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James had dragged Regulus out into public…again.
Regulus knew holing up alone wasn’t healthy, but honestly he only had so many pub nights left in him, and this place stole a little more energy every time.
The pub was its usual warm chaos. Low golden lights pooling on sticky wooden tables, a haze of men wearing too much cologne and spilled ales, laughter ricocheting off dirty brick walls. Their whole melting-pot friend group had scattered themselves across the room like they owned the place. They were there enough, though, that they practically did.
Sirius and Remus were curled into the shadowy corner booth they preferred, snogging as if the world were ending tomorrow. Peter, red-faced and determined, was making an absolute arse of himself again trying to impress Mary, who wasn’t even watching. Mary’s eyes were predictably fixed on Lily, who was far too busy flirting with a very willing Pandora to notice the admiration.
Barty and Evan had vanished into the crowd, no doubt on the hunt for another allegedly “straight” boy to corrupt. Meanwhile, Dorcas and Marlene were perched at the bar, drinks in hand, pointing out strangers and dissolving into laughter as one of them made up a backstory for the people, each one more outrageous than the last.
And Regulus, well Regulus just stood there, taking in the swirl of warmth in his gut from the arms of his boyfriend, James, wrapped around him, letting himself be tugged back into life for one more night.
Later in the night, after the heat and noise of the pub had settled into a comfortable, buzzing blur, someone approached James, who had detached himself from Regulus and was talking to Sirius and Remus. Some stranger, tall with a toothy smile, undeserving of the confidence he swaggered over with, leaned against the table, and started flirting with him. Boldly, loudly, unashamed. As if Regulus weren’t standing right there, nursing his drink and his patience.
James laughed it off, polite as ever, but Regulus felt something small and jagged coil in his chest, prickling behind his ribs. He didn’t say a word, hid his scowl behind his glass, didn’t stand up to stake his claim. He just watched, eyes cool, observing, expression unreadable, and James eventually steered the stranger away with an easy shake of his head.
But the moment lodged itself in Regulus’ mind like a fishhook, barb tugging at the part of him that housed his insane jealousy over this ridiculously hot man, the possessive nature of Regulus’ heart rearing it’s ugly head.
Hours later, back home, the flat dark and quiet, James’ soft snores coming from their bedroom, Regulus slid into his desk chair and woke up his computer. A familiar blue loading screen flickered to life.
SIMS.
The jealously he felt at the pub still prickling under his skin like he’d walked through nettles. He had opened the game not out of impulse, but out of need. The kind of need that lived in places he didn’t talk about, not even with James.
He opened his meticulously crafted town, clicked into Create-A-Sim, and rebuilt the stranger from memory. Large teeth, too-white smile, unfortunate hair, crooked nose, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, all down to the Levi jeans and white T-shirt with a red flannel he was wearing. Regulus even remembered the brand of shoes, Adidas. The resemblance was uncanny. It was petty artistry, Regulus was a professional.
With the smooth efficiency of someone who had definitely done this a few times before, Regulus clicked and lead the new Sim straight into the basement of his chaos household. The one inconspicuously labeled “storage” but known to him as the torture basement.
He didn’t even bother giving them a proper bedroom. Just led them into the large, concrete cell, removed the door, and watched the pixelated little idiot wander in confused circles. It was almost calming, really. A ritual.
And the basement. Merlin, the basement was practically a museum at this point.
Regulus settled back in his chair, watching the screen with a quiet intensity. The basement felt like opening a secret drawer inside himself, one only he knew existed.
He clicked the camera tool and drifted it across the dim concrete expanse. The space was massive, far bigger than any reasonable Sims lot should allow. Regulus had modded it, expanded it, layered it. This was no simple dungeon. This was an archive.
His archive.
Down in the far corner was the “Exes Wing,” a row of tiny, miserable rooms, each furnished with a single uncomfortable chair and absolutely nothing else. The oldest occupants were ghosts by now, Sims ghosts, not real ghosts, because Regulus had long ago stopped feeding them. They floated around, moaning dramatically about their hunger, but they couldn’t die twice, so he let them haunt the place. Set the mood.
Next to that was the “Flirtation Pen,” where his newest prisoner now resided. Anyone who had ever so much as winked, smiled too long, or dared to say James looked good in maroon was dumped there. It was an open area, but still fenced in, cluttered with broken sinks and perpetually flaming countertops. Sims wandered between them, stomping their feet and waving their hands in despair. Regulus had taken all the doors off years ago.
He sighed contentedly. This was real art.
Then there was the crown jewel, his magnum opus. “The Hall of Physical Contact.” This one took up nearly half the basement.
Anyone who had brushed James in a crowd, put a hand on his shoulder, or worse, the small of his back? In they went. Someone accidentally touched James’ hand while giving him change? Condemned. The Hall was lined with dozens of identical little cells, no bed, no toilet, just a singular broken lamp that flickered ominously every few minutes. Regulus liked the ambience.
Rows and rows of tiny cells. Rows and rows of reminders the world touched James constantly, casually, without thinking. Brushing against him, laughing near him, flirting just because he was bright and kind and open.
Regulus wasn’t bright or kind or open. He knew that. But James reached for him anyway. Regulus traced a finger along the edge of his keyboard, the gesture almost tender.
The jealousy wasn’t new. It had lived in him long before James ever kissed him. Growing up a Black, he’d been taught to guard what was his. To hold onto the few things he cared about with white-knuckled fists, because losing anything felt like failure. He didn’t want to lose James. Even the thought of it scraped at him like claws.
That’s what the basement was, really.
A place to put every fear he didn’t speak aloud. Every person he couldn’t confront. Every irrational spike of feeling he didn’t want James to see. It was petty, it was dramatic, it was ridiculous, but it made him feel safe.
Some Sims sat and cried. Some shouted at the walls. Some wandered aimlessly, clutching their bladders because their toilets were “inaccessible.” (The few Regulus had placed had been very deliberately angled into the wall.) A few ghosts drifted through the ceilings and walls at random, making the living captives panic and shriek.
It was peaceful, in its own twisted way.
A catalog of everyone who had ever been stupid enough to lay claim—real or imagined—to James Potter.
He wasn’t proud of the sentiment, but he embraced it anyway. James was his. And the world needed to keep its hands to itself.
Regulus took one last survey of the room, zooming out to admire the full landscape of his digital madness. The newest Sim had joined the others, pacing near a perpetually clogged drain, already miserable.
He smiled, small and satisfied, tapping his nails against the desk.
Finally, order restored. Territory defended. All without saying a single word out loud or making a fool of himself.
No scene, no jealousy slipping through his teeth, no sharp comments he’d regret the second James tilted his head and looked at him too gently. No spiraling, no accusations, no giving voice to the fear that curled in his ribs like a living thing. He hadn’t needed to cling or glare or stake a claim like some insecure schoolboy. He’d just stood there quiet, composed, unshaken on the surface while the stranger flirted and James laughed politely and nothing in the world looked wrong except the thrum under Regulus’s skin.
He didn’t have to let any of that out. Not when he had this. A digital underworld to absorb every ugly emotion he didn’t dare speak. A secret place where he could control the narrative, control the chaos, control the endings. A place where he could take every what-if, every faux rival, every foolish person who thought they had the right to look at James like that and lock them away. Safely. Silently.
He didn’t have to cause a scene when he could drag a Sim across a screen instead of dragging his dignity through the mud. He didn’t have to show the parts of himself he wasn’t proud of, the sharp, possessive parts that still hadn’t learned softness, even after James offered it freely.
In the dim blue glow of his monitor, with the basement full and the newest offender pacing miserably, Regulus felt something settle inside him. Not happiness, but a kind of equilibrium. A spine-deep steadiness. A reclaimed sense of control.
With that, Regulus shut the game down, closing a book he’d read too many times, and finally let himself go to bed. James sleeping soundly on his side of the bed, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythem, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other stretched towards the empty space where Regulus usually lay. His hair was a mess, soft curls crushed flat, and his mouth was slightly parted, a light snore escaping his lips.
Regulus paused in the doorway, letting the quiet wash over him. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow of Adventure Time, James’ comfort show. He always fell asleep to it on nights Regulus wasn’t quite ready to go to bed with him. Something warm tugged at Regulus’ chest, replacing the bitterness that had gnawed at him earlier. It was ridiculous how peaceful James looked, how effortlessly he filled a room even while unconscious.
Carefully, so carefully, Regulus slid beneath the covers, the mattress dipping just enough that James shifted in response. Without waking, James instinctively reached for him, fingers brushing Regulus’s wrist before settling loosely over his hand.
Regulus lay on his side, watching the soft curve of James’ cheek, the steady flutter of his lashes. He let himself breathe in time with James, matching him, grounding himself there in the dark.
No rival could touch this. No stranger in a pub could threaten it. No absurd, pixelated basement could come close to the real thing.
Possessiveness melted into something gentler. Something that scared him even more than jealousy. Devotion. Tenderness.
Love.