dagger - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 469

The smoke curled lazily around Barty’s head like a halo gone wrong, the faint orange glow of his cigarette slicing through the dim light of the warehouse. He leaned back against a crate stamped with illegible Cyrillic, boots crossed, dagger spinning expertly between his fingers — a habit that made Evan’s stomach twist between irritation and fascination.

dusk - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 439

Barty was perched sideways on Evan’s lap, long limbs half-draped over the couch, his back pressed to Evan’s chest. The curtains were drawn open to the darkening sky outside, and the faint silver of a crescent moon hung low.

shed - @sunkillermania - wc: 882

Barty had no business standing in the middle of their backyard with a paint roller in his hand. He knew it. The shed knew it. Even the birds gawking at him from the telephone line knew it. But there he was, squinting against the sunlight and trying to remember how the hell he’d convinced himself this was a good idea.

bend - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 538

Barty had been hanging around Evan’s flat all day, mostly because he didn’t have anything better to do and because bothering Evan was his favorite pastime. He was sprawled out across the couch, legs hanging off one side, his head almost upside down against the other. Every few seconds he took a dramatic drag from his vape, exhaling deliberately in Evan’s direction.

evidence - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 517

Regulus’ head rested against James’ chest, his hair falling in soft, dark waves across the Gryffindor-red blanket James had pulled over them earlier. His breathing was slow and even, and every exhale ghosted warmly against the cotton of James’ t-shirt. James could feel the faint, steady rhythm of Regulus’ breaths syncing with the thump of his own heart, and—Merlin, if he wasn’t careful, he might melt right there on the couch.

torture - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 468 - CW: implied act of torture

The screen glows in the dark, casting a sickly light over Evan’s face as he reclines on the worn leather couch. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, half-forgotten as his attention stays locked on the flurry of messages flying across the monitor.

flame - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 535

James didn’t mean to snoop.

Really. Truly. Honestly.

He just needed to text himself from Regulus’ phone because his own was wedged somewhere between the couch cushions, swallowed by that inexplicable void where loose change and television remotes went to die.

crunch - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 705

It was one of those lazy Sundays where the air hung still and the hours passed without much purpose. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting in just enough sunlight to outline the shape of Regulus Black as he stood in the kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess, and dressed in one of James' oversized Quidditch t-shirts.