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sixlane · 3 months ago

Note

hi baby,

yeah that’s right it’s me again, your secret admirer, finding any reason to take up space in your inbox. today i get to be here because it happens to be your birthday and so as i yearn for you to grace me with your presence in my own dms (yeah you hear that people of tumblr? (if you get to see this) she’s in MY dms) i wrote you a little birthday present. taking your hands in my own, gently spreading your fingers out, placing a tiny box wrapped in yellow paper tied up with a blue bow in the center of your palm, and guiding your other hand over to cover it. don’t open it until i’m gone. okay. here goes:

---

Regulus is bored.

Not a new feeling, but well, a predictable one.

Which is boring. Hence the whole being bored thing.

He’s never felt any sort of draw to sit and nurse a mediocre drink while watching people sing poorly and make fools of themselves on a dance floor. He doesn’t even typically want to be around people let alone in his opinion the worst kind: people who are in love.

He’s, by name, one of those people. But the reality of that love does not match up with the messy, dramatic reality tv special he’s being forced to witness against his will.

Sirius is in love. He sees it in his eyes. In the way he and Remus hold each other even with an entire room between them. They love each other.

Regulus was there. Thought he was. Still there technically speaking.

As he watches James scream and clap and spin his brother around in ridiculous circles, his brain knows he’s watching his partner, one of the people in love on the dance floor. His heart just doesn’t–

He’s bored. Regulus is bored.

He wants it to be an awful, horrible, gut wrenching thing. To know you held love for someone for so long and know they still hold that love for you. But really, Regulus just finds it particularly inconvenient.

Especially when he pulls his eyes away from the trainwreck on the dance floor to eye the stranger who just plopped himself rather loudly at the other end of his booth.

Regulus is immediately struck by his hair. It’s dark, wild. And there happens to be long, lanky fingers running through it. He’s staring at a glint of silver glide along soft locks when a throat clears and his eyes snap down to meet deep blue indigo pools.

“Is this seat taken?”

Regulus just looks back at him in response, quirking an eyebrow and letting his eyes shift around them to indicate the booth is very clearly empty.

“Right, okay then,” the stranger huffs a breath, then downs a glass of something Regulus is pretty sure has been sitting on the table resting between them for the past hour. “I’m assuming you’re family?”

He considers ignoring the question, he does, because why should this stranger get to goad him into a conversation at a wedding. The horror. But something about him–probably the fact Regulus finds him stupidly attractive and at least at the moment, doesn’t look like a person in love–makes him want to let it happen.

“Yes,” Regulus drawls.

He watches the man shift his eyes to look out across the dance floor. Then he gets a bit caught up in the sharp lines cutting his jaw, and the piercings littering his chin, lips, nose, eyebrow–

“You’re the brother, then?”

He feels caught again. Trapped, as he stares back into piercing blue storms, a swirling angry ocean captured in each of his irises.

“Yes.”

“Can’t really see the resemblance,” he says. And then he smiles. It’s a wicked, warped thing. Or maybe the warping is just what’s happening to every inch of Regulus’s skin.

“Who are you?” Regulus blurts, needing an anchor in reality and also unexpectedly incredibly curious about it.

He watches the way the man’s jaw clenches, but that stupid fucking grin still somehow widens across his face.

“A friend,” he says slowly. Regulus’ eyes flicker down to his lips before returning to his eyes. Calculating.

He doesn’t recognize him, but why would he? He doesn’t know anyone here. Aside from all the people who know him.

“A friend,” he repeats, scoffing a bit and pretending he has anything to stand on. “Whose?”

The man’s eyes widen slightly before returning to normal.

“Of the…family.”

“Oh of the family, sure,” Regulus can’t help the small uptick of his lips at the man’s attempt at composure. “As we’ve just established, I’m the family. I don’t know you.”

The man smirks and leans in to let his elbows rest on the table. His head falls slightly to the side as he gazes across at Regulus with a glint in his eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, holding out a hand between them. “I’m Barty.”

Regulus eyes his hand and intentionally pushes himself into the back of the booth.

“You’re crashing.”

Barty lets his hand fall, Regulus watches it sit flat on the table.

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re flailing,” he says, eyeing him up and down. “I could kick you out right now.”

Barty narrows his eyes at him and Regulus feels his gaze start to sear his skin.

“You won’t.”

Regulus takes a shaky breath. “You don’t know that.”

Barty smirks. It’s bordering on feral. Regulus is decidedly being normal about that.

“That’s my line.”

They stare at each other through the charged haze of their own creation and Regulus feels. He feels sparks prick at his burning skin. He feels the newness of this proximity fill his brain with possibility. He feels the anticipation of more.

They sit in the loud silence for a minute, ten, he doesn’t know. But Barty breaks it.

“What’s your name?”

Regulus considers lying. Or withholding. He doesn’t.

“Regulus.”

“That,” Barty says, eyes lighting up. “Is a weird fucking name.”

“Thank you,” Regulus smirks without missing a beat. “You know how the family is. Insane.”

Barty’s smirk grows. It’s toothy. “Of course I do.”

Regulus' eyes make their way back to the dance floor. He watches Sirius and James disappear into the photo booth and something in him, something just beneath the surface, gets him up and out of his seat.

His eyes catch on a small hallway off to the side of the dance floor, hidden, unless you’re an observant little shit unwillingly at a wedding who currently finds himself at what feels like the brink of escaping an impasse.

“Barty,” he nods his goodbye.

“Regulus,” the man purrs back, looking up at his standing form like a dog waiting to be given a treat.

Regulus walks away.

And Barty follows.

Regulus stands with his back up against the wall, deep enough so he can’t be seen from the dance floor. Barty lands just a few feet away from him, leaning his right shoulder into the wall with his back to the room, creating even more of a barrier with his tall lanky form.

He towers over him. And Regulus is pretending that fact isn’t making him feel heady–as if the man following him into a secluded hallway and blocking out an entire wedding full of people with his body isn’t also making him feel seconds away from dropping to his knees.

Barty lets another grin stretch across his face, freckles finding new homes, skin around his jaw tightening, oceans in his eyes shrinking ever so slightly.

Then, he opens his mouth and Regulus intrinsically knows that can’t be good.

“I’m engaged,” he breathes, interrupting Barty before a sound even leaves his mouth. “Or will be. Soon.”

He rips his eyes away from indigo blue and tries to shut off the part of his brain that keeps showing him the memory of finding the little black velvet box wrapped up in James’ sock drawer. He feels bile rise up up up his throat, and then he feels a hand wrap around his wrist.

Regulus snaps his head to the left to watch the man in front of him look down at the small meeting of skin on skin.

“My boyfriend,” he breathes. “Is two rooms over.”

At Regulus’ confused frown, he keeps going.

“You caught me, I’m crashing this wedding,” he scoffs through a small smirk sitting in the corner of his mouth. “But I am technically also a wedding guest. Just not to this one. I can pull out my invite if you don’t believe me.”

Regulus can’t help but roll his eyes and smirk back. “Literally what information would I have to give me reason to believe you?”

“What reasons do you have not to?” “Oh so you’re an asshole and you’re stupid. I’m building up a profile in my head.”

“Mm,” Barty drawls, leaning into him and rubbing circles into his wrist. The motion makes Regulus squirm but Barty just tightens his grip and pulls him closer. “What else do you want to know? To prove I’m trustworthy or whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Regulus chokes on his audacity.

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

Barty doesn’t even blink. Regulus tries not to pout at his inability to make this man react. “Oh?”

“I’m not a cheater.”

“Neither am I,” he rolls his eyes.

“Then what are you doing following me into a secluded hallway and giving my wrist a handjob?”

He laughs. It rings around Regulus’ head. He nearly checks over his shoulder to see if the entire room has stopped celebrating to listen to it too. But he can’t seem to peel his eyes away. Stuck.

“What are you doing leading me away from the rest of your family’s wedding, hm?”

Then Barty drops his wrist. Regulus, thankfully, catches his whine.

“No touching then.”

“Friends…” Regulus licks his lips, desperation seeping out of his pores. God he’s embarrassing himself. “Touch.”

“Friends?” Barty repeats. “I thought you didn’t know me.”

“We could change that. Get to know me a bit.”

“Ah,” Barty shakes his head, a small frown pinching his eyebrows together. “I think that’d make things worse.”

Regulus watches his face, watches the way some sort of pain floats up to the surface before being coated in olive freckle-ridden skin, drowned out with the tide in his bright eyes.

“Friends then,” he smiles and it's fake fake fake but Regulus thinks he’d rather like to lick it off all the same.

“Friends,” he breathes.

Several things lead to them finding themselves pressed up against each other in the shotty rented photo booth.

Barty’s fingers find their way back down Regulus’ wrist. They slide into his palm, warming his cold skin. The pads of his fingers trace every line, every curve. His grip is soft at first, and then it’s crushing. The firmness connects them together and Regulus can’t tell where he begins and ends. Two hands meeting each other for a first embrace in the shared in between and within moments becoming just one.

A handshake.

Regulus removes himself off the wall to stand toe to toe with the wild-haired man. He’s tall, so moving his arms forward means Regulus’ hands traverse the space just above his hip bones. They wind around to skirt at the bottom of Barty’s white dress shirt. He tugs at the fabric as he lets his hands travel up to rest on the planes of his back. He pushes himself forward the last few inches and they’re chest to chest. Regulus breathes and then Barty does. In and out. Together. Barty’s hands find their way around Regulus’s shoulders, holding him close and breathing him in. Regulus’ cheek rests against Barty’s chest and they breathe. And breathe, and melt. And breathe.

A hug.

Barty lets his hands wander, running up and down his back at first, pushing over his own dress shirt into his skin. Soothing. His fingers make their way up his spine and they don’t stop, moving to hold the back of his neck then finding their way up into his hair. Regulus doesn’t stop the punched breath that escapes him as he gives in to the feeling of Barty running his fingers through his hair. His nails scratch at his scalp lightly, moving back and forth across the back of his head. He pulls, so it burns in that delectable way that makes you know it’s on the verge of being wrong, being painful. But it hurts just enough that it feels good. That he craves more. Barty gives. And gives and gives and gives.

A massage.

Regulus gets his hands up under Barty’s shirt, fingers skating across the sliver of exposed skin at first before diving under and finding himself immediately addicted to the feel of skin on skin. He needs more. So he takes it. He pushes away from Barty slightly, looking up into hooded eyes, oceans hidden just beneath the cloak of fog. Eerie. And also beautiful. His fingers find the knot of Barty’s tie and they pull, removing the barrier to get to the top of Barty’s shirt. He holds eye contact as he unbuttons the top button. And the next. And the next, exposing the top of Barty’s chest. Before he can think about it, he’s placing his nose to the heavily tattooed skin and breathing. He takes in warm tones of amber through his nostrils and it’s not enough. It won’t ever be, but he opens his lips to take in more and it’s everywhere. Barty is everywhere. He breathes him in as he presses his lips into his skin, pretending it means nothing when it means everything.

An inhale.

Together, they slink along the walls of the venue, attempting to be inconspicuous but Barty’s hand has other plans and keeps playing with Regulus’ fingers. He bats him away several times, watching the dance floor, and they eventually shove their way into the small booth unnoticed.

It’s a small space. So it merits a level of closeness that neither of them speak to. They start side to side but Barty quickly adjusts them, pulling Regulus into his lap so his thighs rest on Barty’s right leg and his legs fall between Barty’s. Regulus wraps an arm around his shoulders and the man has the gaul to smirk at him. He’s still bright, even in the fluorescent light.

“For stability,” Regulus breathes.

Barty smirks and he can’t pull his eyes away.

“Oh baby,” he drawls. “I’m far from stable.”

Regulus laughs at that, ignoring the pit in his stomach at the term of endearment. It’s genuine.

“This isn’t cheating.”

“We’re not cheaters,” Barty scoffs and grabs a set of huge hot pink glasses, placing them precariously on the end of his nose. ”What do you think? Am I pulling these off? Be honest.”

“Not at all,” Regulus breathes, ripping his eyes away from the red mouth in front of him to grab a yellow feather boa and wrapping it around his neck. He leans back into Barty’s space, not that he ever left, and lets his fingers grip his chin to hold him still as he pushes the glasses up his nose. “Press the button.”

Barty breathes and swats his hand around, refusing to pull his eyes away from Regulus. They hear a bright ding indicating the photos are about to be taken but it changes nothing. They stay staring at each other as the first click of the camera goes off.

Barty shifts his legs and Regulus’ eyes grow slightly as he feels a hardness brush up against his thigh. Barty pushes in closer, bringing his forehead up against Regulus’.

The second click of the camera goes off.

Regulus leans into him, torn between watching his eyes devour him and looking at the way he slowly licks his lips. Regulus’ mouth drops open and he breathes on a small whine. Barty’s lips part and they both breathe. The air from Barty’s exhales landing straight in Regulus’ mouth and coming back out again with his own exhale.

The third click of the camera.

Regulus breathes and breathes and breathes, panting slightly into his mouth as fingers move back into his hair and pull. He gasps, his head falls back, and teeth graze his chin before moving down to mouth at his neck. Not kissing. Breathing. Open lips running along his skin. It’s intoxicating. It’s consuming. It’s exhilarating.

The fourth click of the camera.

A photo.

Barty leaves after that, taking his half of the photos with him back to his own wedding and his own people in love. There are no promises of more, no expectations of contact, no attempts to explain.

Regulus pockets the glossy paper in a pocket against his chest. He finds his booth, sits himself down, and goes back to watching people dance and make fools out of themselves and be in love.

He still isn’t one of them. Doesn’t think he ever will be.

But at least he’s not bored.

GOD i love a cheating fic (or a not cheating fic) this is so hot. the tension???? james just outside the booth??? the not kissing???? holy shit… and the talent here….. this is gorgeous. the way you so easily capture regulus’ apathy with the scene in front of him. like he knows he should be happy but he’s just not and he needs to feel something. and barty is something.

“Barty gives. And gives and gives and gives.” <- yeah. insane.

thank you for this absolute gift… whoever you are… <3

#everyone read this please #thank u thank u thank you #anons #<- feels so wrong to put this masterpiece under this tag

5 notes · View notes

clownboybebop · 9 months ago

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if you’re ever in the position to choose between giving up and accepting defeat, and actually trying to fight the ancient unkillable god that is about to peel apart reality like a string cheese, remember this: scientifically speaking, you might as well give it a shot!

1.there were trees at the beginning of the world! there were trees so long ago that they predate bacteria that causes wood to decay. when a tree fell, it would lie there in stasis and there wasn’t any way of breaking down wood xylem on a molecular level in that way.

2. it seems obvious to say, but wood eating bacteria are literally incapable of comprehending what they’re breaking down. It’s just not information conciously available to a microorganism. they don’t know what they’re deconstructing, where it came from, bacteria have no way to even fathom the existence of a tree as a concept.

3. Regardless of the facts above, the world we live in today is a world where wood inevitably decomposes

it is worth fighting the unkillable god no matter how pointless it seems. it is worth taking the risk even though youre trying to accomplish something impossible. the reality in which you live was also once reality in which trees didn’t rot. You live in a reality that allows for existence before the possibility of destruction. you live in a reality where uncomprehending microbes break down matter that is so far beyond the scope of their comprehension that it feels comical to specify something so obvious. you live in a reality that occasionally allows unshakeable physical truths to be altered with no warning.

It is worth fighting the unkillable god because trees are so old they predate the source of their destruction, and it still did not spare them. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because bacteria rots unthinkingly, because there is room in our cosmos for destruction without comprehension on the part of the destroyer. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because now and then reality retracts the promise of immortality without fanfare, and when that happens there is no mercy for the ancient. the unmaking is not softer for the desecrators ignorance. for all things, existence is endless until the exact point where it ends.

so you might as well try to kill the unkillable god. it doesn’t seem likely, but at the beginning of the world, trees didn’t rot. so you never know! you never know