delicrieux

[delicrieux]

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 7. year one: up to mid october, 1972

pairing for this chapter—f!lestrange!reader x sirius black warnings for this chapter—sum swear & sirius being a prat word count—2.5k

a short awaited confrontation and a new friend.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

over the course of the month, it seems that the sight of you has become repulsive to sirius. he could not bear to look at you for more than it took to notice you in the crowd or to recognize your voice echoing before the body belonging to it reached him. he’d flee, usually, and refrain, in a completely un-sirius fashion, from making a gigantic scene. this would have been odd to you if only the pain of seeing his hastily retreating back wasn’t too much.

don’t be so harsh with me please, you’d want to tell him, i’ve done nothing but love you.

instead, “what. is. with. you,” and each word punctuated with an angry smack to his forearm. he glares, and he wiggles out the way of your unrelenting pursuit to beat him into submission. his friends watch frozen, stuck somewhere between amusement and desire to pull sirius back into the safe confines of the gryffindor tower. you will not allow them. not this time, at least, “you stuck up, insufferable—“

“piss off,” he nurses his bruises, though you aren’t strong enough to leave any.

you falter in your step, but the anger doesn’t die. he must know how his look wounds. he must. “piss off?” you parrot, and it rings much smaller and fainter than his had, “piss off? that’s all i get from you?”

“expect something different?” he bites, and bites, and bites, and he maims and mars until there is a thread between your hands and his heart thin as ivory wire. his eyes appraise and they dance and they hate, “why don’t you run back to your regulus.”

ah. there it is. the venom.

“sirius-“ james starts, and both of your glares cut him into two.

“shut up,” the both of you, again, together. you mirror his dark look and try to decide which words of the infinite welling quickly are most fitting. they sink with and through you; an anger and a hurt not meant to be felt by someone so inexperienced. when you and sirius argue, it is never as dire, even if it feels like it was. sirius never starts rows he cannot win, even if it’s him that loses most in the end, “family matter.”

james looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else but in the windy courtyard, shadowed by the cold arches of a loggia. peter, cheeks and ears burning, nervously rubs his hands together to dispel the cold. remus, already, is further ways down and watching, waiting for the rest to catch up. you won’t let them, not yet, not till you say your piece and abandon first, because father said the last word is always the winner.

you speak in french because you know he hates to hear it, because it reminds of home and you know he can’t stand home like he can’t stand you now, and it will hurt him, and it will make you happy, “regulus was right about you. you’ve become unthinkably cruel.”

he curls his lip, and it is with so much spite that it makes your teeth ache. his body rolls into itself, ready to explode and spit up his scorn all over your face. the insult must teeter on his tongue. you're more than ready for it. but something cracks and something flips and he reels back a bit, a show of restraint you thought him absent of.

"yeah, regulus, regulus always knows best, doesn't he?" your french mimicked in his mouth is dense, like syrup, "regulus, darling, regulus," a sneer that draws his lip to the high planes of his cheekbones, and a head tilting movement that is patronizing and obscene. it reminds you of his mother, "your regulus, isn't he the fucking best."

"he's not mine," you state tartly.

"hard to believe when he follows after you like a dog," he bites, and bites, and bites, but even through the layers upon layers, the soreness permeates and leaves you stricken into a stupor that only sirius can create, "listens and does everything you say. can't he think for himself. attached to your shoulder like some blithering pest."

you blink back the anger in your eyes. you are not going to cry, you tell yourself. if you do, then he will win, but he always does.

the boys stare at you. you don't know what to say. the feeling of it is tight and burns like an ulcer, "what has gotten into you? why do you hate me? i haven't-" your lips work through their turmoil, "-i haven't done anything to you."

he waves you off, dismissive. his hands tremble with some unspoken rage. "stop bothering me and go back to regulus. he's probably already looking for you."

the end of the conversation hangs heavily between you. sirius sniffs, and turns away in that blasé manner he always has with him, as if all life were a joke. his posture is too stiff and his features are too cold and he joins remus first as james and peter linger. you shake.

"i, uhm," james begins, but your glare silences him again. slowly, carefully, he nudges peter, "c'mon."

they leave, but james looks back. you miss it, head hung in defeat. your emotions threaten to burst free and splinter all over the stone. you think, in a hurry, how could you ever cover them up – with your hands, your body? is it the aftermath already, where everything is too obvious for pretence?

when it rains, it pours. it always has and you suspect it always will.

*

naturally, you are inconsolable. what a great big joke. no broom closet nor dusty cavern of the castle is familiar enough to hide in, and you cloak, despite its expanse, can hardly protect from sore eyes. the loo it is, locked in some stall and hiccupping. marzipan had mentioned finding a hufflepuff crying not a week in. she thought it amusing, and you did, too – who could ever abate decency and sob in the loo? what a terrible ploy for attention, had the girl expected consolation? no such could ever be found in marzipan, why, she said, and she said it proudly, she laughed quite loud and the crying stopped.

you would die on the spot if someone found you. it would feel like uncovering a horrible secret, being exposed in such a way. aren’t you a grown up? your birthday is soon, on a cold october night. grownups always breathe fine – besides your ditzy aunts – but you find there not being enough air. so much space and so little of it.

you fan yourself, and you heave, and in a tantrum you tussle out your cloak and throw it onto the gleaming white tiles.  your cheeks burn and there’s an ache in the apex of your head. crying like this, over a boy, no less? sirius, of all? rabastan would point and laugh, point and laugh, point and laugh.

there’s a knock on your stall’s door and you nearly topple over in a scurry to silence yourself.

“hi, sorry,” the voice is unfamiliar, but it sounds kind, “are you alright?”

perfect, not only have you embarrassed yourself, you’ve aroused the suspicion of an idiot. there’s a gentle creak on the wood, as if a weight has settled. an ear, perhaps, pressed onto the surface, but for what?

you will your shaky hands to settle by your stomach. the fingers pinch and pool on the woollen fabric of your sweater. you gulp, but it gets stuck, and the silence stretches, so still.

“i-yes,” you manage. this won’t do, the tears cling to your mouth, “i’m, i'm okay.”

“do you need some water?”

if you weren’t so distraught, you’d delight at the curtsy. stupidity must be contagious because you shake your head.

“no, no,” you say after a pause.

“a tissue perhaps?”

“i'm fine,” seems you have managed to locate your wits. from some hellish depths, no doubt. swiftly, you retrieve your cloak, “thank you.”

“’s no worries,” the voice pipes. it belongs to a girl, you think, who doesn't budge, and, instead, waits. it seems your dramatics have riled someone. even the staff would scold your sorry condition, all snot and tears and shaking limbs – quite undignified, "can you tell me why you're crying?"

oh, merlin, how wonderful, the prodding and the poking and the horrible sympathy. are you so pitiable? perhaps. in this state. it's still hard to believe a complete stranger has found themselves so comfortable, "if i say i'm not crying will you go?"

the girl laughs, light and tittering. for a moment, it startles you, too, "not very likely."

the air remains stagnant, as if it's thick and spinning. the echoes of your sniffles bounce along the walls. you could tell her to piss off. you've heard it enough in the span of the last hour.

"i had a fight with my friend," you say eventually, "i think he hates me."

"did you do something to make him hate you?"

your forehead grazes the stall door. it leaves a cold spot and it makes you wince, "no."

"hmm," there is a sound of shuffling and more creaking, "well, then i wouldn't be very worried. he sounds like a dick, and what you need friends like that for?"

a great deal, actually. what did you think you were doing these years, clinging to his arm and curling into his bed when it rains? "what am i supposed to do?"

"beat him up, i imagine, and sort his sorry arse out."

you snort, though not very amused, "tried that."

"good start," you imagine her nodding and crossing her arms, "now, if i were you, i'd hex him into tomorrow and we'll never hear from him again."

"sounds wicked," you lament. the thought has crossed your mind, but revenge crumbles into some mushy, pitiful mess if you think on it too long.

"positively evil," she agrees. the silence returns, but it's comfortable, "i’ve got parchment in case you wanna practice curses."

a corner of your mouth quirks. your chest aches, but it's no longer full and painful, "that's alright, thank you."

"always wanted to be an accomplice," you hear the smile in her voice, "no trouble at all."

a final stretch of quiet. it allows you to breathe, really breathe, and pull yourself into order, as it were. it's no pretty sight, the state of you, but it no longer compares to how you first came in, a crying mess. when you open the stall, and face the girl for the first time, a kind face greets you. her brown skin is flush, hair twisted into two plaited horns that are gathered into a half bun, the rest pinned around her head. your nose twitches, itchy.

she grins, "there you are. no longer crying."

the cold from the running faucet burns against your cheeks. the face that peers back at you from the mirror is dishevelled. red-rimmed eyes and wet splotches all over. you grimace, "look like a sordid mess."

"well, yes, but, like a normal sordid mess. like, almost pretty normal," she stands behind. a red lion's emblem is embroidered into her uniform. she tilts her head, "like, i look way worse when i do it. at least you cry prettily."

"oh, you think so?" you turn to her, "no one's ever said that."

her nose wrinkles, but the mirth isn't gone from her eyes, "well, don't suppose you make a habit of sobbing in front of others. lest you wouldn't have barricaded yourself in the stall."

you hum, "quite the excellent point."

she flashes her teeth and nods proudly, "of course, got many," there's a slight silence where she appraises you, "you're lestrange, right? i've seen you in my classes," she asks as though she knows, and extends her hand for you to shake, "i'm dorcas. meadowes. gryffindor.”

“slytherin,” you respond, but shake her hand anyway.

“can tell,” dorcas says, that same lilt of a smile on her lips, “you wear it with pride.”

yes, of course, because that is what lestrange do. her family name is unrecognizable, but you don't think to wonder on it much further. her eyes are friendly and warm, and she takes to fixing the wayward strands of your hair while you dab a bit of tissue paper to your nose. a few seconds go by, and she glances at you from under the hair fallen onto her forehead, "i still have parchment, and we could still get you those curses down."

"haven't the ink to draw any, unfortunately," you reply.

"hm. next time then," dorcas decides for herself, and makes for the door, "think a walk to the kitchens might be in order?" she leaves her invitation open-ended, her gaze expectant, "could use a warm cinnamon bun."

you wonder about her, dorcas meadowes, with the shiny dark eyes and plaits and how well she talks to strange girls who cry in bathroom stalls. "alright," you accept, the smile on your face not as strained, nor sad, nor angry, "lead the way."

#regulus black #sirius black #the marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders x you #harry potter #hp #imagine #imagines #reader #fluff #hogwarts #x reader #angst #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #james potter #james potter x reader #if u squint #time to pretend #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #hp x you #hp fanfic #slytherin boys

[delicrieux]

i dieded

For I Have Sinned

“Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God’ For God cannot be tempted by evil.” James 1:13.

But Father Geto can be. 

Newly appointed Chaplain of the Noble Court, Suguru is a reformed sinner. Sanctity, discipline and celibacy are commandments of his choosing. A devout servant of the Lord. Armored with the Breastplate of Righteousness, the Shield of Faith. 

This should be sufficient enough to withstand temptation. 

Right? 

Pairing: Geto x Female reader 

C/W: Religious themes, dark romance, eventual filth. 18+. MDNI. 

A/N: Holy hell. Anon, you sick, twisted genius. You, the puppeteer. Me, the puppet who writes. This one — this story might be the one. Frothing at the mouth to know what you guys think. Going on AO3 for sure. I haven’t decided if I will keep this long fic series here, but since it was an anon ask its only right to honor them with the first chapter. 

Art credit: @ potchi_jpg on X

Music: Garden Kisses x Giveon (this was on a manic repeat for at least an hour. It wrote the chapter. I implore you to listen and levitate like I did).

CHAPTER I. Hello, Duchess.

Andesite. Dacite. Schist. 

Gorgeous. 

Suguru takes a mental note of the rock formations whizzing by just before he spears the Aegean Sea. Tailwind force trailing his feet in an elegant whirl.

Eh, mediocre landing. He’s out of practice. 

It’s true. Seminary did not allow for too much idle time in between biblical studies. Devil’s playground, and such. 

And it’s not in his nature to half-ass any life endeavor, whatever it may be. 

Suguru deftly levels out in the welcoming waves. Loose-limbed and fluid. Choosing to hover below her surface for a few moments longer. The tail end of his thick, singular French braid undulating behind him.

His body flows in tandem with the current. Swimming deep enough to scatter a pool of Fagri. He instinctively captures one in his large hand — not quite as out-of-touch as he thought. 

‘Make it to shore! If Poseidon calls, don’t answer Him, son!’

The gentle fisherman called out each time Suguru dove off their vessel. Still two or three, sometimes up to five miles from the coast, he’d plunge into the waters. Regardless of her mood, Suguru craved to be surrounded by her embrace. 

To be baptized by her tide. 

Showered with her salt of the earth. 

A dampened smile blooms across Suguru’s terse lips. Oxygen bubbles float about, from the muffled chuckle escaping him. 

His father’s voice rings between his ears. A little less clearly, nowadays. 

He always dove deeper than his fellow seafarers. Without the restraints of gear or protective equipment. Unnaturally comfortable in an element more labile than human nature. 

Suguru’s father mused about his Stormborn boy’s true lineage. 

‘Everyday, I prayed for you. Begged for you. And the God of the Ocean delivered a precious gift. Don’t return to His storms too soon.’

Fond memories, a little yellowed now. Callouses from those days have faded. 

Suguru is a different man. Born again. In a new country. With a new home, a new purpose. 

Even still, it’s comforting to know the world is 70% water, 30% land. And the Great Majority has always welcomed him with open arms.

No matter the iteration of his life, he’ll always find a home at Sea.

“Father Geto!”

What? 

Suguru begins his ascent. He is still by the cliff edge. Not nearly far enough for the Sirens to beckon. 

“Chaplain! Are you out there?”

Not even the saltwater penetrates his ears like this melody. 

An ethereal crescendo. With all the grace and beauty of a summer swan. Light enough to lull stoic men to a peaceful, permanent, slumber. 

More alluring. More disorienting than the songs at sea he’s heard and resisted. Potent enough to drown a warship. 

Who is calling for him?

Suguru chases the lethal sound. Careful pauses at each depth-level. To avoid returning to Poseidon’s storms too soon, as his father would say. 

“Father Geto!” 

Ahh, a voice he recognizes. His alter boy, Noel, at the peak.

Helios is kind, today. Because the Sun kisses Suguru as he breaks the surface. If the Ocean is his home, the Sun is certainly his lover. 

“What is it, Noel?” He calls in between strides to the volcanic edge.

“You have a visitor!” A tremble to Noel’s tone. Suguru cant help the low chuckle that leaves him.

Adolescents are always so anxious. Nervous about the most inconsequential, meaningless things. He was once the same. 

Who could be visiting? His schedule is supposed to be cleared today. 

Suguru laments leaving his clothing at the peak of the cliffside. Tossing a glance over his left shoulder - memories of his past life tattooed in various symbols. His back, covered in a sprawling trident. 

A permanent stain from the life he lived before this. It’s unbecoming of a priest to be seen this way. 

Latching onto the unforgiving rocky edges, Suguru scales the steep terrain in long steps and short holds. Serrated earth digs into his damp palms with each grasp.

He savors the pain. It’s familiar. An indication that he’s spent some time in the only other place he finds unfettered peace. 

“Noel, my schedule was cleared. Who could be—“

“Pardon my intrusion, Father Geto.” You seep into Suguru’s sentence, effectively answering his question. 

Music. 

Suguru nearly falls backward off the ledge he just set foot on.

Rumors about your beauty pollenated the compound for weeks. Anxiously anticipating your arrival. Hushed voices between maidens. Whispers within the walls of parlors. Bellowing gossip between court officials. 

All the words, all the speculations roll around Suguru’s skull. Louder than glass shattering in an empty room. 

They were wrong. 

Liars. 

Not even a tenth of the truth can be found in the frivolous ‘she’s a beauty’, ‘what a pretty face’ and comments of the like taking root in the compound. 

No, no. 

You were sculpted by every single Deity Suguru has ever studied.  

Because the One he has chosen to worship couldn’t have possibly crafted you alone. 

The good Lord is simply without the means.

Suguru will have to repent for that blasphemous thought later. 

…but God granted him eyesight, no? 

Eyes that can see underwater with the same clarity as a cloudless day. He trusts his eyes more than any part of his body. 

And they aren’t deceiving him. 

Flushed and turned away, Suguru takes a moment to soak you in, while patting himself dry. Maybe taking a little extra time to step into his khaki slacks and white button up. 

His wind pipe threatens to spasm with each sip of you he takes. 

Exquisite woman. 

You could convert a non believer in an instant. 

The gentle slope of your nose, those warmed soft, high cheeks deserve to be cherished in a museum. 

That dress. 

The tailor must’ve sewn it to your body in real time. Rolling hills and dips of your feminine curves. So quick to surrender to the ride your frame is taking him on. 

Suguru could fall to his knees and praise the Gods right here and now for their attention to detail. 

“Duchess? I’m embarrassed. Forgive my attire, I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

Still damp but fully clothed, Suguru walks forward with a steady hand outstretched. Intentionally skipping eye contact with Noel, who would’ve interpreted the glance as anger. The boy is practically vibrating in his periphery. 

Concerned about possibly making a mistake, sure. But if Suguru were still a betting man, he’d bet your presence is driving Noel’s rattled nerves. 

“I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness!” Unveiling your face to him with a gorgeous smile, you offer a delicate hand that drowns in his. 

Well.

To call it just a gorgeous smile makes him no better than the rumor mill and its grave underestimation. 

The air around him is sliced to a fraction of what it was. Suddenly gossamer thin and inadequate. 

You are breathtaking. 

“Please.” A deceptively even tone and casual wave of his hand. You wouldn’t know that words taste like sandpaper. 

“How can I serve you, Duchess?” 

“You do not have to address me as such, Father. I’m not wed, yet!”

Bunny lines along your nose deepen when you laugh. Heat scorches Suguru’s ears and you both are presently under shade. 

Do. Not. Covet.

“It’s all the same.” With a restrained smile, Suguru peels his eyes away from yours. 

Resting them on his rectory in the distance. He gestures his hands forward. Noel scrambles ahead of you two, undoubtedly to go tidy the chapel (that is already spotless). 

“You’re quite the swimmer.” 

You could assassinate him, you know. 

With that voice of yours. The way it stuns his senses. Far more dangerous now that it isn’t dampened by unrelenting waves. 

Suguru is a strong swimmer. He knows it. Noel knows it. The whole court knows it. Great Whites know it. 

So why is his spine unraveling at its seams when you say it? 

Why is his heart knocking against his sternum like it’s on the run from something? 

From someone, rather. 

“Mmm.” Suguru hums through closed lips. 

Unable to acknowledge the compliment with decorum. He opts for diversion instead. 

“Duchess, if I may. What prompted your visit to the chapel? How can I serve you?” 

The two of you take lazy strides along the cobblestone path. You ogle at a white rose bush that Suguru is particularly fond of. 

“I was touring the compound and noticed the garden surrounding the Church.” 

A distracted response, while nestling your nose in a pretty bloom. Sun rays fanning your face as if to showcase that you’re God’s favorite. A biblical example of how flowers should be enjoyed.

Is it just the roses? Or are you this beautiful no matter the plant?  

“Ahh. Come, then.” 

You’re being indulgent, Suguru. 

Maybe so. But the Chapel Grounds are his domain. The greenery lives and breathes under his fingertips. He adamantly refused a groundskeeper for the garden. Taking pride in nurturing its needy existence. 

Second only to his eyes, Suguru trusts his hands fully. They’re intelligent. Fast. Expansive. 

Definitive. Firm when the situation calls for it, yet gentle. Quick to learn. 

Attentive. 

He’s never gotten a shortage of compliments on his hands—

“Wisteria!” You torpedo through Suguru’s rapidly disintegrating spiral. And he couldn’t be more grateful. 

Regaining a shred of control, he leads you under the oak archway. Draped in curtains of Wisteria. The billowing lilac petals sway romantically in the sea breeze. 

Your lips hang open in a pretty, shocked ‘Oh.’ Eyes wide, gazing up at him in wonder. Adoration woven into those beautiful features slams hot and heavy into his lower abdomen. Remnant embers warming below his belt line. 

Suguru coughs to reset his over-sensitive senses. A futile gesture because you knock him right back down to his knees. 

“Oh, Father…..please?” A soft plea rolls through the slit in your lips. Pulling his eyes down to your pout.

Fuck. 

The rock formation Suguru took note of earlier suddenly materializes in his throat. You coated his honorific in a new tone. Breathy and desperate. As if he is the only person who could satisfy your needs. 

His skin is half a degree away from melting clear off his skeleton under those big, warm eyes of yours. 

“Specify your request, Duchess.”

Both hands jam into his pockets so he can dig his nails into his thighs unnoticed. The searing pain tethering him to this dimension. 

A deep rose blooms over your cheeks. Realizing you hadn’t actually asked him a question before begging. 

So, prettily. 

“May I please tend to your garden? It’s…I’m far from home and gardening brings me so much joy. Please, Father Geto—“

“Yes.” 

His agreement comes well before Suguru is ready. Or, thought it through. 

Should a noble woman be seen doing tasks as menial as gardening? 

Should you be seen without your fiancée on his grounds? 

What will you look like? 

Kneeling over a bed of sunflowers? 

Kneading the soil with your delicate, small hands—

“How can I thank you?” Your lips curl into an intoxicating smile. And Suguru no longer has the capacity to be in your presence. 

“No need, stay as long as you like. I have to take my leave.”

Suguru offers a curt wave and terse smile before spinning on his heel. Leaving you, a work of art, beneath the masterpiece that is his arc of wisteria. 

He barrels down the Chapel corridors at light speed. The pews, confessional, meeting rooms whirl by his periphery in a drunken haze.

Cold water. Cold water. 

The wooden bathroom door creaks and wails beneath his harsh touch. Suguru fumbles with the two-level lock.

He nearly strips down naked. The fire incinerating him from within is unbearable. If there were scissors within grasp he would’ve cut his braid completely off. Because even the familiar sway of his waist length mane along his back is too much. 

You are too much.

Suguru’s fingers unravel his braid and reposition his locks into a tight bun. Off the damp skin along his neck. 

‘Father….please?’

Your voice echoes from Suguru’s incapacitated brain down to his drooling cock. Icy water splashes against face. 

Suguru’s length has been weeping since you first revealed your face to him. Twitching and thrashing with every single word that came out of that pretty, sinful mouth. He’s never been so grateful that today he chose to swim with compression gear, rather than his usual bared skin. 

Are you doing this on purpose?

Wide eyed and demure. But with a voice more beautiful than any siren that has tried to lure him to his watery grave. 

Is this a test?

Suguru’s fingers desperately grasp the golden cross around his neck. Digging the symbol into his palm. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” He starts. Ignited, smoldering violet eyes staring back at him are unrecognizable. 

They are not of God. 

They are dark. 

Lust filled. 

“Now. And…and at the hour of our death.” Words slip through his gritted teeth. His other hand grips the sink edge. 

‘May I please tend to your Garden?’

“God. Please.” Suguru is the one pleading. To anyone above.

For self-control. For reprieve from the shape of your lips when you beg. His cock bucks against his inner thigh. Demanding attention to the ache between his legs. 

Are you Eve? 

Have you come to destroy his Eden?

Your delectable mounds barely hidden beneath that fucking dress as the Apple?

“Holy…Holy Mary, Mother of God…pray for us sinners.” His vice grip around the cross tightens. Babbling words he hopes can provide him with some restraint, some clarity.

They don’t.

Because his other hand now hovers over the pulsating bulge in his slacks. His manhood starved. Especially having been deprived of touch. Of warmth for longer than Suguru remembers.

“Holy…Mary…fuck.” Blasphemy rolling off his tongue. 

Scorching heat radiating from his hovering palm pierces his clothing. Encasing his cock like a warmed blanket. Enticing him like the soft sex of a woman. Every single muscle is under wire tension. Forcing space between his need and his hand. 

His hands. Don’t forsake him now. He trusts his hands. 

“Father Geto? Are you alright?” Noel’s call from the other side of the door startles Suguru still.

“I’m—“ Suguru clears his dry throat “I’m alright, Noel. What do you need?”

“I saw you run in here and—“

“I’m okay.” Suguru replies, more softly this time. The boy is almost too tender-hearted for his own good.

He doesn’t miss the small sigh of relief. 

“I left your updated schedule on your desk.” 

“And what would I do without you?”

Suguru can almost hear Noel smiling across the barrier. Gleefully padding away. Completely unaware that his presence was the saving grace from disgracing himself. 

Another splash of cold water on his face and multiple deep breaths later, Suguru finally gains enough composure to emerge. 

Curious about the updates to his schedule, he strides to his office. A leather folder awaits with his itinerary.

Saturday: 0800 - 1000- Youth lecture 

Saturday: 1800 - 2000 - Evening mass

Sunday: 0700 - 0900 - Morning mass

Sunday: 1300 - 1400 - Pre-Marital Counseling [CONFIDENTIAL] 

“High court, then.” Suguru muses to himself. Pulling out the envelope with a matching demarcation. Meant for his eyes only. Should the seal be broken en route to the recipient the offender could be sentenced to death for treason. 

And at this moment, Suguru finds that fate less painful than the spear currently piercing his lungs.

His eyes burn into the names written at the bottom of the page.

The Duke Ahriman  & The Duchess-to-Be.

E/N: Hello from [redacted]. I am literally losing my shite. I’m already in love with the plot before it has even fully materialized. And prince-of-the-sea-Suguru? This headcannon has me in a chokehold I fear. Thank you for reading 💋

#geto as a priest??? #‘itll pass’ lookin ass #AAAAA #i love this sm im tweaking

[delicrieux]

child of the moon

[delicrieux]

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 6. year one note: september 2nd, the summons

pairing for this chapter—f!lestrange!reader x regulus black warnings for this chapter—none word count—2.1k

whatever did happen at slughorn’s honorary tea party? well…

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

you would have preferred to change into something a bit more fitting for a tea party, but the invitation came too sudden. it was just you and regulus, wrung out from the day’s activities – the new classes and itineraries and so many faces to remember and attach names to – en route to the library (by regulus’ request, he had been quite adamant at starting charms homework early) when you were collected and brought the same winding steps down to the dungeons.

you’d think the air be warm and smelling of mould and torch-light smoke, but no. it’s surprisingly dry, if not a bit heavy, bending under the weight of the castle and the black lake. you follow. the professor says his hellos to passing slytherin students. regulus, a step behind you, remains equally as silent.

the office you are cordially ushered in is small for a professor of such distinguished rank. there’s a low ceiling and a homey atmosphere, a plush couch in deep, smoky velvet with gilded edges, a mahogany table, an impressive amount of trinkets and pictures in the cabinet, a few portraits and landscapes and old tomes with latin titles: the elixir compendium: ancient brews and potent potions, alchemy through the ages: secrets of the master potioneers, witchcraft and wizardry: a guide to mystical mixtures.

tea’s already steaming and waiting. beside the cups, a delicious display of biscuits and caramels in flowery china.

“there we are,” professor slughorn says, closing the door. regulus and you take a seat, backs straight and hands folded neatly on your laps. one, however, seems much less at ease, “there we are. what a joy, i must say, to have so many bright students this year.”

the professor takes a seat on an armchair to face you both. his eyes jump between you and regulus. when he takes his tea, you do, too.

“i know it must be too soon to tell, but how are you finding hogwarts?” he settles on regulus first.

there’s a slight pause and an answer given to the tea, “very big, sir.”

“ah,” slughorn intones, “indeed, a marvel of creation. can be quite difficult to navigate. sometimes i stumble the wrong way and discover a room unseen, even after all these years. always up to something, this castle. as if alive itself,” his gaze drifts to you, “and you, miss lestrange? what are the impressions?”

medieval. the truth has a bitter tinge.

what comes out is more polite, “sheer wonder, sir. a bit of homesickness as well, but surely passes away the first few months, does it not?"

“of course, of course! as is to be expected anywhere, but i'm absolutely certain you’ll grow to love it very much over your stay,” there is a gleam of pride, a private whisper of, "very bright, indeed, you two. you'll both excel in all your studies." before he is reaching for a biscuit with the poise of a natural socialite.

regulus frowns but accepts the complement and bites into the sugar glaze of his own treat.

"i recall, you know, your father, mister black. orion was quite a rising name in the duelling club back in the day," a wave of the biscuit, and the memories, "no one, till this day, i bet, could beat him. not without paying a visit to the hospital wing."

regulus looks slightly up from under his lashes. professor slughorn perseveres with an affable smile.

a raised finger, "excelled in defence against the dark arts. wonderful wandwork, though i was quite, if you pardon my candour, miffed that he didn't take to potions as much. top of his class, but his passions laid elsewhere. your mother, though, walburga, oh, a delight to the heart," slughorn, overcome with remembrance, rubs a thumb over the stitching on his robe, "simply splendid. always a joy to have in class – a talented witch and diligent student. well-versed in potion making and never shied away from a difficult task."

"thank you, sir," is offered stiffly and sincerely, if somewhat unwillingly.

"the only one ever to come close to beat her title as top of class was your own mother, miss lestrange," he doesn't notice the glance that passes between you and your cousin, "you are very much like her. laurelle. a spitting image, in fact," there's a strange wistfulness in his eye as he regards you, a tone just a tad softer, "an exceptional young woman."

it could have been anyone – the sentiment could apply to a countless number of things, but...

no one speaks much of your mother, and she doesn't speak at all. hearing anything on a figure whom had faded into an invisible character is strangely foreign. like a freshly cut bruise.

"thank you, sir," you say, not sure how to respond to such a tender sentiment, "everyone says we're much alike."

"then no doubt you possess her talent for runes and arithmacy. her and walburga, always a competition between them, i recall. a bit of friendly rivalry in class. but walburga, i fear, didn't possess laurelle's talent for astronomy or the gift for divination."

there's a slight pause at the mention of the last word, where everything seems to halt. the world itself, under your feet, eases motion. the sugar cube held between your tweezers plops into your cup with a splash a bit too loud.

"and your father," slughron glosses over it quickly but gracefully, "a natural at transfiguration. one of the toughest subjects at hogwarts, if i do say so myself, besides potions, that is," you feel regulus' gaze burn the side of your face, "rodolphus, too, enjoyed transfiguration very much. yes, a very gifted boy."

rabastan mustn’t be talented at much since he isn't mentioned. you expected it, though it feels like a slight injustice.

"here," slughorn stands and retrieves a picture in a pretty gold frame before presenting it to you and regulus, "our winter social of 1946."

in the picture is slughorn himself and his illustrious slug club. there's a 17 year old orion black, handsome, carefree, a slight mischievous twinkle in his eye, not a line of stress etched in his features. you and regulus spot your mothers instantly. walburga softer in the face, the harsh lines not yet present. a modest smile, one regulus mimics unconsciously faced with her likeness. and there's laurelle, your mother, in the front beside slughorn, gazing past the camera to the great beyond.

a beauty. startling in sight, like a painting slightly crooked.

there's father, too, seeming very jovial beside his prewett cousins.

"timon and orion," slughorn continues, pilfering another picture from the cabinet. he gives it to regulus, as you hold the other, "were on the slytherin quidditch team. very good ones, too. orion was seeker and timon beater, a fine fit for their temperaments. are you interested in quidditch, dear boy?"

regulus, finally, comes alive. there's a fervour now, the topic far more exciting than that of house points and exams.

"yes, sir. my brother didn’t allow me to go out and train with him, though. said i'm too young," he doesn't complain, simply recounts with disappointment.

slughorn laughs, "yes, well, sirius cannot stop you now, can he? if you're interested, do talk to young aster fauns. he's the captain of our team. i'm certain he'll be delighted to let you practice before trying out for the team next year. hogwarts is, after all, a great place for adventures, and nothing is more thrilling than an afternoon out in the skies," slughorn's finger wiggle, "best believe it was me, and dear orestes carrow, who first hang-glided off the west tower."

regulus grins then. really grins, a lovely sight. a shadow of orion's, in the picture held before.

slughorn tacks on, "with some friends, naturally. of course, now, of course. safe to say that no one is attempting hang-gliding these days. and you shan't either," he wags a finger, though good-naturedly, "both of you, know i have eyes and ears everywhere. i shall be the first to hear of it."

you return to inspecting the treasure in your hands. the eight members of the slug club stand in formalwear, perfectly fitted. the air is lighter, smiles a little more wide. even for an animated picture, they stay respectably still besides the odd laugh and wandering, playful eyes.

laurelle, particularly, doesn't move, or blink, or breathe. there's a half smile painted on her lips, an almost faint sadness around the edges of her eyes.

she must've been ill by then. so young, a seventh year. a brilliant, albeit tragic star, the scintillating crown of the lestranges. a jewel so precious father chose a foreign last name.

"any classes you are excited for in particular?" slughorn inquires.

regulus starts but keeps a sensible eye, "all of them, sir."

a chortle. he sounds amused, not doubtful, at the wide-eyed, unhesitating declaration.

"and you, miss lestrange?"

you lift your head from the picture. you wonder if you shall grow into her features like rabastan grew into father's, "runes, sir."

"a marvellous subject. tremendously difficult, but i do not doubt your potency for it, dear girl. you'll excel. are you familiar at all?"

regulus turns at attention. the portraits, too, seem intrigued and tilt an ear. you tell the truth, "i know the alphabet. the runic charts in the library at home, though, are very complicated."

"your mother's handiwork, most probably," his lips crinkle upward, eyes scrunched kindly, "many would disagree, but a runic chart is often very subjective. like any other language, the flow and transition depends greatly on the speaker. laurelle was, is still, no doubt, an exceptional translator. have you attempted to read them?"

you glance at regulus, as if unsure. his expression is inscrutable.

"a little, sir," you hesitate again before continuing, "but i can't translate everything. i'd be much more comfortable using a rune dictionary."

"like the best of them, you've inherited your mother's talent."

something remains unsaid, but you feel it in the air around you. bending under the weight.

"well, i shan't keep you longer," slughorn says, setting down his tea, "the hour grows late and you have classes in the morning."

you all stand. regulus collects the photos and returns them to their owner. the others remain in the picture frames on the cabinets. there are too many to take in and you're curious, perhaps a touch greedy, to drink the sight of laurelle lestrange while offered the leisure.

"but, before you go," slughorn calls when you're at the door, "may i have a word, dear girl? only a moment."

you look to regulus, who does, too, and raises a brow. slughorn nods reassuringly, his hand reaching forward, ready to push the knob and send him off.

"i'll wait in the corridor," regulus tells you before the closing door obscures him.

the room is silent. slughorn's small eyes dart to the ground before back to you. there's a tentative smile, "a good friend, isn't he? regulus."

"yes, sir," you reply dutifully.

"no doubt, you shall grow to learn what a gift that is in hogwarts. very true friends, those loyal in their heart, are scarce. it's good to have such a person by your side."

"of course, sir."

the atmosphere feels thick again.

"someone you can trust," he emphasizes, but it feels as though what he's saying is going over your head, "that can be dependable," a gentle, careful tone is in his voice, like a question or a plea, "to confide in."

there's a prolonged silence. a shifting in your boots, the pull of the robe over your knees, "i'm sorry, sir. what do you mean?"

his expression falls, like he doesn't wish to elaborate, to explain the unspoken, but, no doubt, you don't fully understand, "not so important, really. a silly worry. an old man's fretting. this is a very difficult thing, being away from home. could result in a deal of… unexpected ways. i recall i could barely sleep the first week. terribly cold up here in winter, and all the unfamiliar voices."

he sounds apologetic. you say politely, "that will certainly ease itself soon, i'm certain. home is not so far, after all, sir."

he smiles, a comforting thing, "indeed. quite true. a splendid perspective, as i expect of you. only, if there was something to ever come up, know that you can confide in me, as you can in young regulus. my ears and heart are always open," it's offered in earnest. you nod, if not a touch stiff, before bowing your head.

when you enter the corridor, you meet regulus with an unchanged face. he's studying the decorations and trinkets lined the walls. portraits, old medals, and ribbons hung.

"what'd he want?" he inquires once you're on your way back to the common room. a glance over the shoulder, though professor slughorn's office is closed and far off already, "nothing, really."

#regulus black #sirius black #the marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders x you #harry potter #hp #imagine #imagines #reader #fluff #hogwarts #x reader #angst #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #james potter #james potter x reader #if u squint #time to pretend #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #hp x you #hp fanfic #slytherin boys

[delicrieux]

redid the aesthetics of the parts to match the masterlist. now i can write in peace.

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫

property of the youngest lestrange (barty if you read this i'll kill you)

all girls have diaries - who smart to consult if not yourself? yours, particularly, is stored by your bedside table, enchanted with a knockback jinx if anyone (especially rabastan, merlin, he's so meddlesome) was to grab for it. no, all that's written here is for your eyes only. from 1972 to... well, the dates get muddled after a while, don't they?

'corvus oculum corvi non eruit' is engraved on the shiny veneer of the family crest. all nice and wonderful, though entirely impractical.

some are known to grow peckish. what then?

pairings—sirius black, barty crouch jr, regulus black, evan rosier, & james potter x f!lestrange!reader genre—action, drama, romance, coming of age, comedy, canon compliant up to a point, adventure warnings—swearing, mentions of blood & death, canon typical violence, parental trauma, underage drinking & smoking, some bad decisions but what is teenhood without them author’s note: hm yes here we go. my contribution to a fandom i'm likely never leaving help

↪ back to ultimate masterlist.

which page shall you check first? ✩

summer 1972, mid july

summer 1972, august

summer 1972, late august

year one: start of term, 1972

year one: early september, 1972

{year one note: september 2nd, the summons}

year one: up to mid october, 1972

year one: halloween, 1972

year one: november, 1972

...

2024    ©delicrieux    

[delicrieux]

@a-reverii STOP! u will make me blush

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 1. summer 1972, mid july

pairing for this chapter—sirius black x f!lestrange!reader   warnings for this chapter—mayhaps a swear or two word count—3.4k

bellatrix's wedding brings about all sorts of curious ideas to an impressionable, 11-year-old mind. no matter, you're smarter than the lot of them anyway.

author’s note: i'm in my marauders era. don't ask questions

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | next >

yes, you have decided – you shall get married as well. perhaps immediately. if father was not so busy with ministry matters as to attend cousin bellatrix’s (no, now sister bellatrix’s, how you always wished to have a sister!) wedding, you would have marched to him and let your plans be known. he’d do something about it, surely, as rodolphus has just married and rabastan never wants anything, meaning you can ask for the world and father must listen, because who else will he give it to?

mother is here, though she won’t be for long – the evening grows weary, the sky pure lilac and gold, and the heat settles comfortably. it’s time for the ‘long sleep,’ or so rabastan calls it, though she had done fairly well to hold court with so many relatives vying for her attention. she becomes very sad when she thinks no one is looking, but rodolphus thinks she doesn’t think at all. you find such a sentiment unkind. everyone says you and mother are so alike, pretty twins, one so young and one older, and you think often, which can only mean mother thinks as much, if not more. she’s become so tired holding up a twinkling glass of bubbly, and her shoulders had caved a tad from the strain of sitting without touching the plush back of the chair.

no, you shan’t tell her – she might forget in her dreams, and what help will that be? when she sleeps, she can hear nothing, and she sleeps through days and weeks and the upstairs chambers smell clement with rosemary and anise. sometimes, you come sit with her and listen to her mumble, imagine a story, like a web, weaved by her quiet voice. then, you recall it before bed, and close your eyes soundly. rabastan haunts her frequent, yet each time he leaves he seems a bit more defeated. you don’t understand why. perhaps he lacks your imagination.

sister you’d prefer not to bother, as to not steal her limelight – how unfortunate it would be to overshadow her happiness with a proclamation! uncle orion seems much too busy with the minister’s men, and aunt walburga has grown stiff beside your mother. there’s always aunt delphi carrow, though you don’t fancy her much. uncle herbet and aunt herbertta burke, but they are too strange, and their daughter is mean – herberttina had once set your robes on fire by mistake, though you knew it was no accident. oh, the scandal of it all, father was furious, and mother would have surely thrown a might fit if she was awake to witness it. there’s uncle fabian prewett, but he and father had grown cross as of recent. aunt eudora greengrass, perhaps, but then she’d tell matilda, and matilda would become jealous, and then there’d be two weddings at the same time in different locations, and the families would have to pick a favourite – you, of course, there’s no one on earth more important than a lestrange, though you wouldn’t like a row.

cissy? she must be thinking of her own wedding to lucius, and perhaps she would happily indulge you. together you could plan. she’s much older and wiser than you, and she must know how delicate these matters are. it would be good to consult her once she finishes dancing.

cousin marzy nott is an option, too, though she tells her brother everything, and this matter is not for boys’ ears. you’d imagine they’d find the sentiment stupid – rabastan said weddings were silly, girlish affairs and that he should never wish to marry, and you had, greatly offended by this notion, told him that no one would want to marry him anyway, so he needn’t worry. his glare had struck you before his spell did. you were down with a stomach ache for two days before father noticed something amiss.

you watch the floating lights swell and burst by the tent’s ceiling. pretty glimmers descend and curl and rise and pop slowly. there’s a pause between music filled by applause. you clap, too, on the outskirts of the polished dancefloor, watching as rodolphus – quite mean looking – leads a pleased bellatrix to the centre. they bow, and waltz strikes, and then they dance. elegant and wistful, you have hardly seen a picture more romantic. shall your dress be black, too? velvet feels too heavy, as proved by your current robes. silk would be too daring. perhaps cissy would help you work out these details, she’s very stylish and refined. you should like to grow up and be just like her.

but who shall you marry? indeed, planning a wedding is all nice and well, and your contribution to the current affair had been invaluable (the napkin colours you picked to match bella’s eyes, and she had been so grateful!), but your plans are nigh if there’s no one to marry. marzy’s brother is almost of age, but he’s very tall and you imagine you would have great trouble landing a kiss on his cheek, and if you were married to him, you suppose you would have to do it often. all of rodolphus' friends are too old, and rabastan doesn’t have many. barty is too reckless and he’d annoy you endlessly. evan would be a beautiful match – he’s very handsome, though a bit gaunt. alas, he’s very proud for eleven, and he wouldn’t wish to change his last name to lestrange – that would be a terrible shame and would displease you greatly, for the lestrange name is the only name worth having. if such weren’t the case, father would have remained prewett.

there’s regulus, of course, sat sombre beside his mother. he is sweet, though dull, but you think he would agree to become lestrange – he’s a spare, no need to wear black when he could be someone so much more important.

out of this lengthy list, you would prefer sirius. he is older, and already so mature at twelve, and he knows so many interesting things beyond the gilded world of magic. he has made you listen to lively tunes on a strange muggle contraption, a spinning disk, and he had told you to jump around when the music played. this is how muggles dance, he had said, and it had been fascinating.

but sirius is the heir to the black family, and aunt and uncle would never permit him to change his name, though you know he doesn’t much prefer it. he often speaks with distain and you dutifully pretend not to notice. he airs his woes in words abstract and difficult to understand, and since hogwarts, he had grown a bit quiet around you and his family. regulus had complained he’s mean now, more so than he was previously, but sirius had always treated you as treasure and you felt no malice, which could only prelude to regulus either lying or being outwardly jealous, and those aspects make for a poor husband indeed.

no, you shan’t marry. you turn your gaze away from the dance. the situation is dire – there are no eligible bachelors, and to look outside this circle would mean travelling back to france, and you hadn’t been these since you were five, though you miss it. the days there always felt less gloomy, and mother didn’t sleep as much, but she didn’t like you as much, either. she’s gentler when she can’t see you, can’t tell you’re listening.

even now, she lays a kind hand on regulus’ wavy hair, a caress you had never known. she had not looked at you once this evening.

“bloody terrible, isn’t it?” sirius sounds beside you, and you startle in an act of innocence, though you had heard him approaching. you had spent many summers with the black brothers, and their gait you recognise well. rodolphus and rabastan you know, too, as you had learned to distinguish them by the way the floorboards creak back home to know how much trouble you’d be in when caught. surprisingly, always, rodolphus was more lenient, temper melted under teary eyes and a wobbling lower lip. rabastan was bitter, naturally, because you are the favourite.

but, to the matter at hand, “total toss. looks like a cow dressed in ruffle.”

“sirius!” you exclaim, so offended, “don’t speak so ill of my sister – she looks very beautiful.”

“was talking of your brother,” he drawls, bored, and you know he’s lying. you mull his words over with a grimace of contemplation you had seen father wear when presented with matters of great importance.

“…suppose he does look a tad ugly in those robes," you note, "they are hardly his colour, i've told him, but he wouldn't listen. told me to return to my dolls, when, in fact, as you well know, they are very stylish. aunt alicia has gotten me lovely presents."

he huffs in annoyance, like he always does when he's wronged. "well, she's not my aunt," he declares, very much immaturely. "still think bella looks bloody silly. you like her?"

it's then that he glances to your person and his question brings on an unwitting pout and a defiant crossing of the arms. sirius' features, already, after a year at hogwarts, have changed. the boyish roundness remains, but there's a hint of his mother's angularity to the brow and high, fine cheeks. his eyes, a dark and lovely shade of grey, sparkle mirthfully in the changing lights.

his hair is a curly mess as always, and perhaps a little longer now. aunt walburga would say it is uncultivated, and a slight to his title as heir. the fact that he hasn't gone bald from an insidious spell is testament to his parents' kindness and ability to forgive. you've always found sirius very pretty and very smart, but…

very difficult to engage, only because of your own strange shyness, which only ever rears its head when you find yourself under the careful inspection of his stare. he sees through everything, you can tell, which must be why his silences have you fluster in anticipation. will he ask something daring or will he wait for you to make a mistake first? his expression always appears indolent, though it is never genuine.

bella's booming laugh echoes through the throng, and the music, and patter of your heart. you never know where to put your hands.

"she's always very kind to me," you manage, a truth to lighten the mood, and a tactic you had learned from lady lestrange herself. mother's beauty, her voice.

"she's a bitch."

you slap his arm and he yelps. the way he throws his hands up is meant to deter another attack. "don't call her that!"

"then stop bloody attacking me," he counters, and rubs his forearm. it isn't likely there'll be a mark, and perhaps that is what steers you forward. "she is awful. everyone's awful."

not true, an absolutely ludicrous thing to say, and you click your tongue to show it. regulus is mild and sentimental, matilda is a bit daft but well-meaning, and marzy is a riot if you give her a chance to open up. the adults are well-mannered and friendly, and as the night wears, merrier and tipsier. evan is intelligent and witty, much like sirius, though he lacks the brevity. barty and herberttina, you suppose, could be awful. the carrows, too.

"that's a lie. some people are very nice," you say, in reference to yourself, and smile at sirius to show him you have listened, "come sit."

he huffs, again, very childish and moody, and does as he's told, taking a seat at a small table adjacent to yours. the tablecloth is black silk and the chairs velvet – the rest is very extravagant, and you feel like a princess.

"suppose a few are tolerable," he concludes after a bout of sullen silence, "marzy's not bad."

"you've spent all afternoon with her."

"not willingly."

you think it was more than just this afternoon – when they weren't getting up to their mischief and pranks, as cousins are expected to do, he had spent much of his summer so far avoiding regulus, and, by association, you. now you sit with him to quell your need for companionship and understanding, though this is never quite clear when the two of you get to talking. you wonder if you are always on his mind as well.

"i like marzy," you say, "i'm very glad we'll be in the same year. i hope we're in the same house, too."

sirius regards you strangely. "gryffindor isn't as bad as you might imagine."

your curiosity gets the better of your composure. "what do you mean?"

he squints a bit, the way his mother does. it becomes him better, makes his expression hard to read, and you aren't that good at reading all scriptures yet. english, french, latin, some ancient greek, and, recently, an apt talent discovered for mother's runes, but faces and cryptic looks escape you. need more practice, even if you have practiced on sirius your whole life.

he licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and leans in close. you scoot closer, too, without the need for his instruction, as is the dynamic in your relationship. you have never questioned his control over any space, and therefore can do naught but be surprised when, slowly and thoughtfully, he says,

"i think you'd be well fit for gryffindor."

the declaration rings through your body, shocking you, and your spine snaps straight. "g-gryffindor?" you stutter, and your lips part from the strain of how little it makes sense. you barely stop your hands from slapping onto your cheeks. how childish would be such a display, no, he mustn’t think you are too young to understand his world, "mother would faint," you stammer, as if she'd know, "and father... what would father say?"

sirius cocks his head. "i think they might say 'that's bloody amazing, darling, we'll be so proud of you'."

as if yours had, you think bitterly, but refrain. saying it aloud would upset him, and then he wouldn't want to talk to you.

"if i am in gryffindor," the title escapes your mouth in a soft gasp, "all my family will be disappointed."

sirius barks out a laugh. "let them. who cares what roddy and rabby think, anyway? your father would get over it, mine-" and that's it, one glance at uncle orion and aunt walburga and his expression crumbles like a house of cards. it switches quickly in a wince, "well, mine are almost over it. maybe. not likely, but, you know, i'm the heir, so." a glance down. such is his explanation. you've known him to be a better orator than this.

it's hard, to stare and try and ascertain his meaning when he refuses to look you in the eye. you can't tell what's hurting him.

instinct tells you to grab his hand and you do. he doesn't fight it, lets you, and it's with his compliance that you realise how serious the situation has become. you are eleven, not nine, and already, you know so much. his grip on you is strong, but not painful. he never wishes to harm.

"i think you have a chance at gryffindor," he adds, "the best chance out of the lot of them."

you hadn't dared hoped, hadn't even considered. but here is sirius, giving you something of his – knowledge and experience, and his vision, and the possibility. something beyond your control. to be even seen as someone fit for gryffindor is to fall into the ranks with him. are you, too, a black sheep? you had thought you fit in so well in this idyllic landscape. another star in the sky, yet, seemingly, too close to his.

"no, really," and he calls your name, prompting you to look up from intertwined fingers, "we'd be in the same house, wouldn't it be a riot?"

so excited you don't catch a breath. the prospect of being by his side at hogwarts, too, for the next six years seems overwhelming but – glorious. would father really allow you?

"but only a bit of a riot," he follows, a tease, and loosens the grip on you just so, "you'll have to promise not to bug me too much about your homework or the latest gossip. i recon you'd follow me around like a lost kitten."

"would not!" you bristle, and pull your hand from his.

"well," and now that cheeky smirk crosses his face, the one you've come to love and admire because it's what he reserves for you, and him alone.

"stop it!"

he does, eventually, the teasing smile melts slowly away, like ice melting on your skin, leaving the space warmer in its wake. he's sitting quite closely to you now, and a weight you hadn't even felt settles now on your shoulder, on the bench between the both of you. your legs are pressed together. his gaze drifts and the last, fading strains of laughter line his eyes. you can trace each wrinkle his smile leaves on his lips.

"did you make many friends at hogwarts?" you ask.

"oh yeah," he replies. you like the rumble of his words, "have three very good ones."

"you haven't written much of them."

"mother confiscated my owl," he shrugs, and takes a deep sip. then, the smallest movement of his shoulder to indicate he'd told you all you'd need to know, "rather good at magic, these friends are. good at getting away with all sorts of mischief."

the tiniest sliver of disappointment must reveal itself in you somehow, because sirius quickly adds, "the least funny one's called james, real charming, but real sure of himself, the prat. then we have peter, a plonker, but he's alright. and there's remus. he's," he pauses, as though the right word doesn't exist, "tired."

you blink once, "that doesn't sound very exciting," you admit, and give him your best hopeful look.

he huffs, "they've changed. a whole lot's happened in this past year. some things aren't much fun to talk about."

"oh," you breathe, but hope he talks about it someday. he's much less childish now. you'd hate to be left behind, "still, i should like to meet them. are they kind, as well?"

"rather so," he concedes, and then, "they'd be kind to you. we'd be good together."

that could be the worst choice of words yet. to look down and hide your sudden fluster is of no use – he had said this all on purpose, you have a sneaking suspicion.

the waltz continues, and his confession had been brief and subtle. would your's, now, betray anything of the true feelings you harbour? "really?" you dare, still a little afraid.

"oh yes," he says, nonchalant, "wouldn't you agree?"

he must know, of course he would, you are quite bad at secrets. maybe the constant longing, the never ending list of ways you wish for him to notice you. a dangerous power he has over you. a want so deeply embedded.

and here it is, an open acknowledgement of your hopes, a hand stretched for you to grasp, to reciprocate, to get up and dance with him. in front of all these guests, in the shadow of his cousins, his brother. in the spotlight of his parents and yours. he doesn't look at anyone but you.

gryffindor, yes, you suppose it wouldn't be too bad. mother wouldn't know, and father must love you too much to let it affect him. your brothers would be displeased, but rodolphus is too old to meddle in your affairs anyway, and rabastan should mind his own business and try finding his own friends for a chance. oh, but there's cissy in slytherin, and what of regulus?

you glance at him from across the tent, and he sits miserable and staring at you and sirius, eyes green with envy. he looks like father when father is feeling betrayed, and regulus looks too young to feel as he does.

the desire is too deep to consider turning sirius down. he is only asking, a friendship perhaps deeper than most, the one he knows he can have from you. so you take his hand, and hold it tight. his gaze lights up with his smile.

"okay."

"you'll love hogwarts."

and that's the last of your worries for now. there is plenty of time for you to deal with the consequences, so you steal his drink, and throw yourself back into the throng, this time, his company the entire night.

let's go marauders let's gooooo

#shyyy

[delicrieux]

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 5. year one: early september, 1972

pairing for this chapter—f!lestrange!reader x regulus black warnings for this chapter—none word count—1.9k

the woes of the first week.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

 “how is she?” you inquire.

evan remains quiet for a few moments, the very picture of misery. sad eyes pour down the letter held between steady fingers, toast and marmalade untouched by his elbow. he had read it trice and still remains unsatisfied. if you weren’t as tired, you’d snatch it out his hands to inspect it yourself. unfortunately, both of you seem to have been tormented by a sleepless night.

“completely bedridden,” he surmises. there’s a pinch between his brows that will become routine when he’ll be faced with something inconsiderate. you know upon notice, and it feels as though you always knew, “from a common cold.”

hardly a novelty, “hope she gets better soon,” she never does, and anyone but evan would scoff at the words. you wonder if he ever tires of hearing them. a porcelain cup between your palms warms you – black tea and balmy fumes against your skin, “how’d she catch it, anyway?”

“exploring the garden,”

“thought she wasn’t allowed to do that.”

“you’ve met pandora,” he grumbles, folding the letter neatly before hiding it inside the inner lapels of his cloak. close to the heart, where all important things should remain, “a rambunctious child,” he says, as if he isn’t one. the miasma of his father’s perfume doesn’t enfold him. he seems particularly young in the pale morning light, “don’t think she realises the consequences.”

no, surely she does not. sickly and dream-like, pandora rosier speaks little and feels too much. the sight of a butterfly’s torn wing had distraught her so horribly that she fell comatose for a week before she awoke mid-winter with a terrible headache and no recollection of the occurrence. mrs rosier had forbid anyone to speak of it, and pandora was no longer allowed to play in the manor’s garden without an escort. every space needed to be scrubbed and tailored before she was to step foot in it.

not that it helped much. once, pandora told you that she saw mirages in the dancing dust. you thought her terribly stupid and suggested to play dolls instead.

“how will she fare, i wonder,” you think yourself sounding very diplomatic, like mrs rosier when she masked worry with a pinched lip and a slight raise of a brow. your weathered gaze sweeps the sleepy gaggle of children seeking breakfast in the great hall. today, it is much less impressive than the night of the sorting, “hogwarts is hardly up to standards.”

truly, headless ghosts and moving armours, twisting staircases and wailing portraits, not to mention the great expanse of rolling hills and the murky depths of the black lake, still as glass against the trees when you peeked at it this morning. you imagine pandora would faint at the sight of a ripple, or burst into tears upon a still portraits sudden, uncanny movement.

evan must have considered this for far longer than you have. he shrugs. either he doesn’t want to say or he doesn’t want to speak of this further. both fit you fine, for your interest in young pandora goes as far as politeness wills it.

“where’s regulus?” he switches topic idly, pouring some milk into a steaming cup that appeared by his right hand no sooner than he moved it.

“how should i know,” perhaps a tone too petulant for such an offhanded comment, “sleeping, probably.”

he tuts, “surprised you’re awake.”

“i'm very diligent and studious,” you remark, which only earns a quiet chortle. a year ago you would have smacked him. perhaps you haven’t changed so much, because he nurses his shoulder with a glare pointed in your direction, “don’t pout, you look like a pug.”

whatever else he was going to mumble is lost under the threat of more violence. perhaps he has no fight in him. it is very early. you would say you awoke at sunrise, watching it gleam through the water and onto the cold tiles of the slytherin common room. but that would be a lie. you hardly slept at all.

there was no clear reason for it, not that you could name. a restless uneasy spiked once you laid your head down on the cool pillow. your eyes didn’t close, even when they grew heavy from each slow blink. they got used to the dark. you could outline the faint silver embroidery of the curtain around your bed. hear matilda’s hushed breaths and marzy’s quiet snore. the overhead gurgle of pipes. the groan of old wooden structures as you moved, and the rustle of linen sheets. all these sights and sounds distracted you. you kept thinking, but it was too fragmented to understand. at once there was the pungent burn of a record and melted lemon fudge on your tongue.

you wished, for a moment, to find regulus, though you were unsure of what you would do once you located him, nor why you wanted it in the first place. this thought soon warped into a bitter ache because he hadn’t searched you out first. he should know, of course, when you’re unhappy, and he should do something instead of sleeping soundly as if to mock you.

“have you spoken to slughorn?” evan pulls you out of your musings. like a true gentleman, he keeps his elbows off the table and speaks only when he’s done chewing.

“he invited regulus and i for tea and biscuits,” you recall. evan hums in agreement.

“i've got tea with him today. with barty.”

“matilda and marzipan are scheduled for tomorrow, i think,” you say, “curious what to expect?”

“i assume praises about our good blood and magical potential?” he raises a brow with a sideways glance.

you smile, “it’s not so horrid. you can tune him out after the first ten minutes, he hardly says anything worthwhile after.”

the head of your house, the esteemed potion and poison pioneer and rigorous socialite, horace slughorn, is a well-known figure to you outside of the classroom. an invitation is always extended to him during particularly big socials, and he’s always delighted smarmy around the upper echelon of the wizarding world. while his focus then was mostly directed at figures such as your father and others of equal importance, he always gave you a caramel toffee once you were instructed to say hello.

now, of course, you are very much important, a star jewel in his collection of significant children, and he extended his summons to you and regulus personally, and wanted just the two of you alone. you suppose slughorn split you all into pairs so he wouldn’t run out of compliments. you adore being adored, though his praises had felt a tad shallow, and the tea too sweet.

“when’s it, anyway?”

“after dinner,” evan sighs; more students pile into the hall.

“don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“can you blame me?”

you make a face, stuck somewhere between scrutiny and pity. no, you can’t really blame him, but that doesn’t mean you shan’t.

thankfully, the conversation melts to silence as you spot a disgruntled and sleepy bartimus and a much more composed regulus. they enter together, seemingly engrossed in a hushed conversation that doesn’t bode well for either, but they lighten up marginally when they see you and evan, pristine even in these unforgiving hours.

“blimey,” barty all of throws himself into a nearby seat, and the table sprouts a hearty breakfast to feed the insatiable crouch stomach, “this toad,” he points with his thumb at regulus, who, still adoring a slight frown, takes a seat beside you. naturally. barty will likely tease him once he’s done cowing over his woes, “woke me at the crack of dawn, moaning about how we’ll be late. we’ve got history of magic, for merlin’s sake. coulda slept in fine and missed zilch.”

“tragic.” is all evan says.

“did you get here early?” regulus greets instead of a good morning. he seems a tad weary, but is, overall, managing quite better than either you or your sombre seatmate. he leans a little, and you lean back, to catch evan’s gaze, “thought i heard the door opening.”

“clearly,” seems rosier’s potency for polite conversation has gone down drastically since your chat. perhaps he’s grown bored, or more tired, or is simply fed up at the sight of barty scarfing down his meal, “you know no one’s gonna take it from you.”

“i'll take from you, though,” barty says, pilfering some toast from evan’s plate.

“did you get a chance to visit the library?” regulus asks, once again, evan.

“shall we switch seats?” you inquire pointedly.

regulus spares you a glance, “i'm fine here.”

if you could roll your eyes more they’d lodge into the back of your skull. the morning is saved, however, by marzy and matilda entering with their arms linked. you spring up, grabbing at your book bag, much to the startle of the boys.

“leaving us for girls?” barty accuses.

“i’m a girl,” you huff, greatly insulted by such a statement, “and i'd much rather enjoy my breakfast with pretty company instead of this sorry sort,” before you can so much as make it a few steps, regulus pipes up.

“will you sit with me at history?”

you frown, “absolutely not!”

you do. and what is worse, you are dragged into the front row. barty and evan sit in the back, no doubt by the former’s request – easier to sleep, or cheat, out of the professor’s peripheries. marzy and matilda sit somewhere in the middle, and the rest of the company is largely unfamiliar to you – some pale-faced ravenclaws and still sleepy hufflepuffs, a few gryffindors with an abundance of school supplies taking everything out with as much volume as expected. this year’s crop of first years is, overall, quite small.

regulus takes out his quills and parchment. hogwarts: a history lays under the sunrays as you stare, willing it to catch on fire. what a feat that’d be, wandless magic on your first week with only a few simple charms under your belt. perhaps you’d be so revelled that the faculty would let you skip this course entirely. no such luck.

regulus nudges you with his elbow, feeling particularly pesky today. you don’t react, opting for scribbling the date on the top of your yellowed paper. he gives you a few moments before he does so again. you write your name. hear him sigh. good, he should feel bad for what he’s done.

“are you angry with me?” he asks quietly, minding the loud conversation just behind you, “i'm not sure what i’ve done to upset you.”

in all fairness, you’re not quite sure, either. the complexities of your mind have yet to be sorted into the words familiar to you. all that you do know is that everything here feels strange, and if you knew the term for it, perhaps it would be called homesickness.

not that you’d ever tell him. regulus changes a bit if front of evan and barty, but such was always the case, only never so apparent. perhaps you have been grieving this difference since you got here. that things will change, and that they are changing, and that you’re changing, as well. you feel as though you should be spared such a premonition. you’re too young to be so self-aware.

“it’s nothing,” you decide to forgive him for his mishaps. he is just a boy. your stupid regulus. your offering of peace is a smile. momentarily, he seems struck by it, looking at you even when you turn back to your parchment and the quirk of your lips melts into a placid line.

somewhere, a thread is weaved.

#regulus black #sirius black #the marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders x you #harry potter #hp #imagine #imagines #reader #fluff #hogwarts #x reader #angst #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #james potter #james potter x reader #if u squint #time to pretend #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #hp x you #hp fanfic #slytherin boys

[delicrieux]

i cant acess carmy bot on the app for some reason? but ive been going at it nonstop for the last 6 months. like. you made THE carmy bot i hope youre aware of it. trying to figure it out cus i wont live without him 💔💔

hi babe!! im not sure why you can't :( click HERE, maybe it'll take you to him?

#dont live w/out carmen #we are married and have children #nonnie

[delicrieux]

hiii, i just started reading “time to pretend” and omg you are such an incredible writer, i can’t wait for the next chapter!!!!

ty babe <3 will drop one soon just for you!

#time to pretend #nonnie #im back in my regulus era help

[delicrieux]

hi! i found ur tumblr thru ao3 and i just wanted to say how much i enjoyed reading magic works 😭😭😭 my first ever hogwarts legacy ff and im absolutely in love with ur writing <3

awww ty so so much!! it was such a joy writing that 😭 might get back into it if the devs drop a proper update this summer!

#nonnie

[delicrieux]

i love when its sunnyyyy yaaaay i want to get married

[delicrieux]

girl idk why you don’t have millions of notes cuz your writing is phenomenal. like genuinely get published and printed cuz you have TALENT i’m so confused why you’re not famous

stop it ur too sweet 😭❤️ thank u babe but i dont need fame i just need the men i write about 🧎🏻‍♀️

#nonnie #cutie alert!!!

[delicrieux]

                ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　 CONSTELLATIONS: ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

☆ﾐfanfiction (tv shows, movies, rl, games, anime)

☆ﾐspecials

☆ﾐko-fi

☆ﾐother platforms

☆ﾐprompts

Keep reading

#updated 2/19/2024!

[delicrieux]

MAKING EYCTE SADDER??? OW????

it's my kink, sorry!

#i'm not sorry at all #nonnie #eycte

[delicrieux]

i rewrote it to make it sadder!

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.5: dogtooth

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader   genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship   warnings for this chapter—anxiety, panic attacks, swearing, alcohol, (+18) oral (f receiving) word count—11k

all team buildings have a purpose, but sex isn't one of 'em

author’s note: she can ride my face i don't want nothing in return, except for all her time and all her love that's my concern U TELL EM TYLER THE CREATOR! ! ! woof.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | eyvcte masterlist | < back. next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] &lt;3

day, night, or in the odd hours between, carmen would make his way down stairs bent from footsteps and into the restless landscape of the city that never sleeps, never dreams, for sure, unless dreams might mean nightmares of beanie-sporting fuckers selling weed in dim corner alleys and wrinkle-tired ladies spatting spittle in 24-hour laundry service. he’d stalk down the street in a denim jacket reeking of cigarettes and vegetable oil and the first pair of sweatpants he could find, turn the corner, down 26th, and into the shabby quarter of mattress shops and street vendors to find his favorite bodega. he’d get a coffee there, sometimes two, and a pack of smokes; take a sip that scorched his tongue, go outside, almost throw up from the taste. keep drinking. the flavor almost washed out the bitterness that lingered, and it always lingered after yes, chef when being asked if he’s a fucking idiot at noma.

his fingers would cramp and lock up from holding tweezers; black dots and white flashes swam in his eyes, and it must’ve been from the blaring lights of the kitchen and intense focus on perfection. he’d be still and wouldn’t blink when the head chef breathed down his neck. there was a stress rash on his hands that went up to his throat. he didn’t sleep and he didn’t crumble when shouted at but the fissures would rupture into messy cuts in the quiet.

the fire alarm punctures through his eardrums.

a moment. then, “shit, fuck.”

he has a fire-extinguisher for these hiccups – bought one after the third time of setting his kitchen on fire in the middle of the night. there go boxes of breakfast meals he doesn’t eat anyway, coated in white powder that mixes with the sooty veneer of multi-ply stainless steel. panic thrums in his stomach and it grows turbulent because he’s acutely aware that he’s not afraid that he started a fire but rather each time he catches himself doing it he wants to stop it less.

can’t breathe. his mouth tastes like smoke. he drops the extinguisher and doesn’t hear the shrill rattle as it hits the floor; opens all windows, let’s the cool night air wash over him like a soothing balm on clammy skin but it doesn’t work. maybe he’s breathing and maybe he’s not, and he’s not sure, he doesn’t know, and a trembling palm grasps for a heartbeat it can’t find, and he could try naming the 5 things he sees but quite frankly he doesn’t give a shit about any of that and no one would even fucking care if he dropped dead and no one would show up to the funeral because he didn’t show up to mikey’s and

did he see her? back in nyc, on his walks through twisting streets with a coffee in hand and a cigarette between his teeth? was she in the gaggle of sophomores smoking weed in parks after dark? maybe nursing a bottle of champagne stolen from mom’s cabinet in the backseat of a friend’s car that always blasted music too loud and always aimed for the puddles? was she one of the kids donned in a private school uniform in the metro reciting the choose life monologue after watching trainspotting for the first time?

maybe he saw a glimpse of her at noma sat by a small round table covered in a pristine white cloth – she on one side, mom on the other. maybe she read the menu and ordered and when she saw the dish she thought she’d like to be the one to make it.

maybe. the world is smaller than it looks.

it’s an oddly calming thought. like they were always meant to meet. like their paths crossed once and then crossed again and a passing face weaved into reality. he finds his heartbeat and he’s fucking freezing and he can’t quite breathe without choking but it’s plenty. she’s nice enough to show off her new tattoos and she looks dumb when she juggles spoons to make him laugh and she’s pretty when she leans her hip on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest.

his heart skips and tumbles after racing thoughts, because it’s the way she tries to involve him in conversations as he wouldn’t dare to intrude on his own and it’s the way she asks for an opinion only because she wants to hear what he’s thinking.

the way she says something stupid and then glances at him to make sure that he’s smiling and the way she looks away when he does.

her name leaves his lips with a little exhale. can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, but his fingers are no longer numbing. hears the way he’s breathing, and he really is breathing, sharp and quick and not enough to feed the lungs but enough to make sure he’s alive. a grimace, maybe a smile, and fuck, sorry, thank you, thank you, sorry, thank you.

she’s made home in his mind, found a space between the wayward memories sticking to the walls, the remnants of a house fire. doesn’t scrub, simply exist, and she’s color, a mellow, calming blue, like a nightlight – glimmer of the ocean, maybe, or the liquid purple-blue reflections on mirror-glass shop windows.

he’s not fond on his own reflection. always turns away when met with a dim shadow, a vague outline of a distressed expression that to him appears so obvious in its unhappiness. no one could find such a thing palatable. maybe it’s one of the reasons he turned to cooking. if anything useful can come from him, let it be something universal, something required.

he leans against the wall of his restaurant, even if it’ll never really be his. didn’t build these walls, didn’t spend nearly enough time within them to nest. smokes a cigarette, hears muted laughter coming from within that makes him sweat. not good at this, not used to this. would disappearing into his apartment make him happier? not sure, he’s miserable everywhere, but friendly faces are better, even if he’s not entirely sure they’re truly friendly. maybe he never will.

the weather in chicago has cooled significantly, but not enough to warrant a jacket. the cold is preferable after the stuffy hot air of the kitchen. the night is still, and there’s a beer waiting for him inside and there’s richie waiting also, ready to complain why he wasn’t invited to carmen’s mandatory smoke break. he usually goes every hour on the dot if he’s not busy. and if he’s distressed he simply doesn’t stop smoking.

a car pulls up down the street, and he stands at attention – this isn’t the safest neighborhood in chicago and wouldn’t be the first time someone tried (and succeeded) in shooting through the window (nothing duct tape can’t fix). not that he’s exactly expecting trouble. he’s not really expecting anything, but his heart hammers and then hammers some more when she hops out the passenger’s seat, waving to the driver before fixing the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

the car drives away, and he doesn’t catch who’s behind the wheel.

even from afar, he’d recognize her anywhere, and he suddenly feels like the biggest idiot on earth just watching as she draws closer, watching as her lips stretch into a smile of recognition, watching as the dim lights spilling from the windows illuminate her face.

her: hey, [hey] carmen! sorry [hey] I’m late, i just, i had this, this thing [oh] it’s whatever carmen: ‘s fine. uh, it’s fine, we just – just started without you, since her: that’s fine [yeah?] ‘course, it’s just, it’s my dumb brain, messed up the time and all, but hey? i made it [yeah], so, that’s? [yeah] good? [yes] is everyone carmen: inside? yes. yes. cousin made shots her: oh god

he dips his head, shakes it a little – maybe it’s to hide his smile, maybe because oh god indeed. “you don’t have to drink,” he says after a moment.

she makes a face, “what? why? it’s a team building – how else do you build a team?”

fair point.

she doesn’t head inside, simply stands and waits. he catches her gaze, follows it – his cigarette. blinks. “do you, uh,” he holds it out to her, not much left but embers and the murky orange filter, “do, do you want? one?”

“oh, no, no, not now,” she says, “maybe later. I’ll steal some from richie.”

steal some from me

“okay.” it’s hoarse, quiet. not disappointed, but not nothing either. his eyes flit to her and flit back to the street, back to the trek she took from the car to come here, like he’s retracing her steps in memory. a thing. there’s always a thing with her, but he doesn’t entirely care what it is when she’s here.

he wants to be closer but finds no good reason for it, no necessity. only that he wants, and carmen wants a lot of things he never allows himself to have.

movement will upset the balance. he’s not sure what the balance in question is, but he knows that she feels it, too. a shift in the air, the slight crooked frame of the CLOSED sign handing by the entrance.

suddenly, everything feels so important. maybe it’s just all in his head.

they enter, together, but she goes first and carmen lingers behind, and this'll become a pattern – he'll always walk behind her, one or half-a-step after because there's something so comforting about watching her lead the march whether it be a coffee shop down the street or the newly cleaned space of the restaurant that still has a faint tint of citrus-flavored cleaning detergent underneath the pinch of tequila and damp stench of beer.

it's comforting because she tilts her head a lil to catch him in her peripherals. to make sure he's close. even if she hears him, even if she feels him. soon, he'll slide a hand down her vertebrae, feel the ridges of her spine before settling on her lower back, and it'll mean i'm here, i'm here, don't worry. but it's all new now, still unknown, and when she does this and the warm light douses her features he feel struck by something he can't yet name.

he'll figure it out eventually. it'll be like learning to read all over again.

they nestle by the game machines. the table's clad in alcohol and red paper napkins and food prepped in advance – they're chefs, it would've been a shame not to take advantage of all of that raw skill. the kitchen is off limits – avoiding sharp edges and operating angry appliances under the influence isn't the safest option, it's actually really fucking dumb, richie – and so is the register – glass, mugs, logs kept in heavy stacks of paper, the whole shabang best left untouched by uncaring fingers.

they all fit here, their low chatter and faint notes of music from the stereo. there's the whine of the game machines and an odd crack of electricity from the clusterfuck of wires plugged, bound, taped, melted into the socket. fak keeps glancing at that ticking time bomb, but beer is a priority, and maybe fak makes a mental note to fix it the same way carmen narrows his eyes to tell fak to fucking fix it.

they share food – can you pass me that, fork, lemme try some – and open drinks for one another – we have an opener, no, i have keys, jesus don't open it with your teeth – and it's not home but it's definitely the beginning of one. each sets out the foundation: brick, cement, and wiring. carmen feels like he's holding the blueprint.

richie passes her a can of beer warmed by his hand like passing down the olympic torch.

richie: you even old enough to drink? her: fuck you

her first drink goes down surprisingly quick. too quick, almost, and it's not of nerves or any other reason carmen suspects at first but of sheer habit. she always downs her first drink, like she's craving for it, or maybe she simply craves the ease of buzz in an environment familiar that demands to be more of herself. but it'll always be like this. she's talking and sipping almost at the same pace which means by the time marcus finishes sharing dough techniques (solid 15 minutes) she's flagging down carmen, passing the torch to him.

"can you get me another one?" not a demand, simply an inquiry pillowed by a smile. amused, embarrassed almost. she shakes the empty can for emphasis.

he raises a brow, "i'm an errand boy now?" and he takes it anyway. her fingers are slightly cold and a bit wet.

"please, chef."

"better."

the next is to savor, let it melt on her tongue, imbue her senses – she drinks and holds for safe keeping, and she doesn't invite anyone to share because everyone's drinking the same thing anyway. but

carmen stands close. marcus is talking again – more methods, carmen's noma dishes have left a heavy impression on him – and she lingers beside him, passes the drink as a wordless offering and he takes it as one without hesitation. communication isn't always verbal, can't be, else why would it feel like so much has been said? he gives it back with his gaze set on marcus and she takes it back without looking at him and nothing really happened except everything did.

the second drink goes back and forth, back and forth until there's nothing left and carmen tastes the last drops of lukewarm beer reminiscent of watery bread and he goes for another one.

it's a glass bottle with a cap instead of a can, and he weighted it in his palm without thinking, but... he opens it with his hands, flexes muscles against a white tee only because he noticed her watching and decided he likes when her gaze weighs him down. there's a hiss, and his palm doesn't hurt but the metal leaves marks she inspects when he gifts her the cold bottle.

"woah," she mumbles, long fingers neatly inspecting his hand like he inspected hers seemingly not so long ago. her touch is fleeting, tentative, masked behind tipsy curiosity, "my friend could open one with her teeth. get me another?"

"absolutely not."

despite his efforts, she gets one anyway. "actually, when we were in rome, m' friends and i, we didn't have any cash, and, like, you need cash there, you know? you need it, because we went to eat, all four of us, and, we would search for a place all over, so," she positions the neck against her mouth, "anhd w' rheallhy hd thiz thi–"

cap hooked between her molars, teeth gleaming in the blinking light.

"no, no no no–" sydney yanks the drink from her and maybe the action itself causes it to pull open because there's an unmistakable pop and a drastic grimace on her face, like she tasted something sour. she smacks her lips a few times as sydney stares, faintly drenched in horror, bottle clasped to her chest.

"mm," she starts, finger checking as if she'd find something amiss, "fuck," and she laughs, because it's so funny, apparently, to chip a tooth for a stupid party trick.

carmen won't know this until she'll tell him a few weeks from now, but when she went to the restroom right after the incident, she spit out a small piece into the warm bed of her palm, and for a moment, wondered if she could somehow glue it back: "well," she'll huff, grinning, and he'll keep an eye out but he won't find any crooked borders, "what was i supposed to do? just...just carry it with me? put it under my pillow? 's not so bad."

it really won't be that bad, but in the time that he'll spend with her, she'll only threaten to do it but never actually do it again.

for now, however,

"okay, that just happened," sydney sounds, "and now what's not gonna happen is you choking on that cap."

she tilts her head back, mouth parting, and if the dim atmosphere allowed it, his gaze might have lingered a moment more than necessary in the well-lit hollow of her throat. it feels natural, almost, as if they had done this before, a multitude times that granted him permission to trace invisible patterns across her skin. they haven't. they can't. he can't.

so he doesn't – or rather, he tries, so, he doesn't really.

she fishes out the cap with about as much grace as expected. it's funny, it's a minute, it's so fucking dumb.

"no choking," carmen confirms.

"good, yeah," she clears her throat once, twice, maybe the rim scraped her tongue a bit, or maybe carmen is staring, "yeah, no choking."

"no fucking choke," richie echoes with surprising conviction, only it earns a scalding look from sydney and something a notch milder from carmen. still, he raises his fist for a bump, she complies, two bombs meet and lock between their knuckles before the explosion ricochets in stupid sound effects that get lost among the chatter. richie’s grinning and she’s laughing and carmen’s eyes linger somewhere on the line between them.

carmen could never be a friend like that.

(he wouldn't really want to be, and he knows it.)

thus ends the spectacle, and the piece of her chipped tooth is currently curled into the nook of her upper lip, but no one knows that, of course. carmen’s keen eyes couldn’t be able to tell either and not only because he dreads looking at her mouth. he has imagined it enough times to know everything there is to it. except the feel and taste, but he has theories on that, too. stop it. he takes another drink.

the clock ticks past 11. he has one arm draped across the back of her seat, just behind her head. casual, a form of comfort. he doesn't touch, but his fingertips feel warmed by the heat that emanates.

her: my friends and i [jesus] went to this place [not again] it had the fanciest desserts and... shit, what was i saying?

her fourth – yeah, the fourth – drink is half-finished and there's no coherence to her little recollections, random stories she feels the impulse to share. she tilts her head, catches carmen's stare expectantly, as if he'd already know what she's talking about, as if he's been there, as if he must finish for her because that's the only logical thing to do.

it works: "you had dessert?"

"yah– no, yeah, yes," and she sips, trying to go along with the story with a momentum lost but eventually regained, "uh, desserts. cool ones. fancy, you know, like, real, nice looking?” and she keeps gazing at him like he’s the only one that knows what she’s talking about, but doesn't she look at everyone like that? like she wants more out of them, like there's more in them and, fuck, he's probably getting a little tipsy, because, yeah, he wants to say, i know, i know, like there’s a rapport between them no one else shares. no one else can.

so he plays along, for the time being: "you ate it?"

"yes!" eureka, the grand reveal, but in her imagination, carmen knows all of this already, and knows to nudge the story forward, and this is how she will recount it next time, he decides, with hints already tucked into the fabric of the second, "i did, i really did, we all did, you know, we sat down, this whole fancy, i was wearing a dress—"

"macaroons?" he asks, smiling slightly. she stutters in her tracks, momentarily amazed that he would recall such a detail about her and bring it about so suddenly, as if he kept it on hand, tucked somewhere in his back pocket along with his lighter, "you ate macaroons?"

he isn't sure, but her smile is so reassuring. small curl around the edges, the peek of teeth, "no, not then, but," he's wrong but she says it like his guess was right, a mere mistake, harmless. it happens, so he lets it slide, nodding as if to say, okay, i will remember that next time, i will, "after," she continues, and her nose scrunches just the slightest when he drinks, it's endearing, "after, after yeah, we went to this, fuckin', christy's, it's on fifth avenue, just this little place. got a bunch there, cuz, christ, i needed to wash out the taste."

"what'd you eat?"

her mouth opens, and he waits, and she wonders herself, too: "i don't know. uh. the chocolatey stuff? thing–" her hands makes a vague gesture that's nothing close to helpful, "you know?"

"you'll have to be more specific."

and there's laughter, bubbling, overflowing, and her head tips back, showing him what he has already seen and always wanted, like he was supposed to. like she was supposed to let him see. except he was never supposed to look. the little nook in her throat feels strangely personal, "i don't, i'm not a pastry chef, fuck if i know what it was, whatever," she slaps her hand on the table, like this point of discussion is done and she has cleared her good name, "fact of the matter is, it was fuckin' weird. like velvet, like, what?"

sydney: you mean the texture? her: no, like fuckin' fabric [what] like, like it was the taste of fabric richie: what kinda fancy-fucking-hole did you find a tart tasting like fabric? her: 's new york, baby

that's not an explanation, exactly, but they don't question it.

"must've felt all sorts of wrong going down," fak takes a long sip from his beer – a thoughtful sip, "like getting a wedgie?"

"oh, you'd know all about that, huh," richie grins, and everyone kind of laughs a little because yeah, fak and the wedgies.

"where'd you find this place anyway?" carmen asks, effectively steering the conversation away from any past clothes related mishaps, "christy's, fifth avenue?"

"no," she says, voice ridged with a certain disappointment, "noooooo, we got macaroons at christy's after eating the-the chocolate. velvet. thing, whatever. it was smith jane’s, then, uh, mindy's dad's apartment – not to be confused with her mom's, which's in brooklyn, way too far, – and then, we went to noma. i got the, the velvet thing, my dad made it, and—"

"your fucking dad works at noma?" richie gapes.

her: he's like, really good, but he doesn't cook anymore, he's the exec, has been for many years, but, he's, good. brilliant, just, such a shit pastry chef, god, can't make an eclair to save his life. did that, too, once, but it was for my 15th, and christ, he said my palate wasn't mature enough. but how was i supposed to know a chocolate eel has nothing to do with seafood? you know what? actually? fuck the chocolate eel

richie's eyes, almost pointedly, stare at carmen. sydney, too, and then the rest, because the mention of noma has everyone bristling. carmen can almost feel them thinking it, taste it in the air like wet stone: carmen worked at noma, carmen worked with her dad. it rings around him like a force field, this knowledge randomly revealed to them that he had found out on his own and negated to share and looking surprised would be dishonest and not looking like anything would paint him guilty but he already is.

"chocolate eel?" he humors her, only to move along this topic before anyone else can ask something he doesn't want to answer, "so, like an eel? covered in chocolate?"

"no."

"then what did it look like, exactly?"

"not, like, what? like, er, well, no, yeah, but it was like, in the shape of an eel," she puts a hand under her chin, she hums, deep in thought, or perhaps, very distracted and more than tipsy, "but it's such a stupid name. so dumb, god, french, of course, ahn-gweel oh shoh-koh-lah."

the pronunciation, christ, he tries not to laugh. a french accent from someone who can barely remember her drink is a hilarious and unfortunately cute juxtaposition. the rest don't hide their snicker.

carmen: maybe it was an eel richie: why would they make an eel covered in chocolate? carmen: we made salmon in licorice broth richie: that’s fucked [well] some dumb rich shit [cousin] if you're saying an eel should be coated in chocolate for whatever weird-ass reason marcus: maybe the eel was a metaphor [what?] the chocolate's the sweet, delicate shell you eat, and the eel [jesus] represents something tough, maybe sydney: that's a hell of a interpretation

"it, uh, it wasn't on, on the menu," carmen voices, and when his fingers graze the curve of her head, just a few strands tickling the skin of his knuckles, something inside clenches and holds. not tightly; loosely, but still firm enough to leave him grounded, with intent. he moves away. her eyes catch him briefly, then avert entirely too soon, a kind of recognition where everything is clear and hidden at the same time, "not, not when i worked there, at least. they made it just for you?"

just for her.

"mhm. uh, or for us, probably," she admits, "i can make it."

"no."

"i'm a chef, i can make it," and she's already abandoning her seat, and no way in hell will carmen let her anywhere near a knife, not when she's like this, "i remember the taste—“

"hey, hey, no," he catches her by the elbow, gentle, mindful not to touch or move her too quickly, so not to alarm or startle, and she turns back toward him immediately, almost relieved at the contact. hot skin in the warm room. it might be colder outside, but somehow, the clammy warmth of his palm radiates in a way alcohol never will. or can, "no one's going in the kitchen. not tonight."

"i'm a chef, i should be in the kitchen," a strange set of words, and her voice almost tumbles over them.

carmen shoots richie a look so scalding that the women in the kitchen joke dies on the tip of the latter's tongue.

"next time," carmen promises, and realizes just a second later he'd used the word, too soon, because sure, next time, this wouldn't be the last time she'd crack open a bottle and get talkative over some anecdote he should have magically known or story he wasn't part of.

she listens, no trouble, sits back down and his hand is no longer necessary to keep her so it falls. the table rattles with chatter and he thinks she must be amazing to make something out of pure recollection, even if that something isn’t exactly delicious. she looks at her emptying bottle and falls strangely silent, like a spell broken, the fun slipping away from her piece by piece with each roll of the label under her thumb.

carmen will learn that she has her mind occupied. he'll wonder if her thoughts have enough spaces, free spaces, and if he'll inhabit them one day, when, if, and, just like he has space for her in his, will hers have space for him, too? he won't ask and won't demand and will wonder about and imagine a reality carved up from nothingness like an open sky. her and him; nothing. the possibilities, the hopes – he's filled with them.

but for now, he'll take what he can get, and she's right here, sitting not even a foot away, too close and too far.

beer pong next. her suggestion, and she's surprisingly sober when she and flak set everything up, sharing their own private conversation. she's easy to talk to when she's buzzed, much less reserved than how she is in the kitchen with her knife-sharp concentration. her hands don't shake when she sets up the cups, pours the continents out of cans with an expertise of a retired bartender.

she seems determined to win. it's a matter of principle. fak fixes his hat, cracks his knuckles, leans on the table, watching with a slight frown as she holds the tennis ball in her hand. her expression is grieve and there's a slight pout on her lips; eyes gleam in the dim light, cheekbone speckled in liquid fluorescents from the game machines "ready to lose?"

"bring it on, chef."

she tosses. it misses. the ball bounces off the rim of the cup and rolls onto the floor. "that's warm-up." she points out.

"sure, kid." richie leers from the sidelines.

she misses another shot. carmen's lips press together, because he's definitely not laughing at her or with her or anything: he's trying to hold his breath and pretend like he didn't just start, and she can't read expressions so it's kind of his duty, really, to not let a muscle move, even if it's all in vain, because she's staring directly at him as if willing her gaze to manifest physical damage.

"it was really close," carmen rasps, inhaling slowly. richie laughs for the both of them.

it was nowhere near, actually. fak's good, has a few more years of experience under his belt, but when it's her turn again, she sets her elbows on the pool table and positions her thumbs on both sides of the white sphere. the way she grips the ball is so delicate in contrast to her demeanor, so focused on a single task. and

score.

it goes in. her eyes widen comically, bright and twinkly and so beautiful and she slaps a fist atop the table, ecstatic, a laugh bubbling out of her that goes to the high ceiling, and yeah, sure, cousin, it could've been a complete coincidence.

he feels like a boy trying his hardest not to stare, not to let his affection seep out of his every action like an oil spill, yet here he is, doused and drowning on how cute she looks when she wants to win something so badly (it doesn't seem to be much, but it's something nonetheless).

"ya got lucky," without richie's profound commentary, a game like this wouldn't really be a game at all.

"you tell her, richie," fak says, downing his beer, as per the rules.

they go on, back and forth, her throwing too far, missing by an embarrassing distance, "okay, time out," carmen states, just as she's about to try her luck again, "maybe, maybe, uh, we, you, need some more practice?" how does one say you’re holding it wrong without sounding patronizing? "try a different, uh, approach," he settles with.

"different approach." she repeats, because apparently, for the last ten minutes, she's become oblivious to her atrocious attempt at not losing. she has good aim, but in the context of a beer pong tournament, the lack of dexterity kind of negates her capabilities.

"yeah, you know, like a, a strategy."

"okay," she dips her head in a little nod, "so, you make a suggestion now."

she glances at fak, points at carmen, "he's my coach."

"fine," he relents, but, "then richie's my coach."

richie: oh, this'll be fuckin' good

and she watches attentively, takes in each instruction, eyes narrowed.

one. grab the ball, bring it up to the chin, like you're kissing it. maybe kiss it, actually, for good luck. she's seen it in a movie, and when talking about some character from new york – a friend, because she has so many, and it'll bother him that she'll never name the gender – always lands a "big fuckin' smooch” and never loses. the spit's a bit too much, though.

two. breathe, in. out. remember to breathe. she almost forgets, or maybe she'd already stopped somewhere along the way.

three. lean, not too far, feet have to touch the ground still. don't waver, keep steady.

four. eye contact. fak's nice, smiles in a comforting manner, not too distracting. he laughs too easily to be taken seriously. she cracks under the weight of that expectant, happy stare; her whole demeanor crumbles into an ease that lined her loses. snorts, giggles, shoots, misses. "for fuck's sake," and fak passes her a drink, clinks their cups together in solidarity. she's gotta land the next one. she will, ebra says, and ebra's all-knowing.

fak: alright, take the shot. the way it is now. you throw it her: okay, like this fak: no. the ball. your hand, finger. thumb. jesus-carmen, come get your student. please

carmen doesn't hesitate, a man on a mission with a goal not too far away. he claps his hands, runs to her side as quick as he can muster in his growing-drunk state, because he only gets a little teasable after a few. it's only a few, right, god. it's fine.

"hey," he mutters, her hands cupped under his, and the only word for the feeling the courses through him in this exact moment is warmth. it spreads to her, she tries not to smile and smiles anyway, a quirk of the lips and he counts it as a victory, "deep breath. okay?"

her: okay

"in," he leans closer. their hands tangle as the ball finds it way within her palm and fingers, something familiar, something that sparks a reminder he doesn't recall, "and out." she follows. their gazes meet over her shoulder. he watches her lips purse and nostrils exhale slowly, with a steadiness she might not realize. his left hand comes to her hip. they shouldn't. they are. carmen keeps his voice quiet, moves her, so gently, for better footing, "like this,” feels the curve of her hipbone, “hold it like, hold it with an o, not a s. an, an o," her head tilts, peering up, jesus, "not a, yeah."

the world stills and he smells her perfume and shampoo. scents that haunt him, will haunt him, when he walks and they randomly hit him like a phantom, a prelude to a hemorrhagic stroke. she says thank you (love you?) with a strange type of sincerity, his own personal nightmare manifested. why doesn't he let go? "don't throw too hard. let it," another breath, not his, too quick, his hands burns and clam with sweat. it's hot as hell in here, "let it fall." a squeeze. their faces are very close. everyone is watching.

he let's go with a big step back. crosses his arms over his chest because he doesn't know what the fuck to do with them anymore. feels like ripping a band-aid. nicking his chin with a razor and feeling the shrill sting. suddenly, he's aware of everything and everyone like observing the positions on a chessboard.

"that's how michael jordan shoots jump shots. and makes millions," richie comments loudly, and carmen's stomach tumbles, because if anyone noticed whatever that was just now, it's richie, "so just focus, focus, it's like-"

"hey, you're supposed to be my coach," fak interrupts him.

richie shrugs, the tension dissolves at the sight of his condescending leer; he motions in her direction, “look at her, she’s a fuckin’ ducklin’—“

“fuck you,” she snaps, her very own and-one!, and shoots.

scores. there's a full house worth of elation. carmen offers her a high-five because that's the only thing he can give her. thin-fuckin’-ice. her entire existence is a high-five, right now, and high-fives don't mean a thing, but he tries and grins wide when her hand bounces off his own, "did good," and he means it.

"good coach. good team," she agrees.

a team. is that the proper title? a pair? a duet, a two, a, they?

he leaves to find himself another drink and richie's stare feels like a nail being driven into the side of his head. he can't fucking do this. bound to slip and mess up, like he always does. just another thing to apologize for, and he doesn’t even know where to begin to explain. got it all wrong, he’d say, accosted by the cold air of the fridge as he fishes out his beer. i was just helping with the footing, right, a good coach makes sure the hips are angled just an inch away from a place forbidden.

maybe it’s not the position that’s the problem, it’s the look. even if the touching could be excused, camen knows the way he looked at her can’t. too obvious. the beer is disgusting, too sweet mixed with his spit. he needs some air.

he sneaks away, though there’s no real need for sneaking. not when everyone’s distracted by the tournament, enthralled by richie’s drawling commentary, by her lithe enthusiasm, and fak becoming increasingly drunker as he downs her beers in vaguely masked pity. he hears her squeak before the door shuts and mutes everything. it’s fucking cold. the mist that rolls in smells like salt and metal. somewhere not too far, a fire eats away a rotten heritage building. lights blare, glow a bright and monochromic blue. a firetruck rushes past. good morning, chicago will cover this story at 6 am and reveal the cause being a set of fireworks gone astray. carmen smokes one before he takes out the second. can’t quite feel his fingers by the third.

maybe no one will remember. maybe she won’t remember, either, a blessing and a curse in its own right. maybe it’ll bleed into the flow of a good evening, a ditsy memory no one mentions in detail because the competition was too interesting to linger on the minute. but carmen will know. just him and his cigarettes and mikey’s looming silhouette somewhere in the darkest cracks, the threshold marking the end of the well-lit restaurant to the gloomy depths of the kitchen. mikey would know before anyone else, before carmen, and he’d probably smile in the faux-mysterious way he did, and say, man, what the fuck are you doing?

“there you are.”

fuck. the smoke in his lungs freezes and burns, and he wills himself to exhale slowly before he chokes. he dares a glance at her, then another, then a third once he regains some sense of confidence – in what? nothing, his fingers shake, certainly only from the weather – and the metal door shuts softly behind her. her arms cross over her stomach. no jacket, the cold hits her full-force, and he’s glad for the dim lights because he doesn’t have the pleasure of seeing her expression, seeing the rise and fall of her chest, seeing the smile he knows is there because of the lovely lilt of her voice.

do something. he can’t move his limbs.

“jesus, get back inside,” he hears himself utter. the overhead lights illuminate her side, but the rest is drenched in shadow. what a slope it is, from the top of her hair down her cheek to the dip of her neck and the hill of her shoulder, “gonna catch a cold.”

“’s not that cold.”

“yeah it fuckin’ is,” he responds easily, too easily, and it’s embarrassing the way the tightness in his throat unravels and he can speak so freely without meaning to. how easy it is, to be protective of her, even from such menial things as the elements. so easy to care for her, to want to warm her up himself, even with his frost-laden fingers. hunger hurts, but starving works, and his hand furls into a fist before he flexes his fingers loose, “go inside.”

“so bossy,” she chirps, a great big joke. it’s her tone, it’ll be the death of him. a brief silence lingers, and she rolls her head up with an exhale. looks at the sky. no stars, “god,” she breathes a little laugh, “shoulda seen me in new york on nights like this,” he wouldn’t have, no way, because she infers to bars and clubs, exclusive ones for her and her cool friends, and he wouldn’t even find himself in a grimy dive bar, too terrified of people, “you woulda chewed my head off.”

yeah, probably, maybe. wouldn’t have approached her. not even if he knew her as he does now.

“yeah?” best he can come up with, but it sounds odd. too low.

and she sounds too sweet, “yeah.”

her hand rubs her forearm, the gooseflesh skin. let me, he thinks, let me.

“can i?” she asks, and he’d give her anything she requested, only to receive her favor in a form of a thank you (love you? stop thinking about that). he passes her his cigarette, half ash, and he feels strangely flattered that she didn’t steal one from richie. he shouldn’t get the head of himself, but he does. his fingers linger on hers – god, so fucking cold – and he doesn’t want to let go of her of this newfound closeness, and she doesn’t push or shove or do anything besides bring the ember to her lips and inhale. almost a kiss.

stop it

she coughs, a raspy sound, followed by a small laugh as his hand curls on her forearm for… for what? to make sure she’s okay? she must be, but, “shit,” and it’s cold in the way that it’s warm. her soft breath, too close, “what are you smoking?”

he hums, a faint amusement at the situation, at himself, at her question, “’s bad?”

“your lungs gonna collapse,” but she inhales a few puffs again, milder this time, and when has his thumb started drawing? doesn’t remember.

“cold?”

“nah,”

“you feel cold,” he mutters.

no response and his hand cups her elbow. the feel of the bone, skin, something between.

"look, you know what? let's-" he feels it everywhere, the tremors. the ash falls onto the sidewalk, "-should-," there's a new source of warmth, his forehead against the side of her head. lips brush, maybe by chance, or fate, or him, no fucking difference, "you should-" he isn't making a damn bit of sense, her breath shudders and he watches with keen interest how it fizzles up, "go-" inside is the word. and he should follow.

but the skin. the bone. starving works, but the hunger, the slight give when she leans a little back, resting her body weight on him just enough for it to count. it's fine. a short embrace. won't mean anything, right?

he sees his arm slink around her waist with a mind of its own. body’s drawn close, the warmth, the cigarette falling to the ground forgotten. this isn't like him. maybe not anymore, that is. she holds him there. thumb skimming his wrist, it's fine, it's nice, he tenses, at least he doesn't hear mikey, can't think much when her other hand comes to his jaw, brushing against the growing stubble. he tries not to flinch.

"i, uhm," his own breath mists her neck. his. her name on his tongue, "i,”

the rest of it stays lost as her kiss seals it up. like a cut with a needle, or, no, the flipside, a needle plunged through the tiny incision made by a scab, piercing straight into him, raw and sharp and just too much. she tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and spearmint gum, sweet and awful. his lips slant and move with her's and her tooth scrapes against him, one sharp canine. it sends a jolt down his spine and straight into his abdomen.

he pulls back a breath. his head hurts and his stomach twists, both symptoms of a deeper ache, “carm—“

another kiss, can’t get enough, and her nails leave faint incisions on his cheek. the groan lodged between his lungs bleeds into her open mouth. there's nothing he can do, not really. has never done anything. he wants and has gotten so little.

give me more

"carmen," she hums into him, half-intoxicated by the taste. he feels his face burn. deepens the kiss. wants to be ruined, the same way he's always been. she'd take him apart, sift her hands through each nook and cranny until he's as bare and empty as the night sky.

there’s a scrape; booming thuds that bely approaching footsteps and he almost doesn’t care, because the sound she lets out when his tongue brushes hears has him crumbling, pulling closer so tightly before something in him snaps and he shoves himself away from her, so quickly and harshly that the expression of a kiss must be still frozen on her face. a shuddering inhale, the door slams open and fak comes stumbling out, richie and angel behind him.

"move, fuckin' move it, people, this is a life or death emergency," richie thunders.

she slips in before the door shuts. the very real feeling of his numb, tingling lips spreads and his stomach churns and he can’t wrap his head around what just happened. did it happen? or was it all in his head?

he looks around, like he'd find a remnant of her. no perfume, no footprint, no evidence but the taste of her still fresh on his tongue. the feeble sound of her clothes rustling, the hitch in her breath, everything. the warmth of her palm on his skin, a physical memory.

"was, uh," he looks to richie trying to haul fak off the sidewalk, and he knows asking will betray him but his heart flutters strangely, a motion of the steady rise of panic, and he hears the sirens blaring blocks away that remind him of late night fire, "was, is," he glances back at the open door, "was? did she?"

"what?"

"was-" he scrunches his eyebrows together and can’t breathe, "doesn't matter," he mumbles.

“hey, you gonna help or what?” richie asks, but carmen heads back inside.

he's not, he can't, he

everything’s exactly as he left it. the world didn’t collapse into itself. time keeps on ticking as he feels something within him slow to a stagnant, uncomfortable halt. she and sydney are cleaning up, stumbling over one another carrying paper cups to the nearby trash dispenser. couldn’t have happened, he has a sick fucking mind and he can’t tell if the beeping is in his head half the time and if tina comes to ask how he's faring, a vague ghost of a touch on his shoulder, he doesn't bother to pretend that he heard her.

just stares, not waiting, but the noise quiets eventually and he feels empty, “…yeah,” he says, maybe, or maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.

the music cuts and the crowd scatters. there’s low laughter reverberating from somewhere, maybe everywhere, and the bell by the door keeps chiming as the dark streets outside swallow them whole. faint outlines glide by the windows before they’re gone, but carmen’s ghostly reflection triumphs everything.

he retreats to his office to collect the last bits of his stuff. stills, handle grasped in a numb hand, when he sees her sitting in his chair. she startles, stands quickly, awkward in motion and still for a split second afterward, “…hi.” she mutters, her fingers twining in front of her.

 “…hi,” he’s terrified. he blinks, and blinks again, and then he can’t stop, nor can he stop the hot flashes that wreck up his spine. did i kiss you?, "were, you," is this, this a thing? or am i fuckin' insane?

"i was-,"

"am i-"

and when there's nothing more to say, a gap too large to fill, too great to pass through, carmen folds, closes the distance, "please," he whispers, a deep hush he doesn't hear or care to recognize as himself. and his hands reach around to cup her face, her body. warm, welcoming. her eyes slip close and she tilts her head up a tad, enough for his chapped mouth to collide into hers. an apology. a confession. his insides have wired into themselves, too cold or too warm to sustain the damage he knows he's going to inflict on her when they come apart. the damage he inflicts on himself.

she should let him go, no, he should let her go. he shouldn't have done this in the first place. but he pushes, and his hand wanders down to hook on the side of her knee and hitch. the table creaks as she sits, and her fingers cling to his shirt and pull.

don't look at me

her legs spread open and he exhales one shaky breath into her. it's devastating how her thighs tense under his touch, how the pleasure swarms him.

don't do this

her mouth, her tongue, wet. the quiet moan against him. the urgency to claim and keep and call his. just something, just one thing, just her, the worst he could ask of anyone. sorry, and so many other things he can't think to say.

there's a soft laugh somewhere, or maybe it's a pant or sigh or god, can't think, the noise of the world, her nose bumping into him. her hands move around, kneading his back. every sensation multiplied, so focused on her breathing and the gentle ache in his pants, the growing bulge as his hips rock a bit without his control. she helps him, her nimble fingers undoing the button to his slacks and unzipping. he could die here, like this. he probably will.

"no," he utters against her cheek, but he can't stop kissing her, "wait."

"okay," she breathes, the echo of a promise. okay, he says again, this time to himself. her pulse thrumming under her throat, where he presses a slow, lingering kiss – he wants to know every tendon, every ridge, every different rhythm made in response to his caress. another kiss, she makes that noise, it'll kill him. he won't survive the night, just from that alone.

"'m sorry," the words tumble out of him in a rush.

please stay with me

"... 'm. 'm," he repeats and groans as her hips move, heat twisting, wildfire, burning him away piece by piece, bit by bit. his palms anchor themselves on her thighs, the small of her back, never two spots at once, can't afford not to feel all of her, "fuck."

pleasedon'tgo

"can't do this," his forehead falls to her shoulder, huffing, the heat of his breath, traitorous hands plunging under her top, "you work for me."

"'m off the clock," an antagonistic response.

"like hell."

but she giggles, too much, almost, and something in his core rattles. the joy of her, his. hers. her and only her. no one else's, not ever. please, the back of her hair is soft and there, yes, perfect, the curve of her body molded into the nook of his own. she exhales when he palms her ribs, feeling the rims, "cold."

he's suffocating, "i," a nervous bubble catches in his windpipe, "... we-."

"is this...?"

a low rasp, no use fighting.

"this?"

"us," her knuckles brush his cheek, "are we-?"

please don't ask me that, "yes. yes. 'm," the want to devour her, make her part of him so he'd never be without. never forget, not once. the way she's looking at him. can't do it, can't get it, the want, the ache, "never seen anyone so, so fucking pretty,"

"stop," the shy sound of her laughter is barely there.

and his mouth descends upon her. the trail, the sensual kisses along the nape of her neck, the ease in which he pulls her top over her head despite his better judgment. just want, "pretty," his eyes latch onto new skin, so smooth, too nice to touch with uncared hands. she deserves better, "do you know," his eyes sting.

"it's alright,"

"you're too, too sweet. too fuckin', no, not for me," she shouldn't, why would she, why anyone? he doesn't even know what he's doing.

her hand covers his, pushing his palm to her breast, clutching, and he's momentarily struck dumb by the softness. she says his name and it's so slow, drawn-out in a murmur, a half-muted whine. her voice, the shape of it, so intimate. and he wants and he never did. not the way he has for her. sorry.

so fuckin' sorry for all of it, but when her hands, her beautiful hands, tug and yank at his own shirt it slips off, he feels a rush of adrenaline flood his veins. every bit of fear and self-loathing he's stored within him dissipates the moment he leans in to press a kiss on the side of her collarbone, lips gracing the hollow of her neck, tasting sweat and the tingle of saffron and cedarwood. he runs the length of his stubble down the tender stretch, to the slight crevice between her breasts.

"your tattoos,"

thank you is imbedded, not a bump or hill in sight when his finger brushes against it, thank you, so polite, her body saying it for the both of them.

thank you, “you’re so pretty.”

she hiccups something incoherent, so close.

"too, too fucking," and another, another one, another kiss on her sternum, tracing his finger further down. god, this is crazy. this can't be real. his teeth graze her skin, where a beauty mark hides, and it's fine because her leg wraps around the curve of his hip, pulling herself closer and the tip of his erection pushes into the clothed folds of her, hot and wet, too good, the way her lips press against his brow to kiss away the worry. he hears himself grunt. feels himself twitch.

"pretty."

her tits. the fleshy undersides, the bounce when she moves against him, a warm press of the heels of his palms, her gasps.

"'m," she tries to say and fails. his head dips and he pulls one nipple into his mouth. sucks. gently. she keens, the grip on his arm tightening.

he shifts, his nose digging into her stomach, mouthing, dragging lower.

"carmen," she arches into the sensation of his tongue striping the flat expanse of her abdomen. this is the only way he wants her to say his name.

too much for his heart, too much for him to endure. he pants, feeling the heat of the building boil and threaten to implode. his hands shaking as he feels up her sides and stops by the lining of her waistband, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"can i take these off?" his fingers hook into her bottoms, baby blue eyes blown wide with a question. an expression mirrored. she gives him a wordless nod, but it's not enough, not if he doesn't see her sure. so he presses a light, fleeting kiss to her navel, a whispered please that goes beyond the need for consent, "tell me."

"yes, chef."

too much. no coming back from this, "okay," his voice breaks. he's never done this before. and even as he pulls down the fabric, then her panties, drenched, there's not even a thought of stopping himself now that she's so bare, so soft and pretty, "this for me?"

another nod is all she offers, hesitant, embarrassed. love you, in the flesh, inked and appreciated under the rough pad of his finger. his heart is drumming against his ribcage, he can feel it everywhere, he can feel her, taste her, inhale the smell of her arousal, heavy and pure and fucking amazing. and he looks. oh, fuck. the smallest, a neat triangle of curls atop, dripping wet, pulsing, and tight and her folds just shy of his tongue. it's good. it's the most glorious fucking thing, all of her, he can't look away. he just

"is this, can i-" he nuzzles her thigh, warm skin to warm skin, his thumb lightly running up her slit before he circles the flesh just above her entrance. it feels a little unreasonably silly. she gasps, a sound that seems to echo his thoughts and makes him glance up just enough to catch her gaze.

"if you don't stop teasing," a mirthful note at the end and he hums in mild amusement, all while ignoring the drought in his mouth and the building of his own impatience. she laughs again, her eyes sparkling and, shit, pretty, but the rest of the words slip away from her the very second he dares push his mouth between her, his tongue tracing, sucking, moaning, his nostrils filling with the heady smell of sex, her, nothing but her.

he wants this.

"god, carmen," a gasp, the curl of her toes, and she arches to meet his mouth. her fingers tug on his hair, and he's lapping up her cunt, and this is the best goddamned day of his life, "yes, don't stop, don't-"

yes, pretty, i know

his voice echoes inside him, her body trembling, "s-so good, so fucking- oh fuck," so cute, pretty, angel.

"so good, god, chef, 'm,"

her hips tilt, urging, and the tight draw between his legs is reaching its limit. her enthusiasm is invigorating. he groans, the noise low, muffled from between her legs, and maybe it vibrates into her because she moans with her head thrown back. so fucking sweet, her voice cracking, her hands winding his hair, "carmy," her words staccato.

"god, 'm, 'm, gonna- gonna- shit,"

how many times has he felt his stomach clench, imagining her in his bed, in the kitchen, at his office, pretending his cock was inside her mouth. and yet he's not prepared for the vice, the walls of her as he thrusts a single digit, slow and steady as he crooks his knuckle, to see her so undone because of him.

"yes, oh-"

and he takes a brief second to swallow when she shifts, opening her eyes halfway in a lustful, dreamy stare. a moan, a gasp of his name, a gush of fluid dripping down her folds and, oh, fuck, yes. he sucks her clit, laps at her juices, such a sweet, sharp taste. it makes him feel greedy.

her chest heaves as she rides the sensation, coming down. he licks his lips and stares, waiting.

"christ," it comes out in a breath and he can't help peppering soft kisses against her inner thighs. he leans in, pausing for a brief moment to lock eyes with her before pressing his nose to her slick and licking, suckling.

"carmen," a whiny warning.

"tastes too good, pretty."

he’s dizzy; words trip over each other. the desperation to fill her. someone needs to slap some sense into him, but she's too kind to do that. simply pulls on his hair, a sign for him to come up. knees hurt. his face aches, a good sort; wants it more, to wear like a badge, a job well done. lands a kiss next to her navel, leaving a print that cools rapidly in the stuffy air. meets her lips. sloppy. not caring. tongues, her moan into his mouth. the heat of their bodies flush to each other.

she's an angel. a mess.

"think i've neglected you," there's something of an apology in her voice, something that she finds the strength to murmur because her heartbeat begins to slow.

his eyes lift, half open, gazing into hers,. "m'fine."

"carmy," she’ll undo him, all those tight stitches that hold him together.

"m’good.” he leans into the crook of her cooling neck to avoid the temptation, like he could hide in his own private alcove and inhale her without her knowing too much of what she’s doing to him.

"liar," and a terrible one, too.

their bodies are a disaster, his more so despite her the one being in a compromised position. his brain isn't thinking clearly, and he should be helping her dress up and go so he could be revel in the growing misery in peace instead of being a fabric away from fucking her on the rigid desk of his office.

"carmy," she's doing it on purpose, he knows she is, because her lips suck a mark on his cheek and then suck a bruise into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

a ragged, low moan claws its way out of his throat. his hands move to her ass and hold tightly, “no, no,” he grunts, “please just, just not, uh, not, not now. not now.”

their breathing, a rapid exchange, and it doesn't slow. the tension doesn't fade. his dick, fuck his fucking dick, it's still very much there. her skin hot and sticky and covered in a fresh coat of sweat.

she wants him. him. nobody else, him. he's actually starting to consider just giving in and letting her ride him senseless.

but it's not fair, and he's not proud, and looking into her dilated pupils settles a strange weight that steadily sinks lower. shame. dread. the guilt, the responsibility. it’s sobering, and he stares at her, and her slick, kissed mouth, at the tremble of her lashes and the faint curl of a smile, soft, encouraging, maybe hopeful. something cold slides down his back and it feels like every little sound and touch and sensation has been sucked out. he sees her, and he sees himself, and  he sees exactly what kind of a mess he is, exactly how unfixable and undesirable, everything he can't be.

"...carmen...?" her palm on his skin. his nerves are shattered.

"s'alright," it's just them, "want you home. safe," he doesn't think of the words, their hoarse quality, the fear that eats at him as he swallows, a reflex to mask it all, but there's no place for it in her eyes, not when she sees right through him, "do that for me?"

please

she smiles. his chest expands. "okay," she won’t fight him, not when he asks like that. he's overcome. the exhaustion in him runs too deep and deeper still, "if you're sure."

carmen clears his throat, shifts to glance at his surroundings, the reality outside the haze, "you- i can," a shake to the leg, "do you need a ride home?"

he's putting himself back together now. she doesn't stop him, because her eyes soften, and maybe her heart is a little broken, "you'll close the place?"

"always do," it's natural, "i can, uhm, get, get you an uber, or-"

“no, no no, got it covered,” she’s smiling, he thinks, or so her voice indicates, but he won’t look. his body feels cold without hers. he throws on his shirt as she collects her clothes, and he'd like to dress her himself, the least he could do. the shameful desire to run a washrag across her nakedness and take care of her in all ways he'd wish, a rush of air coming from his nostrils, a hissing sort of sigh as she buttons up, "do you..." and she approaches, somewhat shyly, but the rest of the question goes silent as she studies his reaction. it's clear she wants a kiss, or to comfort him, somehow, "want go for a smoke? while i wait for the car."

"right," he wants to pull her into his arms, just hold her and bury himself away, and hope for sleep or silence or time or nothing at all. whatever might happen, "right, can't, gotta clean. up."

"right," the sound goes straight through her lungs, "okay. i'll leave you. then. to it."

there's another beat. two. three. four. a series of muted pauses.

"... you should..."

she seems to struggle to fill the awkwardness with words. there aren't any that fit.

“well, goodnight," she murmurs, a final plea of her eyes that he pretends he doesn't notice. it'll break him. she holds the chisel without realizing it.

he nods once, tight and brief. she disappears behind the door again without lingering. he looks down at his knuckles, blistering and pink. stands in the middle of his office for a long moment.

he's stuck between somewhere and limbo. a quiet echo of an alarm sounds behind his back, growing louder.

what the hell just happened?

like always, he has made a great job at sabotaging everything. she probably loathes him, and she should, because he loathes himself. probably realized what a big fucking creep he is as soon as she escaped his clutches. she has to be repulsed. has to be already planning on quitting, and he can’t blame her, won’t blame her. he has the taste of her soaked into his gums and what the fuck has he done?

he gives the side of the desk an abrupt kick that sends the papers and supplies crashing to the floor. the beeping grows unbearable, an electric, screaming wail, the stench of burning plastic, sizzling oil, car horns and the tick of the walk sign, the background noise of hordes of people, the rancid city smells. mikey in the kitchen, donna's wild stare, the beeping, the roar of the car engine, the smoke, the beeping, thank you, carmy, love you, sugar calling to ask why he doesn't text back, the fucking beeping.

he presses the heels of his palms into his sockets and tries to breathe. can't, can’t do it, can't do this. fuck, shit, i’m so sorry.

ch.6: slowest heart

tags &lt;3 @rexorangecouny - @astridyoo15 - @elliesbabygirl - @fortisfilia - @diorrfairy - @frequentnosebleeder - @eddiemunsonreader​ - @lilylovelyxo - @lovingadia - @moonlxghtcity - @marigoldsworth - @ceccille - @namgification - @iomichiamo - @the-nursery

#no other reason #2024 update

[delicrieux]

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 4. year one: start of term, 1972

pairing for this chapter—sirius black x f!lestrange!reader x regulus black warnings for this chapter—tbh none i think word count—6.4k

oh dear, the train ride is positively mental, but at least the sorting clears, well, everything. it is always as it should be, isn't it?

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

walburga lands three kisses: one for regulus, one for sirius, and one for you. her lips are dry, and her lipstick stains identical, right between the brows. sirius seems most displeased by such a display of unwanted affection, at king's cross, no less, but regulus is glad for it. you are, too, as unwilling as you are to admit or even show it.

"write," she orders.

you know this isn't aimed solely at you, but it's easier to assume. a bout of special treatment. walburga is very different from your mother, from the cut of her features to her voice to the drapes of her travel robes. sometimes, you wish they were much alike, because that would mean that your mother loves you. perhaps the contrast means she doesn't, perhaps the warmth means she's obliged to. perhaps all love has its peculiarities.

the trip to the station had been surprisingly uneventful. sirius had pointedly ignored you, always one step head – any further and walburga would have yanked him back by the hand, which would have been terribly embarrassing for him. regulus, sour in his brother presence, had also been confined to silence, but he stuck close to your side, a looming shadow just over your shoulder, still too short to form any of his own.

despite this, their strategic placement made you safe. rabastan made himself scarce at the first blow of the whistle, along with your luggage, which he either dumped into a lonely compartment or gleefully left on the tracks. he will receive a earful either way, because you didn't much appreciate the way he handled your precious leather-bound trunk, dragging and jostling it around uncaringly. you'll tattle to father, too, only to make your displeasure all the more apparent.

you take sirius' and regulus' hand respectively and squeeze, trying to ease the mounting pressure, but neither seems to find this comforting, pulling their appendage free almost at once. walburga frowns disapprovingly, eyes sharp. under her gaze, you become nervous. or perhaps it's the loud, oozing mob of people sloshing by the sides of your small family, crying parents and children included. you would, of course, never cry, even if the sting behind your eyes is surprisingly sharp the longer you look at her silver brooch. you wish to assure her, but your teeth are pressed together very tightly and you don't think you'll find your voice. your feet scoot backward, close together, shoulders to your ears.

a flash, an iron cloud of steam, and, then, a hissing rumbling that rattles the platform and vibrates up the soles of your shoes.

a glance at regulus shows him pale and sickly, hazel eyes boring into his mother. sirius grows angry the longer he dallies. his jaw is all hard, like his father's. you wonder if they'll resemble one another the longer they spend apart. the idea is rather frightening.

"on the train, off you go," their mother ushers, an undertone of malice slipping under her crisp voice, "no ruckus."

in a stupor, you nod dumbly, only really catching on when she fixes your jacket and skirts, readying you to face the brave new world of non-private tutors and shared dorms. the chilly mist curls by your feet. she waits until the lot of you march up, the shiny metal stairwell banging loudly underfoot, sirius first, regulus following closely. something within you snaps, and with the creak of the last step, you spin and wave, like your life would depend on it, wind picking up.

no return of your petulant gesture, nor a smile. just the slight dip of her head. it's more than enough.

the train's narrow walkways are overcrowded by eager, sobbing first years saying their last farewells. you hope one tumbles out the open window. the sight of snot unnerves you. surely you don’t look like that, all blushed and scattered and eyes rimmed red. or do you? the thought is humiliating, and your skin crawls beneath soft cotton.

"we should find barty and evan," regulus says.

you perk, "and marzy. matilda, too."

"...suppose."

his expression grows troubled, and it's like the flip of a switch: a change so instantaneous you want to laugh. but it isn't that funny. regulus was never an anxious child. this new side of him concerns you. perhaps he's just worried to be away from home. you are, too, and you wish to tell him, but only in secret, because you know that only he would keep it well.

but sirius is near, and oh, he wouldn't let either of you live it down. he'd probably hear it as a whisper, even with all this terrible noise around. your row is still fresh in memory, and you return his spite with barely masked discontent, despite him being completely unfazed. he's playing a game, as always. when he wins, the euphoria will make everything else melt away. that is how he can stay happy.

you walk through the crowded corridor, the trio making careful but swift movements to avoid the nasty looks of huddled, tired older students. there's a certain thrill to seeing faces you would recognize as fellow peers in a year or two. this is all very new and confusing.

a long string of cabins makes the hall narrower. some doors are opened. inside there is an ever changing string of images: a quartet of laughing girls, a pair of boys playing with a pack of cards, the fatigued glance from a student studying, another group of friends screaming over one another, the window and the endless expanse of trees rushing by, the shrill of the whistle, your heartbeat alongside it.

at last, a lone cabin makes your pulse jump with delight, perhaps for the first time this morning.

tailored grey robes fitted nicely, brown leather oxfords polished, new, shiny silver cuffs, rye blonde hair, and a bored, pale expression. evan rosier doesn’t so much as glance up from his book as the door rattles open, content in his own private booth. no sign indicates it to be so, but the luxurious feeling lingers, along with the hazy after-note of his father cologne (pilfered; evan, at times, wishes to appear very grown up, and thus, he isn’t above bending the rules to achieve a desired affect).

regulus enters first with a greeting, and yours gets stuck in your throat when a hand grasps your wrist and pulls.

"let's go," sirius mumbles, his grip like a claw, tight and hot.

“piss off,” you grumble, trying to tug free, but one look from him makes you wilt in spot. his eyes shift from you to somewhere over your shoulder, and the compartment’s door snaps shut.

wonderful, no one is coming to your rescue. unceremoniously, sirius drags you along, the absolute prat. yanking you around like you're some poodle (rodolphus had thoughtfully once remarked you similar in appearance and character). yes, well, perhaps the comparison is frightening for its accuracy, but that doesn't give sirius the right!

the two of you barge down the corridor, "cousin, please."

"oh," he sneers, "now, i'm ‘cousin’ again?"

you have half the mind to wring him with your own bare hands. the first hex you'll legally cast will be directed at his unhappy sneer. you think of digging your heels into the carpet, but that would possibly end with you toppling over, and he'd continue dragging you still. merlin, that'd be mortifying. another warning look and you're shushed into silence.

you pass a few carriages, now long away from your friends. unknown territory, and the students here a bit livelier and clag in muggle clothes – the sweaters, ugh, and, well, jeans, is it? – and his grip becomes much more mild. as does your resistance. he makes a point of appearing quite satisfied.

the air is a tad too tense for your comfort.

"missed me?" he muses, checking over his shoulder.

yes, you most certainly did. more so than expected, which doesn't bode well. if there was something you didn't want, it would be him figuring this out. bastard.

his next words make you bristle, "don't pout."

the prospect of speaking and exposing yourself makes you shift on your feet uncomfortably, so you don't. instead, you observe. the wooden panelling is actually nice, considering the rubbish inside, and you realize, too, you could have done in worse company. his profile is nearly enough to erase all anger, so much so it leaves you nauseous. it is just like sirius to sweep you up in the tide of his volatile emotions.

alas, you are with him, and his brother is not. he had, quite literally, peeled you away. that must count for something if taking sums.

another carriage, and you're now on the other side of the train, and he's much calmer. happier, clearly, and so you gaze up at the back of his head and wonder what could make the tense line of his shoulders ease so suddenly.

he halts, turns, and his hold slides from your wrist to your hand. this, now, feels like a very important moment. your gut churns.

"sorry," he manages, inspecting the pain of foggy glass. obviously, much more interesting than your dumb expression, "didn't want them tagging along."

"okay," is the only thing that comes to mind, and it doesn't cover even a fraction of your bewilderment.

"and. and-" his nose wrinkles as he mulls, mouth still stuck on the beginning of whatever word he will say, "and, yeah," he pauses, gives a squeeze. the carriage shifts. suppose this is the end of his dignified apology. it is the worst you had ever received, and in your long life, you had received, say, ten at most, because no one ever does anything to upset you. all of them had been from sirius, and, to his credit, he had at least tried to appear sincere. one, definitely, was from rabastan, but he was forced to apologize by father, so that hardly counts.

"still upset?"

his voice, his eyes. you wonder when they'll look older. his ears are turning pink, like they did when he was mad, or when you bested him, or when someone teased him about how ridiculous his name is.

there's not much for you to reply with that wouldn't uncover all, and so you don't speak. instead, you hold your head high in all the poise you can muster. must not be much, because he snorts.

"okay, okay," a great, deep breath, and he slouches forward, "look, sorry for ignoring you," a sigh, like something heavy, a physical entity, slides down and settles low on his chest. his chin drops into his collar, "forgot. forgot how big of a softie you are."

"am not!" your quick denial would be obvious to the blind and deaf.

his voice carries the ghost of amusement, "yes. yes, you are."

"am not!" fine, so what if you are a bit soft-hearted. all of that only makes your pride more magnificent. besides, you are selective with your soft-heartedness. if it were, say, a weeping rabbit, or, someone else's dog, then, you might, indeed, find yourself moved to act, but you most certainly draw the line somewhere. and once you locate that line, you'll surely rub it in his face.

his grin is mollifying, "i know."

all this fuss. not like you truly had much of a choice when sirius is involved. that brute knows which buttons to push. he was a fool to even test it. how he will cry when the roles are reversed.

"do you want to meet my friends?" his excitement, hidden as it is, still leaks.

"no."

"aw." he doesn't believe you. you're not sure you believe yourself. it's very perplexing. the emotions you feel are too complicated for you to pick apart, meshing and blending into a syrup that tastes tart and makes you want to squirm out his grasp, his line of vision, the immediate vicinity, and perhaps further still, but you don’t want him to let go. his eyes brighten with the next statement, "well. you're just going to have to suck it up. be cute."

that makes you huff, because his own smugness is both enervating and enthralling, but you're glad to be needed again, "as if i don't always!"

"there's the spunk," his hold shifts, and the tip of his thumb gently eases a stray wisp of hair away from the bridge of your nose. your cheeks must be positively scalding, "going to cry on me?"

it's his taunting, his brittle tenderness. always wanting to prove something. to you, to everyone, it seems. you think his behaviour is strange today. not off-putting, but, rather, endearing in its absurdity.

fine, you'll bite. fix your cutest expression – all doe eyes and a pout, like you didn't receive the candy you so desperately wanted. very unassuming, it does wonders for the general populace. father once told you that you have a very comely disposition, and that you must use it to your advantage, but what he didn't know is that, at five, you were already doing that. how else would he have bought you a stable to feed your brief obsession with horses? without even realising it, too.

it is terribly effective on sirius.

"well, don't. please," is what he can come up with, which, in your humble opinion, is simply awful, "okay? don't cry. because there's a no-crying clause in our friendship. and it's... very important."

"alright," you cogitate, delighted to have so much power over such a boy. not that show it, but there really isn't a better feeling.

regulus could probably call your bluff. evan, most certainly. but sirius, despite his fiery nature, likes to be useful, but particularly, he likes protect. the latter, especially, when directed toward a pretty, smaller thing. which, in this case, you suppose is yourself.

you allow the brat to tug you up and into a cabin. he almost trips over his feet.

as soon as the door slides open, you stand on your tippy-toes to look over his shoulder.

three pairs of eyes rest on the both of you and suddenly your tummy sinks with panic. how odd is this situation for a first impression. there you are, in skirts and clutching his hand like a little lost pet, and he, smug as can be, eyes slightly less dry from a poor excuse of an emotional break. he has this look on his face, too.

"all right?" the spectacled one greets.

he turns to regard you, which gives you the opportunity to properly analyse the faces of strangers. he seems to be sirius' age, and he's smiling very brightly. his spectacles, a bit crooked, slide off his nose, and he doesn't feel the need to fix them, revealing twin hazel eyes.

a warm squeeze draws your attention back, "yeah," sirius responds, and perhaps you unconsciously cave into yourself to appear even smaller. not that you aren't used to be being examined, it's that you aren't used to being examined by sirius' friends. you had never met anyone he would call that outside of yourself.

"my cousin," sirius presents, along with your full, proper name, first and middle and third and lesrange, "four times removed."

they all happily chime their introductions as you are sat down besides sirius. the spectacle-clad one is james, and the one sat beside him with a chocolate frog in his hand is peter, and the one on your side of the seat is remus, cosy by the window. he seems the quietest and the least likely to find sirius' pranks funny. and you think, all in all, that perhaps you could like him very much.

you have heard bits and pieces about them, and it's nice to put names to faces and finally see the people sirius has grown so close with. he was often quite evasive in his replies, probably to maintain a sense of cool. what a ninny.

peter regards you a bit shyly, not quite sure if you want to be here. his freckly, ruddy skin and blonde hair is so quaint and farmish. nothing like sirius'. james, too, seems like the type of child you might find in a shoe store, perfectly squishy and baby-faced.

"she's good," sirius says, "normal. the only other with common sense out the whole lot."

well, you would appreciate if he didn't speak as if you didn't exist squeezed beside him, thank you very much. his hand still has yours hostage, and by how at ease he is, you assume he has forgotten about it entirely. you will not remind him, because you find the notion surprisingly awkward, and this is perhaps the first time in your life that you feel the prickly, tense feeling halting all possible function.

"not surprised," james remarks, eyes on you. there's a mischievous gleam, similar to sirius’, "a friend of sirius is a friend of ours!"

"suppose," peter agrees, having gotten over the initial surprise of having you there, his features shifting into his natural, lazy appearance, which you can tolerate, "our numbers have grown."

sitting close, you can feel sirius preen in pleasure at being so wanted and loved. by a pettigrew, a line infested with squibs, and a potter, no doubt an ignoble lineage. and a lupin, too, though more subtly. a wizard surname, but considering you haven't heard much of it, you can assume nothing good.

well, this is certainly company.

you plaster your shyest smile in hopes they cannot tell what you're thinking. they're boys, so you don't suppose they think much to begin with, but one can never be too certain! even barty has his moments.

remus, you think, has a quite cool gaze on you. or, not. but still, he holds himself in the same way that regulus does. quite tall, too. there's nothing exactly frightening about his countenance, but he seems a bit more serious than the current gaggle.

sirius doesn't pay much notice, absorbed by his little following as he is, and peter looks absolutely daft and not at all reliable for conversation. james, well, he's looking at you, as though he wants you to feel welcomed to join their conversation. how silly.

"you excited for the sorting?" james asks.

you nod. sirius has hauled you here unwillingly, and so you'll let him respond, as he seems beside himself to do so, "my money's on gryffindor. she's pretty stubborn."

james seems quite captivated with the idea, "that'd make you the first lestrange to be a gryffindor, wouldn't it?"

you are sure there's some sort of jab in there, but james is smiling. like really, really widely. a big, stupid, cheerful smile, and his hair is a terrible mess. he looks like a muggle, and if your father could see you now, you'd never be let outside again.

"she will," sirius tells them confidently, but really, it seems like he wants it to be true more for the sake of argument than anything else, "bet."

"three sickles."

"fine!"

you don't care to gamble, even if there's a great deal of pride involved. betted sickles or no. you decide it'll be best to observe as you settle comfortably. a new role, you’d make quite the actress. perhaps your likeness will be printed in the papers alongside lindy witchermore and gabriette merlot.

the view outside the window melts into endless plains. the sky grows a tad darker, hiding the sunshine, and everything becomes an amorphous smudge.

james ropes the boys into a lengthy discussion of quidditch and this is where you start wondering about regulus. did he and even find barty? and matilda and marzy? did matilda wear her new, pretty bow? if she did, you'll feel very jealous and entirely slighted. you wish you had a cute, fuzzy bow, but then the poodle comparisons really wouldn't stop.

james continues, completely oblivious. maybe that's just how he is. maybe, then, remus is more attentive, because he tilts his head at you a tad inquisitively, "are you interested in quidditch?"

your timidity allows for only a miniscule shake of the head.

suddenly, you're the centre of attention, and your guts get a little icky.

"what? maybe you just don’t know how it works," james quips, "s' alright, i’ll explain." and, merlin, please, can someone save you.

"this idiot here," sirius tells you, turning very swiftly, "believes he's the best player in the nation, and he's not even on the bloody quidditch team yet-"

"-but i'm auditioning this year! it's only cuz they don't allow first years to join the team-"

"-doesn't matter, cuz i'm still winning this year's competition, hands down-

"-wish you luck, sirius," peter interjects. he sounds completely unenthusiastic in his effort to join the argument. you're surprised he could manage, if his awkward stature was anything to go by. his knees, you note, touch his hands, even though he's sitting. very slouched. not how father would teach. but he doesn't seem too self-conscious.

the theme of sports continues. the trolley passes and they cluster to buy sweets, purchasing some extra for you. and extra in general. james spares no expenses, and then sirius goes to match, because apparently, everything's a competition between them, and so your dingy little compartment is slew with candy and you have no appetite.

really, the wrappers make your head spin, and it's much too warm. rain plasters on the window, and for a moment, the windowpane reflects you perfectly, a little face peering in, like it's trying to jam it's way inside.

barty, often, if he knew he did something bad, would beg you in a raspy voice to not snitch. not to his parents. you knew and he knew that if the occasion ever called for it, you were not above a good gossip. and so you would sit with his mother and sisters in the parlour room, holding matching, pretty teacups, and you would feel like an outsider weighted by information you never wanted to have.

much like now. all this menial chatter. an inside into sirius' social life that exists so far from the confines of familial relations. you have never seen him so happy, and when aunt walburga inquires of his moods because he won't be bothered to send an owl back, you will not know whether to lie or tell the truth.

in another time and place, you could possibly imagine regulus here, too. or maybe that would just make him feel worse. his isolation. always feeling the lesser. he'd be miserable in this company, but then the burden could be shared with two, and you wouldn't feel as lonely.

of course, that won't be an option. in this one, or the other.

***

your rescue arrives shy of an hour into your stay in that stuffy compartment. narcissa’s cold gaze cuts through the chatter instantaneously, and the overhead lights flicker on slowly to illuminate her haughty expression. how absolutely beautiful she is, even in the storm’s background. the plastic wrappers slide from the seats and puddle by your feet. the shuffle, the rain, the excited spur of your little heart. she regards each of them, pausing on sirius, “cousin.”

“cousin,” his face has scrunched up, as though he ate something sour.

a trace of a smile on her lips, all because of his displeasure. she turns to you, “let’s go.”

twice, today, you’ve been requested. twice, you have no say. while this does imply a certain necessity of your presence – an astounding popularity, how beloved you truly are! – you can only shudder at the thought at what other surprise will occur on this momentous day.

you move, but sirius stops you, “she wants to be here.”

“she needs to greet the rest of the family,” her voice carries a certain finality. no one dares to protest, and you pry yourself away before sirius thinks of a comeback scalding enough to earn him a smacking. or a howler, at the very least.

the corridor has become much more quiet. the doors are closed, and you don’t dare to peel your eyes away from her new kitten heels as you follow after.

cissy needn’t say much for you to know you’ve disappointed her. to be caught with sirius’ crowd is to step into dangerous territory. you feel as though you must explain yourself, because you don’t wish for her ire, nor do you wish for her indifference, “thank you. i didn’t know how to get away. you know how he can be.”

she sighs, “unfortunately, yes, i am quite familiar with his antics. always scheming up his silly, little plans, that one. he really is far too meddlesome, even moreso when it comes to you," she stops, only for you to catch up. looks at you proper, with her chin slightly tilted down to your level, "very clingy."

this pleases you a bit. no matter how irritating the boys can get, they are a sort of constant that brings you peace of mind. no matter the time, no matter the day, there is always at least one that is by your side. not having that would leave you rather desolate.

"they've gotten worse," she says, "what are we to do with such little gentlemen?"

your heart flutters at her mention of we. a sign of inclusion. her fond tone. perhaps the others don't hear her that way, and you certainly won't inform them of her secretly mushy nature, but there isn't a better friend than narcissa. there never will be. not even the others, though bonded far closer, will ever understand you as she does.

"how did you find me?" you ask.

she huffs, as if it's much too obvious, "regulus."

so he has been dutifully working behind the scenes to retrieve you. oh, how your mood improves! all in one day. not that it was bad, no, rather the opposite, but it is relieving to finally return to where you're meant to be.

and the compartment you're meant to be in is much too crowded. there's evan arguing with bartimus over a game of explosive sap, and there's matilda (no bow!) and marzy clamouring to out-pride each other, and there's regulus, the one that notices you first and the one that jumps up to offer you a seat, even if, well, you'd all fit anyway.

"finally," barty calls over his shoulder as you're safely returned, and cissy continues down the walkway, "what have you been up to, hm? the first train ride for larly toppings."

"larly toppings?" you murmur.

his mouth thins in an unimpressed line, "read more."

"she doesn't know how," regulus chimes, and oddly, you've missed the ease of his dull remarks. no matter if you were separated mere hours, your hearts have been made lighter just through proximity.

matilda snorts, "lay off, whiny. he's been moaning about your absence since he lost sight of you."

"have not!" he states hotly.

 evan lifts a curious brow, but his eyes remain fixed on the game.

"she was stuck," regulus tries to explain, "with my brother and his horrible friends. evan?"

he shrugs, "didn't think that'd stop her from walking away."

matilda is absolutely tickled. even you cannot help but laugh at the exasperated expression on reggie's face. marzy scoots and eagerly pats the seat beside her, which you happily take. it earns you a glare from the younger black, who plops back down next to the boys.

bartimus clicks his tongue and tosses a wrapped sweet into his mouth, "our darling is, and shall forever be, delicate and fragile," an aside glance, "of the utmost importance, and we have pledged a solemn duty to defend her honour from that reprobate of a cousin. it's for his own good. he simply doesn't understand, being so young and such."

your nose wrinkles. how pretentious, even if half-right. but, fine, you'll play along, if only to appease your friend and give him some reason to not glower at all hours of the day. he can be very grouchy when the situation calls.

"tell us, c'mon," marzy nudges, "meet cousin's friends?"

you shudder, "they're absolutely horrid. dreadful," you elaborate, and they nod along eagerly, "simply wretched, and so loud. all they talk about is quidditch."

the boys snap at attention.

"quidditch?!" they screech.

"ugh," matilda makes a face, "boring."

"i'm not a fan," marzy agrees.

"don't care for it," matilda adds.

"yeah, cuz you're girls," barty states, "what do you lot know of entertainment?"

"hey! i take offense," matilda throws an empty packet at him, and he moves to poke her.

evan rubs his temples and offers you a weak smile. at least he understands.

"so what's your favourite team?"

"oo, they'll talk about it for hours," matilda rolls her eyes.

marzy's lower lip pokes out, "because it's their 'hobby.'"

you snicker, "chasing balls like dogs. recon they'd be so enthusiastic over a bone?"

"brave words, poodle," regulus bristles.

"i recon you’d know better about chasing your tail," you bite back.

he tugs on your ear, "ow, stop it, let go you idiot!"

the girls scramble to help, "you don't do that!"

and he is towed off of you, thrown on the seat beside evan by two particularly vehement ladies. it takes no time for them to commence the lecturing, which quickly delves into the heartfelt portion of their speech, filled with high pitched, intonations and tears and the like.

"you must stop and consider your actions! we love her dearly, and can't stand to see her so distressed. surely you have noticed a great change in her disposition, not to mention-"

and barty makes a great mistake in trying to defend the great offender, and so he receives an earful, too, "how could you simply sit there and watch her be treated like that? and then dare to stand up for-"

"fine. alright, already!"

beneath his scuffling and exasperated state, barty almost smiles. and the girls tussle his hair, and turn to you, all watered eyes and frowns. "if there is ever an issue, you can tell us," marzy says, "i'll tell theodore! brother will sort the boy right out."

"maybe his mother, too," matilda suggests.

you feign being torn, "no, no! i couldn't."

"we can, but fine, it's your call."

"can't believe this," regulus mutters.

evan grimaces and turns to him, "all in good fun. i think."

the commotion dies down for a moment as marzy fishes out her tissues – one for matilda, one for herself, and one for you. to dab the tears glistening in the corners of your eyes, of course. it’s a very delicate, grown up gesture. mrs nott is an emotional woman, and you three had learned a lot from watching her sob at luncheons (at spring, specifically, when there’s clouds of pollen in the air).

regulus looks at you and asks, "want a caramel?"

you look at him for a while, a rather dumbfounded look about you, and shake your head no. you take the lemon one instead, for the irony of it.

and with that, you all settle, in a very serene manner, a slight disturbance now and again from the rolling tracks. the others talk over you as you look over your treat, thoughtful and malleable. no, it seems that, in this manner, life will continue unchanged. even after school is established, this, your circle, will endure and persist, and you won't have a need to leave anyone, no matter what comes between you.

oh, but what of sirius? you would so like for him to get along with your rowdy lot. but it's no good, if it's him, because he has his own group, and he wants nothing to do with yours. still, you would share your treat with him, and he wouldn't like the flavour but he would pretend that he did to make you happy.

cissy words linger, but you don't understand why. nor any deeper implications. you will yourself not to think of such things.

***

a quick summary of events before this very moment:

one, after the sugar rush, your compartment had died down significantly. seats were changed, and while inspecting the tome on the history of hogwarts (terrible read, really, you'll detest history of magic, you just know it!) you and regulus had fallen asleep.

two, bartimus had accidentally left explosive crackers by an unassuming door leading to a compartment occupied, accidentally, by muggles, which spooked them immensely. they fled like puffskins in each and every direction as the fireworks cackled and smoke billowed, lingering in the corridor. this is how he met frank longbottom, a gryffindor prefect, and received a stern warning, which only left him pondering about further opportunities of mischief.

three, evan, searching for a chocolate frog, had located a box of marzipan sweets, which greatly upset marzy, because marzipan nott is a ridiculous name and she was rightly ridiculed by bartimus for a good 15 minutes before matilda locked him out of the compartment.

four, after changing into your school uniforms, the lot of you sat in silence nursing a nasty stomach-ache.

five, you briefly saw sirius and his friends at hogsmeade station, and james potter waved at you, which upset regulus, so he didn't speak with you for the remaining boat ride. you had decided he's not worth the fuss, and simply enjoyed the cool, wet air and the gentle lull of the wooden boat drawing closer to the castle that will, from now, be considered your home. the sky, by then, had cleared, and the moon was split in half by the astronomy tower.

the great hall is astoundingly grand. your shoes echo and the chattering whispers are a pleasant buzz. it seems as though no one quite wants to separate. your friends surround you, admiring the enchanted sky and the warm twinkle of floating candles. "they're everywhere. look."

regulus points, as he noticed first, and you move your head to follow their patterns. you've never seen anything like it before. it's quite a thing, how all the children look upward, stumbling after professor mcgonagall and closer and closer to the sorting hat. sat atop a rickety stool, you try to catch a glimpse at it, though all you can see is the pointy tip.

on your left sits the slytherin table, with cissy and rabastan; to your right is sirius with his friends, and further is hufflepuff, and further still is ravenclaw. marzy, unable to help herself, waves at her brother, and you see him stand and wave back, a new, shiny ravenclaw prefect badge pinned to his robes.

"oh," she sounds very distressed, and her tanned skin blotches a deep rose, "i hope i'm in ravenclaw," she utters, then snaps, "no!" she turns to you and regulus, stood shoulder to shoulder, taken aback by the fervour in her voice, "slytherin. i don't want to be without you."

barty shrugs, "plenty of chances. we'll come for a visit anyway."

"of course we will," you confirm, and pat her arm gently.

"you'll do well wherever you are," matilda pats her arm, too.

you'd like to say the sorting doesn't matter much at all, but it does. ravenclaw is not too egregious, however, and it would bely an intelligence you didn't know she had, which would be a pleasant surprise to everyone. hufflepuff is tolerable. the only hufflepuff you know is aunt berry yaxley, but no one talks to her much.

gryffindor is off limits, but marzy would never fit the criteria. you, however...

bartimus gives the both of you a sceptical look. the chatter dims for a moment as dumbledore stands and delivers his yearly introduction. the sorting hat starts singing, and the lyrics were included in the brochure, but you didn't bother reading. regulus finds singing embarrassing, so the two of you hum along, but bartimus, unsurprisingly, has quite a pair of lungs on him.

finally, the sorting begins. professor mcgonagall unfurls a lengthy parchment, and the hall hushes eagerly. you feel the tension slowly settle on your shoulders as the names are called. to some, this is simply a sorting. to you, it will decide your fate.

"black, regulus," and the pin drop silence is slightly unnerving. you glance at reggie as he glances at you, and you don't have time to read his expression before he's off, weaving through the students to take a seat under the brim of the worn sorting hat. you clasp your hands together tightly.

"SLYTHERIN!"

clapping erupts. all of you brim with happy smiles, but regulus remains stoic. his eyes dart to gryffindor before he shuffles to join cissy, growing more miserable as the slytherin table drowns him in congratulations.

"crouch, bartimus," mcgonagall sounds.

"expelled," matilda hisses, and to the surprise of all, barty doesn't flip her the bird.

the hat covers his eyes before, "SLYTHERIN!"

and he's much happier to receive the standing ovation. you can see it on his face: the rush, the pride when he slides onto his bench, a smug, lopsided grin etched onto his features, right beside a quiet regulus.

a few more names, and then yours. the crowd shushes again. this year holds many important names, some youngest members of the secret twenty eight. all eyes, on you, again, and marzy nudges you to move as your gaze gets stuck on sirius. he seems hopeful. a small smile lifts his lips and you feel yourself breathe in and hold.

your fingers shake, but you walk with your back straight, just like aunt walburga taught you.

you sit down, and mcgonagall offers you a placid smile. you'd prefer her not to draw it out and let you keep your sanity.

it barely grazes the top of your hair before it bellows, "SLYTHERIN!"

you blink, deafened by the cheering. dizzied, you stand on quivering legs, and you look to sirius, because he had assured you and himself different, but he's not even looking at you. his brows are creased and his jaw is clenched. not the way you want to see him. it was a terrible thing to wish, after all. the disappointment.

but the welcome, oh, anyone would love to be so accepted. regulus smiles, a rare, honest quirk of the lip, and he beams just a little bit when he notices the tight expression on your face, so proud and yet so filled with concern, like your happiness meant more to him than his own. you are pulled to sit beside him and barty as your robes stripe green, and cissy smiles and pats your cheek, and everything is as it should be in the world.

just not exactly how you imagined.

#regulus black #sirius black #the marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders x you #harry potter #hp #imagine #imagines #reader #fluff #hogwarts #x reader #angst #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #james potter #james potter x reader #if u squint #time to pretend #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #hp x you #hp fanfic #slytherin boys

[delicrieux]

hey~~ i just wanted to let you know that i truly don’t know if anything will ever make me feel the way that (re)reading myso does. my heart is so full of good vibes and love and tenderness and i just really wanted to say i love it (and your writing) so much. ik it’s been a while since it came out but thank you for writing it and i hope you’re doing well 💚🫶🫰

🥺 ty pookie 🫶 nr1 comfort series fr

#myso #everyone say thank u to quarantine #nonnie