Something Tells Me I’m I Little Obsessed With Them

out of everything that just happened i think mpreg kier was probably the craziest

Im (not) sorry guys, but the scene where Enid leaves the dorm is so very very break up coded and everything after that. Like, Wednesday full on MOURNED that “friendship” (quotations bc they’re gay) but couldn’t care less when her (supposed) love interests were pissed at her. She only cares when ENID is mad and ENID is upset, that’s when she is also upset. THAT is when she knows she messed up.

Thank you and good night

#he really said we cope through humor

REGULUS BLACK

“as i got older, i learned im a drinker.

sometimes a drink feels like family.”

remus will silently watch regulus from across the room no matter what.

a party? he's watching regulus hug dorcas and hand her a present, remembering how he helped him pick it out for her, holding his hand as they take the bus home to get ready. the library? admiring the way his fingers run down the page, or grip his pen, or move through his hair when he's concentrating. the club? he's watching the way regulus' hips move under the light, how their eyes meet with that familiar 'come here' motion from his finger. in their bedroom? he's watching regulus touch himself for him, just for him and only him.

remus is always quietly watching until he decides to join in.

my worst fear is a MALE finding out i like them. like… wtf u snooping around for?

especially since i love girls sm… it’s out of character af

this post is not about the guy i have an imaginary situation ship with (he doesn’t know i exist and if he does he’s probably disturbed by me)

OMG OLIVE GARDEN FROM THE HIT MINECRAFT ROLEPLAY MYSTREET I LOVE APHMAU

i have never prayed b4 but when ethel sang ‘but i keep praying and praying and praying’ I DIED

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

“august”

regulus black x reader

-friends with benefits turns south when a certain slytherin realises he’s risked it all for someone who can’t give her all.

warnings: guys this is sad 😋 #angst and the reader is an arse 🫶. mostly from regulus’ pov, a bit suggestive, so 16+ probably

a/n: guys regulus black brain rot is real and it is destroying my life. i love this man!! i wish he was real!! listen to august by taylor swift while reading this

back when i was living for the hope of it all

scattered pieces of paper, short candles- melted to their base, muggle poetry books and ‘tiny dancer’ by elton john. this is what regulus thought of when anybody so much as muttered the name ‘y/n l/n’.

y/n was his best friend, his only friend for that matter. they were often found pacing libraries and the school grounds late at night- then detention or the headmasters office after school for lurking around after hours. they would read the same books and listen to the same songs, gushing about things that their respective families would deem ‘wrong’ due to the muggle nature of the content they were discussing.

despite their friendship, regulus had always yearned for something more. between playful smiles and withheld glances, he wanted to say something reminiscent of the romance parts in the muggle books that they read- but that sentiment was much more than words could ever communicate.

instead, it was communicated late at night as they tiptoed through the corridors in heavy sweaters and hushed whispers. regulus had lightly pushed y/n against a wall and kissed her passionately, the action being returned by y/n mere seconds later.

but this didn’t mean anything, not to y/n at least.

the next morning the two went back to normal, sitting next to each other in the grand hall and gossiping about other students. when regulus tried to talk to her about it, he was simply brushed off.

later that night they found themselves in y/n’s dorm room- tip toeing around without heavy sweaters but still hushed whispers.

regulus didn’t mind, or at least he pretended that he didn’t mind. but the summer was finally arriving and their families had a few balls planned out, so they wouldn’t be completely deprived of one another.

“i can’t believe we won’t get to see each other everyday!” y/n cried dramatically, jumping into regulus’s uniform as they packed their bags.

“it’s only 2 weeks until your family’s ball, don’t worry!” he laughed, pushing y/n off playfully.

y/n shook her head. “you best not forget about me in those 2 weeks” she said. regulus gasped, with his hand in his heart. “i would never!” he claimed.

those long two weeks finally came to an end on a warm friday night. y/n was spotted by regulus mere moments after guests were being invited in, as she laid back on a wall in a silk dress with a glass of wine in her hand. “who said you’re old enough to drink?” he asked, hands on his hips as he walked over.

“calm down! it’s only juice. i added vodka though,” she chuckled, bringing in regulus for a hug. “i missed you” she whispered in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. regulus gulped, taking a step back as his cheeks turned red.

“where can i get myself some of that juice vodka?” he asked.

“see that table over there? pour half of whatever and come back to me for the flask, i have two just in case” she gestured over to a king dining table, filled with drinks of every kind.

late into the ball, the two were nowhere to be found. hidden in an abandoned guest room, extremely intoxicated and underdressed, regulus and y/n sat against a grey-painted wall and on top of a carpet with a sinister pattern. consumed by fear of the war and a pure yearning for one another, they continued the sullen tradition of their previous year at hogwarts.

“do you like me?” regulus asked, lighting a cigarette from his suit pocket. y/n crawled over, grabbing one out from his pocket as well and holding it out for him to light it. regulus acknowledged the gesture and lit the cigarette, laying back into the frame of the bed they were sitting on.

“of course i do, reggie” y/n smiled, taking in the smoke. “if i didn’t, i wouldn’t be here post-shag smoking in bed with you” she laughed, resting her head on his shoulder.

“but what type of like?” he asked, inverting his legs towards his torso slightly. y/n shook her head. “that’s a pretty loaded question” she remarked, closing her eyes.

regulus shook his head confusedly. he blew out the smoke and extended his arm around y/n. “i don’t think it’s loaded. i like you more than anyone i’ve ever met, that’s the type of like i like you as… if that makes any sense” he muttered.

“i like you more than anyone else too”

a few weeks pass and the noble house of black was hosting their own little gathering, and the l/n family was obviously invited.

the two embraced passionately upon y/n’s arrival, spinning her around like a ballerina in the process. after a shared dance or two, regulus and y/n scurried off to regulus’s bedroom for the rest of the night.

“where’s sirius?” y/n asked, tracing her fingers over his bookcase.

“he left. my parents well… you can kind of guess what happened but he’s gone. dick move not saving me either but, whatever” regulus sighed, laying back into his bed.

“is he staying with james?” y/n asked, laying back with him.

“yeah. i’m guessing he’s happy there. i wish he’d at least write or let me know he’s safe, but he definitely thinks i’m a devout death eater or something”

“i don’t think you’re a devout death eater”

“i don’t think i am either”

the two shared a train carriage upon the beginning of the school year. from the outside of their almost empty room, they could see james and his friends skipping about, sirius catching a glance of his younger brother for the first time in weeks.

he was consumed by his lonliness and pressure from his parents, y/n was the only person who could relieve that. he didn’t mind if their relationship was barley a relationship and merely friends with benefits.

he stared at her hair and the way her eyes glisten in the morning sun. he wondered what she was thinking or what she was going to say. he wanted to hear something reassuring for the first time after only hearing screams and shouts from his parents.

“do you think we should stop fooling around this year?” y/n asked, breaking regulus out of his spell.

“why?”

“we need to start getting serious about our studies and i need to find a suitor” she said plainly, nestles against the walls of the train carriage.

regulus looked at her, dumbfounded. what did she mean by that?

“is what we have really that disposable?” he asked, trying to find the right words.

“i don’t know. i still want to be friends, you’re my favourite person”

“if i was your favourite person, why are you calling this off right now of all times? why not last year when you knew i was in love with you and you kept me around for whatever sick reasons you have? why now?” regulus whisper-shouted, sitting up straight.

y/n shook her head, placing down the book she was previously reading. “love? we weren’t even in a relationship, regulus”

“but we were close enough to snog 5 times a day?”

r/n sighed, standing up. “i knew you’d get like this, you’re far too dependant. i can’t handle giant commitments and you know that! why would you do this to me?”

“fuck off, have a good year” regulus said as he grabbed his bags and pushed past y/n.

burning toast, stolen glances, venomous stares and obvious avoidance. these are the things that regulus thought of when he heard y/n l/n’s name. as much as he wishes he could hate her, there was no end to his eternal love.