your seat. "Of course, Regulus, anything. What should I— wait, no, I already know what I want. This song— you’ll love this song— I promise."

You turn back, hands poised. He wheels himself a little closer, quiet, placing himself just behind you, angled so he can see your face as you play.

[play bel air by lana del rey here]

And then you begin.

The first notes unfurl into the air, soft and shimmering, and then your voice follows. Low and silken at first, rich with something soft and secret.

 Gargoyles standing at the front of your gate Trying to tell me to wait, but I can't wait to see you So I run like I'm mad to heaven's door I don't wanna be bad, I won't cheat you no more

Regulus forgets to breathe.

He is caught, utterly and helplessly caught. Every note, every breath of yours draws him further in. He has never heard this song before. He has never heard anything quite like the way you sing it now, as if the entire world has faded away, leaving only this lilac piano, this room, your voice.

How is it that you do this? That you take a cold place and fill it with color, with life? How is it that you— without knowing— are undoing every careful piece of him?

You shift slightly as you play, your white dress rippling around your legs, a loose curl falling against your cheek. Your eyes half-close with the music, lost to it, smiling softly to yourself as though you are somewhere far away.

He watches, rapt.

 Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Palm trees in the light, I can see, late at night Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

His mind drifts, tangled with memories too sharp to bear, shadows stitched deep into the fabric of his skin. Yet those memories dull beside the vibrant pulse of life you bring into this room. You are light—radiant, unpredictable, alive—like the first bloom after a long, cruel winter.

Spotlight, bad baby, you've got a flair For the violentest kind of love anywhere out there Mon amour, sweet child of mine, you're divine Didn't anyone ever tell you it's okay to shine?

There is a stillness in him, a breath held between two worlds. His body aches—not just from scars and old wounds—but from the weight of a yearning so deep it feels as though it might drown him in silence.

He wants to reach out, to brush a stray curl from your face, to tell you all the ways your song threads its way through the broken places inside him. But words falter in his throat, and the only thing he can do is hold himself back, tethered by flesh that will not obey, and by a pride worn like armor too heavy to shed.

Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Palm trees in the light, I can see, late at night Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

There is an ache there that is deeper than pain and softer than hope. It is the ache of witnessing something beautiful that you fear you do not deserve to have.

He knows he has not deserved it—for years, he told himself that feeling was a luxury, one he had no right to claim. But now, watching you play, everything shifts.

This moment is a fragile rebellion against all the years he taught himself to shut down, to survive in silence.

And even if he cannot stand, even if the scars beneath his skin scream in quiet agony, he is captivated—utterly, irrevocably captivated—by the brilliance of you, by the warmth you spill into the cold corners of his world.

Don't be afraid of me Don't be ashamed Walk in the way of my soft resurrection Idol of roses, iconic soul I know your name Lead me to war with your brilliant direction

If he could give you the world, he would. If he could make a life for you outside these cursed walls, he would spend the very last of himself to see you free, to see you shine like this always.

And if he could, gods, if he only could, he would stand. He would walk to you. He would take your hands in his and tell you that you have changed him in ways no magic ever could.

Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Grenadine, sunshine—can you break this heart of mine? Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

The last notes linger in the air, soft and trembling, like a held breath, like a question.

And still he watches you. His pulse slow and heavy in his throat, something unspoken caught in his chest.

He will remember this night forever.

Not for the gift, not for the house’s bright new piece of color.

But for you. For the way you looked under lamplight, framed by music and wonder, unaware that in a room of shadows, you were his only light.

And so, Regulus Black knew only one thing with absolute certainty.

You had undone him completely.

[gdinthehouseee]

Born To Die (CHAPTER 1): KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: your first meeting with the man himself. or at least, you think it's your first…

word count: 5238

tags: slow burn, mystery, gothic and creepy masquerade, vampire!jiyong, human!reader

series masterlist ⛥ next chapter

“It’s got someone else’s name on, I can’t just waltz in there and pretend to be someone I’m not…”

“Who cares? You’ll have a mask on, you’ll be fine.” 

“And what happens when I get mistaken for the person on the invite?” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

That is how you ended up in a stuffy dress, a delicate mask to match, and shoes you can barely walk in. Standing in front of a manor that doesn’t even exist on your phone’s map, gripping the invitation—registered to a name that you or your colleagues didn’t recognise—like it was your only lifeline, desperately trying to hide your nervousness.

Just the other day, a sealed envelope appeared in your letterbox. It's made of heavy black paper, embossed in gold with a single name that didn’t belong to you. No sender. No return address. No one at your agency knows the name on it. No one’s ever heard of the event, the venue, or the host.

But your boss told you to go.

“Maybe it’s a cult,” he joked. “Maybe it’s your big break.”

You didn’t think it was funny. But you go. Because what if it is something? What if this is the one story that finally gets your name out there? You're the youngest reporter at a mid-tier news agency, constantly dismissed, stuck proofreading real journalists' work while you’re told to write, at worst, about petty crime stories that have a straightforward, linear narrative. If you have to write about one more failed burglary, you might rip your hair out. Or quit. Who knows? 

The manor looms like something out of a painting: tall and wide, lit from within by an amber glow that spills out across the courtyard in soft, flickering streaks. The walls are ivy-clad stone, older than anything should be, and the iron gates open for you as though they’ve been waiting. At the door, a man in a dark suit and gloves takes your invitation. He doesn’t ask for your name. Just runs his eyes over the envelope’s seal, nods once, and gestures for you to enter.

You’re inside.

It hits you all at once—the sound, the heat, the weight of the air. Everything is velvet and gold, candlelight and shadow. The ballroom stretches impossibly wide, with ceilings so high they vanish into darkness. Chandeliers drip crystals like frozen rain. Soft music drifts through the space, the kind of melody that doesn’t seem to come from a band or a speaker. It just is, as though the house itself is humming.

The guests are beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl. Tall and graceful, dressed in intricate silks, brocade, and lace. Their masks shimmer like precious metal, feathered and bejeweled, each one more elaborate than the last. They all turn when you walk in. Not suddenly—not all at once. But you feel it. The shift. Eyes behind masks following your every step, heads tilting slightly, smiles that are just a touch too wide. Like they’ve been expecting you. Like you’ve wandered into something you shouldn’t have. Like you’re the only real thing in the room.

You try to blend in, but it’s impossible. Your mask is too simple. Your posture too stiff. Your pulse too fast.

Someone brushes past you, their perfume rich and strange, like crushed flowers and old paper. Another murmurs something in a language you don’t understand, their gloved hand ghosting across your arm as they pass. You keep walking, pretending not to notice the way they all keep glancing your way—just a little too long. Like they’re not curious, but hungry.

A server offers you a glass of something dark red and thick. You take it to be polite, but your fingers tremble on the stem. The glass is cold. The liquid doesn’t slosh like wine.

Somewhere, laughter rings out—sharp and sudden—and then cuts off like it was never there.

You move further into the room, past swirling dancers and flickering candelabras, past paintings that seem to watch you back. You wonder if anyone else feels it. That wrongness. That tension beneath the glamour, like a thread pulled too tight. You weave deeper into the crowd, careful not to let your discomfort show. Your steps echo faintly against the marble, drowned by the rustle of silk and the low hum of voices. The scent of wax, perfume, and something darker—earthy, metallic—clings to the air.

Everywhere you turn, people are dancing. But not in the carefree, joyful way you’ve seen at galas or society parties. These dancers move in perfect synchrony, gliding as if they’ve rehearsed for years. The music sharpens now, winding and slow, and the dancers shift with it like they’re attached to invisible strings.

You catch the eye of one masked figure on the edge of the floor—tall, elegant, dressed in deep, navy blue. Their mask is carved into the shape of a fanged beast, gold-tipped and gleaming. You look away quickly, but when you glance back, they’re still staring.

Someone bumps into your shoulder, and you turn to apologize—but the woman is already smiling at you.

“You came,” she says softly.

Her mask is a delicate creation, obscuring everything but her mouth. Her lips are painted a deep plum, and her smile is too knowing.

“I… I think there’s been a mistake,” you begin, but she simply tilts her head.

“There are no mistakes here.”

Before you can ask what she means, another guest sweeps by and catches her attention, and she disappears into the crowd without another word. You stare after her, uneasy. Then, from the shadows of a nearby archway, a man chuckles. It's low and rasping, like it scrapes the edges of your spine. “Clever in every lifetime,” he says to no one in particular.

You pretend not to hear.

Further in, you pass a group gathered around a long table set with impossible food—fruits that gleam like polished jewels, meat that steams and bleeds onto gold plates, black cakes decorated with red sugared flowers. You’re offered a bite of something unfamiliar by a gentleman in silver and ivory, his gloves pristine despite the wine staining his glass.

“Taste,” he insists. “You’ll never be the same.”

You shake your head with a polite smile and keep walking, heart pounding faster.

The walls seem to lean closer the longer you stay. The mirrors show angles that shouldn’t exist. Some don’t show your reflection at all. You pass one that does—and for a moment, the figure in the glass is smiling, even though your face is not. You step away quickly. It’s too much. Too strange. More than anything, you’re starting to feel watched. Not just glanced at. Not admired. Observed.

You need air.

You spot a set of glass-paned doors at the far end of the ballroom—tall and heavy, slightly ajar. No one seems to be paying attention to them. Or rather… no one stops you from slipping through.

Cold night air rushes over your skin like a balm the moment you step outside. You exhale for what feels like the first time. The terrace is wide and open, stretched out like a marble balcony above the world. The stone beneath your heels is cold, veined with pale silver that catches the moonlight. Ornate balustrades line the edge, carved with strange, curling shapes that almost seem to move when you don’t look at them directly.

A soft breeze brushes past, cool against your overheated skin. It carries the scent of night-blooming flowers and something older—wet earth, ancient stone, maybe even a trace of smoke. You can still hear the faint thrum of music behind you, but out here, it's muffled, distant, like a memory already slipping away.

The only light comes from the moon, full and low, casting long shadows across the terrace. A few lanterns glow dimly from sconces set into the walls, flickering gold and orange like fireflies trapped in glass. It’s just enough to see the garden stretching out beyond—rows and rows of hedges rising like dark waves in the fog. A maze. Or maybe something older. Something designed to trap. The fog rolls slowly across the grass, swirling between archways and winding paths, cloaking everything past the first few turns. Statues loom within it—half-seen, white and tall, their shapes too strange to name.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a few blissful seconds, it’s just you and the stillness.

“First time?”

You turn.

He stands at the edge, half-shadowed, moonlight pooling over the sleek black of his suit. His mask is elegant and minimal, a sliver of silver curling up one side like a claw or a crescent moon. The lower half of his face is bare—sharp jaw, expressive mouth, the faintest trace of amusement. You’ve never seen him before, but you’re not sure that’s true.

Still, you exhale, trying to shake the weight of the night off your shoulders. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s done it before.”

You give a small laugh, grateful for the moment of normalcy. “So not your first, then?”

“No,” he says, almost too quietly. “I come every century.”

You blink, then grin. “Wow, I must’ve missed you last time. I was here in the 1800s. Wore a lilac corset with white lace. Almost passed out. Fell for a poet who recited something about violets and dusk.”

“Lilac?” He echoes, after a beat. “With white lace?”

You nod, a little unsure now. “Yeah. Weird detail to pull out, right?”

“And the poet?”

You laugh again, nervously this time. “Oh, he was hopeless. Said his name was Ji… something. Ji-hwan? Ji—” You stop, frowning. “No. Not Ji-hwan. That’s not right.”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s not.”

“You know him?”

“You could say that.”

Silence stretches between you and the mystery man, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s weighted, like the air between you is holding its breath.

“Impressive,” he murmurs.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“Most people can’t describe dreams they had last night. Let alone ones from a hundred years ago.”

You tilt your head and scoff out a polite laugh, assuming he’s continuing the sudden improvisation you started out of your jittery nerves. You look away, down toward the garden maze swallowed in fog, something old and electric pressing against your ribs. It feels like standing on the edge of a memory you’re not allowed to access—like if you reached just a little further, you’d find something you lost long, long ago.

“You haven’t eaten anything tonight, have you?” He asks suddenly.

You glance back. “No. Not really hungry.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because the food here is terrible,” he answers with a crooked smile. “Trust me.”

You huff another small laugh, but the tension lingers. You’re not sure if he’s flirting or warning you. Or both. He’s still watching you like you’re made of something fragile and precious and impossible. Like he’s trying to stop time. Like he already knows how this ends. Was that even possible?

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking, “so what else do you do? Aside from… whatever this is?” 

“Cause trouble. Charm strangers.”

“Mm. You’re one for two so far.”

That earns a soft laugh, low and rich. He steps closer, just enough that the edge of his coat brushes your arm. “Tell me what would tip the scale.”

You raise a brow, amused. “That’s bold.”

“You’re on a balcony in the middle of a masquerade hosted by God-knows-who, dressed like a dream and looking like you don’t belong to anyone here. I figured bold was the way to go.”

A laugh slips out before you can catch it. Warm, real. His eyes light up like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

“There it is,” he says, quietly. “I knew you had a good laugh.”

“So you’ve been watching me?”

“Of course I have. You walked in like a secret everyone wanted to keep.”

Your smile falters for just a second—the way he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s known you longer than this single conversation allows. He tilts his head, catching the flicker in your eyes.

“Too much?”

“No,” you say, softer now. “Just unexpected.”

He grins. “Good. Then I’m doing something right.”

For a beat, you say nothing—just study him under the low silver light. His mask hides just enough, but you can still see the shape of his mouth when it curves. Still feel something low in your chest that doesn’t quite have a name.

“I could steal a dance,” he says after a moment, almost lazily. “But I think I’d rather steal a little more of your time out here.”

You quirk a brow. “Bold again.”

“Habit.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You bite back another smile, heart ticking faster than you mean it to. And when the breeze moves through the terrace again, lifting the edges of your hair, he’s still watching you—as if he’s memorizing something. As if he already has. Then, he simply extends his hand, palm up between you.The gesture is quiet. Elegant. No pressure, no expectation—just an invitation. You hesitate for a beat. Then your fingers slip into his, and he closes his hand gently around yours. Warm. Steady.

Without a word, he turns and begins to walk, guiding you down the wide terrace steps and into the garden below. It feels like stepping into a dream. The air changes first—cooler, scented thick with night-blooming flowers and something older beneath, something almost metallic. The stone beneath your feet gives way to a soft, mossy path, winding lazily through an explosion of colour.

The garden is nothing like you expected. No tight hedges. No rigid rows. Just wild beauty. Everywhere you look, something’s blooming. Roses the color of wine and ash, foxglove swaying like bells in a silent wind, moonflowers yawning open under the pale silver light. There’s lavender spilling over low walls, clusters of narcissus, pale peonies blooming like secrets in the dark. Petals brush your ankles as you walk. The air hums with quiet life.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

You don’t ask him to.

There’s no sound but your footsteps, soft against the moss, and something quieter still—a hush beneath the silence. Like humming. Like a distant memory.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur.

“It’s never looked quite like this before.”

You glance over, curious, but he’s already looking away again, gaze drifting toward the flowers like he’s known them longer than time.

You walk in silence for a while, passing under low branches and beneath archways grown thick with jasmine. The scent wraps around you. Sweet and dizzyingly warm. It fills your lungs, makes your chest ache.

“This place feels… familiar,” you say, half to yourself. “I don’t know why.”

He doesn’t answer. But your hand is still in his.

“I must sound crazy.” You continue.

“No,” he says finally, voice low and steady. “Not at all.”

You glance at him, expecting a joke, a smile. But he’s looking at you with that same quiet, unreadable gaze. Something about him feels… old. Not in a bad way. Just deep. Pondering. Still.

“You talk like a poet,” you say before you can stop yourself.

That makes him smile — not smug, but soft. Fond.

“Do I?”

“Mm. The romantic kind,” you tease. “Maybe you’re the poet I mentioned earlier. The one from the 1800s.”

He doesn’t laugh like you expect. He just looks at you for a long moment. Then quietly says, “Would you believe me if I was?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“…No,” you say slowly, watching his expression. “But you do have the dramatic stare down.”

That earns a small laugh, low and quiet, curling at the edges.

You walk on, deeper into the flowers. Somewhere behind you, the music from the manor fades completely. All that’s left is the hush of the garden… and the man beside you, still holding your hand like it was always meant to be there.  The garden thickens as you walk, blooms crowding the edges of the path in bursts of color and scent. Somewhere behind, the manor has vanished from view, swallowed by flowering branches and ivy-laced trellises.

Moonlight spills across the winding path, silvering everything it touches. Honeysuckle drips from wrought-iron arches overhead. White lilies cluster beneath wild roses, tangled like lovers in secret. You pass through it all in silence, every step deeper into the heart of something forgotten. Here, the garden feels older. Less curated. Less dreamed-up. The flowers grow wilder, stranger. Twists of nightshade blooming in delicate clusters. Long-stemmed orchids, dark as spilled ink, stretch toward the sky. Some of them sway without wind. Others seem to lean subtly toward your footsteps.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. It’s not uncomfortable—far from it. There’s something about the quiet between you that feels sacred. Like anything louder might wake the garden into something else.

Then the path changes. Stone again, older this time. Worn flat by time, cracks laced with moss and silver threads of root. The trees part slowly ahead, and nestled between ivy-choked hedgerows, something rises from the ground.

A mausoleum.

Small. Weathered. The stone is carved in flowing patterns — flowers, stars, something that might be script, but worn down too far to read. Pale vines creep up the sides, blooming with tiny, ghost-white blossoms. It doesn’t feel menacing. Just… quiet. Like the garden has been holding it close for a very long time.

You stop without meaning to, your breath catching.

“What is this place?” You whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the structure ahead, unreadable in the half-light. For a moment, he looks like a statue himself—carved from shadow and silver.

Then, softly, “some say it’s where the first guests were laid to rest.”

You glance at him, uncertain if he’s joking.

His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Not during the party,” he adds lightly, as if that helps. “After.”

You huff a quiet laugh — but it dies in your throat.

To the left of the mausoleum, four gravestones sit nestled beneath a drooping willow tree. Their surfaces are dulled by time, weathered smooth in places, with faint lines of script barely legible in the moonlight. You step a little closer, squinting, finally letting go of his hand. The names blur just before your eyes can make sense of them. The carvings seem to shift in the shadows, impossible to hold still in your mind. A strange chill brushes the back of your neck.

Turning toward him again, you ask softly, “Have you been in there?”

He turns his gaze toward the mausoleum, his expression unreadable. The silence hangs for a moment, and you can almost feel the weight of time pressing in from all sides.

“Once,” he says, voice distant. He takes a step forward, his eyes studying the ancient stone. “Strange thing, isn’t it? It always seems so much smaller from the outside… but once you’re inside, it feels endless. As if the walls were never meant to contain what they hold.”

You feel a shiver go down your spine. It’s not quite fear, but something deeper—as though the air around the mausoleum is full of stories, long-forgotten.

He smiles slightly, almost to himself. “And the man who built it? A devoted one. Loved his wife, I think, more than anything else. Or maybe that was his mistake, building something like this for her. The stones never really let go of that kind of devotion.”

You look at him, intrigued. “What do you mean by that?”

He looks at you then, his gaze soft and searching, as if measuring something you can’t quite see. He tilts his head thoughtfully, his words slow and deliberate. “He was a man of wealth, a man of passion. But when his love passed from him, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her forever. So he built this mausoleum, this grand place to keep her memory alive. But… some say it wasn’t just her memory he wanted to preserve.”

You blink, the words settling in an odd, weighty way.

“What did he want to preserve, then?” 

His smile deepens, just a fraction, and he steps closer to you. “Not just her. Her spirit. His devotion was so great, he wanted to keep her with him forever. And so he… made sure she was never truly gone.” He lets the words hang in the air, like a puzzle he’s only half-revealed.

You stand there, staring at the mausoleum, the chill creeping deeper into your bones. There’s something in his tone that makes it feel less like a story and more like a secret. One that is just out of reach, like the names on the gravestones.

“Let’s not linger here too long,” he says softly, his voice laced with an odd, tender finality. He offered out his hand once more, and you took it. Without hesitation this time.

He gently tugs your hand, guiding you away from the mausoleum and the lingering chill that had crept into your bones. You’re still caught in the weight of his words, the haunting story of devotion and loss swirling in your mind, but his touch feels like an anchor, pulling you back into the present moment.

As you walk, the garden’s flowers seem to fade into the background, their petals dimming under the canopy of darkness. The distant sound of a breeze rustles through the trees, but it’s almost as if the garden itself has fallen silent in the wake of your conversation.

His steps are steady, measured, his hand still warm around yours. You glance up at him, his face unreadable in the soft glow of the moonlight. It’s hard to shake the feeling that he’s leading you not just through the garden, but through some kind of invisible threshold, into a deeper space that neither of you can quite define.

When you reach the edge of the garden, he pauses for a brief moment, as if assessing the change in atmosphere. His gaze lifts toward the manor, the flickering lights of the party still visible through the trees, like a beacon calling you back.

He leads you back through the stone paths, the shadows of the hedges falling behind you, and toward the iron gate that separates the garden from the mansion. With a slight tug, he opens the gate for you, stepping aside to let you through first. As you pass by, you catch a fleeting glance of the moon reflected in his eyes, something almost wistful about it, but it’s gone before you can truly make sense of it.

Once inside, the contrast is jarring.

He keeps his hand loosely around yours, guiding you back through the grand entrance of the manor with an ease that makes it seem as though you’ve never left. His presence remains a calm contrast to the bustling atmosphere inside, and for a brief moment, you feel a quiet bubble of relief. You’re back in the world you know, yet with him beside you, it feels like you're standing on the edge of something unfamiliar.

He pauses for a moment when you reach the ballroom, a brief hesitation in his steps before he turns to you, eyes glinting with mischief.

“How about a dance?” 

The music flows gently in the background, a soft, melodic waltz filling the room as couples twirl and glide across the marble floor. The light from the chandeliers casts a soft glow over everything, the room filled with laughter and a quiet hum of excitement. 

You blink for a moment, surprised by the sudden offer, but then a grin tugs at the corner of your lips. There’s something about the way he stands there, waiting, as if he knows you’ll say yes.

“Alright,” you reply with a small, teasing smile, “But I warn you, I’m not the best dancer.”

“Then I’ll just have to lead, won’t I?”

His touch is warm and confident as he gently guides you toward the dance floor. You can feel the soft pressure of his fingers as he places his other hand on your waist, the proximity between the two of you sending a rush of warmth through your chest. The world around you fades slightly, the sounds of the party becoming a soft murmur as you’re swept into the rhythm of the music.

His movements are smooth, graceful, and effortlessly in tune with yours, guiding you through the dance with a kind of quiet elegance. There’s a fluidity to the way he moves, as if he’s been dancing for centuries, and yet, he keeps his attention on you, his eyes never leaving your partially covered face, studying your expressions with a mix of curiosity and something else—something that makes your heart skip just a little faster.

As you sway together, the world around you feels distant, the night air drifting in from the terrace now nothing more than a memory. It’s just the two of you, the music, and the dance.

He leans in a little closer, his voice low and intimate, just above the music. “You’re a natural,” he murmurs, his tone playful. “I might have to keep you on the dance floor all night.”

You laugh softly, feeling the warmth of his breath against your ear. “I’m sure you say that to all your guests,” you tease, but there’s something about the way his fingers tighten around yours that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s not entirely joking.

The dance continues, the two of you lost in the movement, the connection, the electricity hanging between you. The night has only just begun, but with every step, every turn, it feels as though time itself is slipping away—just for the two of you. And as the dance comes to an end, the soft melody of the waltz fades into a slow, quiet hum, but neither of you move away immediately. You stay close, his hand still resting on your waist, your fingers lightly intertwined. The energy of the room has shifted around you—couples begin to break away, retreating into conversation, leaving the two of you in a rare, almost forgotten corner of the night.

For a moment, neither of you speak, and it feels as though time itself has slowed. The buzz of the party outside the bubble you’ve created seems so distant now. All that’s left is the quiet rhythm of your breath and the feeling of his fingers lingering on your skin. 

One hand stays on your waist, while the other lets go of your hand to slowly make its way up to your face. At first, he gently grazes your jaw, before moving up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You feel a slight tug on your mask before he whispers, finally breaking the silence. 

“May I?” 

Your breath hitches—words rendered useless as they catch in your throat—and you nod, suddenly feeling shy. 

His movements remain slow as he takes your mask off, finally able to fully see your face fully under the soft and warm ballroom lighting. If you weren’t so close, you might have missed the way his own breathing hitched. Fingers flexed at your waist, for a single fleeting moment, before he relaxed the grip as if to compose himself. You almost forgot how to breathe entirely when he next spoke.

“Beautiful… just as I thought.” 

Before you could say anything, the hand on your waist moves to your hand and he brings it to his lips, placing a delicate, lingering kiss on your knuckles. You smile softly, but a sudden shift in the atmosphere catches your attention. People begin to disperse, the evening winding down as the last strains of music fade away. It’s time to leave, it seems. He steps back, but only just. He’s reluctant, you can tell, but there’s something else—something unspoken between you. It’s clear he’s not ready to say goodbye.

“Shall I see you off?” He asks, his voice now taking on a more formal tone, though the playful undercurrent still lingers. 

He offers you his arm, a silent invitation to return to the entrance, but this time it feels different—like you’re both stepping back into reality, the night’s magic slowly dissipating with each step you take away from the dance floor. The two of you walk toward the grand entrance, where the final guests are beginning to trickle out. His presence feels like an invisible weight at your side, one that you can’t quite place but are oddly drawn to. When you reach the large front doors, he pauses. For a long moment, you simply stand there, both unsure of what to say next, the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts. He turns to you, his eyes searching yours, and for a fleeting moment, something passes between you—a recognition, maybe, or just the promise of something that could be. He smiles softly, though there's a tinge of sadness in it.

This time, you speak up first, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “I hope next time I can see what’s under your mask.” 

“You’re saying you’d like there to be a next time?” His sad smile briefly twitches into a smirk, the glint of playfulness returning to his otherwise dark eyes. 

“Are you saying you wouldn’t?” You quip. 

He decides to step closer, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek, before whispering in your ear. “Until next time, princess.”

With that, he steps back and disappears into the manor. You’re left standing there with your own thoughts, a whirlwind in your mind. You barely register the rest of the night as you climb into the back of the taxi you called, almost tripping on your dress, and not even caring you had forgotten your mask somewhere. You barely remember the drive back to your small apartment in the middle of town. Nor can you remember hastily tugging the dress off and dumping it on the floor, finally collapsing into bed and falling into a surprisingly dreamless sleep. 

The next morning, you curse yourself for not asking the man for any details about himself. You didn’t even have a name. Times like this really made you question how you ended up becoming a journalist in the first place. Ignoring the wave of texts from your boss and colleagues alike, you went about your morning, thankful it was your day off. 

You tried to take your mind off everything when a knock at your front door startled you straight out of your thoughts. What the hell is it now? 

Wanting to get whatever it was over and done with, you practically marched over to the door and swung it open— 

Only to find a single box on the doormat. It was old and wooden, clearly worn down by nothing other than time itself. You looked around, down both sides of the corridor assuming it was some sort of odd prank, but nobody was there. Of course. You decided to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a name—your real name, this time—freshly carved into the lid. Curious to a fault, you took it inside and opened it. Wrapped in ancient fabric, there it was…

A lilac corset. Adorned with white lace.

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[gilverrwrites]

Meet Cute Uglies [Bruce]

AN: Shout out to @luckyarchaeologist whose comments inspired me to go a completely different direction to what I had envisioned.🩷 And everyone else who reblogged/comments/voted for a part 2! I hope it lives up 🩷

GN!Reader/Bruce Wayne, 1.6K Words [2/?]

Part One >[Here]<

CWs: Mild/nonexplicit threats of violence, teasing

His hands are soft, and warm, soothing the tension from your body as he uses them to cup your face and hold you steady as he pushes closer, pressing your body deeper into the wall with his broad chest. Up close you can see a smattering of his five o’clock stubble coming through, even under the dim slivers of moonlight breaking through the gloomy alley. You note a hint of coffee on his breath before his lips brush against-

Loud banging at your apartment door startles you awake. Tired eyes sluggishly take in the time on the nearest clock, you’re barely able to process the numbers before the knocks come again. It’s too early. It’s your day of for goodness’ sake and it sounds like someone is trying to break down your door with their fists. When you answer it’s an equally disgruntled delivery driver. They ask your name before bombarding you with a large box and snapping a proof of delivery photo. You ponder your unkempt morning appearance and pray the sender of this parcel doesn’t ever check that photo.

It was almost certainly not from you because you hadn’t ordered anything, especially not anything this big. You don’t recognise the logo, but it, the matte black tape, and the distinct florally smell permeating from the smooth white container tells you that whatever is inside is expensive. That or it’s a trap, designed to lure you in with its unsuspecting exterior, then BAM Ivy toxin or Joker gas. You’re not dumb, you’ve seen the PSAs.

30 minutes, one morning brew, one disposable mask, one sharp knife, 2 gloves, and a whole lot of nerve later you gently remove the contents from its packaging. It’s wrapped in a layer of security card and glittery tissue paper but it’s pretty evident what it is. It’s a very nice bouquet of flowers. A mix of carnations, hyacinths, and baby’s-breath, already sitting in a pretty crystal vase that probably cost more than your rent.  A gold envelope stands out amongst the colourful petals, and you fork it out to read despite being certain you already know who it's from. Nobody else in your life would spend this much money on flowers for you, even if it were a special occasion. The repercussions of telling your name to a stranger, even a famous stranger, who you’d known of all your life, but never known hadn’t occurred to you until you see it printed in foil against the high-quality textured card.

“As you understandably didn’t allow me the chance to apologise last night, please accept these as a token of my penitence. Regards, B.W.”

You’re not sure which irks you most, him cornering you in a dark alley in the first place, his seeking you out to apologise in an unsettlingly short amount of time, the absurd display of wealth, his pretentiously unironic use of the word ‘Penitence’, or the fact that you kinda liked it. The fact that you’d spend the night dreaming about slivers of moonlight and soft hands that didn’t exist. In actual fact, the remainder of the scene had been clumsy and anticlimactic.

“Who are you?” He demands. “And why are you following me?” You squint to read his expressions, barely able to make him out under the faint light of apartment windows high above your figures. There's a disconnect between the upper and lower halves of his face that adds to your already heightened nerves. His jaw and lips remain in an ever-present scowl, but steely blue eyes seem to soften as you tell him your name. “I'm not following you.” Your voice is stunted, weak due to the unrelenting pressure actual billionaire Bruce Wayne is applying to it. “I swear! It’s a coincidence.” He seems to believe you, or at least, he doesn’t consider you much of a threat because his grip loosens enough for you to find your footing again. Before he can change his mind, you scramble out of there, almost tripping on your accidentally discarded bag on the way. Whatever is up with him is not your problem. “I-“ “Save it.” Creep. You’re not interested in his apologies or excuses. You’re just an average person trying to make their way in the crime capital of the world, probably. It’s a miracle he didn’t put you in an early grave due to a heart attack. You could see the headlines now: ‘Playboy Billionaire Charged with Manslaughter: Officials unsure why he corned innocent Gothamite’ which is to presume a man with as much wealth as Bruce Wayne would ever be charged with a crime. Rich, ill-mannered, paranoid, handsome, creep. “Just stay away from me.”

As you stand motionless, relaying the events of the previous night in your head, it occurs to you that there's still something in the envelope, something slightly smaller and thicker than the apology card. You slip it out and flip it between your fingers, a gift card to the coffee shop you’d first seen him in, with a pre-paid value high enough to keep you and all your colleagues caffeinated for the rest of the year, if not longer.

The remainder of your day is spent relocating the two gifts between errands and relaxation time. The gift card is inserted and removed from the card section of your wallet so many times you’ve probably incidentally rubbed off its magnetic strip. Accepting it, and using it wasn’t bad, not really. He wasn’t buying you or your forgiveness it's just a show good intent, not to mention it was basically pocket change to a man with that much money.

But it did feel a little bit like being bought.

And the flowers reminded you of that conflict every time you looked at them, so they made their way onto every feasible surface and counter until you found a spot with enough light to keep them alive that wasn’t in plain sight 90% of the time. Maybe you could sell or donate the vase once the flowers are dead. It really did make the rest of your living space look shabby-er in comparison.  Or maybe you could paint it to match the rest of its new home, cover it in acrylic paint and use it to hold anything else. If you ever see Bruce again you could show him a photo, see if he really did give it in good faith to be used however you pleased, or if it makes him uncomfortable.

In fact, on your next day back at work you’re scrolling through Pinterest for design inspiration as you queue up for the first of many Wayne-funded drinks when you sense it. Him. The enticing scent of his cologne clueing you into his presence. You cast a look over your shoulder and there he is, smiling at you with perfect white teeth. He seems more casual today, his hair still perfectly styled but appearing free of any products, his suit traded in for just the slacks and button-up. Once again, you’re reminded of his player image, it’s not hard to tell why so many people swoon all over him.

“Oh, hello.” He greets, raising his hand as though to wave at you. His fingers don’t look nearly as soft as you’d imagined. They look sturdy and calloused, strange for a man who guzzles champagne and stands behind a podium, smiling for photographers more days than not. Paperwork does not account for skin that thick. “I was hoping to run into you here.”

“Really?” Internally you’re suspicious, but your voice comes out an octave higher than usual, your skin growing warm under his gaze. It’s stupid to think that he’s pursuing you, flirting with you. He’s probably just looking for closure on his apology, ensuring you don’t slander his image by selling the story to the papers. He really is buying you. Your silence. “Why?”

“I was hoping I could buy you a drink.” And without your confirmation he sides steps around you, joining you in your spot amongst everybody else waiting to be served.

“You’re already buying me coffee.” You flash him the gift card he’d paid for. “Or did you forget casually dropping this much cash?”

He laughs at that, like you’ve made a joke. He’s deflecting? Maybe. But he sounds so genuine, so hearty it’s contagious. Your laugh isn’t as cheery as his, but it slips past your lips regardless.

“No, no. I didn’t forget. I couldn’t forget anything about you. Especially not after seeing you in that delivery photo.” He finishes with a wink. That was flirting, definitely flirting. Or maybe an insult. Either way, you’re feeling just as nervous, if not more than you had been that night in the alley. This is just a different kind of nerves, it’s the butterflies in your belly instead of the pit in your stomach kind. “What’s one more between new friends, huh?”

“Friends?” You raise your brows. He does not have the decency to look sheepish under your dubious stare, he just looks back at you calm and collected, just like he is on the TV. A few days ago, you might have bought it, but you’ve seen him lose his cool in person. Something feels off.

“I’d like to be friends, or I’d at least like to apologise in person. If you’ll let me.” For a man so bent on making amends with you, there isn’t a hint of sorrow in his tone or posture.

It’s almost your turn at the counter, you have seconds to make your decision.

The barista gestures for the next customer, as you answer. “Okay fine, let’s be friends.”

“Excellent. You just made my day.” And then his hand cups the small of your back as the two of you step up to order. He does it so casually that you almost don’t notice, you’re not sure if you’re just susceptible to his moves, or if he’s practised them to perfection. Maybe you’re reading too much into it, maybe all pretty boy billionaires act like this, maybe it’s all strategy to keep his image clean, or maybe there’s something shady about Bruce Wayne and his weirdly hard, slick hands. Maybe he's hiding something, and whatever it is, you intend to figure it out.

If you should enjoy the view along the way, well, who could blame you?

<3

Likes are highly appreciated, but comments and reblogs are cherished!

More Like This | Tip/Commission Me

[rainystarters]

* ☔ : action prompts inspired by FANTASY, NOBILITY, ETC. some prompts are usfw. add reversed for the muse receiving the meme to perform the action instead. ( adjust scenarios or specify details as needed. )

crown of dawn. sender swears their fealty to the receiver.

crown of silver. sender congratulates the receiver on their political engagement, hiding their true affection for the receiver.

crown of midnight. sender dances with the receiver at a masquerade.

crown of glass. sender meets the receiver while their true identity is concealed.

crown of shadows. sender controls the receiver through magic or blackmail, making them their pawn so they can rule from the background.

crown of ink. sender meets the receiver for the first time after they are joined in an arranged marriage.

crown of starlight. sender kneels before the receiver to receive a boon.

crown of rot. sender accuses the receiver of failing their people.

crown of sorrow. sender tells the receiver they are the new lord/queen/etc. as those ahead of them in the line of succession have died.

crown of blood. sender stands before the receiver to be judged for their crimes.

crown of lies. sender accuses the receiver of not being the true heir.

crown of thorns. sender crowns the receiver after killing the previous ruler.

crown of nightshade. sender consumes a poisoned drink meant for the receiver.

---

wand of bone. sender uses necromancy to raise the receiver's companions from to dead to aid the sender in fighting against the receiver.

wand of ivy. sender ensnares the receiver in a net of living vines.

wand of twilight. sender conjures the spirit of the receiver from the land of the dead to speak with them.

wand of clouds. sender infiltrates the receiver's dreams to learn their desires.

wand of portals. sender summons the receiver to their world.

wand of resurrection. sender brings the receiver back to life.

wand of memory. sender clouds the receiver's mind so they don't leave.

wand of blossoms. sender grows flowers in the receiver's hair.

wand of salt. sender heals the receiver's wounds.

wand of leaves. sender asks the receiver to read their fortune.

wand of lightning. sender conjures a storm to impede the receiver.

wand of masks. sender crosses paths with the receiver while disguised as them.

wand of flesh. sender wounds the receiver to fuel their blood magic.

---

sword of honor. sender challenges the receiver to a duel to decide an argument.

sword of moons. sender wakes up to discover the receiver pressing a blade against the sender's throat.

sword of sacrifice. sender takes a deadly attack meant for the receiver.

sword of wrath. sender kills the receiver's loved one(s) as they watch.

sword of loyalty. sender executes someone at the receiver's command.

sword of blessings. sender asks the receiver to bless their weapon before battle.

sword of madness. sender tries to stop the receiver's bloodthirsty rage.

sword of ruin. sender tortures the receiver for information.

sword of defeat. sender surrenders to the receiver after a hard-fought battle.

sword of ash. sender asks the receiver to kill them for failing the receiver.

sword of spite. sender twists their weapon deeper into the receiver's wound.

sword of wind. sender quickly kills an enemy before they attack the receiver.

sword of betrayal. sender stabs the receiver in the back.

---

card of misfortune. sender catches the receiver trying to pick their pocket.

card of coins. sender buys the receiver a drink at a tavern.

card of vipers. sender meets the receiver in a thieves' den.

card of fools. sender finds the receiver caught in a trap, magical or otherwise.

card of iron. sender recognizes the receiver from a wanted poster.

card of vultures. sender is caught looting a dead body by the receiver.

card of songs. sender asks a bard to sing a ballad about the receiver.

card of keys. sender picks a lock to help the receiver escape.

card of winter. sender finds the receiver dying of frostbite and gathers them in their arms to warm them.

card of dust. sender finds the receiver asleep over a book and wakes them.

card of stars. sender keeps the receiver company during first watch at camp.

card of crows. sender warns the receiver they're being followed but that the sender can protect them—for a fee.

card of twine. sender stitches a wound shut for the receiver.

---

heart of virtue. sender presses a kiss to the back of the receiver's hand.

heart of devotion. sender slips their signet ring onto the receiver's finger.

heart of roses. sender gives the receiver a token of their favor before a tourney.

heart of thrones. sender kneels before the receiver to pleasure them.

heart of destiny. sender tells the receiver they are fated or reincarnated lovers.

heart of honey. sender intimately feeds the receiver by hand.

heart of darkness. sender cloaks themselves and the receiver in shadows so they can kiss in public.

heart of stone. sender asks the receiver to be their lover as they can't marry.

heart of gold. sender renounces their title to be with the receiver.

heart of wolves. sender intimately licks blood from the receiver's body.

heart of knives. sender cuts the clothes from the receiver's body, unable to wait.

heart of dusk. sender meets the receiver in secret to be together.

heart of embers. sender initiates intimacy to keep the receiver warm.

[gloomglimmer]

𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐓  𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃  𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .  (  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭  𝐨𝐟  𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐬  )       Set  the  scene  with  these  creative  prompts  inspired  by  the  emotional  and  mystical  energy  of  the  Suit  of  Cups.      Note:  These  can  be  used  for  starters.       Themes:  supernatural,  high  fantasy,  romance  &  introspection.      ���  ∗  ⁽  ¹  ⁾  Find  the  collection  of  tarot-based  scene  starters  here!

ACE  OF  CUPS:  A  serene  fountain  in  an  overgrown  garden surrounded by ivy

TWO  OF  CUPS:  A  chance  meeting  at  a  dimly  lit  tavern

THREE  OF  CUPS:  A  lively  celebration  in  a  lantern-lit  courtyard

FOUR  OF  CUPS:  A  secluded  lakeside  where  the  sender  broods  under  a  tree,  refusing  to  hear  out  the  receiver

FIVE  OF  CUPS:  A  shallow  river  as  the  sender  kneels  nearby,  grieving  over  what’s  been  lost  while  the  receiver  silently  watches

SIX  OF  CUPS:  A  flashback  to  two  children  sharing  secrets  by  a  wishing  well,  now  revisited  by  the  sender  and  receiver  years  later

SEVEN  OF  CUPS:  A  book  shop  filled  with  magical  books  and  plenty  of  them,  where  the  sender  hesitates,  overwhelmed  by  choices

EIGHT  OF  CUPS:  A  declaration  of  love  by  a  passionate  sender  and  shocked  receiver

NINE  OF  CUPS:  A  lavish  banquet  hall  with  the  finest  fruits  and  endless  wine,  where  the  sender  shows  the  receiver  their  recent  vanity

TEN  OF  CUPS:  A  quiet  moment  at  sunrise  as  the  sender  and  receiver  watch  the  mist  lift  over  a  valley

[bts-lovely-ot7]

Obsidian Eden

Genre: Smut | Mystery | Romance | Slow Burn

Pairing: BTS x Reader (Y/N)

Rating: 🔞 Explicit (18+)

Word Count: ~1,700

---PART ONE---

“The Arrival”

The invitation came in the dead of night.

No return address.

No sender name.

Just a smooth black envelope with a wax seal of an unfamiliar symbol—seven dots forming a ring, enclosing a single red star.

Inside: a note, handwritten in ink that shimmered like blood in the moonlight.

<“You’ve been chosen.

Seven days.

No phones.

No contact.

All you need will be provided.

Welcome to Obsidian Eden.

Come ready to surrender.”>

You should’ve been more cautious.

Should’ve asked questions.

But the paper had a scent—warm, musky, heady—and something about it made your pulse skip.

It was madness, but… you went.

The car that picked you up was pitch black, windows tinted so deep you couldn't see even your reflection.

Hours passed.

The world outside became a blur of forest, mist, and whispers of wind.

By the time you arrived, the sky had turned crimson at the edges.

Sunset bled into the hills, outlining the silhouette of a grand estate tucked behind iron gates.

It was beautiful, too beautiful.

Like something out of a fever dream.

Ivy clung to black stone walls, and golden light poured from every window, casting the whole structure in a kind of sensual glow.

Your driver opened the door silently.

You stepped out, and the gate creaked closed behind you.

Locked in.

“No phones,” the driver had warned.“No safe words,” he added, almost like a joke.“Only trust... or regret.”

You entered the house.

The scent hit you first—clove, leather, something like cinnamon and heat.

Then the warmth.

Then the sound.

Soft music drifted from somewhere deeper in the estate—smooth jazz with a vintage, almost voyeuristic feel.

And then, you saw him.

Namjoon.

Leaning against the grand piano like sin incarnate.

A silk shirt open halfway down his chest, dark dragon eyes flicking to you with subtle amusement.

A glass of deep red wine in one hand, a leather-bound book in the other.

“You're early,” he murmured, voice low and deliberate. “Or maybe we’ve just been waiting too long.”Your lips parted.

A thousand questions fought for first place, but your throat had gone dry.

Then came another voice.

Deep.

Smoother.

“She’s here.” Taehyung descended the stairs with the grace of a panther, barefoot and in an oversized linen shirt that slid dangerously low on one shoulder.

He studied you as if you were prey and art.

“She smells like hesitation,” he said with a lazy smirk.

“But I like that. It’s honest.” Yoongi emerged next.

You didn’t see him until he was close.

Too close.

Wearing all black, hoodie unzipped just enough to show a sliver of pale skin.

His breath hit your ear when he whispered, “Don’t worry, angel. You’ll stop hesitating soon.”Your knees almost buckled.

Before you could respond, Jin appeared, looking devastatingly regal in a silk robe and bare chest, holding a silver tray of chocolate covered strawberries.

“Hungry?” he asked. “For food… or something else?” He smirked when you didn’t answer.

You turned, disoriented, only to nearly stumble into Jungkook—his gaze fierce and playful, dressed in nothing but black jeans and tattoos.

“She’s cute when she’s overwhelmed,” he teased, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand.

“I bet she’s even cuter when she’s ruined.” Jimin stood by the hallway, licking something from his thumb—a smear of whipped cream.

He grinned as your eyes met his, biting his lower lip.

“You’ll get used to the games,” he said softly. “Just don’t try to win.”

And behind him, leaning against the bar with quiet intensity, Hoseok. Watching you like he could read your pulse.

“She doesn’t even know what she’s walked into,” he said. “God help her when she finds out.”

You took a shaky breath.

“Why… am I here?” you asked.

Namjoon stepped forward, placing a hand over your chest right above your heart.

“You’re here,” he said, voice velvet and fire,“because we chose you.”

His fingers curled slightly, possessively.

“And by stepping inside… you’ve chosen us.”

---TO BE CONTINUED---

Had some more drafts. Im posting all of them before WW3 ToT!!!!

[pokemonfangame]

Pokémon Peppermint

You play as Ivy, an ambitious but sometimes lazy girl with wishes of one day succeeding Santa. One day, when a mysterious letter arrives at her house asking for help deafeating the ancient Titans, Ivy jumps at the chance to prove her worth! You will be assisted by your most loyal companion: Peppermint the Delibird. Will you be able to uncover all of the various mysteries scattered through the three islands? Will you be able to crush the three titans and answer the prayers of the mysterious letter's sender? More importantly, will you be able to help clean up the archipelogo from all of Peppermint's misplaced gift boxes? There is only one way to find out.

Features:

A custom-made gift system to obtain random Pokémon and items scaled by your current level.

An open world adventure spanning 3 islands (officially) with absolutely no grinding necessary, just maximum liberty.

A ton of optional sidequests to spice up the adventure and provide unique and powerful rewards.

A whole new custom-made soundtrack by King_Waluigi specially curated for the islands' environments.

The Delibird in-battle assistance system - use at your own risk (surprise)!

Hidden bosses and mega evolutions.

Speed Up button.

[paintlesscanvas]

hello! any mail boy/girl/enby id packs? /nf!! tyvm if you accept!

and, just wanted to say..

UR BLOG IS GEN SO HELPFUL HELP LIKE ITS SO NICE AND COOL??? LIKE THERES SO MANY STUFF ON THE LISTS I CANT/pos

✉️ . MAILPERSON SNPTS . .

System Names: carrier doves, the mailboys, the mailgirls, the mailpeople, the travelers, those that walk through the city, those that run away from dogs, the deliverers of packages, those that tip their cap, the package pigeons, the stamp collection, the postpeople, the envelope senders, the satchel carriers, letter lovers, dove coos, pigeon squawks, those at the post office, those sorting through letters, the package receivers, the mail truck drivers, those that open mailboxes, carriers of gifts, deliverers of surprises

Usernames: mail4you, wowtherestrees, runfrmdogs, wavetopeoples, down.town, enveloves, pooostoffice, parcelpigeon, penciiilpals, quiet.townn, ghostatthepost, postprince[ss], carrierpige0n, stiiickersss, penpaaaals, flimsypaperrs, doodledanny, envelopunny, maaailbox, inkyyprints, cloudy.town, deliverydutyy, flutteringd0ve, deliverydove, givingdove, giftsfromyrstruly, doodlesforyoodles, no1postman, penmanshiip, heresanote, pitterpatter, boxesrsoheavy, owboxes, writemealetter, smilingparcels, scaredofbarrrks, atthepostoffice, darlingparcels, packagepirate, envelopes4youu, st.ampsss, inkstaaiins, no1letterlover, siillynotes, sentfromaway, organizetheoffice, summerstrolls, envelopesfrmyou, parcelpwr, lettersletters, ilovemail, messyletters, sendingstuff2you, youvegotmail, letterlvr, lovelylettr, mailmale, smilesformiles, parcelfromadove, writingacrssthewrld, prrttymailgrl, prettyparcelsss, g1ftg1ftg1fts, greetingyouu, dizzypackages, ssillystamps, scribblesilly, dancingletters, mailbooooy, hidinginurmailbox, notesfrmthesky, brightdaaay, proudserviiice, in2urmailbox, bewareofd0g, mailtruckdrvr, openbxes, sootcasee, stackofletters, boxoflovers, envelopeoflove

Names: alexander, alfred, alice, annette, archer, archie, arden, arlo, atticus, august, augustus, autumn, barnaby, bartholomew, basil, beatrice, beau, benedict, benjamin, bennett, birdie, blake, cedric, charlie, chester, cliff, clifford, clive, clyde, cornelius, cory, cullen, darwin, diggory, dom, dominic, dorcas, earnest, edgar, edith, effie, elijah, eliza, emerson, emilio, emmanuel, eugene, everett, fennel, flint, florence, flossie, floyd, ford, gale, galina, genevieve, gideon, glenn, greyson, gwendolyn, harriet, harvey, hattie, hayden, holly, ink, ivan, ivy, josette, josie, july, june, kane, kate, katherine, kay, kendell, kinley, kip, kleo, leo, logan, maeve, maggie, malcolm, marion, margot, marlowe, marshall, matilda, mayfaire, melvile, meredith, milton, minnie, molly, mortem, mortimer, nadira, nancy, nannie, navy, neith, nelda, nellie, nells, nettie, ninette, noah, noel, noemi, norman, note, oakley, odette, oliver, orson, orville, oswald, otto, parcel, parker, polly, posey, presley, quill, quinton, ralph, randall, raymond, reed, reid, rhett, romee, rory, rowan, rye, sabina, sawyer, scout, silas, sloane, spencer, stanford, stanley, summer, susan, tallulah, tatum, thelma, thena, thisbe, thomas, tibby, tillie, timothy, tinker, toby, tom, torin, trey, troy, violet, virgil, walden, walter, warren, willard, willow, winnie, woody

Pronouns: letter/letters, mail/mails, write/writes, pen/pens, ink/inks, note/notes, deliver/delivers, gift/gifts, scribble/scribble, doodle/doodles, carry/carry, give/gives, walk/walks, hum/hums, parcel/parcels, package/packages, box/boxs, stamp/stamps, sticker/stickers, smile/smiles, proud/prouds, newspaper/newspaper, envelope/envelope, sun/suns, mailbox/mailboxs, pencil/pencil, scrabble/scrabble, sketch/sketchs, house/houses, satchel/satchels, bag/bags, hello/hellos, twine/twines, string/strings, wrap/wraps, town/towns, cloud/clouds, clutch/clutchs, send/sends, post/posts, office/office, sort/sorts, organize/organizes, rain/rains, flimsy/flimsys, thin/thins, street/streets, apartment/apartments, greet/greets, pass/pass’, road/roads, home/homes, locker/lockers, wave/waves, cheerful/cheerfuls, joy/joys, old/olds, weathering/weatherings, service/services, dog/dogs, truck/trucks, fence/fences, sign/signs, slot/slots, city/citys, drawer/drawers, pin/pins, 🫶, 🌳, 🍃, 🍂, 🪹, ☀️, 🥖, 🥠, 🪃, 🛹, 🎫, 🎼, ♟️, 🚐, 🛞, 🚦, 🚏, 🗽, 🏢, 🏘️, 🏙️, 🎞️, 📺, 📻, 🕰️, 💵, 🪙, 🩹, 🧺, 🚪, 🪟, 🧧, ✉️, 📨, 💌, 📦, 🏷️, 🪧, 📪, 📫, 📬, 📭, 📮, 📜, 📃, 📋, 🗞️, 🗂️, 📔, 🧷, 🖊️, 🖋️, 🖇️, 📝, 🧳

Titles: the cheerful giver, prn who presses stamps to letters, the delivery thing, bringer of mail, prn who delivers packages, the penner of letters, the deliverer of mail, the mailboy, the mailgirl, the mailperson, prn who walks the streets, prn who drives the mail truck, gifter of deliveries, prn who strolls through the city, prn who gives mail [to those who need it], the mailman, the mailperson, the mailwoman, the carrier pigeon, prn who carries mail through the sky, the carrier dove, prn who drops mail from the skies

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Work in Progress Fics Highlights (4)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /

ivy-fkatwirls (ao3) Summary: katniss everdeen is a townie, peeta mellark is from the seam. this would have happened anyway. Katniss Gets Kisses-thesweetnessofspring (ao3) Summary: Three months left until the Quarter Quell, and Katniss wants to spend as much as she can of it with Peeta. With no expectations to live past the Quell, she can let herself explore intimacy she could never even contemplate before. On the Threshold-ghtlovesthg (ao3) Summary: A fic in honor of Katniss' birthday. Nineteen and free from the Reapings forever, Katniss finds a token on her doorstep commemorating her passage over the threshold of adulthood. Discovering the identity of the sender will start Katniss on a road that leads toward life's other milestones. Canon-deviating/Canon-divergent story. Pictures of Egypt-Ameiko (ao3) Summary: Modern day AU. Gale comes home from college expecting to win the love of his childhood best friend, but when tragedy strikes, he needs to make some very tough choices about what he wants from his life. Roses and Pearls-HalfHope, thesweetnessofspring (ao3) Summary: Peeta Mellark is the sole victor of the Quarter Quell. With District 12 nothing but ash, he rebuilds his life by moving to the Capitol and falling in love with Rosalia Snow, granddaughter to Coriolanus Snow. Then people Peeta thought long dead kidnap him and Rosalia, including the one person he hates more than anyone: Katniss Everdeen. They say he's been hijacked. They say that he used to love her. Locked away in District 13, Peeta is determined to protect his mind and his fiancée from the rebels. But while imprisoned, videos disprove his memories and his feelings toward Katniss grow confusing. Who can he trust, and what really happened in his past?

This will be a semiregular released list to highlight works that are in progress or incomplete.

Please feel free to read and engage in these works! If you have a suggestion for a work to highlight, please feel free to reblog, reply, or send a message/ask!

[purplemccns]

🚪 ( DOOR ) / rivy

NSFW EMOJI SCENARIOS // Accepting !

🚪 ( DOOR ) - sender watched someone hit on receiver and to cope with the jealousy, pins them against the door when they get home to kiss them but things quickly become heated

jealousy was a tricky subject when it came to river and his girlfriend. since the two had started out as something that was technically forbidden, the two in particular being something that would cause the jealousy in a healthy relationship, the shift into an official title with themselves was difficult to grasp. this was even more so since they didn't want so many others to know right off the bat after she'd broken up with his bandmate, as the two tried keeping their relationship on a need to know basis - and the only ones they felt needed to know at the time were just the parties involved.

ivy was 'officially' single, and river knew this as they went into the party; the two had even gone in separately to throw off anyone's suspicion had they'd grown one from any recent sightings together. so when some guy had given her eyes of a lovesick puppy most of the night, it was only a matter of time before his irritation began to grow rapidly. what was even more difficult was that he couldn't even do anything about it until she came over to his place later that night. and when ivy eventually rapped a few times at his door, the man was already waiting on the other side to pull her in. it took him no time at all to push her up against the door, his body pressed to her own as he stole a ravenous kiss from her lips. "i don't know how much longer i can take people looking at you like that."

[deadlyminded]

∗ 98﹕ sender  confronts  receiver  about  their  unhealthy  behavior . (unhealthy to kagetsu)

Kagetsu of Elusia is no hunter. He is not capable of the extended silence of thieves and assassins nor their long stretches of patience; his hunts are loud even if his bites are quick, preceded by the vocal clamoring for attention and his many requests to duels. No hunter, to be sure, but a far greater finder with hawk eyes that few friendly faces can escape. Harmless and little applicable to true enemies and as much a useless talent as his one of premonition.

(or not harmless, depending on who one should ask.)

"Zelko—ooooov!"

A fly of steps thunders across the cobbles whipping up a storm of dust. When at last that storm subsides, a flying leap with open arms wraps the taller in a tight embrace - or attempts to. Always has Zelkov been good at dodging Kagetsu.

"What joyous reunion! Welcome, welcome! At last you have come, my friend. I knew you could not be confined to Elyos for long with your dear relations here. When the tree of Queen Ivy moves, it is the roots that need follow!"

The tall form wrapped in a cloak of obscuring midnight. . .that silent gait, ebon skin, and golden eyes of dagger-grade sharpness. . .it is him. Zelkov. At the sight of his friend, Kagetsu's heart shivers as does the steel in his scabbard, both beyond any figment of a doubt, for both know it cannot be anyone else. Neither man nor metal might ever forget the first force to serve them defeat and Kagetsu in his entirety, head to toe, mind and body, shall always remember his first defeat, his first colleague, his first friend.

But there is one problem.

He frowns and steps back, both hands nocked moodily upon his hips. The puffy pout of inflated cheeks another telling accessory to mood. "We are both roots and retainers of Queen Ivy, you and I, but also bestest of friends! Why did you not join the Knights with me? As you are, you will always be doing things by yourself, Zelkov! No, no, that will not do!"

Kagetsu is the tide. For a brief moment, irregardless of any enjoyment Zelkov could derive, the moon was empty and the tides fell enough to… to…

                                                   …to miss their constant presence.

Now, the moon is once again bright in the night sky, illuminating the dark, and for the tides’ inevitable return, for Kagetsu crashing violently into Zelkov’s immovable shore, Zelkov will let him.

His name being shouted is more than enough of a warning to give the former assassin plenty of time to dodge his colleague’s onslaught. Zelkov allows him this one strike. It would be enough force to knock a man off his feet, if that man weren’t so accustomed to and familiar with Kagetsu’s antics. Zelkov holds sturdy, and for the briefest of moments, his hands find Kagetu’s sides in a rather lacking return of the affectionate gesture.

The slightest flinch of Kagetsu’s body that signals his body pulling away from Zelkov’s sees the taller man’s hands returned quickly to his sides, though he can’t help but notice the way Kagetsu covers those same spots with his own hands as he gives Zelkov one of the most asinine scoldings he’s ever received.

“By myself?” he asks in response. “It is Queen Ivy that is an instructor at this institution. If we are to be the roots following the lead of her trunk, then does it not follow that you should be joining us as professor?”

If there had been a scant ghost of a smile on Zelkov’s lips, then Kagetsu’s complaint has scared it away completely. It’s likely the knight - as he so wishes to be called - would not have seen it at all.

“The answer to your question has already been made clear,” he continues. “For you to have enough idle time to be yelling my name across the monastery is enough proof to me that I have made the correct decision.”

[cataclysmgrcve]

sender kisses receiver's shoulder. -Bea to Ivy

The gentleness sent a shiver down her spine. "Whatever was that for?" She questioned.

Wanting to ask for more. The feeling of lips along her skin always made Ivy feel warm, craving the feeling over and over. "Will you be doing it again?" Testing the waters. Ivy didn't want to beg for it. Pretending to just be curious instead. She hoped the answer would be yes.

If not then perhaps Ivy could slowly change Bea's mind about their answer. Not with force. No. Just gentle persuasion.

[hyciinths]

∗ 96﹕ sender  tackles  receiver  out  of  the  way  of  danger .

MR PRESIDENT GET DOWN

At last Hyacinth finds himself on the surface. No longer lost in the maze like winding alleys of the abyss, surrounded by cramped spaces within the stale damp air of the below. Instead, a nice and welcoming cold breeze greets him here, one that he takes a moment to appreciate as he situates himself on where in town he had entered.

However, for as pleasant as the town of Garreg Mach felt even amidst construction effort, just as he takes a step into the market street, something— or rather someone tackles him from behind.

“Aah!” With arms outstretched, Hyacinth flings the staff he had held somewhere else entirely in his surprise. Attempting to catch himself, although in vain, for he crashes down onto the cobbled road with a harsh thud.

By some miracle the disguise he wore had stayed on. Crooked the hat on his head, and the mask loose, but most importantly still on.

With an indignant grunt, Hyacinth hastily turns to face his assailant with a raised hand— ready to defend himself.. only to find a familiar face.

“Zelkov?” he asks, dumbfounded if a bit confused. For what in the fell dragons name was he doing here. Was Ivy nearby? Did he not come here alone this whole time? All questions Hyacinth would have asked were it not for the rogue wagon wheel that hurls itself into his eldest daughter's retainer. Inches away from him.

[theeclipse]

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 ] : receiver is trying to win sender's trust in order to escape later. (From poison ivy)

His memory was hazy but the circumstances leading to his capture would likely come back to him at some point. But all he could do now was focus on his current situation. “You know I admire what you’re doing..” Eliasz admitted aloud hoping his captor was paying attention. Even with his own abilities not being the most effective, the best Eliasz could do was improvise.

[lindwyvrm]

[ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 ] : sender has just told receiver "you belong to me". (i'm sorry in advance) (please don't let this ruin your opinion of him ivy he's just a little Stupid) (diamant look away)

Hand over his heart, face alright with love infatuation, Laslow dares to make his boldest declaration yet.

"My lady, I've heard the message in the stars themselves. Your heart belongs to mine! May I take you out to dinner in celebration of this gods-blessed romance?"

Any other woman would’ve slapped him mid-sentence.

But Ivy lets him speak, waiting with bated breath for his next words, each syllable more flowery and fantastical than the last. He speaks like a teenager’s first love poem come to life. Her eyebrows rise higher and higher — eventually disappearing into her bangs — as Laslow proclaims his love for her on this nondescript afternoon. He is practically glowing; Ivy wonders if anyone had ever believed the things he proclaimed as earnestly as he did.

“...belongs to you?” Ivy repeats, tone middling between amusement and incredulity. The proclamation is so bold it nearly makes her laugh. “Is that so?”

She tilts her head, mimicking curiosity. “In Elusia, marriages forged from love are only between those who are lucky or stupid. Is dinner all you have to offer? The last suitor who asked for my heart offered me a mountain’s weight in gold.”

Ivy smiles, bringing a hand under her chin. “I expect dinner to impress.”