{𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝} → open ! || requests are usually open unless they get too much, then I will turn them off so that I could finish other requests ! ||
About the blogˎˊ˗
what I do -> write fanfics and on some occasions, headcanons about timothée's characters
what I write about -> Harry Potter, Marauders, Characters played by Timothée, RPF, etc.
P.S. I don't have an upload schedule, but I try to post and make fanfics as much as possible. My stories are best when I am motivated. It keeps the fun and excitement in making these stories when I'm more motivated. :>
masterlist,
prompt list
rules and disclaimersˎˊ˗
yes ! → fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, character x reader, mentions of smvt, bl00d/g0re, slow burn, RPF
no ! → smvt, kinks, p3do, non-con
I do not write smut under any circumstances. If you'd like to make a request, you can choose from the prompt list or submit your own idea.
I've received a few disrespectful comments in the past and have chosen to ignore them. I will continue to do so with any future hate comments. Just a reminder, I am a minor, so these kinds of messages are especially inappropriate.
If you don’t like my writing, feel free to scroll past my blog—there’s no need to send hate comments.
DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY WRITING AND CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN.
I’m pretty indecisive, so if you notice my blog changing from time to time, it’s just me figuring out which colors I like best hehe!
If you come across my work being copied or reposted, please let me know!
It had been a long road to get here—one filled with hope, frustration, and a lot of patience.
Elodie was 18 months old now. And while other babies her age were toddling around with ease, climbing everything in sight, and making their parents chase them through grocery store aisles, Elodie had been a little different. Slower. More hesitant. She crawled with the speed of a seasoned explorer and had mastered pulling herself up on furniture weeks ago. But walking? Walking had been a battle.
Not because there was anything wrong—doctors had repeatedly reassured you that she was perfectly healthy, just cautious. She liked to take her time. She studied things closely before she acted. And when she did try to stand or take a step, she often froze, like the fear of falling outweighed the excitement of progress.
You and Timothée never pushed her. Not once. You encouraged her with open arms and endless patience, never comparing, never rushing. Still, sometimes, in the quiet moments after she'd gone to bed, you'd look over at Timothée and whisper, "Do you think she's okay?" and he'd meet your eyes and say, without missing a beat, "She’s more than okay. She’s just figuring it out in her way."
That afternoon had felt like any other.
The house was still, warm with late sunlight, and a breeze drifted in through the open windows, ruffling the curtains. You were on the living room floor, surrounded by a basket of clean laundry and a half-eaten granola bar Elodie had proudly offered to the cat earlier. She was in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged like a tiny queen among her plushies—Moo the cow, Lottie the lion, and her beloved stuffed jellyfish with only one remaining eye.
Timothée was stretched out beside her, his head resting on a pillow stolen from the couch. He was absently stacking blocks, humming along to the soft tune playing from the speaker, while Elodie babbled in a language only she understood.
“Buh-da. Gaaaaa. Tuh-buh. Laaaa!”
“Fascinating,” Timothée said, nodding. “Is that… Elodish? Because I’m pretty sure you just called me a ‘boot banana turtle.’”
You laughed from across the room. “At least she’s consistent. That’s her insult of choice lately.”
Elodie squealed, clearly enjoying the attention, and smacked her block tower down with dramatic flair. She clapped her hands, then looked up at you both with a giant, gap-toothed grin.
“She’s got the drama gene,” you said, folding another onesie. “Yours.”
“She’s been crawling for what, nine months now?” Timothée said as he sat up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Maybe today’s the day she surprises us.”
“She won’t,” you said with a soft smile. “You saw how frustrated she got yesterday just trying to stand without holding the coffee table.”
“I dunno…” he said slowly, watching her closely. “She’s in a mood.”
Elodie, who’d been wobbling on her knees, reached for the edge of the ottoman and slowly pulled herself upright. She’d done that dozens of times before. What made today different was the look on her face.
She wasn’t just standing.
She was thinking.
You noticed it too—something about her posture had shifted. She wasn’t clinging to the ottoman this time. She let go.
“El,” you said gently, setting the onesie down. “Hey, baby girl…”
Timothée knelt forward, suddenly very still, his voice low with wonder. “Wait. Wait. Look.”
Elodie’s arms went out for balance, her little fingers wiggling like antennae. She looked between you and Timothée with wide eyes, like she was asking, *Is this it?*
And then… her left foot lifted.
Just a little.
But it lifted.
You stopped breathing.
She took a slow, shaky step. Then another. Her knees wobbled like Jell-O. Her arms flailed once for balance, and then—she did it. A third step. A fourth. Her face was red with concentration, her brow furrowed just like Timothée’s was when he was memorizing lines.
And then—
“*OH MY GOD,*” you gasped. “She’s walking! She’s walking!!”
She squealed with laughter, a sound so pure it made your eyes sting.
Three more steps.
Then—plop.
Right into your arms.
You caught her with a breathless laugh, tears pooling as you hugged her tightly to your chest. “Oh, baby. You did it. You did it.”
Elodie squealed again, squirming in your arms, her face flushed and proud. She babbled wildly, too fast and excited to control it. “Tuh-duh-nah-blah! Gaaa meh meh meh buhhh!”
Timothée laughed through the emotion thick in his throat, pressing a hand to his heart. “What does it mean?! Who cares?! She walked! That was eight whole steps!”
“She’s going to sleep like a rock tonight,” you said, cradling her back as she caught her breath and laid her cheek against your collarbone. “That took so much energy.”
“She’s gonna start running by the weekend,” he whispered with a grin. “And then we’re done for.”
You both knelt there for a long time, holding her, praising her, letting the joy of the moment wrap around the three of you like a warm blanket.
It had taken her time.
It had taken tears—hers and yours.
But when she was ready, she walked.
She didn’t need words to tell you how proud she was.
She didn’t need to say “Mama” or “Dada” to say I did it.
Her joy was loud enough.
And your hearts? Full to bursting.
Elodie’s first steps had been a beautiful, emotional triumph—one that left both of you teary-eyed and giddy with pride. You and Timothée had spent the rest of that afternoon calling family, sending blurry videos to grandparents, and retelling the story to each other like it was a myth passed down through generations.
“She looked like a baby deer!” Timothée said, animated as he bounced her on his lap. “All wobbly and dramatic—but determined. I swear, she locked eyes with me right before that first step. I felt it. She said, ‘Dada, watch me. I’m about to rock your world.’”
“She said that in Elodish?” you teased.
“Fluently.”
You’d both laughed. You’d both cheered.
And then, about twenty-four hours later, you probably regretted it.
Because Elodie was off.
No longer the cautious baby who hesitated and clung to furniture—no, now she was a woman on a mission. She didn’t walk anymore; she sprinted. With reckless abandon. With wild, unearned confidence and exactly zero regard for obstacles, corners, gravity, or your sanity.
She ran into chairs.
She ran into walls.
She tripped over nothing—air. She fell onto the cat, tried to climb the coffee table, and more than once attempted to launch herself off the couch like she was testing the limits of aerodynamics.
“Buh-BUH-DAAA!” she shrieked at full volume, every time she took off across the living room like a tiny, barefoot torpedo in her strawberry-print romper.
“Jesus Christ,” Timothée muttered, watching her dart past for the sixth time in five minutes. “Do you think she has brakes? Should we teach her how to stop?”
You blinked at him from where you were sitting on the floor, watching your daughter careen toward the hallway with a juice box in one hand and a sock in the other. “She’s gonna go right into the coat rack.”
A beat.
Thud.
Timothée sighed. “Yup. There it is.”
She didn’t even cry. She just giggled, popped up, and started running in the other direction, dragging a blanket behind her like a superhero cape.
“We created a monster,” you mumbled.
“We created a track star.” Timothée rubbed his temples dramatically. “She’s not walking. She’s sprinting. There’s a difference.”
“I already put one of those toddler leashes in the Amazon cart,” you said without an ounce of irony.
He turned slowly to you, eyes wide. “No.”
“Yes.”
“We’re not… leash people.”
“We are now.”
Elodie squealed again, this time running in circles while the cat tried—and failed—to stay out of her way.
Timothée groaned and flopped down onto the couch with a grunt. “Remember when we were worried she wasn’t walking? That was cute. We were adorable.”
“She’s got more energy than both of us combined,” you muttered, grabbing the corner of a pillow she had thrown across the room and tossing it back onto the couch. “I’m thirty seconds away from duct-taping her to the floor.”
From the kitchen, you heard a crash.
“What was that?” Timothée yelled.
You poked your head into the hallway and found Elodie holding a wooden spoon and looking very, very proud of herself. The crash had been the Tupperware drawer—now emptied onto the floor like a storm had passed through.
She looked up at you, blinking. Then opened her mouth and, as if she were delivering a keynote speech in her gibberish language, proclaimed, “DAHHHHH-nuh-nuh-nuh-BOOP-BAH!!!”
You blinked. “That’s a fair point.”
“She’s a revolutionary,” Timothée said from behind you, peeking around the corner. “She’s organizing a rebellion. Soon, the furniture will be hers.”
You bent down to pick her up, but she twisted out of your arms and sprinted away, arms flailing like a wind-up toy let loose. You and Timothée exchanged a look, somewhere between exasperation and awe.
“This is it now, huh?” he said. “This is our life.”
“Forever.”
You both watched as Elodie tried to scale the ottoman and promptly slid off, completely unfazed. She bounced back to her feet, giggled like a maniac, and tore off again, heading straight for the dog bowl.
“I’ll install baby gates this weekend,” Timothée muttered.
“I ordered foam for the coffee table,” you replied.
“Should we put the TV on the ceiling?”
“Maybe we just... move into a padded room.”
You both laughed, because what else was there to do? Parenting was chaos, no, but it was a joyful chaos. Loud, messy, impossible to predict. And somehow, in the middle of it, there was nothing more beautiful.
Elodie zoomed past you again, this time clutching a spatula and her jellyfish plush like twin weapons of war. She skidded slightly on the rug and let out a happy shriek that made both of you wince and melt all at once.
Timothée shook his head in disbelief. “She’s completely feral.”
“She’s perfect,” you whispered, a little breathless as she ran straight into your legs and wrapped her arms around you with a proud little squeal of triumph.
He crouched down beside you, brushing a curl from her forehead. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
She looked between the two of you, then pointed to herself proudly.
“BLAGGOOO!”
Whatever that meant.
You laughed and kissed her forehead. “Yeah, baby. Exactly that.”
Hey guysssss.
Is there some ancient spell to make links actually stay put on this cursed site? Because I swear, I'm updating them every other week like it's my full-time job. Send help. Or snacks. Or both. 🫠✨
Four months in, and your daughter had already claimed the house, your time, your hearts — and most of all, Timothée.
Elodie wasn’t just a baby. She was his baby. A Velcro baby, impossibly attached to the man who had rocked her into the world. From the moment her eyes fluttered open in the morning to the second they drifted shut at night, she was glued to him. She could handle about thirty seconds of separation before panic set in, whimpering first, then wailing, inconsolable. Unless he was holding her.
It was like she’d drawn an invisible magnetic line through the household, one that linked her and Timothée so tightly that even you, her mother, couldn’t always cut through. Your home wasn’t just coated in soft light and neutral tones anymore; it thrummed with baby laughter, and sometimes baby fury, depending on whether Timothée was in or out of the room. You’d started calling her his barnacle. He didn’t mind. If anything, he encouraged it.
There was no preparing for the intensity of it. She was calm, joyful, and cooing as long as he stayed within arm’s reach. If he left, even to pee, a countdown began. Once, you watched her lying in her bassinet, eyes wide and searching. Timothée had gone to the kitchen for all of twenty-four seconds. Before you could say, “He’s just grabbing coffee,” her tiny face crumpled like a crushed flower. And then? War. A screech like a fire alarm.
The moment he stepped back into the room, coffee in one hand, the other rubbing his eyes, her cries stopped cold. You could swear there was smugness in her gummy little grin as he leaned over and whispered, “Miss me already?”
It became a joke between the two of you. “She’s your mini-me,” you said one night, watching Elodie pout just like he did when she didn’t get her favorite toy fast enough.
He didn’t deny it. “She’s my twin,” he said proudly. “You just carried her.”
You weren’t sure if it was hilarious or a little insulting. Maybe both. Because sometimes it stung. Not jealousy — just something quieter. A feeling of being invisible. You’d carried her for nine months, after all. But the bond she had with him was unlike anything you’d ever seen.
Her nap schedule lived and died by the rhythm of his chest. She responded to his voice before anyone else’s. Laughed for him. Cried for him. She’d wait at the front door like a little statue if he dared to go somewhere without her, arms twitching, mouth puckering into a protest pout.
One time, you’d insisted he go run errands without her. “You’re becoming a recluse,” you told him. “Elodie will be fine.”
“She’ll last,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Maybe twelve.”
She lasted five.
She had been lounging peacefully in her swing until the front door clicked shut. You saw the change happen in real time. Legs kicking. Fists clenching. Then, the howl. A sound that filled the apartment like an alarm.
You tried everything, bouncing, singing, and shushing. But she screamed like she’d been betrayed by the universe. When Timothée returned, groceries in hand, Elodie reached for him like salvation. The moment he scooped her up and whispered, “I’m here, baby,” she went quiet. Instantly.
“She’s a traitor,” you muttered, brushing a tear off your own cheek.
“She loves you,” Timothée said softly. “She’s just dramatic about it.”
You weren’t sure you believed him. Until the day she chose you.
It was a rainy Tuesday. Timothée had a meeting downtown. You tried not to pace, even as Elodie stirred from her nap with that telltale lip quiver.
“I know, baby,” you whispered. “He’s gone. But I’m here.”
You braced for the inevitable storm, but instead, you turned on her music box, the one that played Timothée’s lullabies. Humming along, you rocked her gently in the glider. And to your surprise, she quieted. Watery eyes blinked up at you. Her mouth wobbled. Then, he sighed. Soft. Safe.
She fell asleep in your arms.
You didn’t move for an hour. Just held her, breathing her in, grateful. When Timothée came home, you told him everything. He wrapped his arms around both of you and whispered, “See? She knows you. You’re her whole world.”
You needed that.
Because the Velcro clung strongly. She spent most of her day strapped to his chest in her carrier, at the grocery store, on walks, during guitar tuning sessions, even when he brushed his teeth. You once caught them in the mirror, Elodie snuggled in her favorite starry wrap while he grinned at you with toothpaste foam around his mouth. “Multitasking,” he said proudly.
You had a whole camera roll to prove it: Elodie passed out on his chest, curled in his lap, swaddled in his hoodie while he cooked dinner one-handed. One afternoon, you caught them both asleep in the glider, Elodie stuffed inside his hoodie pouch like a kangaroo baby, cheek pressed to his heart, Timothée slumped and snoring.
And then there was the time when he went to brunch with some of his friends. You’d insisted he stay home and help with the baby.
He lasted twenty minutes before FaceTiming you from the car. “She misses me,” he said. “I can tell.”
“You’ve been gone less than half an hour,” you said, turning the phone toward Elodie, who beamed at the sight of him.
Some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d cling to his drawstrings like reins while he paced the hallway, her pilot and spaceship in one. On rougher nights, like the time she had a mild fever, you both took turns carrying her, whispering reassurances into her flushed cheeks. At 3 a.m., you collapsed onto the couch. Timothée joined you minutes later, Elodie still strapped to his chest like a sleepy barnacle.
“She’s gonna do this forever, isn’t she?” he murmured.
“She’ll be thirteen and still making you carry her,” you replied.
He grinned. “I won’t mind.”
Neither would you.
Because as much as she clung to Timothée, she knew you. You were her home, too. Her heartbeat. Her safe place.
And for all her Velcro love, all her barnacle clinging, Elodie was yours.
Tiny hands, big love, and a dad wrapped around her finger.
pairings: Timothée Chalamet x Fem!reader
word count: 2.3K
warnings: Fluff, a bit of jerk Timothée for a few moments, childbirth
note: First chapter to my new series.. Girl Dad Diaries !
more here: Girl Dad Diaries masterlist, masterlist
You and Timothée had been married for two years, and today, December 27, just two days after Christmas, was his birthday. A week ago, you found out you were pregnant with his child. It hadn’t been planned, but neither of you was against the idea; if anything, it felt like perfect timing. To surprise him, you wrapped a small, slender box and tied a little bow on top. Inside, you placed five clean, positive pregnancy tests—your quiet, heartfelt way of saying, We’re having a baby.
You also got him a new iPad for his birthday.
Why not? Right? Were you spoiling him? Maybe just a little. In five days, Timothée Chalamet was getting a brand-new MacBook, an iPad, and, though he didn’t know it yet, a baby. So yeah, you were spoiling him. But if anyone deserved it, it was him.
You woke up bright and early, long before he stirred. The house was still dark except for the faint glow of the Christmas lights strung across the living room, and the soft scent of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air from the candles you'd been lighting all week. Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you tiptoed through the house, grabbing your slippers and hoodie before heading out to the garage. That’s where you’d hidden the gifts—you knew he wouldn’t think to check your car.
Moments later, you returned with both boxes in hand. One was a sleek Apple box, the other longer and thinner, wrapped with extra care and a little satin bow. You placed the thinner one 6to the side for now. That surprise would come last.
Carefully, you placed the iPad box on the bed and leaned over him, brushing the hair from his face. You kissed his forehead gently.
"My love," you whispered sweetly.
He groaned in protest, rolling over and tugging the blanket over his head. "Nooo..."
You giggled. "C'mon, birthday boy. Wake up."
He peeked out with one eye. His curls were a mess, his voice groggy. "What time is it?"
"Too early," you admitted, laughing softly, "but I couldn't wait."
He sighed dramatically. "This better be worth it."
You grinned and placed the gift on his chest. "It is. Open it."
He sat up slowly, yawning as he pulled at the wrapping paper. The second he saw the Apple logo, his eyes widened.
"No way..." he murmured. "You got me the iPad, too?"
You gave him an innocent shrug. "I mean, you need something portable for travel. The MacBook is for editing and writing, the iPad is for movies and drawing. Practical, right?"
He just stared at you. "You're insane."
"Maybe," you replied playfully, crawling back into bed beside him. "But I love you."
He leaned over and kissed you, lingering a bit longer than necessary. "I love you more. You really didn’t have to do this."
"I wanted to. You deserve it."
He was already powering it on, a boyish grin on his face. "Okay, yeah. This is amazing. You're amazing. I feel so spoiled."
You smiled to yourself, glancing at the still-wrapped box on the nightstand.
"Oh," you said casually, "there's one more."
He blinked, still distracted by his new iPad. "More? Babe, you already went overboard. What is it, socks? A sweater?"
You chuckled nervously. "Not exactly. Here. Open it."
You handed him the smaller, longer box, wrapped with a delicate little bow. He looked at you suspiciously but took it, tearing the wrapping slowly.
He lifted the lid and stared.
Five pregnancy tests. All positive. All clean. Lined neatly in a row.
His jaw dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.
"Wait..." he finally breathed. "Are these... are these real?"
You nodded, heart pounding. "I found out last week. I wanted to tell you in a special way. Surprise."
He looked back down at the tests, then up at you, eyes glassy with disbelief. "We're having a baby?"
You smiled, your voice soft. "Yeah. We are."
He let out a breathless laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a moment before looking at you again, overwhelmed but glowing. "Oh my god. I... I don't even know what to say."
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You don't have to say anything. Just hold me."
He pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you tighter than ever.
"This is the best birthday of my life," he whispered into your hair. "A MacBook, an iPad, and a baby? I don't think anything could top this."
You laughed. "Well, don't get used to this kind of treatment every year."
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Too late. I'm officially spoiled for life."
The first trimester was a whirlwind of emotions and adjustments. You cried often—when your jeans didn’t fit, when nothing satisfied your hunger, or just because. Your body was changing fast, and so was your world. Timothée stayed grounded through it all, holding you close when you broke down, whispering soft reassurances. He even cleared out a guest room and began turning it into a nursery—the one with the big window you loved. Inspired by your love for stars, you both chose a space theme, spending countless hours researching baby essentials. Timothée was convinced it was a boy; you secretly hoped for a girl. You decided to wait until the birth to find out.
The second trimester brought a little relief from the nausea, but new aches took over. Leggings became your daily uniform, much to your embarrassment as a touring singer. Still, with Timothée’s unwavering support, you embraced the changes. You announced your pregnancy mid-tour, keeping the details private, and fans adored the mystery. Meanwhile, your craving for cucumbers spiraled—chopped, dipped, and topped with anything you could think of. Timothée kept a cooler of them backstage and even tried your wildest combos. You laughed, nested, your belly grew, and the nursery became a dreamy little galaxy.
By the third trimester, everything was harder. Sleep was a battle of pillows and shifting positions, and you were always too hot, too tired, or too emotional. Swollen fingers forced you to take off your rings—Timothée lovingly put them on a chain around your neck. Performing felt heavier, but fans cheered louder than ever when the baby kicked mid-song. Cravings got weirder, nesting became an obsession, and you repacked the hospital bag more times than you could count. Through it all, Timothée stayed close—singing to your belly, rubbing your feet, and reminding you how strong you were.
You were sore, swollen, and ready. Nervous, but full of love. The best part was just around the corner.
Then, the day finally came when your water broke. The hospital room buzzed with low voices and the steady beeping of machines, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the rhythmic sound of your breathing. Hours had passed in a blur of contractions and sweat, your grip on Timothée’s hand never loosening, even when your fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t complain once. He stayed right beside you, brushing damp hair from your face, whispering encouragements through every cry, every wave of pain.
“You’re doing so good,” he kept saying. “He’s—uh—they’re almost here.” He still stumbled over the pronouns sometimes, trying to avoid guessing, but you could tell he hadn’t fully let go of the idea that it might be a boy.
You were too focused on surviving the next contraction to care.
Then, finally, it happened. One more push, one last scream—and the room exploded into sound. A sharp, high-pitched cry filled the air, and the doctor smiled as she lifted the baby up.
“It’s a girl,” she announced, beaming.
You blinked through your tears and turned to Timothée. But instead of the cheer or the gasp you’d expected, he went oddly quiet.
“A girl?” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.
It wasn’t disappointment exactly—not in the way that stung. But for a moment, you saw the flicker in his expression. A beat of surprise. Of recalibration. He had been so sure. Had spoken to your belly like a boy was listening. Had joked about teaching “his son” guitar.
But before you could even speak, they placed her, tiny, pink, wailing, into his arms.
And everything changed.
Timothée looked down at her, and whatever expectation he had crumbled in an instant. His whole face softened, like someone had knocked the wind out of him in the gentlest way. His eyes brimmed with tears as he adjusted his hold on her, already protective, already in love.
“Elodie,” he whispered, like her name had been waiting on his tongue this whole time. “Hi, baby girl.”
Then he looked at you, and though he was clearly trying to be composed, his voice cracked as he admitted, “I thought I wanted a boy. But… she’s perfect. It was always supposed to be her.”
You smiled through your exhaustion, through your own tears, and reached for him, your daughter tucked between you like the softest miracle.
A week in the hospital felt like a slow dream, both calming and surreal. The days blurred into each other in a haze of soft lullabies, nurse check-ins, and the gentle hum of machines that beeped and blinked with their rhythm. Every few hours, someone would enter the room to examine Elodie, check your vitals, ask questions, and smile politely. The food was bland, the lighting too harsh, and the beds not quite soft enough, but none of that mattered. You had her. She was here.
Still, by day seven, you were aching for your home. For the nursery you'd spent months perfecting. For the quiet comfort of your bedroom, your candles, your robes, your slippers. And maybe, selfishly, just a little bit of time without a nurse barging in with a blood pressure cuff when the baby had just fallen asleep.
Timothée was practically bouncing by the time the discharge papers were signed. He packed everything up with the energy of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life. The hospital staff wheeled you down in a chair, your arms wrapped around the infant car seat where Elodie blinked sleepily, her tiny hat pulled low over her forehead. Timothée walked beside you like a proud golden retriever, loaded with bags, snacks, and the biggest grin you’d ever seen on his face.
He double-checked the car seat straps before you left the parking lot. Triple-checked them before pulling out. And then turned in his seat a dozen times during the drive, just to make sure she was still breathing.
When you finally stepped into your home, everything felt different. The air was warmer somehow, the rooms no longer silent but humming with new life. It was like the house had been holding its breath this whole time—and now, with her inside, it finally exhaled.
And from that moment on, Elodie was never far from Timothée’s chest.
You thought you’d be the one who couldn’t let her go, but Timothée became completely, utterly inseparable from your daughter. She was always in his arms, swaddled against his chest in that soft gray wrap he insisted on wearing everywhere. He wore her while making breakfast. While reading. While pacing the living room as she napped. He even wore her while brushing his teeth once. “She likes the vibration,” he shrugged, speaking like he was some kind of baby whisperer.
You joked that you were officially the third wheel now. He didn’t even argue.
Every few hours, when it was your turn to nurse or rock her to sleep, he’d hover just a few inches away. And the moment you were done, he’d scoop her right back up with a breathless, “I missed her.”
You laughed, but you understood. Because watching Timothée fall in love with Elodie was like watching gravity find him again. He melted into fatherhood. The actor, the performer, the dreamer—all of it quieted, softened, sharpened into something tender and fierce. She made him gentler. And braver.
He danced with her often, barefoot in the nursery under the soft light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He’d sway slowly, whispering, “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?” His voice cracked sometimes when he said it. As if he couldn’t believe she was real either.
One night, while you were still adjusting to night feeds and the ache in your body, you found him on the nursery rug with Elodie tucked on his chest. He was humming “Landslide,” eyes closed, tears glistening at the corners. When he saw you, he smiled and whispered, “She likes Fleetwood Mac. She's got taste already.”
He called her his tiny soulmate. You didn’t even mind that he barely looked at you anymore, because when he did, it was usually to say, “Look at her. Just look.”
He was so in love with Elodie that it was almost comedic. One morning, after pulling her gently from your arms, he sat beside you and muttered, “I’d throw myself in front of a bus for her.”
You blinked at him. “You just met her.”
He nodded, serious. “If there was a shooter, I’d use you as a human shield to protect her.”
You stared, speechless.
He gave a crooked little smile. “Don’t take it personally. You had your moment. This one’s hers now.”
But even in all the humor, you could see it. The way she had rewired something in him. His entire world now existed in the space between her breaths.
He wore her in a carrier everywhere: around the house, to the grocery store, even while standing outside in the backyard doing nothing but watching the sky. He kissed her head more times than you could count. He cried the first time she grabbed his finger with intention. He cried harder the first time she smiled.
And you watched it all—this beautiful, chaotic, overwhelming new rhythm of your lives—and thought: We’re going to be okay.
You had your little girl.
And she had the man who would move heaven and earth just to keep her warm.
my fav sang rn is melancholy hill by gorillaz. it's been in my head for WEEKS such a good song :)
event; profile; nav; hi anon!! thank you for sending in this request. it is a pretty good song. once again, it gave me angsty vibes...
it also gave me regulus vibes, i have no idea how, or where, but it just gave me reggie vibes. ITS ALSO VERY VERY LONG
song: melancholy hill, gorillaz
slytherin boy: regulus black.
SINCE day one, he had always been your best friend. growing up in a strict, pureblood household was not easy.
especially with your six, younger siblings behind you, and a limited amount of gold in your parents' vault at gringotts.
unfortunately, that meant being betrothed to someone you hardly knew; at the young age of eleven.
your fate was sealed, the moment you got your letter to hogwarts.
augustus rookwood.
his name was augustus rookwood.
your future husband's name.
currently studying in durmstrang, and four years older than you, rookwood came from utmost wealth, which meant good news for your family should you marry him.
support for all your younger siblings.
and so, with this dark cloud of an eventually arranged marriage hanging over your head, you set foot into hogwarts, at the age of eleven.
naturally, you were sorted into slytherin. coming from a long line of slytherins, how could you be sorted into any other house??
being the oldest of seven, you had always been shadowed by the rest, and you often used to find yourself curled up on the chaise lounge with a book whilst you were given the responsibility of watching your siblings, making sure they weren't getting into trouble.
now, alone at hogwarts, you suddenly felt free, away from the burden of your future, and the responsibility of looking after your siblings.
your thoughts were interrupted when a boy sat beside you after being sorted into slytherin.
you recognized him. he came from the most noble and ancient house of black, one of the most prestigious wizarding families who lived in london.
your mother was close friends with his mother, so you had seen him a couple of times.
you'd never spoken to him before though.
the pair of you would simply make eye-contact before he went upstairs, and you buried your nose in a book.
now, however, you were grateful to have the slightly comforting feeling of having someone you knew sit beside you.
you had barely eaten anything; your anxiety was filling enough. an air bubble had wedged itself in your throat, preventing you from doing anything but staring at your food and rubbing your sweaty palms on your robe-covered thighs.
"you've barely touched your food," regulus had murmured with a small, sullen nod; his way of greeting you.
"so have you," you observed quietly, your eyes flickering to his untouched plate, then wandering to hazel-green eyes and dark, messy mop of curls.
no more words were exchanged after that, but regulus and you walked together to the slytherin common room.
you studied together too, and sat next to each other during classes, and even hung out together during the weekends.
one would even go as far as to call you friends.
that was what you had become.
you quickly noticed how similar he was to you. quiet, hardworking, same sense of humor... he even had the same taste in books as you did.
first year passed quickly, too fast for your liking, and before you knew it, it was summer, and you were back to looking after all your siblings and having your mother continuously chastise you for unladylike behavior, constantly reminding you of your upcoming marriage to rookwood as soon as you would graduate from hogwarts.
you were tired of being reminded of it. personally, you couldn't imagine being married to rookwood. you'd never even met the wizard, and you could only hope your parents would change their mind.
you exchanged letters with regulus all summer. yet you never once told him about your betrothal. in your mind, if you didn't speak of it, it would make it less true, and less likely to happen, which was what you wanted.
second year was uneventful, except for the time you and regulus got your first ever detention together.
regulus' brother, sirius had been ignoring regulus whenever the two of you tried to approach him about their mother's letter to regulus, and you had grown frustrated and hexed sirius with a spell you found in one of your books.
as a result, sirius had hexed you with a nose-growing spell and regulus, who was furious at his brother for doing this to you launched himself all over sirius and pummeled him with his fists.
you had to arrange all the borrowed books in the library according to category and author, but it was more rewarding than punishing, since you got to read books and hang out with regulus at the same time.
the summer after your second year was pretty much the same as the one the year before.
for regulus, it was one of his worst summers yet. his brother had run away from home, and got disowned, leaving his little brother to take the brunt of his parents' wrath.
he had immediately flooed over to your house in the middle of the night, and you nursed him back to health as he had suffered the cruciatus curse multiple times that night.
"thank you," he had told you, when dawn began creeping closer. you had hidden him in your room, hoping your parents wouldn't find out about an uninvited guest.
"any time," you whispered back, giving him the tightest hug you could muster. "it's what friends are for, right?"
you and regulus grew closer after that. two of your siblings joined hogwarts that year, and the heavy responsibilities you dealt with at home followed you to hogwarts, the place that had become your safe haven.
when the twins got into trouble, your parents sent you a howler for not looking after them properly, and regulus was there holding you as you cried into his shoulder late at night in the common room.
"it'll be okay, i've got you..." he kept murmuring.
and he was right. it was all okay, because he was there.
you and regulus didn't need anyone else's company when you had each other.
he was enough for you, and you were enough for him too.
third year was also the year you were allowed to go to hogsmeade. as usual, you and regulus went together, checked out the village and bought a few candies, before returning to the castle.
the rest of the visits, the two of you took advantage of the empty castle to hang out alone in the slytherin common room.
summer after your third year was uneventful apart from the fact that you met augustus rookwood for the very first time.
he had just finished his seventh year at durmstrang, and had come with his father to see you for the first time.
all at once, everything felt real.
you didn't want to do this; not one bit. you didn't want to marry rookwood.
still, you had come to terms with your fate, you had accepted it.
yet another one of your siblings joined hogwarts at the beginning of your fourth year.
regulus instantly noticed something was different about you this year. the whole train ride, you were completely silent, reading. or at least, pretending to read.
you didn't realize it, but you had been holding your book upside down, too lost in your own thoughts to realize.
regulus noticed, but he never said a word.
he merely smiled and shook his head.
regulus had thought you needed time and space, so that was what he gave you.
at christmas, when you still weren't back to your normal self, he had decided that he had had enough.
"okay, spill," he said randomly, when the two of you were doing homework by the black lake.
"i'm sorry...??"
"something's been bothering you. i want to know," he got to the point, his beautiful hazel-green eyes meeting yours.
and then, you broke.
all this time you had been holding yourself up, afraid that if you opened your mouth, you wouldn't be able to stop, you would start crying.
"reg— don't.... don't ask me that," you pleaded, your eyes watering. "ask me anything else, just.. just not that..."
you couldn't give him an honest answer; you didn't want to talk about rookwood.
you just wanted to forget.
you wanted to enjoy the rest of your hogwarts life and your childhood before your marriage to rookwood.
fully able to tell you were sensitive about the issue, regulus pulled you into an embrace, and that was where you began crying once more, sobbing and shaking as he held you.
"i'm betrothed to rookwood— i'm going to marry him as soon as we graduate from here.."
"oh, love..." your stomach fluttered intensely at the pet name, and as you buried your face into his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck, the sensation only intensified instead of fading away.
when had he smelt this masculine, this good?? when had he felt so muscular, so safe?
you didn't realize it, but that was when you started falling for regulus black, your best friend.
summer after fourth year was no better than the rest. you got to meet regulus at all the pureblood parties and galas hosted by different wizarding families during the summer.
it was also when you shared your first dance with rookwood, and your first dance with regulus.
your best friend has asked you to dance when he saw you sitting pitifully on the stairs, right after your dance with rookwood had ended.
the two of you had ended up sneaking away from the party and into the piano room, where you played tchaikovsky together and stole a bottle of firewhiskey from the cellar.
safe to say that you both got drunk, but you had managed to take a sobering potion before either of your parents caught you.
your fifth year was when you realized you had caught feelings for regulus. every time he gave you that quiet smile of his, every time his eyes twinkled in mirth when you said something funny...
it made your stomach lurch in a completely pleasant way.
every time he would hug you, you would blush. every time his hands would brush against yours, you bit your lip to stop the grin forming across your lips.
it only made everything more painful; knowing that you couldn't act on your feelings because you were betrothed to rookwood.
regulus didn't realize; and you hoped he never would realize.
little did you know, he had already fallen in love with you.
but neither of you acted on your feelings. you simply grew closer to each other than ever.
during the slytherin christmas party, you and regulus got caught under the mistletoe, and he pressed the barest, gentlest of kisses on your lips.
it was your first kiss, but you didn't tell him that.
it lasted less than a second, but it meant everything to you.
it was hard pretending everything was normal after that. regulus was strangely oblivious to your feelings, and you often wondered how he couldn't see your painfully obvious feelings for him, and how he could go on pretending his kiss hadn't affected you.
the rest of your fifth year, you tried to distract yourself from regulus; knowing that if you confessed your feelings for him, it would ruin your friendship.
even if he did like you back, you were betrothed to rookwood anyway.
the summer after your fifth year, and before your sixth year, your parents hosted your official engagement party.
after much pleading and begging, you were allowed to invite regulus.
and as you watched another girl, who happened to be your cousin, chat him up and touch his arm, your blood boiled, your heart clenched, and tears sprung to your eyes, as you watched him lean against the wall with his hands in his pockets and shrug.
the girl moved on and before you knew it, your eyes met his.
a fierce jolt traveled through your entire body, tension suffocating you from all sides just from bearing the weight of his gaze.
that was when you knew you were in love with regulus black.
he was your life jacket in the stormy sea of like, and you simply could not live without him.
you needed him.
but you never said a word.
your fate was sealed. you loved him from a distance. he was so far, yet so close.
and this type of pain was worse than the cruciatus, even.
no, you smiled through it all, acted like you were happy.
only regulus saw through your façade.
your sixth year was your hardest year yet. another of your siblings joined hogwarts, and you and rookwood were expected to write to each other every week.
his letters were short. yours were the same length.
regulus had started to gain attention from the female population.
the tall, brooding, silent type is what they called him. he acted oblivious and uninterested to all of it, but whenever he was approached by a girl, you noticed the slight smirk on his pale, pink lips, and the slightest lift of his eyebrow, and his eyes would meet yours, as if he were waiting for your reaction.
that was when you would quickly cast your gaze down and hastily begin to pretend you were writing.
but regulus knew.
he could see.
and he wanted to confirm if you had feelings for him, so he looked at you cluelessly before he asked his question.
"should i go out with her?" he asked innocently, his face betraying no emotion. "she seems nice, doesn't she?"
it was all a ploy to get you jealous, but you didn't know that.
fisting your hands underneath the table, you forced a smile through gritted teeth.
"mhmm, yeah, she does. if you like her, go ahead— ask her out..."
and he asked her out right in front of you, fully aware of your reddening cheeks and your annoyed glare.
two could play that game.
with every letter that came from rookwood, once a week, you made a show of receiving it, reading it and replying to it.
"want to head to the library?" regulus would ask.
"can't," you'd say. "i need to reply to rookwood."
you would give him the same response when he asked you to accompany him to hogsmeade, and when he asked if you would play chess with him, unaware that your responses made his blood boil.
he decided to up his game.
every quidditch match he would play, he would always wink at you and smile, right after he caught the snitch and won for slytherin.
his win was always dedicated to you.
since his second year, his first year after getting on the team, he always won for you.
you were always there in the crowd, wearing his jersey, his number painted on both your cheeks.
this time, he winked at her.
at the stupid, stupid greengrass girl.
what's more, she ran to him right after his win, and kissed him full on the mouth.
in front of everyone.
your blood boiled, coursing through your veins, and the roar of the crowd around you was drowned out by the pumping of your heart in your ears, making your whole head throb.
hot, angry tears spilled down your cheeks, and your head felt heavy. without casting another glance backwards, you stormed off angrily, into the forbidden forest, without a care.
you didn't know how long you were there, feeding unicorns, talking to the centaurs, but you lost track of time.
it grew dark, and it even began raining.
and you were lost; you couldn't find your way back to the castle.
after wandering blindly through the trees, you managed to get out of the forest, tears mingling with the rain crashing down from the sky.
you were drenched. completely. you had worn regulus' quidditch jersey, as usual; the way you did every match.
now it was a soaking mess atop your shorts.
and then you heard his voice.
calling out your name.
you froze.
he saw you, a good distance from hagrid's hut, wand in hand, wearing his jersey, soaking wet.
you were shivering, freezing cold. but one look from his intense eyes and you felt hot all over.
you were on fire.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS?" he roared, his angry gaze meeting yours. "YOU WERE GONE FOR HOURS— i... i thought something happened to you," he rasped, his voice losing its angry tone and taking a sad, defeated one.
he never lost his temper; it was a rare occasion. and at the moment, he was mad at you for making his heart go through the possibility of losing you.
and you, you could only stand in silence, angry tears spilling down your cheeks.
for once, you were glad it was raining, so regulus couldn't see your tears.
"well, i'm fine," you replied coolly, still completely pissed at regulus. it wasn't his fault. "no need to worry."
you shouldn't have been mad. after all, he didn't like you that way and you were meant to marry rookwood.
"that's all you're going to say?" he scoffed, as he couldn't believe you.
"should i be saying something else?" you prompted, irritation lacing your words.
"an apology, maybe?" regulus muttered, voice laced with irony. "for worrying me? for making me think... something happened to you? for making me think... that i... lost you?"
his voice were laced with vulnerability, spoken with a quiet sort of disappointment, as if he couldn't believe that you of all people would leave him.
in this world, he only had you.
no one else.
you were his family.
"well, why do you care what happens to me anyway?" you retorted, still furious at him for kissing the other girl. you simply couldn't get the image of greengrass locking lips with your best friend.
"i care because you're my best friend. you're all i have," regulus replied earnestly, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the thundering sound of rain. "and..."
his voice dropped lower as he broke off, averting his gaze to the floor before his beautiful eyes flickered back up to yours. "and i love you."
a deafening silence pounded through your ears, and though he spoke so so softly, it was fully audible over the sound of rain.
your heart lurched.
more tears poured down your face, and you swallowed hard.
"reg— i—" you stuttered, completely frozen, unable to string two words together. hope festered in your heart, and you guarded it fiercely, unable to tell if he meant it platonically, or romantically.
"it's... it's okay if you don't feel the same—" he began to panic, brows furrowing together in worry.
"i do," you gurgled, surprising him completely. "i love you."
before you knew it, he was kissing you, hands tangled in your wet, matted hair, your lips mingling with his.
you were freezing cold, and the rain drenched both of you, but the moment your lips touched his, your body was on fire.
you and regulus started dating, but in secret. you couldn't risk your parents finding out about you being in love with him.
they would forbid you from seeing him, and you couldn't live that.
your sixth year summer was uneventful, save for the fact that you convinced your parents to allow you to floo over to regulus' place every now and then.
they only allowed you out of pity.
it was your last summer to be free, to be unmarried.
it was also regulus' last summer to be free. he would be joining the dark lord immediately after graduation from hogwarts.
unbeknownst to you, regulus was hatching a plan.
he didn't tell anyone about it, in fear of failure.
your seventh year was bittersweet.
it was full of exams, and looking after your siblings.
and wedding preparations.
the year ended, and you were swamped with wedding preparations.
you had no time to see regulus.
every night, you would cry, as your wedding came closer and closer, and you were desperately in love with regulus.
the night before your wedding, regulus had managed to sneak into your room.
"pack your essentials," he whispered. "let's run away together.."
and you did. you grabbed his hand and let yourself fall, because you knew he would always catch you.
you knew he would always be there for you.
he would always catch you.
you put your entire faith in him, because everything was better when he was there.
and finally, finally, when you and regulus reached the house he had bought in france, the two of you stopped running.
Hi, dear! I'm sorry if you don't write character death, I read your 'rules and disclaimers' and I didn't see death at either yes or no so this is just me shooting my shot and ask you if you would write an Regulus x reader where, preferably the reader, dies, and Regulus goes through grief? Again, I'm sorry if this made you feel uncomfy, I absolutly love your writing. All the love <3
Where you are
Regulus knew he wouldn’t survive, but he didn’t mind. Death meant seeing you again.
pairings: Regulus Black x Dead!Fem!Reader
word count: 4.6K
warnings: Angst, mentions death, torture, drowning, implied depression. Read on your own accord
note: I usually write fluff rather than death, so this is definitely outside my comfort zone, but in a way I enjoy. To answer your question, I see death as a natural part of angst, so no need to apologize. Again, PLEASE READ ON YOUR OWN ACCOUNT. I changed the way I post my stories. Do you think it looks good? Yes or no?
more here: masterlist, Regulus masterlist
requested by anon.
Regulus Black sat before your grave, his back hunched, his once-impeccable robes now wrinkled and dusted with dirt. His hair, usually neat, hung in unruly strands around his pale face. He hadn't left since your funeral, unable to tear himself away from the cold stone that bore your name. The world had moved on, but he had not. He could not.
The sickness had taken you swiftly, cruelly. One moment, you were laughing with him, teasing him about his brooding nature, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. The next, you were weak, burning with fever, and he was powerless to stop it. Even the best healers could not save you. And now, Regulus was left in a world that no longer made sense, with only memories to replay over and over again in his mind.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was back in the candlelit glow of your shared bedroom, your laughter ringing in his ears. "Regulus, you're staring again," you'd tease, poking his chest as he smirked down at you. "Can you blame me?" he'd reply, pulling you into his arms. But when he opened his eyes, he was alone. Always alone.
The two of you had been caught outside during the season’s first snowfall. You had thrown your head back, eyes wide with delight as you stuck your tongue out to catch the falling flakes. Regulus had only watched, mesmerized. "You look ridiculous," he muttered, but his lips twitched in amusement.
You grinned, tugging on his scarf to pull him closer. "Admit it, you love it."
"I love you," he corrected softly. And as the snow fell around you both, he sealed his words with a kiss, his hands cupping your chilled cheeks.
Regulus lay beside you in bed, staring at the ceiling, while your fingers lazily traced patterns along his arm. "If you could be anywhere, doing anything, where would you be?" you asked.
He turned his head to look at you. "Here. With you."
You rolled your eyes. "That’s a cop-out answer."
He smirked. "It’s the truth."
You huffed, but he could see the warmth in your eyes, the way your lips curled slightly at the edges. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You’re such a sap, Regulus Black."
One evening, long after the world had fallen asleep, you had pulled him to his feet in the sitting room. A record played in the background, its melody soft and crackling with age.
"I don’t dance," he had grumbled.
"Then stand there and let me dance with you," you countered, resting your head against his chest as you swayed gently. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved with you, his arms wrapping around your waist. The world outside did not exist in that moment—only the two of you did.
Regulus had never felt fear like this before. Not in battle, not in the presence of the Dark Lord. Nothing compared to the helplessness that gripped him as he knelt beside you, his hands trembling as they brushed against your fevered skin.
"Love, please," he whispered, his voice raw. "Stay with me. Just a little longer."
You offered him a weak smile, your fingers curling around his wrist. "Reg… don’t look at me like that."
"Like what?" he choked out.
"Like you already think I’m gone."
His throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell you that you weren’t allowed to leave him. But even as he held your hand tightly in his own, he could feel you slipping away.
"I don’t know how to live without you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
You exhaled softly, the weight of exhaustion evident in your features. "You don’t have to. Just… just promise me you’ll keep living. Even when it’s hard."
Regulus swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I can’t."
You gave his hand a faint squeeze. "You can. You’re stronger than you think."
But he wasn’t. He was weak without you. And when your eyes finally fluttered shut, and your grip on his hand loosened, something inside him shattered beyond repair.
Days turned to weeks. Regulus stopped attending Death Eater meetings. The Dark Lord sent summons, but he ignored them. Nothing mattered anymore. He barely ate, barely slept. It was as if he had died with you; only his body remained, trapped in this hollow existence.
The Dark Lord’s patience began to wane. He could not tolerate insubordination, not even from the Black heir. At the next gathering, Regulus's absence did not go unnoticed.
"Where is Regulus?" Voldemort’s voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.
Silence.
Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, exchanging a glance with the others. "He has… not been well, my Lord."
Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable. "Not well? Or unwilling?"
A heavy tension filled the chamber, the air thick with unspoken fear. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he turned his gaze to Narcissa Malfoy.
"Go to him," he commanded. "Remind him where his loyalties lie. And if he refuses to remember… persuade him."
Bellatrix Lestrange let out a sharp laugh, the kind that sent a chill down the spine. "Oh, dearest cousin has lost his spirit?" she cooed, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. "Mourning a little lost love? How... pathetic."
Narcissa shot her sister a warning look before bowing her head to the Dark Lord. "I will see to it, my Lord."
Bellatrix sneered. "And if he does not listen?"
"Then we ensure he does," Voldemort replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Narcissa arrived at Grimmauld Place within the hour, her expression composed but laced with concern. She knew grief. She knew how it twisted inside a person, warping their reality, making the rest of the world fade to nothing. But she also knew the cost of disobedience.
She found Regulus where she expected—by your grave. His head was bowed, his fingers tracing the etched letters of your name. He did not look up as she approached, did not acknowledge her presence.
"Regulus," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "You have to come inside. You’ll make yourself ill."
He did not move.
She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "She wouldn't want this for you. She loved you, Regulus. You think she would want you wasting away like this?"
His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse from disuse. "Don’t. You don’t understand, Cissy."
"I do understand," she countered, squeezing his arm. "But I also understand that the Dark Lord does not tolerate weakness. He sent me here to remind you of that."
Regulus exhaled sharply, finally lifting his gaze to her. His eyes were hollow, void of the sharp intellect that had once defined him. "Let him kill me, then. It would be easier."
Narcissa’s stomach clenched at his words, but before she could respond, the fireplace in the house roared to life, signaling another arrival.
Bellatrix.
She strode into the clearing like a phantom of death, her wand twirling between her fingers as she observed the pathetic sight before her.
"Look at you," she taunted, tilting her head. "The great Regulus Black, reduced to nothing more than a lovesick fool." She sighed, shaking her head dramatically. "What a waste."
Regulus did not react, not even as she stepped closer. Bellatrix crouched before him, her dark curls falling over her shoulder as she studied him with twisted fascination.
"You think grieving makes you noble?" she whispered mockingly. "It makes you weak. She’s gone. Dead. Nothing you do will bring her back."
Regulus's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "Shut up."
Bellatrix grinned. "There’s fire in you still. Good. You’ll need it when the Dark Lord decides you are no longer worth keeping."
Narcissa rose to her feet, stepping between them. "That’s enough, Bella."
Bellatrix huffed, rolling her eyes. "Enough? Oh, dearest sister, our cousin here needs a lesson in duty."
Regulus finally looked up, his gaze meeting Bellatrix's with something dangerous simmering beneath the emptiness. "My duty?" he echoed. "Tell me, Bella—what would you do if it were Rodolphus? If he was the one buried here?"
For the first time, Bellatrix faltered. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there, a flicker of something human beneath her insanity.
She scoffed, straightening up, mask falling back into place. "That’s the difference between us, dear cousin. I would not be weak enough to let love ruin me."
Regulus gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Then I pity you."
Bellatrix’s eyes darkened, but before she could retort, Narcissa stepped forward, voice firm. "That’s enough. We came here for one reason."
She turned to Regulus, her expression softening. "Come back, Regulus. At least pretend, for your sake. If you keep ignoring the Dark Lord’s summons, it will not be my voice or Bella’s he sends next."
Regulus looked at her for a long moment before exhaling, the weight of his grief pressing down on him. "Fine," he murmured. "I’ll come."
Bellatrix smirked. "Smart boy."
But as Regulus stood, casting one last glance at your grave, he knew the truth.
He would never truly return. Because a part of him had died with you, and no amount of pretending could change that.
A few days later, the night was thick with smoke, the air filled with the distant echoes of screams and the crackling of fire. The raid was nothing new, another display of the Dark Lord’s power, another night of violence. Regulus moved through the wreckage like a specter, his wand gripped tightly in his fingers, his expression empty.
The mission had been simple: take down those who resisted, leave an example behind. It should have been nothing more than another task to complete. And yet, something in Regulus had cracked.
His wand was raised, the curse spilling from his lips before he had even registered the words.
“Crucio.”
The man collapsed instantly, his back arching off the ground as if an invisible force had seized his spine and twisted it. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, his fingers clawing desperately at the dirt, nails breaking as he convulsed. His legs jerked uncontrollably, his body writhing like a trapped insect beneath a magnifying glass, unable to escape the unbearable fire coursing through his veins.
Regulus didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. His arm remained steady, his grip on his wand firm. The screaming filled his ears, louder than the roaring flames consuming the house behind them, louder than the shouted orders of other Death Eaters in the distance. It should have been enough. But it wasn’t.
“Crucio.”
Another wave of agony slammed into the man’s already broken body. He choked on his breath, gasping as though drowning, his limbs seizing up before thrashing violently against the cobbled ground. His skin was slick with sweat, his face contorted into something beyond recognition—beyond human. A broken animal, screaming for mercy that would never come.
Regulus’s heart pounded against his ribs, his fingers twitching as he tightened his hold on his wand. The pain in the man’s eyes—it reflected something back at him. Something raw. Something that made his own grief flare like an open wound. He wanted to stop feeling nothing. He wanted to make the world feel what he did.
“Good,” a voice purred from behind him.
Bellatrix.
Her presence slithered through the smoke like a serpent, her dark eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as she watched him work. She stepped closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Again.”
Regulus hesitated for only a second before his grip tightened once more. The man on the ground barely had the strength to whimper, his body twitching, his consciousness fraying at the edges. His breaths came in wet, strangled gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head. He was close to the edge, teetering between agony and oblivion.
Bellatrix chuckled, her voice dripping with approval. “Yes, dear cousin, let him suffer. Make him beg.”
Regulus’s expression was unreadable, his heart hammering. He lifted his wand once more, ready to cast again, to drag the man deeper into suffering. To let the pain swallow them both whole.
And yet, as he stared down at the broken body beneath him, something twisted in his chest. The man’s face was a mess of blood, sweat, and agony. His fingers twitched, his body barely responding to the torture anymore. He was nothing but a shell now.
Regulus took a slow breath and lowered his wand.
Bellatrix’s smile faltered, her excitement giving way to scrutiny. “Why did you stop?”
Regulus didn’t answer. He turned away from the broken man at his feet and walked past her, his expression void of anything. Bellatrix watched him go, amusement flickering in her gaze.
“Oh, cousin,” she whispered, laughter dancing on her lips. “The Dark Lord will be so pleased.”
Regulus didn’t react. He just kept walking, the man’s screams still ringing in his ears, merging with the ghosts of the past he could never escape.
Another raid. Another night drenched in screams and the scent of burning wood. The world around Regulus was a blur of fire and shadows, but none of it truly touched him. He moved as if in a trance, detached from the chaos that once might have rattled him. Nothing mattered anymore.
The target of their raid had been reduced to a heap of trembling limbs, barely clinging to consciousness. A once-proud wizard, now on his knees in the mud, his body wrecked with exhaustion and pain. Regulus stood over him, wand still raised, breath slow and measured. He didn’t even remember how long he had been casting.
Death Eaters gathered in a loose circle around them, the flickering firelight illuminating their masks, their dark robes shifting like shadows. Some watched in silence, arms crossed, their expressions hidden but their satisfaction clear. Others smirked, whispering amongst themselves, reveling in the spectacle. This was entertainment. A lesson. A show of power.
“Crucio.”
A gurgled scream ripped from the man’s throat, his head snapping back as another wave of unimaginable pain consumed him. He twitched and writhed, his fingers digging into the dirt as if the earth itself could save him. But there was no salvation. No mercy.
Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the ruined village, a sweet and cruel melody that slithered into Regulus’s ears. She stood nearby, watching him with an indulgent sort of pleasure.
“That’s it, darling,” she cooed, stepping closer. “Feel it. Let it consume you.”
Regulus tightened his grip on his wand, watching the way the man’s body spasmed, his eyes rolling back, his screams hoarse and broken. He should have stopped. This should have sickened him. But all he felt was the void.
“Again,” Bellatrix urged, voice thick with delight.
Regulus obeyed. The curse tore from his lips once more, and the man shrieked, though his body was barely responding now. He was slipping, teetering on the edge of death, barely holding onto life by the frayed strings of his shattered nerves.
Bellatrix stepped around Regulus, her movements slow, predatory. She knelt beside the broken man, running a gloved finger through the blood seeping into the mud.
“See how beautiful suffering can be?” she murmured, her gaze flicking up to meet Regulus’s. “You understand it now, don’t you?”
From the corner of his eye, Regulus saw some of the Death Eaters nodding approvingly, their postures relaxed, satisfied. Others murmured to one another, their voices thick with amusement, speaking as if this were nothing more than a game.
Regulus didn’t answer. His wand was still raised, his heart hammering beneath his ribs. He wasn’t sure if it was from exhilaration or sickness. He wasn’t sure if he cared.
Bellatrix smirked, her dark eyes dancing with a manic sort of glee.
“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” she said, almost sing-song. “You’re finally becoming who you were meant to be.”
Regulus swallowed hard, his fingers tingling from the magic coursing through him. His chest felt hollow, his veins filled with ice. He didn’t look at the man he had broken. He didn’t want to.
Instead, he turned away, stepping over the crumpled body as if it were nothing more than debris in his path.
Bellatrix followed him, still smiling, still watching.
The Death Eaters parted as he passed, some murmuring words of approval, others giving him silent nods of respect. This was his place now. This was who they believed he was becoming.
But Regulus felt nothing. Nothing at all.
The first time Regulus killed someone after your death, it wasn’t intentional. At least, not in the beginning.
The raid had gone as all the others did, rushed movements, shouts, spells flying through the air like lightning, the scent of burning wood and flesh thickening the night. Regulus had been moving on instinct, his mind caught somewhere between the present and the past, the ghosts of his memories keeping him at a cruel distance from reality. He barely registered the man he had cornered, barely recognized the wand shaking in the desperate grip of someone who had already lost.
It should have been over quickly. Stun him. Leave him. Move on. But something snapped.
The man had looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading, and there was something—something in his expression.
It was the way his lips parted, the way his chest heaved, the way his entire body braced for the worst but still hoped, still begged for mercy. It was the same way you had looked at Regulus once. The same way you had reached for him in your final moments, fingers weak, trembling, before they had gone cold against his skin.
His wand moved before he could think.
“Crucio.”
The man screamed.
Regulus had cast the curse before, had heard the sound of agony a hundred times over. But this was different. This wasn’t calculated. This wasn’t controlled. It was raw, vicious, and desperate. He poured everything into it—his grief, his rage, his emptiness. He watched as the man writhed beneath the force of his magic, body twisting unnaturally, breath choking in his throat as his screams turned ragged.
And Regulus didn’t stop.
He barely noticed when the others fell silent around him, when the fight moved on, when the only sound left in the alley was the crackling fire and the wet gasps of a dying man. His hand was shaking, grip tight around his wand as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.
The man stopped moving. His chest barely rose. His fingers twitched, his mouth opened, whether to speak or to breathe, Regulus would never know. Because, in that next instant, the last thread of life snapped, and he was gone.
Regulus stared down at him, at the way the light had left his eyes, at the way his body had gone slack in the dirt, at the way his blood soaked into the ground as if the earth itself was eager to erase his existence.
He waited for the guilt. He waited for the satisfaction. He waited for anything at all.
But there was nothing. No regret. No triumph. No relief.
Just emptiness.
A void where something should have been.
And as the night stretched on, as the echoes of death faded into the wind, Regulus realized that maybe, just maybe, there was nothing left of him to save.
Regulus hadn’t looked at himself in weeks. Maybe months. There was no need. He already knew what he would see—someone who wasn’t really alive anymore. A hollowed-out thing, a ghost wrapped in skin.
But tonight, something had drawn his eyes to the mirror.
It was accidental. He had stumbled into the Black family bathroom after another sleepless night, reaching for the basin to splash water on his face. But then his gaze flickered up, and there he was.
He froze.
The man staring back wasn’t him. He looked sickly, his once-pale skin now ashen, stretched thin over his sharp cheekbones. The deep shadows beneath his eyes made them look sunken, like the empty sockets of a corpse. His lips were chapped, bloodied in places where he had bitten them raw without realizing it. His dark curls, once so carefully combed, were a tangled, matted mess.
His mother would have been horrified. His father, disgusted. He might have cared once.
Regulus gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring, unable to look away. A thought flickered through his mind—how much he looked like you in the last days before you died. How the sickness had drained the life from your body, how your eyes had dulled, how you had wasted away until there was nothing left but a fragile shadow of the person you once were.
You were dead.
And he was still here. Why?
Something cracked inside him, something he had been holding together for too long. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and suddenly he was moving, his hand lashing out before he could stop himself.
The mirror shattered.
The pieces clattered to the floor, sharp fragments catching the dim candlelight, scattering across the black-and-white tiles. He stared down at them, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his fingers shaking. Blood dripped from his knuckles where the glass had sliced him, but he barely felt the pain.
It was quiet now.
Too quiet.
His reflection was gone. No more proof that he was still here, that he was still breathing when you weren’t.
He slumped to the floor, his back against the sink, staring blankly at the broken shards surrounding him. It felt fitting. Like his body had finally caught up with the state of his soul.
He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever. The thought of moving, of getting up and continuing like nothing had happened, felt impossible. The weight in his chest, the crushing emptiness inside him, was too much.
And for the first time, he didn’t want to fight it.
The thought came slowly, creeping in like a whisper in the back of his mind, curling around him like smoke.
It would be easier. To just… stop.
To close his eyes and never open them again. To let go.
He wasn’t scared. He had nothing left to be afraid of. No one left to disappoint.
You were waiting for him. Somewhere out there, beyond all of this, you were waiting.
Regulus let his head fall back against the cabinet, his bloodied hand going limp at his side. He exhaled slowly, almost peacefully.
Maybe it was time to go home. Go back home to you.
The cave was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the dark lake against the stone. The air was damp, thick with the scent of decay, of something ancient and long-forgotten. Regulus stood at the water’s edge, his wand raised, the golden locket heavy in his trembling hand.
This was it. His final act of defiance.
He had spent so long lost in grief, spiraling deeper into the abyss of the Dark Lord’s service, hollowed out by your absence. He had tried to fill that void with cruelty, with violence, with mindless obedience. But none of it had numbed the agony of losing you. And now, he stood here, at the edge of his own demise, finally understanding what you would have wanted for him.
He wasn’t meant to be this. He wasn’t meant to be a monster.
“Kreacher,” he whispered. The elf trembled beside him, eyes wide with terror. “Take this. Go. Destroy it.” He forced the locket into Kreacher’s small hands, curling the elf’s fingers around it.
“But Master Regulus—” Kreacher’s voice cracked.
“Please,” Regulus breathed, kneeling before the only soul who had remained loyal to him. “You must live. You must finish what I started.”
Tears burned his eyes as he thought of you, of the way you would have scolded him for throwing his life away, for giving up. But this wasn’t giving up, was it? This was finally doing something right.
Kreacher vanished with a crack.
And then, the water stirred.
Cold fingers clawed at the air, skeletal hands breaking through the surface. The Inferi moved unnaturally, jerking toward him with silent, gaping mouths. He lifted his wand, but he already knew—there was no escaping this.
His body screamed to fight, to run, but Regulus let himself sink to his knees. A hand gripped his wrist, another clawed at his shoulder, and suddenly he was being pulled under, the icy water swallowing him whole.
Darkness wrapped around him, numbing his limbs, slowing his heart. He exhaled a shuddering breath, bubbles escaping his lips as the last remnants of air left his lungs. He didn’t fight. He didn’t thrash. He simply closed his eyes and let the memory of you carry him away.
Your laughter. Your warmth. The way you whispered his name like it was something sacred.
He saw you waiting for him in the depths, reaching out, just as you had before you were taken from him. And as the abyss claimed him, for the first time since your death, he felt peace.
Your name was the last thing that left his lips before the darkness took him forever.
When Regulus opened his eyes, he was somewhere else. The cold was gone, the suffocating weight of water no longer pressing against his lungs. Instead, there was light—soft, warm, golden light. The kind he had only seen in dreams.
And then he saw you.
You stood before him, untouched by time, just as he remembered you—beautiful, radiant, alive. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he stumbled forward, almost afraid that if he touched you, you would disappear.
But you didn’t.
The moment his arms wrapped around you, the dam inside him shattered. A sob ripped from his throat, raw and broken, and he clung to you as if he were drowning all over again. His fingers dug into you, desperate, needing to make sure this was real, that you were real.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’m so—so sorry.”
Your hands came up, running through his dark hair, soothing, grounding. “Shh, Regulus,” you murmured. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”
But he wasn’t sure he deserved to be. He had done terrible things. He had let grief consume him, let it turn him into something unrecognizable. He had been lost for so long.
Yet, in your arms, he finally felt found.
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. “You did the right thing,” you whispered. “You’re here now. With me.”
Regulus let out another broken sob, pressing his forehead against yours. For the first time in what felt like eternity, the void inside him wasn’t empty anymore. He was home.
Uhh I’m dying for like angsty fluff w lee so I was thinking about him w the B1 prompt
Not when I just realized
Lee just realized how much you really meant to him.
Lee (bones and all) x eater!reader
requested by anon.
word count: 687
warnings: attempts of running away
note: i hope this was angsty-fluff just the way you wanted 🪼
find more here: masterlist, Lee (bones and all) master list
The night air was heavy with the smell of wet earth and something else, something darker, metallic, that neither of you would admit to but both recognized. Lee's truck idled a few feet away, parked quietly, headlights slicing through the trees. The two of you stood just off the dirt road, your breathing shallow, your hands shaking at your sides.
You had attempted to escape. You truly had. But Lee was faster. He always was.
You waited for him to sleep, his breathing slow and steady next to you, before you slipped out of the truck. You crept cautiously, not wanting the dry leaves and twigs lying about to give away your footsteps. Your scuffed drawstring bag, stuffed with what little you had to bring—an additional shirt, a canteen of water, a handful of crumpled dollar bills—was thrown over your shoulder as you set foot into the great unknown.
You didn't know where you were headed. Just away. Away from the starvation, from the things you'd done, from the boy who had somehow occupied your whole world.
You'd gone a mile before you noticed his footsteps behind you. Quick, firm.
"Stop," Lee had bellowed, his tone brusque, slicing across the stillness of the woods.
Your heart had raced, but you hadn't turned. Not yet. Not until he slipped his hand around your wrist, tight but not unkind, and stopped you in your tracks. You could have struggled, could have screamed. But you knew he'd never release you without a battle.
And so here you stood, motionless, suspended between what you had and what still lay between you.
"Where you gonna go?" His voice was gentler than you anticipated, but there was something naked in it, something desperate.
You didn't look at the darkness ahead. "I don't know."
"Bullshit."
You turned, your eyes colliding with his. Even in the dim light, you could sense the fear behind them. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear. And it destroyed you.
"You always knew this wasn't forever," you whispered.
Lee shook his head, moving closer. His fingers curled as if he wanted to touch you but wasn't certain you'd allow it. "I never knew that," he whispered, his voice rough. "I never considered it like that. You leaving—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "You can't leave me now. Not when I just figured out how much you mean to me."
Your chest hurt, as if something in you had been sucked out. You wished to yell at him, inform him that he did not get to do this, to pull you back when it was simple and hold on tight when you attempted to leave.
Instead, you swallowed hard. "You'll be alright."
"That isn't true," he stated, his voice cracking. "You know that isn't true. You're the only one who knows."
Your throat constricted. Naturally, you did know. Who but another Eater would comprehend the hunger, the isolation, the way the world would ever reject you? You and Lee had lived together for so long now, traveling from spot to spot, protecting each other, feeding each other. And you were the one attempting to leave now, as if that was even an option.
"Stay," he begged. "I'll get it right next time. I won't exclude you, I promise.”
You hunted his features for the deceit, but none was there. Only Lee, naked and open in a fashion, ever exposed himself to anyone. You did not want to go; reality seeped into your joints like a wound. You'd only been frightened. Frightened of needing him so intensely.
Your fingers quivered, reflecting his, before you finally bridged the space between you, nudging your forehead against his. Lee breathed shakily, his hands staying at your waist, awaiting the invitation. You granted it by inclining towards him, allowing his heat to anchor you.
“I hate you for keeping me here," you whispered.
Lee released a wheezy, half-laugh, angling his head just so that your lips skimmed. "I'd hate me too."
And despite everything, despite the hunger, the danger, the blood that would always stain both of your hands, you weren’t going anywhere.
