honey

remus would tiptoe around the house, minding the screeching wood and the crackling doors, holding his breath until he found regulus curled up in a corner with a notebook and hands stained with ink. drawing with a small smile on his face, peaceful gaze, and only silence around him. unperturbed by ghosts that still haunted him.

regulus would sometimes get a sense of panic out of nowhere — the whole place a blinding state of stillness. he'd have to run all the way through their backyard just to see, just to make sure. and there he is: remus, sporting gardening gloves and a little watering can, murmuring to the plants as if any sound above that would disturb the flowers.

after a month of living together, they can recognize each other's noises as if it's second nature. regulus' laugh while watching his silly tv shows. remus' long limbs knocking over pots and pans in their tiny kitchen. songs coming from their old record player: jazz on tuesdays, rock on fridays, and folk on sundays. two knocks on the door for "i'm here", three back for "i love you".

billionaire sirius × teacher remus

BUT!

remus’s class is going on a field trip to this fancy art gallery and when they get there it turns out sirius just… owns the place?? like oh, this massive marble-and-glass gallery full of priceless art? yeah that’s his.

and instead of staying in his Important Business Meetings™ he cancels everything for the day so he can personally give the kids the tour.

he’s not like “this is a renaissance piece blah blah” either - no, sirius is like “this painting is of a princess who ran away to live with pirates because she hated royal dinners, and this sculpture? totally cursed, don’t touch it or you’ll turn into a frog.” every single piece becomes a wild adventure. the kids are obsessed.

remus is standing there the whole time trying not to laugh and also dying a little bit because sirius keeps winking at him mid-story like they’re co-conspirators in some elaborate prank.

at the end of the trip sirius casually tells the gallery café to give the entire class free ice cream because “future art critics need to be fed.”

His leather jacket.

Sirius gifted to him as a gag gift since all his friends know he will choose sweaters or anything sweater adjacent over anything else. But Remus actually loved the jacket; it was so well made, and it was a perfect fit. And he also looked very hot in it.

So, he doesn’t wear his leather jacket often, mostly because he doesn’t want to ruin it by spilling something on it, or getting it accidentally caught on something. In fact, when he started dating Regulus, his boyfriend had no idea he owned a leather jacket.

That changed one morning they were getting ready to run some errands together; it was mid October and it had been cloudy the whole week, so Remus deemed it a perfect “leather jacket day” and threw it on on top of a v-neck deep red t-shirt that showed off his collarbones. The outfit was simple but the jacket tied everything together nicely.

Regulus was drinking a cup of coffee at the dining table when Remus walked out their room, and the way the cup rattled on the table as Regulus took a look at him as he was setting the cup down had Remus’ cheeks flaring red. It might’ve also been the fact that Regulus kept looking at him up and down.

“You look so hot” Regulus blurted out. His boyfriend had no filter when he was feeling flustered.

And that made Remus blush even more, and a grin took over his face when Regulus stood up from the chair and walked to him. Fingers and eyes trailing the jacket wrapped around his frame.

“Every time I think you can’t get more beautiful, and hot than you already are. And every time I’m proven wrong.”

“Well, I have to keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

His boyfriend laughs at his reply, nodding his head twice and delicately grabbing the jackets’ lapels he brings Remus down to leave a feather-light kiss on his lips.

that is, except when it comes to awards.

when remus wins the album of the year Grammy for the album he named leo star he uses his 5 minutes allowed for the speech to gush about his ever loving inspiration, the best part of life and the brightest fucking astro, his husband — regulus black.

so, of course, when regulus takes the stage to receive his best actor in a supporting role Oscar the first thing he says is "i'm glad i won, so now i can defeat my husband in the sappiest speech at a award show competition". the audience laughs and regulus goes on to talk about how remus is the definition of love, art and all good things in between.

There was something comforting about the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the oven as it warmed up, the familiar coolness of the flour-dusted counters, the soft hiss of the espresso machine sparking to life. He’d start the day by rolling out the dough he’d left to proof the night before, shaping it into loaves of bread he never failed to decorate with delicate patterns, flowers and butterflies and intricate shapes. Marlene would tease him sometimes, saying that no one cared how pretty a sandwich slice looked, but he couldn't help it. There was a certain kind of peace in making something beautiful, even if it only lasted until the lunch rush.

And like clockwork, at six sharp, Remus would hear the quiet purr of a car pulling up just outside. He didn’t even need to look. Regulus Black.

Remus would flip the closed sign to open, already setting the coffee order down by the window table closest to the kitchen door. Just the right temperature, because he knew Regulus hated it too hot. That same table had practically become his. Every day for a year now, Regulus came in with one of his well fitted suits, fancy coats and polished shoes, a sight way too unfair for a human at the crack of dawn, and then sat there with his book or his laptop, sipping quietly as he watched Remus bring out the day’s trays one by one. The usual breads. The croissants. The cinnamon rolls. The specialty of the day that always carried some odd twist or strange combination, depending on Remus’ mood.

Regulus noticed it all. The way the patterns on the loaves changed with the seasons. The way Remus’ hands moved, quick, practiced, elegant, dusted with flour and glinting with faint scars from years of hot trays and sharp knives. The way his apron always hugged his waist, tied messily but snug, fabric shifting as he moved. Sometimes, Regulus lingered a little too long watching him, the edge of his coffee cup resting against a smile he never let show. They never talked a lot, the handful of times they would try to it would end up in flustered words and flushed cheeks and awkward silences, Remus running away to the safety of his kitchen to bang his head against the wall while Regulus picked up his stuff and lamented the embarrassment of being one of the best lawyers who somehow managed to mess up a simple sentence when faced with honey colored eyes and brown caramel curls.

They didn't need words though, Remus learnt his tastes, the things he loved and the ones he didn't finish and always watched with his heart in his throat the pleased look on Regulus' face when he had a bite of the latest recipe Remus tried thinking of him, his eyes closing and a small hum that ma'aged to revebrate through his bones in the quiet of the place.

Regulus, who had found the shop by accident one day driving by, made sure to wake up every morning an hour before he needed to get to work just so he could sit down alone with Remus and watch him go about his morning, watching the way he would hum some tune or furrow his brows ever so slightly as he fixed a slightly askew muffin on the display. He also drove by 30 minutes during his lunch break even though the firm had free lunches for all the employees. He knows, because he installed that rule. Always managing to scribble a neat "thank-you" on the napkin whenever he didn't manage to see him before leaving.

Every other Sunday, he’d bring a little girl with him. Luna, his goddaughter, light-footed and sharp-eyed and wearing glittery shoes that tapped against the floor with every step. She’d climb onto the booth seat and immediately demand the “sparkly jam thing” that Remus always managed to have, as if he knew exactly when she was coming.

Remus usually kept to the kitchen more on those days after he would have made them their order, which definetly wasn't his job, but everybody knew that no one else makes a certain black haired man's drinks other than him, and it was not because he didn’t want to talk, but because he’d combust if he stayed too long watching Regulus with her. The soft curve of his smile as he cut her pancakes into moons. The way his voice dropped, gentle and lilting, when he asked, “What’s our verdict today, darling? Toastie or tart?”

That particular Sunday, it was quiet in the café. Rain whispered against the windows, and Luna was coloring with the tiny box of crayons Remus kept just for her, a paper napkin doubling as her canvas. Regulus sat beside her, thumb lazily flipping a page of his book, when Remus stilled in his place behind the counter as Luna, chin resting in her hands, asked Regulus what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday.

"If you could have any flavor and any icing in the whole wide world what would you choose uncle Reggie?" she asked in that cute whisper voice of hers that always managed to make him smile.

Remus stilled, only barely hiding the turn of his head as he eavesdropped. Regulus had smiled faintly, adjusting the little girl in his lap as she tugged on his scarf.

“I’d go with green icing,” he told her. “And lemon, maybe. I like lemon.”

“Green like the forest fairies mom talks about, I love green! Mine would be purple though!” Luna declared. “With pretty flowers.”

Remus smiled softly to himself as he set down two drinks, a hot chocolate and a cappuccino with a swirl of cinnamon, and quietly noted the date on the small calendar stuck to the fridge. So today was Regulus’ birthday.

He didn’t say anything. But that night Remus spent hours in his kitchen after closing, making the cake just the way he knew Regulus would like it the next morning, a hint of thyme in the soft green buuttercream because he didn't like overly sweet things, the layers soft and spongy and every detail Regulus had mentioned to decorate it even if he only got 3 hours of sleep that night.

The next day Regulus showed up as usual, tired, stylishly disheveled, black coat buttoned all the way up despite the spring chill already fading.

His usual coffee was already waiting for him.

But this time, once he’d finished his breakfast, Remus appeared from the kitchen with a box tied in dark green ribbon. He set it gently on the table, his fingers fidgeting with the ties of his apron, a blush rising high on his cheekbones.

Regulus blinked, then raised a brow. “What’s this?”

“Just…” Remus cleared his throat. “Luna said it was your birthday yesterday. You don’t seem like the party type, but.. well, lemon. Green icing. And purple flowers.”

Regulus stared at him for a second too long.

Then he smiled, soft, real, just a little breathless.

“You made me a cake?”

Remus shrugged, suddenly shy. “I just felt like baking.”

Regulus leaned forward, resting his hand over Remus’ flour-dusted fingers. “You do realize you’ve just set the bar for all my future birthdays, don’t you?”

Remus stretched with a low, lazy hum, the sound sliding out of her like it had nowhere else to go. She took a sip of her drink, ice clinking in the glass, then rolled onto her stomach, arms folded beneath her cheek. The movement tugged the hem of Regulus’s shirt, borrowed, rumpled, thin with age, high over the curve of her ass, catching the breeze in a way that made Regulus forget how to breathe.

It was one of those rare spring days where the sun actually stuck around, and they’d agreed without words to drag their pillows and drinks and books outside, a blanket stretched over the sun-warmed tiles. Regulus had stayed in her pajamas, soft cotton and too many layers, but Remus had returned from the bedroom in something that made her nearly drop her drink.

An oversized linen shirt, left entirely unbuttoned, the edges barely brushing the tops of her thighs. The breeze kissed long legs gone gold under the sun, freckles blooming like secrets beneath the loose drape of the fabric.

Remus stretched again, deliberately this time, arching her back just enough to make the movement sinful. “This sun’s not going to last long,” she said, her voice low and lazy. “Might as well make the most of it.”

Then, like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just shattered every calm thought in Regulus’s head, she shrugged the shirt off her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms and pool beside her. The white bikini underneath clung to her like sin. She reached back, fingers delicate, and undid the knot at the back of her neck. The top slipped loose against the blanket. Her back was bare now, skin soft and golden, shoulder blades sharp and kissable, the gentle dip of her waist leading into the soft curve of her hips.

Regulus choked on her breath, an actual, audible sound that she couldn’t quite turn into a cough.

Remus glanced over her shoulder with a smirk that could ruin someone. “Didn’t peg you for the shy type, Reggie,” she purred, her lips quirking. “You know I hate tan lines.”

Regulus’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

Her eyes dragged down the length of Remus’s body, the arch of her back, the bare line of her side, the teasing swell of her breasts just barely hidden from view. Her thighs parted slightly as she shifted, hips moving with the kind of lazy confidence that could drive someone mad.

Regulus tried to sound unaffected. Failed. “Just… appreciating the view,” she rasped.

Remus gave a soft hum, smug and content, burying her face into her arms again, but Regulus saw the way her lips curled. The flush on her neck. The pleased little twitch in her shoulders like a cat stretching into the heat of her own power.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Reggie,” Remus murmured, voice dripping with innocence that was anything but. “Aren’t you getting hot?”

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was a dare.

Regulus didn’t look away.

She downed the last of her drink, sweet and sticky, the alcohol slow-burning in her veins. A drop slid down her chin, catching the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wipe it.

Instead, she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. She didn’t wear a bra. She never had to.

Remus blinked, eyes locking instantly on her chest, something unreadable flickering across her face, hunger, maybe. Awe.

Then came the shorts, Regulus lifted her hips, dragging them down inch by inch, letting Remus watch, letting the sun soak into every inch of bare skin she revealed. The whole time, she never broke eye contact, until she was sitting naked in front of her. Only then did she run her thumb across her chin to catch the stray drop, then licked it clean, deliberately slow. Then she mirrored Remus’s pose, belly down, legs long and tangled, mouth close enough to whisper against her ear.

And whisper she did.

“You tend to forget I’m French, Remus,” she murmured, her breath ghosting hot over Remus’s skin. “And if you’re going to tease me like this…” Her fingers brushed lightly down Remus’s back, featherlight, until they dipped just above the swell of her ass. “…you better commit. Because if you want to do it—” she pressed her thigh subtly against Remus’s, her voice dropping to a purr, “—you should at least do it right.”

Remus sucked in a sharp breath, her hips shifting almost imperceptibly, but not enough to be ignored. Her eyes were molten, half-lidded and dark, the smirk she wore now far less innocent.

“Is that a promise?” she asked.

Regulus’s answer was a slow smile, wicked and sure.

“It’s a warning.”

Roommates my ass, Regulus thought to herself.

@indigostation asks and I shall deliver 🫡🫡

It really began over Christmas break.

Sirius had invited his brother to spend the holidays at the Potters’, but Regulus had given some vague excuse about deadlines and assignments piling up. Remus, who had been making tea in the kitchen, overheard the conversation. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But later that night, the quiet sobs through Regulus’ bedroom door were harder to ignore. The next morning, without explanation, Remus packed his own bag, knocked on Regulus' door, and told him to be ready in twenty minutes and bring a coat.

“What? Excuse me?” Regulus had blinked, clearly confused.

“Need someone to drive me to the ER,” Remus muttered, brushing past him.

That excuse held up for exactly forty-five minutes, until Regulus noticed the Wales road sign flashing by the passenger window. Remus refused to acknowledge the suspicious glares he was receiving, choosing instead to sing loudly and off-key to the Christmas station blasting from the radio.

They eventually pulled up in front of a small stone cottage, all ivy and charm, where a petite blonde woman in a yellow jumper was waving at them like she’d been expecting them both all along. Remus’ mum, Hope, had the kind of kindness that didn’t need words to reach people like Regulus.

They spent the week helping out at her little shop, stringing lights, setting up the tree, wandering the sleepy town in comfortable silence. They ate until their eyes rolled back in their heads and drank too much cheap wine, cheeks pink with warmth. Regulus barely spoke, except when Hope coaxed a sentence or two out of him with gentle, persistent care.

Remus, meanwhile, had grown used to the quiet glances. He didn’t push. He simply made sure Regulus’ tea never went cold.

It all shifted on Christmas morning. The three of them were curled up in the living room, each wrapped in soft sleep and even softer flannel. Regulus sat cross-legged in borrowed pajamas, the legs rolled at the ankles. A white scarf with R.A.B stitched carefully at the end, one Hope had started knitting months ago when Remus first mentioned his “new roommate”, was draped in his lap. A couple of worn paperback books rested at his feet, along with a bright red Christmas card, identical to the ones Remus had received every year of his life. In one hand, Regulus held the card. In the other, a warm mug of hot chocolate.

He looked up then. For the first time since they’d arrived, his eyes met Remus’.There was something vulnerable in them. Something raw.

“Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were glassy, but steady.

And in that moment, Remus only nodded. That was the day something changed between them.

From then on, they never missed a college break, a summer vacation or afterwards a work holiday when they didn't cross another destination off their list. The proof of those travels filling up every nook and cranny of their home, the mismatched and funky fridge magnets only they knew the significance of, the paella pan from when the visited Barcelona and Regulus mentioned never having paella before, so they only got that for dinner every night of their stay there. The one ear magnet they bought at the Van gogh museum in Amsterdam because why be boring and buy a starry night themed one? The hot pink glittery elephant, gaudy and ridiculous, much like the couples massage they accidentally booked during their trip to Thailand. They didn’t realize until they were side by side, nearly naked, soft music playing, and Remus let out a low groan as strong hands dug into his back.

Regulus nearly choked. “Are you moaning?”

“I didn’t know you were such a prude, Reggie,” Remus smirked, then groaned again, louder.

Regulus spent the whole session trying very hard not to look or feel anything. Afterwards, Remus bought the silliest magnet he could find in order to break the awkwardness.

Then there were the postcards, a habit they picked up along the way, buying one each every time and sitting at a coffee shop like strangers to write something and the wander around the city until they found a post office to send them back to their apartment, only some were displayed on the fridge, the one Remus wrote the morning after that night in Bali when he got so drunk off of cheap vodka that he kissed Regulus back at their hotel, or the one where Regulus had confessed falling in love to him when they spent the night under the stars in Venice, talking about everything and nothing. And of course that red Christmas card that would be joined by many more Regulus cherished so dearly.

There was a smooth rock on the coffee table Remus had pocketed at the beach in Greece when he and Regulus tried to do a little rendition of Lay your love on me from Mamma Mia, only to end up on a heap on the sand, their bellies hurting from how much they laughed and their lips swollen from an hour of making out under the warm sun. A faded Polaroid of them sunburned and happy from a beach in Antibes, Regulus' sleepy face laying on Remus' shoulder. The coasters they bought from Izmir on the first trip they took with Hope, matching ones they always saw on her dining table whenever they visited as well.

Their story was told in a scrap book of restaurant receipts and train tickets used as bookmarks and a stack of postcards with random ramblings turned into sweet nothings and then love confessions in their nightstand drawer. Theirs was a story told in motion, it's words written in the many tongues they heard spoken around the world.

And sometimes, when Regulus came home late from class or work, exhausted and quiet, Remus would be there on the sofa, legs tucked under him, scrolling through train schedules.

“Where are we going this time?” Regulus would ask, dropping his bag and toeing off his shoes.

Remus would smile, the kind that started in his eyes. “Anywhere you want, love.”