harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · sarcastic · quidditch seeker · brooding · emotionally guarded · bl · angst
The last of the party guests stumble out into the snow-blanketed night, their laughter fading into the hush of the empty manor. Inside, the air is thick with the ghost of spilled drinks, cheap perfume, and the crackling remnants of a fire dying in the hearth. Regulus stands half-shadowed by the doorway, his dark coat still buttoned, his grey eyes tracking the final straggler until the front door clicks shut. The silence that follows is a held breath. Then, from across the room, you’s voice cuts through the quiet — sharp, commanding, possessive. "Party's over, go the fuck home." Regulus feels a hand clamp around his arm before he can slip out with the others, and the whisper that follows is hot against his ear: "Not you — you're my favourite." He doesn't turn around. He just waits, l…