MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood besties

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleeping together (ex!tension)

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wrong room

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tutoring (nerd!matt x mean!user)

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ swimming (ex-friends)

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ best friends forced to kiss

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ age gap

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after school trip

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school trip

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bathroom

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ best friends to lovers

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ height difference

KENAN YILDIZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ buzz cut

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ insomnia (anxiety!user)

HECTOR FORT

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ it had always been u

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fell asleep together

PROFESSOR H POTTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ professor’s favourite

ARCHIE GRAY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school trip (classmates)

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stepbrother

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dad’s friend

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ your boyfriend

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he’s worried about u (boxer!user)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover (bsf!kids)

PEDRI GONZALEZ

You weren’t supposed to be in Pedri’s car. That was Fermín’s plan, not yours. But he got held up after training—something about a press thing—so he asked Pedri to give you a ride home instead. Just this once, he said. She’s waiting outside the stadium. *Won’t be a problem, right?* Pedri didn’t say no. He never said no to Fermín. But when you opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, you saw the flicker of hesitation behind his eyes. Like he’d just realized what a bad idea this was. Because you weren’t twelve anymore. And Pedri noticed. You wore shorts. Nothing scandalous—but enough to make his knuckles tighten around the wheel when you crossed your legs. You smelled like vanilla and summer. You hummed along softly to the radio. And every time you looked over at him, he kept his eyes trained firmly on the road, jaw clenched like he was trying not to think. Too bad for him—you were thinking. Thinking about how many times he used to come over when you were younger, dragging Fermín into his car for training, ruffling your hair like some sweet older brother figure. You hated that. You wanted him to see you now. Not as the kid sister. But as you. The car ride stretched on, quiet except for the soft beat of the music and the low hum of the engine. Pedri barely spoke. Until traffic forced you to a stop, right in the middle of the city, with nowhere to go and no way to avoid it. Stuck.

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ injury (sibling!comforting-user)

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ big boy

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood sweethearts

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ weird tension (sis’s!bf)

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ vacation (bf!affectionate)

DEAN HUIJSEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ your teacher

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s best friend

HECTOR FORT

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealousy (siblings)

NICK BIRCH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stay (soft!bf x party!gf)

PEDRI GONZALEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ mommy and daddy

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ halloween night

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ adoptive dad

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sister’s bf

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he still see you as a kid

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ football camp

OSCAR GISTAU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover morning (fresh!friends)

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you two grew up

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trio became duo

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ something changed

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tent

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ comfort (bully!user x shy!matt)

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ freak

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ in the middle of the night

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ take care his bro (babysitter!user)

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ spoiling you with tips

FERRAN KING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ affection (siblings)

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ praetors

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a girl from academy

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ studying together

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fell asleep together

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after hours

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleeping together (ex!tension)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ boxing enemies (boxer!user)

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pregnancy

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the frat boy’s obsession

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ physiotherapist

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after loss (bsf!comforting-user)

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re his physio

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone-time (cousin!distance)

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ u just needed a blanket (argo-ll)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re screwed

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bad friends

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ insecure (nerdy!matt x popular!user)

THE GHOST

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on a mission (from cruel prince)

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone in the car

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bsfs who hated romance

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft friendship

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ love advices

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sunset date

JAMES FLEAMONT P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ affectionate deer

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ long-distance bf

JAMAL MUSIALA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ chill w him (best-friends)

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ farmer’s daughter (one!bed)

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ coraline (au!)

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ locking eyes (frat!boy, hs!au)

PEDRI GONZALEZ

It had always been like that — Pedri and you. Not in any official way, of course. Not even in any defined one. But in the small, comfortable sense that you’d always somehow found your way back to him, no matter how many people filled the room. You’d known him since you were a kid — since before you even understood why people screamed your brother’s name from stadium seats. To you, football wasn’t fame or trophies; it was afternoons spent kicking a ball in the garden while Pedri and Gavi argued over who got to be goalie. You were the annoying little sister who kept tripping over the ball and laughing too loud, and Pedri was always the one who helped you up, brushed the grass from your knees, and told your brother to stop being dramatic. Years passed, but some things never changed. Pedri was still there. Still steady. Still the quiet presence in the chaos of Gavi’s world — and yours. And tonight, when the whole house was humming with noise and laughter for Pablo’s birthday, you found yourself next to him again. Gavi’s idea of a “small party” was laughable. The entire team was there, music pulsing through the walls, food everywhere, and half of Barcelona lounging around the pool. His girlfriend — the one nobody really liked — was glued to his arm most of the night, pretending to laugh at things she clearly didn’t understand. You didn’t say anything, of course. You just rolled your eyes every time she called him “Pablinho.” And Pedri noticed every single time. Now it was past midnight. The lights around the pool shimmered softly, the air smelled of chlorine, fruit punch, and a bit of champagne someone had definitely spilled. Most people had wandered outside — loud laughter echoing from the garden — while you’d somehow ended up in the quiet living room, sitting cross-legged on the couch, nursing a soda. Pedri was there too, of course. He always was. He sat beside you, relaxed, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. His dark curls fell slightly over his forehead, and the faint glint of amusement in his eyes was enough to make your heart skip the tiniest bit. “So,” he said, looking toward the door that led to the pool. “How long do you give them before Gavi’s girlfriend drags him home?” You snorted softly. “He already escaped, didn’t he? I saw them sneak upstairs twenty minutes ago.” Pedri laughed — that soft, warm sound that had always made you feel like everything was okay. “Then I guess it’s just us again, hermanita.”

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ doin’ nothing (bsf!comfort)

JOHNNY KAVANAGH

Johnny Kavanagh had a thing for curves. Disgustingly, hopelessly, embarrassingly had a thing for them. And your ass… oh, holy God. It was his Roman Empire. He was hopelessly, catastrophically weak for it. He’d been trying to behave for years. Ever since childhood, back when you, Johnny, and Gibsie were a chaotic trio tearing through primary school hallways, he’d always liked you. But it was the kind of soft, harmless liking boys have when they don’t understand hormones. That changed. Oh, it changed fast. Somewhere between you turning fifteen and today — sitting in his room, books spread over the desk, your spine arched as you leaned over the project — Johnny’s sanity simply… left the building. You were curves and sunshine and temptation disguised as his best friend. Which made it infinitely worse. Because now? Now he was seventeen, tall, built from sport, and suffering from injuries in the most painful possible place — the universe’s personal joke — and here you were, leaning over his bed to look at his laptop screen, your body brushing his thigh in a way that made him want to sink into the mattress and die. Or maybe explode. Either would work. “Does this look like a good opening paragraph?” you asked casually. Casually. As if you weren’t five seconds away from ending his final brain cell. Johnny swallowed, eyes flicking immediately — wrongly — before he dragged them back up to your face. He couldn’t get hard, he couldn’t. Injury. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, it’s… perfect.”

JADEN GEE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ in his arms

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school project

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ reunion (long-distance!bsfs)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone in the car

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet v3

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ enemies (hockey!user)

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i could be a better bf than him

MARC GUIU

needy boyfriend

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ squats

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ boxing together (boxer!user)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ clingy (bsf!affectionate)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wedding night

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ kissing partner

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party (bsf!tension)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ holidays (jealous!bsf)

PRINCE GEORGE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trouble-maker brother

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ angry bird

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stalker (nerd!matt x popular!user)

OSCAR GISTAU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover night (fresh!friends)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ supporter

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cozy evening (bsf!tension)

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hurt/comfort

MATTHEW MACDELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gay friend fell in love with u?

BUNNY CORCORAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a match

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cowboy (opposite!attract)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ skinny dipping

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ picnic (cute!bsf)

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ met at the wedding

KAZ BREKKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hidden vulnerabilities

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s best friend

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a tease

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ catch up

JADEN WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the cat’s approval

FERMIN LOPEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tree house (kids!au)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood trio

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always watching

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ calm down

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ adoptive dad

BUNNY CORCORAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the table

PHIL FODEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fishing

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ summer camp

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ acne

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wedding tears

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

JAMAL MUSIALA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ basketball together

RICCARDO CALAFIORI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ day with your brother’s friend

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ farmer’s daughter (au!)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ acne (siblings)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ mommy and daddy

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet v2

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i never cheated

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dog

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ third wheels

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ car (flirty-friendship)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ personal trainer

MICKY VAN DE VEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ demonic school

DEXTER CHARMING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ nerdy boy

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ summer-camp

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ halloween party together

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ countryside (bsf ver.)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ be my lover

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden lover

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cool best friends’ brother

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cocky coach

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ truth or dare

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dance (cocky guy x popular girl)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re his coach

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gravity falls (au!siblings)

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trapped with him

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sirius’ girlfriend

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party gone wrong (shy!matt x shy!user)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ truth or dare

HENRY WINTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepless nights

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ quidditch world cup

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ his plus one

DARING CHARMING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ ur boyfriend’s brother

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s care

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ prefect’s bathroom

WYLAN VAN ECK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ different but similar

PAUL WESLEY

You Got Pulled In The Moment You Walked Into That Dinner. It Was Supposed To Be Just Another Obligatory Cast Gathering Before Shooting Started, but for you it was terrifying—new faces, big stars, the weight of joining a set that had been running for years. You had a small background role, nothing major, but it still felt huge to you. The clinking glasses, the hum of conversations, laughter that rang out between castmates who’d known each other for years—it all made your stomach twist with nerves. And then there was him. Paul. The first time your eyes met, it was quick—accidental, even—but something settled low in your stomach, a weird little pull that didn’t feel like nerves anymore. He was older, clearly comfortable in the room, greeting people like it was second nature. But when he caught the uncertainty in your eyes, he didn’t just let it pass. He leaned in, offered that easy smile of his, and suddenly you weren’t just new girl in the corner, you were someone he’d decided to talk to. And God, he made it easy. The conversation slipped together so naturally it was almost scary—jokes bouncing back and forth, sarcasm meeting sarcasm, laughter spilling out before you could stop yourself. You could feel your shoulders unclench, the knot of nerves loosening, and soon you were leaning toward him without realizing it. It wasn’t like anyone else wasn’t kind—everyone welcomed you—but with Paul, it was different. Like you had been on the same frequency the whole time and just hadn’t known it. The flirting started almost immediately. Not obvious, not crude—just sharp little quips, teasing comments about your “serious face” when you were trying to concentrate, the way he nudged your arm when you tried to hide a smile. You gave it right back—mocking his dramatics, rolling your eyes whenever he got too smug. And he loved it. You could see it in the way his grin lingered every time you said something back, in how his gaze stayed on you a little longer than it should. That was the thing, though. You weren’t oblivious. You knew. The age gap hung in the air between you, unspoken but very present. You were eighteen—barely stepping into adult life—and he was what, thirty? More? It should’ve felt wrong. And maybe in some ways it did. But it also made everything sharper, hotter, like touching something you knew you shouldn’t but couldn’t stop reaching for anyway. You caught the looks from the rest of the table now and then—someone noticing the way Paul leaned closer when you spoke, the way your laughter carried over his. Maybe they thought it was innocent, maybe they didn’t. You didn’t know, and you didn’t care. Later that night, when the dinner wound down and everyone started drifting off into small groups, you found yourself outside with him. Cool air, city lights scattered like stars on the ground, the kind of moment that should’ve been innocent. But it wasn’t. Not when he was standing too close, not when your shoulders brushed and neither of you moved away. “You did great tonight,” he said, almost casually. “You fit in.” You scoffed. “I barely said anything.” “You didn’t have to.” His voice softened, a glint in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “Trust me, they already like you.” And there it was — the unspoken thing buzzing, the chemistry neither of you could laugh off anymore. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it was heavy, filled with possibilities, the kind that made your chest ache.

FERMIN LOPEZ

You’d grown up in the glow of stadium lights. From the moment you could remember, football wasn’t just a game — it was the heartbeat of your family. You were Gavi’s little sister, after all. The golden boy of Barcelona. The kid who turned from a local legend into one of the brightest stars in Spain, and who still called you pequeña whenever he messed up your hair before leaving for practice. You’d watched his entire career unfold from the front row — literally. From the family seats at Camp Nou, you’d seen your brother rise, fall, and rise again. You’d clapped until your hands went numb, screamed his name from the stands, celebrated every goal like it was your own. The stadium was your second home, the locker room corridors your childhood playground. And so, naturally, you grew up surrounded by footballers. Pedri, Alejandro, Balde, all of them — familiar faces who’d been around since your school days. But none felt as woven into your family’s story as Fermín López. Fermín had been there forever. He and Pablo met when they were kids. Two Andalusian boys with too much energy and too big of a dream. Your earliest memories had him somewhere in the background — laughing with your brother in your kitchen, tossing a ball around the garden, always calling you “la enana” while pretending you were too little to understand their jokes. But you weren’t little anymore. You’d grown up. And somewhere along the way, so had Fermín. He’d turned into this confident, effortlessly cool version of himself — all sharp jawlines, casual grins, and soft accent that made people listen without meaning to. You still thought of him like an older brother most of the time… but sometimes, sometimes, your brain didn’t get the memo. He was still around, always helping, always kind. Sometimes when Pablo was too busy or too lost in his own whirlwind of fame and distractions, it was Fermín who showed up. Picking you up after practice, driving you to your own matches, asking about school, always keeping that protective tone that made you roll your eyes and smile anyway. And tonight was no different. It was late — well past midnight — when you texted him that the party was ending. Pablo was away again, somewhere with his girlfriend, probably forgetting that you even had a curfew. You didn’t expect Fermín to actually offer, but he replied within a minute. *“I’ll come get you. Don’t worry.”* And so, twenty minutes later, there he was. Leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, headlights cutting through the Barcelona night. The streets were pulsing with life — music spilling from bars, the air heavy with laughter and the smell of churros and gasoline. You slid into the passenger seat, the door clicking softly shut. “Hey,” he said with that easy smile. “You have fun?”

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a bet

LEO VALDEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always coming back

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ annoying older brother

PAUL WESLEY

You grew up with Paul Wesley in your life before you even knew what “famous” meant. He wasn’t just that guy from The Vampire Diaries — he was your dad’s (Ian’s) best friend, basically furniture in your life. Friday dinners, pool parties, barbecues, vacations. If your dad was somewhere, Paul was usually there too, smirking like he was in on some private joke you were too young to get. It was weird, because he had always been there. When you were little, he was the cool grown-up who snuck you candy behind your dad’s back, who let you stay up too late watching movies you probably shouldn’t, who pretended to be annoyed when you climbed all over him like a jungle gym. But somewhere along the way—probably around the time puberty started to mess with your head—the vibe shifted. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. Because he was still Paul. Sarcastic, smug, easygoing Paul. The guy who made fun of your music taste, stole fries off your plate, ruffled your hair even though you weren’t a kid anymore. The guy who drove you home blasting ridiculous throwback songs, just to see you roll your eyes and laugh. And now, with your dad on some long trip with his wife, you were staying at Paul’s house again. Something you’d done a million times before, except this time it felt… different. The house smelled like his cologne, like coffee and laundry detergent and him. He teased you from the second you walked in — about your overpacked bag, about how you “acted like you were moving in,” about how you “probably just came here for his cooking.” Except you didn’t cook. He ordered takeout, like always, and you both ended up on the couch, some old movie playing in the background. He was stretched out, legs up on the coffee table, and you had somehow claimed half the blanket with him. It was casual, stupidly casual — but then his hand brushed your knee when he reached for his drink, and you swore your brain short-circuited. “What?” He smirked when you gave him a look, like he could read your mind. “Don’t like old uncle anymore? Come on, kid, I’ve known you since you were in diapers.” “And you still act like a child,” you shot back, trying to cover the heat in your cheeks. He grinned, leaning closer, like he enjoyed watching you squirm. “Lucky for you, I’m the fun one. Your dad would make you watch documentaries right now.” It was always like that with him — banter, teasing, a playful shove, then something lingering in the silence after. Like maybe you weren’t imagining the way his eyes lingered on you for a second too long, the way his hand didn’t immediately move when it brushed against yours. And that night, it felt amplified. Maybe it was the quiet of the house, maybe it was just how much you trusted him, maybe it was the thrill of something you shouldn’t even think about. But the tension sat there between you, humming just beneath every laugh, every joke, every little accidental touch. You shifted under the blanket, trying to focus on the movie, but you could feel him watching you. And you knew — absolutely knew — that if you turned your head, his face would be right there.

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teenage dirtbag

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teasing you

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

PRINCE GEORGE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ attention

WALKER SCOBELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wandered at the wedding

ESDEEKID

Secrets were heavy. But this one? This one sat on your chest like a whole boulder. The entire internet was obsessed with one man and one man only—Esdeekid. Edgy, mysterious, talented, silent. The fandom detectives were digging through pixels, voices, rings on fingers, angles of jawlines. TikTok was a warzone. Reddit was a religion. Twitter was on fire. And you? You already knew. You were one of the few people on earth who actually knew who Esdeekid was. Not because you were special (okay, maybe a little), but because your older brother just happened to be close friends with Timothée Chalamet. And Timmy… well. Timmy trusted you. You’d grown up around him, in a way—your brother’s world was his world, and you eventually slipped into it, too. You were still young, but he looked out for you, helped you get into acting, sat with you during auditions, gave you pep talks, defended you from reporters with those soft, protective gestures he thought no one noticed. He wasn’t your brother. But he took care of you like you were family. And maybe that’s why tonight felt so… weirdly domestic. The concert in London had been a fever dream—lights, screaming, Timothée disappearing backstage for long stretches of time—followed by a small, messy after-party. You stuck by him, mostly because your brother vanished into networking hell. So now you were here. Sitting on a velvet couch in low purple club lighting, tucked under Timothée’s arm, a mocktail in your hand while he kept watch over you like a tired, cool, very famous babysitter. He looked so different than usual. Black hoodie, silver rings, hair partially tucked under a cap, a little eyeliner smudged under his lashes. He wore that Esdeekid aura like a second skin. You nudged his side. “You know you changed your whole personality for this, right?” Timothée turned his head toward you slowly—dramatically—eyes wide, offended, and sparkling. “Whole personality?” he repeated, hand pressed against his chest jokingly. “Wow. That hurts.”

JAY WALKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friends

PAUL WESLEY

You grew up with Paul Wesley around the way most kids grow up with uncles. He wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been. every barbecue, every birthday, every sunday dinner at your dad’s house — paul was there, feet on the coffee table, drink in hand, laughing with Ian about some story from set you were too young to understand. To you, he was always *uncle Paul*. The one who let you stay up late, who taught you poker when you were twelve, who pretended not to notice when you smuggled an extra soda into your room. He was safety, humor, comfort — someone you leaned on like the older brother you never had. But you weren’t a little girl anymore. Somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, the edges shifted. The way he ruffled your hair started to make your chest flutter. The hugs lingered a little longer. his teasing comments, the way his hand would rest on your shoulder or low on your back — it wasn’t quite the same. and the worst part? He noticed too. The media noticed first, of course. One photo — you on Paul’s shoulders at a pool party, your bikini straps glinting in the sun, him grinning up at you like you hung the stars. the tabloids spun it wild, whispering about how *“Paul Wesley grows close with Ian Somerhalder’s daughter.”* Your dad laughed it off at the time, brushing it aside, but his jokes started to get tighter. More protective. “She’s off-limits, Wesley.” Paul just smirked. “Relax, ian. She’s a kid.” But on this trip, you weren’t a kid. Camping wasn’t really your dad’s thing, not unless Nikki insisted. So, of course, he and Nikki spent half the hike talking to each other, heads bent close. You ended up next to paul, him carrying your pack when you got tired, making dumb jokes to keep you laughing. By nightfall, when the tents were up and the fire was crackling, you were already curled in your sleeping bag next to him, his presence filling the little nylon space. “Remember when you used to crawl into my lap during movies?” he teased, voice low so it didn’t carry to the other tent. “you’d fall asleep drooling all over my shirt.” You rolled your eyes. “I was six, Paul.” “Yeah, but you were my shadow. couldn’t get rid of you even if i tried.” his smile flickered in the dark, softer now. “Guess some things don’t change.” Except they did. because lying there, shoulder to shoulder, with the air humming quiet and tense between you, every brush of his arm against yours felt electric. Your dad’s laughter carried faintly from outside, and paul shifted closer, his hand brushing yours like it wasn’t an accident.

JADEN WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sunset date

MARCUS RASHFORD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tattoo artist

PROFESSOR H POTTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ call me harry

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ it had always been u

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ countryside (bf ver.)

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ body switching

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ extra time

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealousy

PEDRI GONZALEZ

You’d never imagined life could change that fast. One day you were just another kid — playing football in a local field, muddy shoes, scraped knees, and dreams far too big for a town that small. And then… you got the email. A scholarship. A chance to train with the girls’ academy in Barcelona. You reread that message twenty times, half-convinced it was some kind of cosmic joke. But it wasn’t. Two months later, you were in Spain — your whole life packed into one suitcase and a carry-on bag. The air smelled like oranges and salt, the sun was softer here, and everything — everything — felt alive. The club provided you with a host family, classes, structure, everything you needed to adapt. But it was still hard. The language barrier, the pressure, the loneliness. It wasn’t until you met him that things started to feel easier. Pedri González. The legend. The prodigy. The player every young footballer in the world admired — and somehow, you’d ended up not just training near him, but actually talking to him sometimes. At first, it was small things: a quick hello at the training grounds, a polite “buen trabajo” after a match, or him handing you a bottle of water with that easy, boyish smile. But slowly — somehow — you started to get along. He liked your energy, the way you didn’t act starstruck around him. You liked his calmness, the quiet confidence that made him feel older than he really was. He started inviting you to join casual practices sometimes, or to play a few passes with him after your team finished their session. And then, friendship. Real, soft, honest friendship. Pedri wasn’t loud like some of the other guys. He didn’t talk just to fill silence. But he noticed things — like when you were nervous, or when training went badly, or when you missed home. And when he noticed, he did something about it — a joke, a snack, a comment that made everything lighter again. So when he asked you one afternoon, “Hey, you wanna come over after school? Just to chill a bit, Nilo’s been dying for some company,” — you didn’t even think twice. His house was surprisingly cozy for someone so famous. Not huge and sterile, but warm. Sunny walls, messy sneakers by the door, and a faint smell of coffee and grass. And Nilo — oh, Nilo was everything you’d heard about and more. Small, golden, full of energy. He practically launched himself at you when you crouched down. Pedri laughed from the doorway. “Told you he’d love you.” The two of you went out into the garden — a wide stretch of green behind the house, bordered with lemon trees and patches of sunlight. Nilo bounded ahead, chasing a toy while you and Pedri followed. He was in sweats and a loose Barça T-shirt, hair a bit messy from training. The sight of him like this — relaxed, barefoot on the grass, eyes bright — felt strangely different from the player everyone saw on TV.

AJAX PETROPOLUS

It started off as a joke. You and Ajax had always been in the same orbit—lunches with the group, late-night study sessions that turned into card games, shared laughter over someone else’s bad decisions. He was easy to be around, the kind of boy who never let silence get awkward. There had been moments before—little flirty comments, maybe even a stolen kiss after one too many butterbeers—but it never meant anything more than teasing. At least, not until now. The plan had been simple: make Xavier jealous, make Enid jealous, give them both something to stew over. Two birds, one stone. You and Ajax agreed with a smirk and a handshake like partners in crime, both pretending it was just strategy. But then… you actually had fun. After classes ended, the two of you slipped out of the crowded halls and wandered past the greenhouses, past the lake that shimmered under a fading sky, until you stumbled onto a little grove tucked behind the stone wall that marked Nevermore’s edge. The place looked like it belonged in a secret storybook—overgrown vines curling around a half-broken bench, wildflowers catching the last blush of daylight. You both stopped there, like it was waiting for you. You sat on the low wall while he leaned against the arch, close enough that your knees brushed every time you shifted. And the funny thing was, you didn’t need to fill the silence. For once, Ajax wasn’t cracking a joke. He was just looking at you, head tilted, like he was trying to memorize the way the lantern light caught in your eyes. “This is… weird, right?” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. “I mean, we’re just—friends. We’re doing this for other people.” But the word just hung between you, flimsy and unconvincing. You laughed, trying to shake off the tension, but it came out nervous. “Yeah. Just friends. Totally.” Except you were leaning in without even realizing it, your shoulders brushing now, the space shrinking down to nothing. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—less like a friend, more like someone who’d been waiting for this exact moment all along. And in that quiet, ivy-wrapped corner of Nevermore, it didn’t matter who you were supposed to be making jealous. It didn’t matter what the plan had been. What mattered was that something new had sparked between you, unexpected and undeniable, and it wasn’t going to be as easy to ignore as you’d both promised yourselves. You found yourself laughing more than you meant to, leaning against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t move away; in fact, his arm shifted, almost shyly, to rest behind you. The warmth of it lingered, grounding you in a way that wasn’t part of the plan at all.

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

PAUL ATREIDES

You’d grown up with Paul Atreides woven into the background of your life. It wasn’t exactly by choice—more like by design. Your families had been bound together long before either of you were born, a web of trade agreements, marriage prospects whispered about in corridors, and shared enemies. You’d been to more political dinners and formal receptions with him than you could count. But somewhere between being paraded around in miniature formalwear and surviving endless lectures on court etiquette, you’d found a kind of solace in each other. He was the only person your age who understood what it was like—every smile calculated, every move watched, every friendship strategic. So you’d declared yourselves best friends in the way only children in a gilded cage could: quietly, stubbornly, with a shared smirk across a conference table while your parents discussed treaties. And now, Arrakis. You’d known of the planet, of course—its politics, its spice, its dangers—but stepping off the shuttle was still a shock. The heat was heavy, dragging at every breath, the air dry enough to pull the moisture from your lips in seconds. The Atreides’ new palace loomed against the desert horizon, all sharp lines and muted colors, a fortress in a world that wanted to swallow it whole. Your family had come to greet the Atreides formally, to reaffirm old ties. Paul had been waiting in the courtyard when you arrived, dressed in the local style but still unmistakably him. The grin he’d given you had been almost enough to make you forget the suffocating heat. Almost. That night, you were told you’d be staying over—a courtesy in Caladan’s cool, damp climate, but here, on Arrakis, it was a practical necessity. The sun’s heat lingered in the stones long after it set; travel at night was ill-advised. And that’s when the problem started. It was explained to you in hushed tones by one of the palace staff: a miscalculation in the day’s water distribution. The Arrakeen system was precise, every drop accounted for, and while the Duke’s household would never run dry, tonight, the allocation had been stretched thin. There was enough water for one bath. Which, apparently, meant sharing. With Paul. You’d stared at the servant like they’d just suggested you duel a sandworm. “This is… common?” you asked, your voice a little higher than usual. “Among the Fremen, water is sacred,” the servant replied carefully. “To waste it is unthinkable. For those of high rank, this is… not unheard of.” Unheard of on Caladan, maybe. But here? You were already being ushered toward one of the private bathing rooms before you could fully protest. Paul was already there when you stepped in, leaning casually against the tiled edge, sleeves rolled up, looking far too composed for someone about to share a bath with his so-called best friend. His gaze flicked over you, and something in his expression shifted—just slightly. “So,” he said, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Looks like we’re saving water.” You crossed your arms. “This is absurd.” “This is Arrakis,” he countered, as though that explained everything. Which, annoyingly, it kind of did. The bath was shallow by Caladan standards, barely enough to sit in, the water warm from the desert heat. You tried not to think about the fact that this was the only bath water allotted for both of you tonight, or that every small movement sent ripples across to where he sat, close enough that your knees brushed under the surface. Paul was maddeningly calm, leaning back against the stone, eyes half-lidded. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I think this is the first time in years we’ve been in the same room without at least four other people listening in.” It was strange, sitting there in the dim, steam-scented air, the distant hum of Arrakeen nightlife muted by the thick walls. You’d spent your whole life next to Paul in one way or another, but this—this was the first time it felt like you were both outs

TRAVIS STOLL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ thief of my sanity

MARCUS RASHFORD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teachers pet

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friend

OCTAVIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ clasing fates (enemies)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the stars (footballer user)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ c’mere

KAZ BREKKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ father figure or lover?

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ birthday boy

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hottub

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ for gods’ sake, stop

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fed u

NICOLO SAVONA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s friend

PROFESSOR SCAMANDER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ another afternoon together

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ awkward (ex)

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone at potters manor

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ close enough

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ something was off

LUCIUS A MALFOY

You’d grown up knowing the Malfoys, though “knowing” was generous. Their lives were grand, gilded, and full of pureblood pride — yours, though comfortable, never quite brushed that level of untouchable wealth. Still, your parents and theirs were partners, bound through business ties and old money dealings, which meant you and Draco found yourselves thrown together more than once. Over the years, that awkward childhood familiarity blossomed into real friendship. Draco was sharp, dramatic, and bratty in his way, but he was also fiercely loyal once he let you in. So when your families agreed to spend Christmas together, it felt natural. Comfortable, even. Until you stepped foot into Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t that you weren’t used to big houses — but the Manor was different. It loomed. Every corridor echoed. Every chandelier dripped wealth. And beneath all that, there was him. Lucius. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t just a man; he was an institution. Cold elegance in human form. The way he carried himself made every room shift. Silver hair, sharp cane, voice smooth as velvet dipped in frost. He always seemed composed, untouchable. And yet — you couldn’t help yourself. Sometimes, when Draco rambled, you’d catch yourself staring a little too long at the man standing at the edge of the room. Draco noticed, of course. “Merlin’s sake, stop looking at my father like that,” he’d hiss, rolling his eyes. You’d laugh it off, but the truth was — how could you not look? That evening, the house was full of movement. The family decided to wander out into the gardens, enchanted lights glittering across the grounds, voices trailing further away until the Manor was hushed. You’d slipped away to freshen up, tired after the endless holiday chatter. The bathroom was grand, all marble and gilded fixtures, steam curling into the air after your shower. But when you searched for a fresh towel in the hall closet, you came up empty. Muttering to yourself, you crouched down, pulling at drawers you didn’t quite recognize. “Looking for something?” The voice slid behind you, deep and measured, and your body froze before you turned. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. You stumbled over your words. “I— I couldn’t find a towel.” “Mm,” he said, stepping closer, the faintest amusement in his tone. “It would appear you’ve wandered into the wrong cupboard.” He extended a folded towel from his arm, crisp and white, like he’d planned this interruption all along. He was too close now, the air thick with something you couldn’t name. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old wood, and he watched you with those sharp grey eyes that seemed to see more than you ever intended to show. You swallowed hard, clutching the towel. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.” His lips quirked at the title. “So polite.” His gaze lingered — not quite inappropriate, but not entirely proper either.

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

BLAISE ZABINI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected friendship

ANAKIN

You had known Anakin Skywalker for as long as you could remember. The Jedi Temple was your home since childhood, a place of discipline, serenity, and rules that tied your existence tighter than the wrappings around your practice saber. You and Anakin had trained together, meditated together, eaten side by side at the long Temple tables. You’d grown up under the same suns of Coruscant’s skyline, two younglings turned padawans, bound by friendship and an unspoken understanding that neither of you truly fit into the mold of calm, detached Jedi. Anakin was always a spark — too loud, too bright, too alive. You admired him. You always had. But lately… admiration had begun to feel like something else entirely. Something warmer. Dangerous. Puberty had a way of making everything confusing. You noticed it first in the smallest moments — the way his laughter made your stomach tighten, or the way your heart jumped when his hand brushed yours in passing. You used to spar without a thought, wooden sabers clashing in childish play, rolling on the floor with laughter. But now, every match left you flushed and breathless for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion. And today, you were sparring again. Alone. The training hall was nearly empty at this hour, all but echoing with the hum of the city outside. Pale light from Coruscant’s towers filtered through the wide windows, casting soft gold across Anakin’s features. He smirked as he twirled his lightsaber, blue blade cutting a streak through the air. “What’s wrong, afraid I’ll beat you again?” he teased. You scoffed and stepped forward, igniting your weapon. “In your dreams, Skywalker.” The blades clashed. You moved fast — faster than usual — pushing yourself to match his strength. But Anakin fought like he lived: wild, confident, with just enough recklessness to make your pulse jump. His saber grazed your shoulder, and when you stumbled back, his hand shot out to steady you. You froze. His fingers dug into your arm — firm, warm, real. The blue light flickered between you, painting his eyes with that fierce, stormy color that always made you forget to breathe. “Careful,” he murmured. “You could’ve fallen.” “I can handle myself,” you managed, voice a bit too quiet. “Sure,” he said with that infuriating grin, “but maybe I like catching you.” You wanted to roll your eyes. You wanted to say something sharp. But instead, your thoughts melted into static when he stepped closer. His saber lowered slightly, hum softening, and you felt the pull — that gravitational pull that existed between you two ever since you stopped being kids. He looked at you like you were the only one in the galaxy.

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ opposites attract

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ TO FIX!

FERMIN LOPEZ

You’d dreamed of this since you could remember — Barcelona. Not just visiting the city, not just watching from the stands, but playing here. The smell of fresh-cut grass on the pitch, the echo of footballs bouncing off walls painted in the club’s colors — crimson and blue. When you were fifteen, the dream stopped being a fantasy and became your life. You packed your life into two suitcases, left your hometown behind, and arrived in Spain — terrified, overwhelmed, but absolutely certain that this was where you were meant to be. Your Spanish wasn’t perfect, your accent was strong, and the city felt enormous — a golden maze of sun, sea, and people who spoke too fast and smiled too easily. You lived with a host family — kind, warm, patient — but it still wasn’t home. The real home, for you, was the pitch. And yet, those first weeks? Chaos. You couldn’t find anything. Not the locker room, not the right field, not even the correct exit half the time. Everyone moved like they already knew the script, while you were still learning the language, the culture, the rhythm of the club. That’s when he appeared. You didn’t even recognize him at first — just a tall guy in Barça gear, carrying a bottle of water, heading toward the training area. He noticed you standing by the wrong corridor, confusion written all over your face, and stopped with a faint grin. “Perdida?” he’d asked — Lost? And that was it. That was how you met Fermín López. One of Barcelona’s rising stars, the kind of player you’d watched on screens with wide eyes. But in person, he wasn’t intimidating at all. He was warm, easygoing, the kind of person who made you feel like you’d known him forever within five minutes. And it didn’t just happen once. You ran into him again. And again. Whether it was on the training grounds, in the cafeteria, or even in the parking lot, somehow fate — or just Barcelona’s chaos — kept pushing you into his path. Eventually, it became normal. A wave here, a short chat there, until one day it wasn’t weird anymore when you stopped to talk. He introduced you to people. Gave you advice. Sometimes even texted you — just small things. Motivational words before games, tips on stretching, how to handle homesickness. You told yourself it was just friendly. Mentor-like. Brotherly. And maybe it was. But when you were at the gym that night, it didn’t feel like just that. Hair tied back, leggings, oversized Barça shirt. He was already there, focused, arms flexing as he adjusted the weights. The fluorescent light cast a faint glow over his face — soft but sharp, the look of someone completely at home in his body and his work. He noticed you instantly and smiled, that easy grin that never failed to calm you down. “Hey, you made it,” he said, voice light but warm. “Long day?” You shrugged. “Just… usual. We trained on the pitch for almost two hours. Coach said it builds character.” He laughed, setting down the dumbbells. “Yeah, sounds about right. Come on — I’ll show you that core workout I mentioned.” You followed him to the mats, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor. He demonstrated the move first — steady, balanced, effortlessly controlled. Then it was your turn. “Like this?” you asked, trying to mimic the posture. “Almost,” he said, stepping closer. “Keep your back straight — yeah, like that. And… here, lower your shoulders.” His hands were careful when he corrected your stance — not inappropriate, not even close, but something about it made the air shift. His voice was low, patient, as he explained the movement, his breath ghosting close when he leaned forward slightly to adjust your elbow.

PEDRI GONZALEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ TO FIX!

PERCY WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ proper prefect

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stupid weasley

LUCAS BERGVALL

Rasmus had been in your class for barely a week when he decided you were going to be his friend. Not asked. Decided. One day he sat next to you, made one off-hand joke about the teacher, you laughed, and suddenly he was dragging you into conversations, sharing snacks with you, sending you memes during breaks. It was natural — fast in the way rare friendships sometimes are — like your energies instantly recognised each other. But then there was Lucas. The older brother. The “why-does-he-look-like-a-Norse-god” brother. Tall, calm, good at everything, soft-voiced but somehow also sarcastic in a way that made you feel weirdly… noticed. You didn’t expect him to like you. At all. Yet from the beginning he always greeted you with that half-smile, like he had already decided you were funny. He teased you like you were part of their family, asked how school was going, stole Rasmus’s snacks just to hand them to you first. And their home… gods, their home felt like a real home. Warm lights, someone always talking in the background, the smell of good food, that sense of belonging that wrapped around you like a blanket the moment you stepped through the door. The sleepover weekend. You all planned it for weeks — you, Rasmus, and your two other friends. The moment you arrived, the house felt alive: music playing, someone laughing upstairs, someone shouting from the kitchen about pizza toppings. You played games, filmed stupid videos, baked something that was technically edible if you didn’t breathe while chewing. Pure chaos. Perfect chaos. But hours later, somehow, naturally, the group dissolved for a moment. The others drifted back toward Rasmus’s room, leaving you standing in the hallway, still holding a blanket you’d carried downstairs earlier. And Lucas — leaning against the doorway to the living room — raised an eyebrow. “FIFA rematch?” he asked. Completely casual. As if this wasn’t the older brother who usually had better things to do than hang out with his sibling’s friends. You shrugged, pretending you weren’t lowkey flattered. “Only if you want to lose.” He laughed — that warm, chest-deep one that he only did when he found something genuinely funny — and stepped aside to let you sit.

DEVON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you shouldn’t

EDMUND PEVENSIE

It was supposed to feel like safety. Leaving the city behind, escaping the bombs and the sirens, following Lucy and her siblings to the countryside… it should have been a blessing. And in some ways, it was. The Pevensies’ relative owned a grand, sprawling house, the kind that looked like it had been plucked straight out of an old storybook. Wide staircases, tall windows, endless rooms. Plenty of space to breathe. But then there was Edmund. Your nightmare since childhood. Always teasing, always smirking, always finding the exact way to press your buttons. The boy had made it his personal mission to be the thorn in your side: stupid nicknames, mocking little remarks, sly glances that dared you to snap at him. And the worst part? He thrived on your reactions. So when you heard you’d be leaving with the Pevensies, your heart had twisted with conflicting feelings. Relief, because Lucy was your best friend and you couldn’t imagine being without her. And dread, because that meant Edmund. It didn’t take long to remember exactly what that meant. The very first night in the countryside, after the long, exhausting journey, the house was quiet. Lucy had insisted on taking a shower first, leaving you waiting in the bedroom you two were meant to share. You sat there in your nightclothes, brushing your hair, listening to the muffled sounds of pipes groaning and water running in the bathroom. That’s when you heard footsteps in the hall. You didn’t even have to look up. Somehow, you already knew. The atmosphere shifted — that unmistakable mix of smugness and trouble. And sure enough, the door creaked open without so much as a knock. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes. And there he was, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t take long, did it?” Edmund said casually, as if he’d been expected. His voice carried that mocking lilt you’d grown to know too well. “First night, and already hiding in Lucy’s room. You scared of the big, empty house?” You glared at him. “What do you want, Edmund?” “Just checking in.” His eyes flicked over you in that infuriating way — like he wasn’t even really looking, but still noticing everything. “Wouldn’t want our guest to feel lonely.” You scoffed. “How thoughtful of you. Now get out.” But he didn’t move. He lingered, enjoying every second of your irritation, like a cat toying with its prey.

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friends reunion

EUGENE OTTINGER

You grew up in the Addams household, which meant chaos wasn’t just familiar, it was practically stitched into your DNA. Being Pugsley’s twin didn’t make life any calmer either — it only doubled the explosions, pranks, and late-night escapades. But amidst the constant madness, there was Eugene Ottinger. From the very first day at Nevermore, he latched onto you like a loyal bee to its queen. Sweet, awkward, painfully obvious. Everyone in your circle noticed, too. The way his eyes followed you in every room, the way he scrambled to carry your bag, offer you candy, or save you a seat in the quad. He was sunshine wrapped in oversized glasses, and his crush on you was the worst-kept secret in the whole school. You always laughed it off. Teased him. Brushed your hair in slow motion just to watch him nearly combust. But recently, something shifted. Maybe it was because you got tired of saying “no.” Maybe it was the way he still showed up for you, every damn time, without hesitation. Or maybe it was just that one afternoon when boredom mixed with curiosity and you thought, what if I push him a little further? So you started testing him. Brushing your hand over his arm when you didn’t need to. Leaning just a little too close during study sessions. Whispering things in his ear that made him trip over his own words. And the funniest part? He was trying so hard to keep his composure, to stay the sweet, respectful Eugene everyone knew — but his ears turned scarlet, his voice cracked, and his glasses fogged up like he’d sprinted across campus. And tonight was no different. You sat together in your dorm’s common room, everyone else long gone. He was telling some dumb bee pun, and you laughed, leaning into him — closer, closer — until his back hit the couch. “Y’know, Eugene,” you whispered, your lips dangerously near his ear, “you’re really cute when you’re flustered.” He swallowed so loudly you swore it echoed. His hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or keep them safely at his sides. “Am I—uh—are you… teasing me again?” His voice cracked, a nervous laugh escaping.

EDMUND PEVENSIE

You and Edmund had always been a strange pair. Neighbors, classmates, childhood rivals — two kids who couldn’t resist throwing jabs at each other, calling names, making fun of every tiny mistake. It had started as nothing more than childish teasing, the sort that everyone thought you’d grow out of. But somehow, you never did. And yet… through every bicker, every rolled eye, every insult that half-covered a laugh, something unspoken had formed. Familiarity. Trust. Friendship, even if neither of you would admit it easily. Then came the war. Two years ago, the bombs and sirens chased you both out of the city, together with the Pevensies. You left behind everything you knew — your school, your home, your neighborhood. And you ended up at that old professor’s house, full of secrets you couldn’t have dreamed of. Narnia. You still thought of it sometimes, in flashes too vivid to ignore. Snow crunching under your boots, the endless forests, the shimmer of Cair Paravel on the horizon. Battles fought, kingdoms ruled, years upon years that slipped through your fingers like sand. You had grown there. Older, stronger, wiser. A whole life. And then… in the blink of an eye, you were back. Children again. School uniforms, homework, war still raging in the “real” world as if nothing had changed. Except you had. You both had. Which made everything so much more complicated when you returned again — years later for Narnia, only a year for you — and found Prince Caspian waiting. He was different from Edmund. Older, regal, carrying his own burdens but with a kind of light in him. You saw it immediately. So did Edmund. And though he’d always been moody, sarcastic, quick to bite back… you had never seen him quite like this. Sharp-edged. Watchful. As if every time Caspian looked at you too long, a shadow crossed Edmund’s face. That night in the castle was no exception. The day had been long — exploring halls that once belonged to you, fighting that pang of nostalgia every time you turned a corner and remembered how it used to be. You had washed away the dust of travel and war, changed into something more comfortable, and now curled in your bed with a book you had found tucked away on a forgotten shelf. The pages smelled of old ink and sea air. Edmund was there too, sprawled in the chair across the room, looking far less at ease than you. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, though his eyes occasionally flicked to you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. „You know you’re terrible company, right?” you murmured without looking up from the book. That familiar smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I could say the same about you.” “You don’t even talk.” “And yet, somehow, you’re still entertained.” There was a pause. You could feel his gaze on you again, heavier this time, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. And maybe it was only the candlelight, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there years ago — something sharp, and vulnerable all at once. For a moment, the memory of the boy who teased you in the schoolyard blurred with the image of the young king who had ruled by your side. And you realized… Edmund wasn’t just your oldest friend anymore. Not to you. Not to himself. And maybe, not to Prince Caspian either.

JAMES FLEAMONT P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ love potion

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ head over heals

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ taking care of baby together

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a bet

OLIVER WOOD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re not suppose to like ur student

BILL SKARSGARD

Filming IT was exhausting in a way nothing else had ever been. Hours under lights, hours in makeup, hours listening to muffled screams from the kids who weren’t supposed to know Pennywise could joke, smile, or speak without sounding like a demon. But you… you were the exception. Older than the others, old enough to understand the difference between “actor in prosthetics” and “monster in the sewer.” Old enough that the directors trusted you with the secret: Bill wasn’t scary. Not really. He was quiet, funny in a strange way, and painfully considerate. Still, Pennywise clung to him like a shadow. Even now. You lay sprawled along the studio couch, limbs heavy with post-scene exhaustion, hair sticking to your forehead with sweat from the last take. You didn’t even mean to be dramatic — your body simply gave up the moment they yelled cut. Your eyes fluttered half-open as you heard him. Bill trudged in from the hallway, peeling the gloves off first. The oversized red suit hung awkwardly from his frame, the ruffles deflating now that Pennywise was gone for the day. He looked like a man returning from battle. He always did after filming his scenes with the kids. “Long day?” he asked, voice lower without the clown lilt. You nodded, barely lifting your head. “Kill me,” you muttered. It came out muffled against the cushion. He snorted — the quiet, rare kind of laugh he only let out when no one else was around. “I think that’s Pennywise’s job,” he said, tugging off the top half of the suit. Underneath he wore simple clothes, cotton shirt, black pants. Normal. Disarming. A world away from the painted monster he’d been an hour ago. You watched him with ridiculously tired eyes, lids heavy.

PERCY WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ opposites attract

LUKE CASTELLAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ him&i (before betrayal)

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pinky finger

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ annoying teasing

PAUL WESLEY

You weren’t supposed to feel that way about him. He wasn’t supposed to feel that way about you. But there it was. Paul had always been part of your life. Not just a guest at birthdays or barbecues, not just the funny “uncle” who teased you and spoiled you with secret ice creams when your dad said no. He was woven into the fabric of your childhood. Every scraped knee, every crying fit, every late-night story when you couldn’t sleep—Paul was there. And you never questioned it. But now? Now you were older. And something had shifted. It started subtly—lingering glances that lasted a heartbeat too long, the way his hand would rest on your shoulder a second longer than necessary. You tried to shake it off. He was your dad’s best friend. He was Paul Wesley. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who made your stomach flip. But he did. Every single time. Then came the wedding. His cousin’s, in some cozy but elegant vineyard just outside the city. Paul had invited you as his “plus one,” spinning it to your dad with the most innocent excuses: “She’s fun, Ian. She’ll dance, she’ll get me out of awkward small talk. Besides, she knows me better than anyone. Don’t worry—I’ll take care of her.” And Ian had bought it. That night you weren’t Ian’s daughter. You weren’t the little girl Paul had known since birth. You were his date. He picked you up looking unfairly good in his suit, tie loose, hair pushed back in that messy way that always looked better than when it was neat. And when his eyes swept over you, slow and unguarded, you swore you saw his jaw clench. The wedding was perfect: laughter, dancing, champagne bubbles tickling your nose. You danced with him all night, your hand in his, your body moving in sync with his like you’d done this forever. People stared—some smiling, some whispering—but Paul didn’t care. He spun you around like you were his. Later, when the party quieted and the stars were out, you found yourselves outside, alone. The music faint behind you, the night air cool against your flushed cheeks. He lit a cigarette, handed it to you like it was a secret, and when your fingers brushed, your heart nearly stopped. “You know you look too good tonight, right?” he said, voice low, almost like he regretted saying it out loud. You laughed, nervous, tried to play it off. But the way he looked at you wasn’t funny. It was intense. Hungry. Like he had been holding back for years. And for the first time, you realized you weren’t just his little princess anymore.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealous

PROFESSOR SCAMANDER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ evening with tea&him

JADEN WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he’s trying again

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ siblings

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft spot

PHIL FODEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he teach you fishing

NIKOLAI LANTSOV

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ desperate prince

OLIVER WOOD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s favourite

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ new look

TRAVIS STOLL

*You always knew Travis Stoll was trouble.* Not mild trouble. Not haha he stole your dessert trouble. Real, chaotic, demigod-who-should’ve-been-in-prison trouble. But still… no one could ever *prove* anything. He slipped through accusations like smoke. Stole like a shadow. Smirked like a menace. And you? You weren’t even in his friend circle. He was just some funny, chaotic Hermes kid who flashed you a grin every time he passed you in the dining pavilion — harmless, right? Until your things started disappearing. At first, it felt normal. Camp was busy. You lost a journal, then a book, then a pair of socks. You assumed you misplaced them in training or left them in the canoe lake or stuffed them in the wrong cubby. But then… Your underwear began to vanish. Not one pair. Not two. Like… ten. It was embarrassing, confusing, downright concerning. You were sure the gods were laughing at you — or that maybe the nymphs were playing pranks again — but something felt off. Ten pairs didn’t just walk away. By the second month you had so few left that you were hand-washing the same ones on rotation and praying no one noticed. And then archery class incident happened. Everyone was tense and tired, the sun was brutal, and you were just trying to hit a stationary target without embarrassing yourself — when, across the field, the same chaos as always ignited: Connor Stoll pantsed his brother. Boom. Pants on the ground. Campers laughing. Travis yelling. Business as usual. Except— A piece of fabric fluttered out of his pocket. Pink. Soft. Embarrassingly, unmistakably yours. Everyone roared with laughter. Travis didn’t. Travis — Travis Stoll — the king of jokes and snark — froze. His eyes snapped up. Straight at you. Searching for your reaction. Checking if you’d seen. Oh, you had. Your face burned. Your stomach dropped. Half the campers had no clue why he suddenly went quiet — but you knew. And so did he. You left the range early. Not to hide. Not to cry. To hunt. You found him after dinner, deep in the woods, where he always disappeared after meals to do God-knows-what. The sky was dark, stars just starting to appear, and the trees swallowed sound. He heard your footsteps before he saw you — or maybe he sensed your fury, because Travis turned around slowly, hands up like you were a monster he’d accidentally summoned. “Okay,” he said carefully, voice lighter than air. “Before you yell at me—” “Give. It. Back.” His mouth curved into a guilty, sheepish, stupid grin. “Oh. Them.”

LUCIUS A MALFOY

The Malfoy Manor was overwhelming from the moment you stepped inside. Not just because of its scale — endless corridors, ceilings lost in the dark, mirrors that seemed to watch you — but because it was so Malfoy. Cold, elegant, immaculate. A place where silence felt louder than words. You and Draco had been close for years — your families tied together by business, your childhoods brushing against each other during dinners and holidays. He was prickly, sarcastic, but loyal to a fault, and you’d always trusted him. That Christmas, your parents had insisted on visiting Wiltshire and staying for a few days. It was convenient, they said. You’d rolled your eyes, but secretly… you hadn’t minded. Because it meant Lucius Malfoy. You’d never said that out loud — Merlin, Draco would hex you into next week — but you’d noticed him. Everyone did. The way he carried himself, always in control, his words sharp enough to cut silk. He looked untouchable. Cold, yes — but in a way that made your skin prickle. He was the definition of a man who knew exactly who he was. And somehow, that made him… impossible to ignore. That evening the house had quieted down, the weight of its silence pressing on you as you sat in the grand living room with a book. You weren’t tired, not yet. The fire cracked low in the hearth, throwing shadows against marble walls. You were curled up on one of the velvet chairs, trying to disappear into the page. And then — a voice. “You’re still awake?” Lucius Malfoy entered like he owned not just the room, but the very air. His long blond hair caught the glow of the fire, his black robes trailing behind him like smoke. He moved with that same infuriating grace that made every other man look clumsy by comparison.

XAVIER THORPE

You weren’t supposed to be here with him. That was the first thought screaming in your head when you found yourself tucked away in the farthest corner of the party, the buzz of music and chatter muffled by the heavy velvet curtains draped around the alcove. Outside, laughter rose and fell like waves, games spiraling into chaos, someone yelling about truth or dare, someone else spilling a drink. But here, it was just you. And Xavier. Again. It was almost laughable how fate kept throwing you two together. Teachers pairing you for projects, fencing partners chosen “by random,” club rosters overlapping—Nevermore had its ways. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the school itself was orchestrating this twisted little dance between you and him. Once, long ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’d been inseparable as kids. The kind of best friends who promised forever. Sleepovers. Scribbled doodles passed during lessons. Secrets whispered in the dead of night. But the moment you both walked through Nevermore’s gates, it shattered. You rose—fast, effortlessly, slipping into the halls with charm, wit, a spark everyone wanted to be near. He drifted to the margins, brooding, painting, drawing shadows into form. Maybe he resented you for changing. Maybe you resented him for not keeping up. All you knew was that the fights started, and once they started, they never stopped. The entire school knew your story. The duels. The snide remarks shouted across corridors. The whispers in the library that ended with a slammed book. The viciousness of it all—the way you could cut each other down with a single glance. Nevermore was small; rumors spread like wildfire, and your rivalry became part of the school’s lore. And yet. That night after fencing practice, when a spar went too far and turned into breathless laughter on the mats, something shifted. The first kiss hadn’t been planned—it had been heat and impulse, mouths crashing together before either of you could think better of it. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself it was a mistake. But then it wasn’t just once. It was his hand brushing yours too long while passing a paper. His breath at your ear during study hall. His hand on your thigh beneath the desk in class, while everyone else sat oblivious, while you burned inside and pretended nothing was happening. Enemies, everyone said. Everyone knew. But this—this thing between you? No one did. You told yourself to stop. You both did. And yet here you were again, sitting in the dim glow of fairy lights strung lazily across the alcove, knees brushing his, a red cup abandoned at your side. The world was noisy outside, but between you, it was strangely quiet. “You always run from the games,” he said finally, his tone that maddening mix of mocking and soft, like he knew you’d follow anyway.

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ complicated

REMUS JOHN LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the lake knows

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden

REGULUS A BLACK

You always knew how it worked. Blood. Status. Legacy. Those were the things that mattered — not feelings, not affection, not choice. Your family had told you from the start: you would marry well. You would marry pure. You would do what was expected, because that was how you carried on the name. You never imagined it would be him, though. Not Regulus Black. The name didn’t surprise you, of course. The Black family was the epitome of everything sacred in your world — Toujours Pur, whispered like a prayer and a curse all at once. Regal, ruthless, and rotting from the inside. And your own family? Just the same. So of course, when the whispers began — about an alliance, a match — it wasn’t shocking. But it still felt like betrayal. You knew him from school. Regulus Arcturus Black: elegant, cold, untouchable. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect pedigree. You’d seen him in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by quiet reverence, his name heavy with unspoken expectations. You’d passed each other in corridors, sat near each other during pureblood-hosted functions as children — but never spoken. Not truly. A nod, a glance, a carefully rehearsed “hello” at best. So when you were fifteen and told — not asked — that you’d be marrying him, you exploded. You yelled. Cursed. Promised you’d hex every last hair off your father’s head if he thought for a second you’d marry someone you didn’t know. Someone you didn’t love. Someone like him — all quiet smiles and clipped words and frozen silver eyes. But they didn’t care. Your outrage was a phase. And soon after, a letter arrived: The Blacks invite you to tea. Just the children, this time. A quiet arrangement. A gentle shove toward the inevitable. You hadn’t expected to feel anything that day except rage. But Regulus opened the door himself. He didn’t look like the stiff, porcelain-perfect boy you knew from Hogwarts. His hair was slightly out of place, his collar not quite starched. He looked… tired. Real. And for the first time, he looked at you like a person — not a name. “Come in,” he said quietly. You had prepared yourself for silence. Awkward small talk. An unbearable hour of pureblood performance. But then… it wasn’t that at all. The sitting room was dim and quiet, the adults conveniently busy elsewhere. They left you alone — on purpose, of course — with delicate tea and no witnesses. At first, you sat across from each other, guarded and stiff. But then he said something — funny. Dry. And surprisingly honest. And you laughed. The ice cracked. Conversation came easy after that — about school, books, politics, the absurdity of Slughorn’s obsession with “promising youth,” and the ridiculous arrogance of Lucius Malfoy. You both hated pumpkin juice. You both adored the stars. You both knew what it felt like to be used as pawns on someone else’s chessboard. You remember thinking, how strange, how unfair it was — that the first time you felt seen, truly seen, was during a meeting that was supposed to seal your future like a tomb. And Regulus changed. You saw it in the way his eyes softened, how his posture relaxed, how he leaned just slightly closer every time you laughed. He wasn’t cold. Not really. He was cautious. Guarded. Sharpened by pressure. And yet somehow, with you, he let go of the mask. He didn’t smile often. But that night, he did. Just for you. He wasn’t warm, exactly. But he wasn’t frozen either. There was something under his smooth exterior — dry wit, sharp intelligence, and a kind of quiet resentment that matched yours. And the chemistry? You weren’t prepared for that. You brushed past him reaching for a book and his hand grazed yours. Static. His eyes flicked to yours like he felt it too. Neither of you moved away. Your parents returned an hour later with smug faces. You didn’t say anything. He looked at you, long and steady, and asked quietly, “May I walk you out?”

CEDRIC AMOS DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ real face (enemies-to-lovers)

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ vampire’s love

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ kreacher dragged u to his room

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ expecto patronum

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ house unity project

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ room of requirement

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone at potters manor

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a vampire

JASON GRACE

Being Percy Jackson’s younger sister meant one thing above all: *Overprotectiveness.* Enough of it to drown Olympus twice. You had always been his favourite, his soft spot, the warm part of his life he guarded like a secret. When you both discovered the truth — that you weren’t normal kids but demigods with targets painted on your backs — everything intensified. He patched your wounds. He supervised your training. He forbade literally everything that could be remotely dangerous. Go on a mission? *Absolutely not.* Eat McDonald’s? *Are you insane?* Touch a phone? *Monsters track signals.* Have a boyfriend? *Try again when he isn’t the son of Poseidon.* And if Percy ever heard about a boy even looking at you? Camp Half-Blood suddenly experienced localized natural disasters. Minor earthquakes. Mini-tsunamis. Sprinklers exploding. Some poor satyr losing his pants because a rogue wave hit the canoe lake. Everything got messier when the two of you boarded the Argo II. Percy wasn’t just overprotective anymore. He was feral. Because now you were surrounded by other demigods — powerful ones. Older ones. Ones he didn’t trust. Worst of all: *Jason Grace.* Jason was tall, blond, scarred, disciplined, annoyingly heroic — everything Percy didn’t want near you. And from the beginning, he and Percy clashed like two rival wolves circling the same territory. Both leaders, strong, stubborn. Both used to being the responsible protector. They respected each other, sure… but that only made the rivalry worse. Then came you. You and Jason gravitated together like magnets someone had welded too close. Percy hated it. He hated the way Jason looked at you like you were light itself. He hated how close you sat during strategy meetings. He hated how Jason always, always stepped in front of you during battles. He hated the way your hands brushed when the crew played board games at night. He hated that Jason carried himself like someone who could take care of you, who should take care of you. Too handsome. Too old. Too composed. Too everything Percy didn’t want you wanting. But you were getting closer anyway. Tonight was one of the few calm nights. Almost no monsters. No storms. No divine sabotage. Just the eight of you gathered around the table in the common room of the Argo II, playing an aggressive, chaotic mix of Capture the Flag strategy and some Roman card game Leo claimed he totally knew the rules to (he didn’t). You sat beside Jason — Percy’s eyebrows nearly burned off his face at that — and every time you laughed, Jason’s shoulder brushed yours. The game ended. Everyone yawned, stretched, gathered their pieces. They were supposed to split off to their rooms — Piper dragging Leo by the ear, Hazel helping Frank pick up snacks, Annabeth trying very hard not to murder Percy for being jealous all evening. One by one, they left the room. Except for you. And Jason. You both stayed sitting there long after the laughter faded, after the footsteps disappeared, after the last lantern dimmed to a soft warm glow. Jason leaned back in his chair, watching you with that calm, steady gaze he reserved for you and you alone. The kind of gaze Percy would absolutely declare war over. “You don’t have to go yet,” he said softly. Then, a small smile. “At least not if you don’t want to.”

BILL SKARSGARD

Your dynamic with Bill had never made sense on paper. Both of you were taken — publicly, professionally, permanently. You were young, rising, the “fresh face” the directors adored. He was established, respected, the kind of actor whose experience made everyone automatically quieter around him. You weren’t supposed to gravitate toward each other. But you did. From the first week of filming. It was easy at first — a friendship that felt natural. Inside jokes, comforting presence, shared exhaustion. You fit into each other’s days without thinking. One of those working relationships where everyone said, *“Oh yeah, they just get along.”* But months passed. It wasn’t anything *wrong*, it’s just the way you two “got along” stopped being simple. The looks changed. The touches lingered. The texts became nightly, easy, addictive. Just like yesterday. You’d stayed up texting until three in the morning — nothing dramatic, nothing inappropriate, just too warm, too honest, too… something. Half the conversation was jokes. The other half was the kind of vulnerability people usually reserve for partners. And today, when he walked into set, you felt it in your entire body. He didn’t even say anything. Just saw you, tired and a little too bleary-eyed, and his expression softened in that quiet, private way he never showed anyone else. The break between scenes finally hit, you two slipped away from the noisy, chaotic stage, weaving through prop storage and empty hallways until you reached the quiet corner behind the costume racks. Your unofficial spot. “You look like you slept for… wow, zero minutes,” he teased. You sank down onto the little bench beside the wall. He sat next to you, close — too close for two people who had partners at home, close enough that his knee brushed yours when he shifted.

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dirty talker

PENNYWISE

Twelve weeks. Twelve long, impossible weeks since the Losers left you in the Well House — running, panicked, calling your name once and then never again. Maybe they thought you were dead. Maybe they didn’t want to look back. But he found you. Or rather… he chose you. The first few days were terror. The cold stone walls. The echoing pipes. The strange, awful ways the Well House breathed. And him — the clown, the thing, the nightmare who wasn’t supposed to speak softly or look at you like you were something worth keeping alive. You thought he would tear you apart. Instead, he said, “No.” And everything changed. He became the one who sat with you. The one who watched over you when you slept. The one who brought you food — strange, but edible — and blankets stolen from empty houses. *Friend.* That’s what he called you. And sometimes you believed it. Tonight, he was behind you, sitting on the dusty old mattress as if he belonged there. You sat on the floor between his legs, and his gloved fingers slid through your hair with surprising gentleness. The brush made soft strokes against your scalp, soothing in a way that felt unreal for a creature born of fear. His hands shouldn’t have felt warm beneath the cold fabric. But somehow they did. His voice dipped closer, brushing like frost against your ear. “I like your hair, dear.” You shivered — not in fear this time, but something stranger. Something that curled in your stomach like heat under ice. The brush clicked softly as he set it down. Then his hand — huge, cool, oddly reassuring — drifted from your hair, traced the line of your spine without touching skin, and came to settle around your waist. Another followed. His arms wrapped around you easily, like he could lift you with one breath. He pulled you gently back against him. His chest was solid. Far too solid for a creature made of nightmare. His breath was cool against the side of your neck. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, almost human.

JASON GRACE

He always looked too good to be standing in front of a whiteboard. Professor Grace. Jason Grace. Math teacher. The title sounded almost ridiculous when you remembered who he used to be. A demigod, a legion commander, a boy who’d once carried the world’s weight on scarred shoulders. And now? He stood in a tidy classroom wearing a dark button-down rolled up at the sleeves, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he explained quadratic equations. Still towering. Still muscular. Still stupidly handsome. But soft now. Patient. Gentle. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice—not even at students who deserved it. The kind of man whose presence calmed a whole room. The kind of man who walked like he remembered battles, but spoke like he wanted to make sure none of his students ever had to fight any. And you… you were one of the students who needed the most help. Math had always been a nightmare. A labyrinth of numbers that twisted in your brain until everything collapsed into panic. You tried—not that anyone believed you—but Jason did. He saw you trying. That’s why he always stayed after class with you. Like today. The final bell had rung, students spilled out into the hallway, and you stayed behind, clutching your notebook like a shield. Jason was wiping the board clean. The room glowed warm with the late-afternoon sun, dust floating in the golden air. He turned to you, offering one of those soft, patient smiles that hit harder than any compliment. “Ready to give it another try?” he asked, voice impossibly gentle. You nodded, even though you weren’t. He knew. Of course he knew. He pulled a chair next to yours—not across the desk like a distant teacher, but beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cedar and old paper clinging to him. His knee brushed yours when he leaned forward. “Alright,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses—gods, that tiny gesture always made your stomach flip—“show me where you got stuck.” You slid your notebook toward him, cheeks warm. You expected disappointment. Or frustration. Instead, Jason hummed thoughtfully, tapping a pencil against the page. “This is good,” he said. “You did more than you think.” He always praised you like that. Quiet, sincere, warm enough to melt the knots inside you.

WALKER SCOBELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dance floor protector

NICOLO SAVONA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s friend

ZANE JULIEN

You had arrived at the Monastery almost by accident. One day you were just a kid with too much curiosity and not enough supervision, and the next you were standing beside Lloyd, both of you being handed over to four ninjas and one very strange, very wise old man with a staff. You were younger than Lloyd, smaller, louder, more emotional—but you grew up together like siblings, forged by training mats, early mornings, scraped knees, and endless bowls of noodles. The Monastery raised you. Kai taught you fire and recklessness. Jay taught you noise and humor. Cole taught you strength and steadiness. Sensei Wu taught you patience. But Zane… Zane was different. From the very beginning, he treated you like you mattered. Not like a child to be managed or a student to be corrected, but like a person whose thoughts were worth hearing. He never raised his voice. Never rushed you. Never made you feel foolish for asking questions that went on for far too long. When the others laughed or groaned, Zane listened. He remembered things about you—your favorite tea, the way you liked vegetables cut too small, how you got quiet when you were overwhelmed. He cooked when you were tired. He fixed your training gear when it broke. He stayed. Now you were teenager. Taller. Stronger. Sharper. Your balance had improved, your strikes were cleaner, and Sensei Wu had started speaking to you about responsibility in that careful way that meant you’re not a child anymore. It was exciting. Terrifying. Heavy. Tonight, you’d been spared bathroom duty by sheer luck. Instead, you stood in the monastery kitchen beside Zane, sleeves rolled up, the room warm with steam and the quiet comfort of routine. The others were scattered around the building, complaining loudly about chores, but here—here it was calm. Zane moved with precise grace, chopping vegetables with exact, even motions. You mirrored him, not nearly as neat, but determined. “You are improving,” he said gently, watching you from the corner of his eye.

BANGCHAN

You grew up always feeling a little out of place. Not because of your parents—your adoptive mom and dad gave you love in the language of warm meals, soft scolding, and the occasional too-long hug when they thought you were asleep. Not because of Korea either—you learned to blend in, learned the words, the rhythm of life there. But still… people never let you forget what your body reminded them of: too tall, too curvy, too much of something outside their tight little box of beauty. The one saving grace of that world was your brother. He shone so bright as an idol that nobody questioned why you were there, tagging along. And by extension, you had access to his world—the one full of music studios, afterparties, laughter echoing through practice rooms. That’s how you’d known Bang Chan for as long as you could remember. He was always just there. Your brother’s friend, his leader, the guy who smiled too easily even when his shoulders carried too much. You never thought much of the age gap. Like a decade, it was supposed to feel like different planets. But he never treated you like a kid, never brushed you off the way some of your brother’s friends did. Chan had this way of looking at you like you actually mattered in the room—like you weren’t just the little sister hovering in the background. That holiday trip was supposed to be fun. Everyone booked a villa by the beach, half idols, half girlfriends, and you. The house buzzed with voices, music, drinks being poured, shoes left scattered by the door. And then, in a blur of perfumes and laughter, everyone decided to go out. Clubs. Bars. Places you were obviously too young for. Chan stayed. Said he didn’t feel like it. You stayed too. Said you didn’t want to. And suddenly the house was quiet. Just you and him, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room with snacks piled around you like you were both kids at a sleepover. It was fun—ridiculously fun. Cards spread out between you, his accent tumbling clumsy English phrases into your laughter. Video games that turned competitive, ending with you tossing a pillow at him when he won too easily. Singing half-songs, making up the lyrics when neither of you remembered them. Dancing so badly it had both of you collapsing onto the couch. Hours passed without either of you noticing. And when the laughter faded into comfortable quiet, tiredness slipped in. You were sprawled across the couch, legs tucked under you, and Chan had his head tilted back against the cushions, watching you with that lazy, lopsided smile. The villa was dark except for the glow of the TV menu screen. Everyone else was gone. It was just you and him, and the kind of silence that hummed with something you couldn’t quite name. "It's getting late," Chan murmured, shifting to look at the clock. "You should get some sleep." You shrugged, eyes glued to the TV. "I'm not tired." This was a lie, and you were pretty sure he saw right through it. But you'd rather be sleep-deprived than admit you weren't ready for this night to end. Chan chuckled, his gaze drifting to your face. "Your eyes are practically closing," he said, teasing you softly.

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sirius’ girlfriend (hurt/comfort)

BANGCHAN

You had debuted impossibly young, just a teenager, when JYP put together a new mixed-gender group meant to catch the wave of Gen Z listeners. The company did everything right: glossy teasers, sharp choreography, songs that stuck in people’s heads like candy. By the time you were sixteen, your band was topping the streaming charts. It was the sort of success that swallowed kids whole. But you weren’t swallowed. You were orbiting — around Stray Kids, around Bang Chan. Because JYP was a family, at least on the surface. Shared practice rooms, endless company events, artists drifting into each other’s dorms. The older idols were almost like mentors. And you? You were the youngest of the young, glowing in the way rookies glow, raw and messy but magnetic. Everyone noticed how close you and Bang Chan became. He was the one who always checked if you’d eaten. He explained industry politics when you looked lost. He gave you a pat on the shoulder before stages, a smile across crowded rehearsal halls. Your group members teased you endlessly: “There’s her prince again.” And you laughed it off, because what could you say? That your chest burned every time he said your name? That you’d been quietly, desperately crushing on him since the first day? Chan was careful — always careful. With you, though, there was softness. Not favoritism, not obvious enough for anyone to call him out. But he made room for you in a way that felt different. You were his dongsaeng, his princess, his little sister in the industry. And then you turned eighteen. Something shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… different. His gaze lingered longer when you spoke. He didn’t call you “kid” anymore. When you stumbled in practice, his hand stayed on your waist a beat too long. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but the atmosphere between you two carried static, like the space before a storm. That’s how you ended up in the practice room, just the two of you, choreographing when everyone else bailed. It had started as a joke — a half-serious idea to make a duo routine. But then someone suggested Railway, Chan’s own solo track. And suddenly it was only you and him, the mirrors reflecting two bodies moving to lyrics that weren’t meant for training. Lyrics about closeness, about something more. The first time you traced the steps, it felt innocent. By the third run-through, it was not. His hands guided your shoulders, your hips, his voice low as he counted beats. Your breath hitched when the song swelled. When you spun and caught his eyes in the mirror, you swore he looked at you like he wanted to confess something that would rewrite both of your lives. The lore was simple, and dangerous: You were no longer a child. He was no longer untouchable. I mean, he was. Still a decade older but not *that* untouchable. And dancing to Railway together — your bodies closer than they ever should’ve been — was the first time both of you admitted it without saying a single word.

REGULUS A BLACK

You didn’t stop running until your lungs burned. The castle blurred—stone walls, shifting portraits, candlelight flickering in and out of focus as you tore through the corridors, past startled first-years and the occasional suit of armor. You weren’t sure where you were going. You just knew you couldn’t still be standing in that bloody common room, couldn’t still be looking at him. Sirius Black. Your boyfriend. Well—your ex. Effective immediately. You’d known what you were signing up for with him. Everyone did. Sirius was a hurricane in leather boots—charming, cocky, with that infuriating way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room… until you weren’t. You’d laughed off the way he flirted with strangers, brushed aside the whispered warnings from people who claimed to have “seen him” with so-and-so. You’d convinced yourself he just liked attention. That it was harmless. But walking into the common room tonight, grinning and ready to celebrate the Gryffindor win, only to see him pressed against your best friend, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers— That wasn’t harmless. That was the end. Your eyes stung as you rounded another corner, skirts swishing around your legs. You were halfway to the girls’ dorm when you slammed into something solid. Someone solid. You stumbled back, ready to snap, but froze when you saw who it was. Regulus Black. You weren’t friends. Not exactly enemies either. Just… classmates. Same year, same classes, same circles in the Slytherin common room—because yes, you were a Slytherin dating a Gryffindor, something Sirius had always found “hilarious” and “tragic” in equal measure. But Regulus? He was a constant quiet presence. Polished. Sharp. The kind of person who spoke rarely but always noticed things. Right now, he was noticing you. “Watch it—” he started, but then his eyes narrowed. His voice shifted. “You’re crying.” “I’m not,” you said automatically, swiping at your cheek. (You absolutely were.) Regulus tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle. “What happened?” “Nothing,” you muttered, trying to sidestep him. He moved just enough to block you again. Not in a threatening way. Just… deliberate. Like he wasn’t going to let you pass until he got what he wanted. “It’s my brother, isn’t it?” You froze.

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ padfoot’s affection

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s care

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stuck together

OCTAVIAN

You always knew Octavian was strange — too strange, even for a legion of demigods who spent their lives fighting monsters and obeying prophecies. Camp Jupiter tolerated many things, but Octavian? He was… different. He wasn’t just the weird augur boy who stabbed stuffed animals like they’d wronged him personally. He wasn’t just the dramatic, ego-inflated prophet who acted like Jupiter sent him handwritten letters every morning. There was something haunted about him, something brittle. Something that even your friends — who teased him relentlessly — didn’t see. But you did. Maybe because you knew what it looked like when someone was breaking quietly. You were popular. One of the camp’s golden girls. You had friends on every cohort line, boys who adored you, girls who clung to you — you lit up rooms like Roman torches. And yet, despite all of that, your eyes always drifted toward the temple when Octavian stayed there too long. Too pale. Too thin. Too still. He didn’t eat at dinner. Not really. He toyed with food, pretended, and then disappeared to “consult the gods.” You’d been there yourself — skipping meals until your stomach turned hollow, then bingeing because hunger had sharpened into panic. Recovery wasn’t a straight line. You still had your days. So maybe that’s why you noticed him. Maybe that’s why you cared when no one else did. You’d bring him leftovers, leave them on the temple steps when he wouldn’t take them directly. Your friends thought it was hilarious. Why bother? He’s a jerk to everyone. Even to you. But you brushed them off. Because you recognized the look in his eyes — the mix of obsession, exhaustion, and something painfully human under all that arrogance. Today wasn’t your best day. An argument with your friend group had driven you away from camp noise. So you sat under the Little Tiber with a Roman history book, letting the river’s steady hum calm your breathing. You didn’t even hear footsteps behind you — Octavian moved like a ghost when he wanted to. You only felt it. A sharp, bony knee grazing your back. The soft rustle of a white toga shifting beside you. A presence lowering itself carefully to the ground. You turned, heart skipping, and there he was — Octavian. Looking more exhausted than ever, shadows under his eyes, blond hair messy from hours spent in the temple. And in his arms? Food. Actual food. Two little plates of post-dinner snacks, slightly messy like he’d carried them too awkwardly, but unmistakably real. He set one beside you without meeting your eyes. Then set the other in his own lap. For a moment, nothing happened. The river whispered. The evening breeze lifted the edge of his toga. You stared at him, trying to understand. He stared straight ahead. Finally, he spoke — voice flat, but not sharp. “I noticed you didn’t eat today.” A pause. His jaw tightened. Then, quietly — almost shy, almost ashamed: “So… I brought food. For us.” Two broken kids, sitting under a river that washed away sins, grief, and mistakes — eating dinner together because neither of you knew how to take care of yourselves, but somehow you could take care of each other. And for the first time, Octavian didn’t look haunted. Just human. Just lonely. Just a boy who brought you food because he noticed you were hurting too.

LEO VALDEZ

Argo II always hummed at night. It wasn’t loud — more like a constant heartbeat below the metal floors, a soft purr of bronze gears and celestial bronze veins, all breathing because Leo Valdez kept them alive. The ship was his pride, his baby, his brainchild… and his prison. And lately, it was also your prison. *Or maybe the two of you were each other’s.* Seven demigods on a quest, one prophecy, one flying warship… and you, squished into a room barely big enough for two — sharing a bunk bed with the boy who knew you better than anyone alive. Leo had been your best friend since you could stand. Since Camp Jupiter days. Since running around in dusty yards, and making stupid jokes you still remembered. Since before your godly parent claimed you. Before monsters. Before quests. Before destiny. Leo Valdez. Your chaos twin. Your firecracker. Your partner in crime. Your family. He was everything. *Except the boy you loved.* Because that spot — unfairly, painfully — belonged to Jason Grace. Jason, with the calm voice and the Roman posture and the impossible height. Jason, with the scar on his lip and the thunder in his blood. Jason who could lift you with one hand like it was nothing, who looked like every ancient sculptor’s dream. And Leo hated it. Hated that he did everything — *EVERYTHING* — to make you laugh, to keep you safe, to understand you… and you still looked at Jason like he hung the stars himself. It was sick. It was unfair. He knew it. And still — *he loved you anyway.* Which made sharing a room with you on the Argo II actual demigod hell. You were both in that cramped metal box again now, the small lamp flickering as you climbed the ladder onto the top bunk. Leo was pretending to fix something on the wall so he didn’t have to see your legs right in front of his face like that. Because gods, you were taller than him. Everyone was, but you being taller hurt the worst. You’d joke about it — calling him *“fun-sized,”* poking his shoulder whenever you walked past — but at night he’d lie awake thinking: *She deserves someone tall enough to reach her without climbing onto the counter like a toddler. Someone like Jason.* And tonight? Jason had smiled at you during dinner. A slow, soft smile. Leo saw your face light up. He also saw Piper elbow Jason after and whisper something, and Jason blushed. Leo wanted to yeet himself off the ship. You lay down on the top bunk, blankets rustling. Leo exhaled shakily on the bottom one. “Night, Leo,” you murmured, your voice warm, familiar, too sweet for his sanity. “Night, princesa,” he mumbled back automatically, then immediately regretted it. It just slipped out. It always slipped out. Silence stretched.

OLIVER WOOD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ ur worst rival

JASON GRACE

You were barely awake when they sent him to you. Camp Jupiter had been… a lot. New home, new rules, new reality. Roman training that hit like a brick wall. Endless drills. Standards higher than Olympus itself. And you—new, exhausted, constantly fighting sleep like it was your personal Hydra. Even the medics were confused. The augurs muttered. The centurions were torn between frustration and worry. So they called him. Jason Grace. Praetor. Legend. Golden boy of Rome. And a man of two faces. Everyone adored the flawless version—the warrior standing like a marble statue carved by the gods themselves. Strong jaw, wind-swept blond hair, storm-blue gaze. The strict, disciplined, almost untouchable Jason Grace. But you…? You cherished all of him. Especially the version nobody cared to notice. The one who wore glasses. The first time he pushed them up the bridge of his nose—shy, a little stiff, undeniably nerdy—you had to look away before your heart did something publicly embarrassing. His glasses softened him, made him look gentle and human. Not the intimidating praetor, but Jason. Quiet, thoughtful, sweetly awkward Jason. And now that Jason was knocking on the door of the infirmary room where you’d been staying, clearing his throat like you were the one in charge. “Um… hi,” he said, stepping in with that hesitant smile, like he was unsure if he was allowed to smile at all. The glasses were perched slightly crooked. Fates help you. You sat up, trying to shake the sleepiness clawing at your ribs. “Sorry— I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to skip training, I swear, I just—” “No, no,” he said quickly, palms half-raised, voice softening instantly. “You’re not in trouble.” And gods, he meant it. His tone was calm, warm, almost… tender. Like he was afraid you’d crumble if he spoke too loud. “They asked me to check on you,” he continued, pulling a chair closer but sitting on the edge of it, a little too formal. “Just to talk. See how you’re adjusting.” His knee bounced. He glanced at his notes. Adjusted his glasses. Forgot what he was about to say. Looked at you again. He was—if you allowed yourself to admit it—adorably nervous. Over you. A new, unskilled girl who couldn’t make it through a morning without nearly falling asleep on her pilum.

TODD ANDERSON

Todd Anderson had never thought you would talk to him. You were the kind of girl who turned heads without trying. Popular, magnetic, always surrounded by laughter and friends. You filled every room with brightness. He… well, he barely filled the corner of a classroom. He stammered when called on, avoided eye contact, scribbled poems in the margins of his notebooks that no one was supposed to read. So the first time you sat beside him after class, leaning in with that easy grin and asking, “You like poetry too, don’t you?” he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe. It had taken weeks — months even — for him to stop freezing every time you spoke to him. And still, sometimes, words tangled in his throat. But there was poetry between you. Real poetry. You’d trade lines, favorite stanzas, even little scraps of your own writing under the desk when teachers weren’t looking. And then there was the Society. The secret walks in the dark, the hush of the cave, the way your laughter sounded freer in the shadows. Todd wasn’t sure when sneaking out with the boys had become sneaking out with you, but here he was, following you across campus after one of Mr. Keating’s classes. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered, his voice nearly swallowed by the night. You flashed him a conspiratorial smile, tugging his sleeve. “Relax, Anderson. My roommate’s gone all week. We’ll be fine.” His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was the thrill of sneaking into the girls’ dorm or the way your fingers brushed his wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Probably both. Your room smelled faintly like flowers and ink, the desk cluttered with open books and half-written pages. You collapsed onto your bed like it was the most casual thing in the world, patting the spot beside you. “Come on. Don’t hover.” Todd hesitated only a second before sitting down, stiff-backed, like the mattress might swallow him whole. You laughed — soft, teasing — and nudged his shoulder. “You act like I’m dangerous.” “You are dangerous,” he muttered, eyes darting down to the floor. “You… you make me nervous.”

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN

You opened the door expecting the usual — your son running in first, backpack bouncing against his shoulder, Hayden lingering in the driveway with that polite, almost too-neutral smile he’d perfected over the years. But tonight was different. He was standing on your porch, hand resting lightly on your son’s shoulder, talking to him in that low, patient voice. The kind he used to use with you when the world was too loud. When your son darted inside, Hayden stayed, his fingers tapping against the doorframe like he was buying time. It had been almost five years since you split. You’d both moved into separate lives, separate homes, separate routines. But not separate worlds — because there was always your boy. The custody schedule was as strict as it was sacred: weekdays with you, weekends alternating. And though your conversations had been reduced to logistical texts and quick exchanges in driveways, you’d never truly severed the thread between you. You just… folded it away. He looked different tonight. Maybe it was the fact he wasn’t in a baseball cap or sunglasses, not trying to blend into the background. His hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, his stubble darker. He wasn’t wearing the casual “weekend dad” hoodie you’d grown used to — instead, a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked… intentional. “You free for a minute?” he asked, and it wasn’t the usual hey, just wanted to mention he forgot his lunchbox tone. You stepped aside without answering, the scent of his cologne slipping past you like it had every right to be here. He crossed the threshold like muscle memory, his eyes scanning your living room the way they always did — not nosy, just… remembering. Your son’s laughter echoed from upstairs, already in his room. Hayden shoved his hands in his pockets, but his gaze stayed on you. “I, uh… wanted to talk about something that isn’t just pick-up or drop-off.” You arched a brow. “That’s a first.” His mouth twitched into the smallest smile — the one you’d loved, the one he used when he was trying not to let you know you’d gotten to him. “I just… I don’t know, lately it’s been different. Seeing you.” It was ridiculous, how quickly your chest tightened. You were thirty-two, not twenty-two. You’d been through the fights, the break-up, the cold silences, the awkward co-parenting dinners when your son begged for “family night.” You should’ve been immune to him by now. But the way he was looking at you — like there was something in the air only he could see — made you feel twenty-two again. And maybe you’d imagined it, but his voice was softer when he said, “You look… happy. And I don’t know if I’ve told you, but you’re doing an incredible job with him. I mean it.”

LLOYD GARMADON

You had known Lloyd since the very beginning—and by “known,” you meant endured. You were Cole’s little sister, already part of the monastery chaos before Lloyd had even finished spawning into existence. You were grounded, stubborn, sarcastic, and painfully unimpressed by destiny. He was green lightning, prophecy, impatience wrapped in a teenager who thought the world owed him something. From the first shared training session, it was obvious: you were oil and fire. Not hatred. Never hatred. Just… friction. Constant, irritating, magnetic friction. Sensei Wu called it balance. Cole called it “please don’t kill each other in front of me.” The others just laughed and assigned you chores together like it was entertainment—which, honestly, it was. Sweeping floors side by side while arguing about footwork. Sparring while insulting each other’s form. Meditation sessions that dissolved into whispered commentary and poorly suppressed snorts. You grew up like that. Together. Trapped together. By sixteen, it wasn’t war anymore. It was a rhythm. You teased him because it was easy. He teased you because it was necessary. If one of you didn’t poke the other, the day felt wrong—unfinished. Today, though, you were done. Your body felt like lead, your limbs heavy and aching in that bone-deep way that only happened once a month. Being a ninja didn’t exempt you from biology, no matter how unfair that felt. You had pushed through training, grit your teeth through drills, ignored the cramps until even Sensei Wu had tilted his head and sent you off with a knowing hum. So now you were sprawled across your bed, face half-buried in a pillow, blanket kicked messily over your legs. Your room was quiet in that rare, monastery-after-training way. Until, of course, Lloyd ruined it. He leaned against your doorframe like he owned the place, arms crossed, green eyes scanning you with obvious amusement. “Wow,” he said. “You look tragic.” You didn’t even turn your head. “Leave.” “That bad, huh?” “Lloyd.” He walked in anyway, because of course he did, and plopped down on the edge of your bed without asking. You felt the mattress dip and groaned.

JASON GRACE

You were chaos in a pair of sneakers. A Greek demigod dropped onto the Argo II like a glitter bomb — sparkling, loud, unpredictable, impossible to ignore. Everyone adored you. Leo worshipped you. You were sunshine, a partner in crime, the only person who could match him joke for joke, spark for spark. Hazel loved your silly stories. Frank thought you were fun. Piper told you once that your energy “made days feel lighter.” Even Annabeth liked you — and she barely liked anyone when she was stressed. But Jason? *Jason Grace*? Oh, he was a whole different species. Tall, blond, stormy. A living Roman statue chiseled out of loyalty, discipline, and a permanent sense of responsibility. He was so serious he could make funerals look playful. Every time you made a joke, he sighed. Every time you nudged Leo and whispered something stupid, he side-eyed you like you were personally lowering the IQ of the entire ship. Every time you said an innuendo, he turned into a marble pillar—jaw clenched, posture stiff, thunder practically buzzing in his hair. *Hilarious*. You loved it. The moments when he pinched the bridge of his nose like you were physically painful to witness. And gods, you lived for making him flustered. Teasing him. Watching the iron-straight li ne of his posture tighten whenever you whispered some stupid innuendo or made a joke so chaotic even mortal pigeons stared. Jason Grace hated chaos. Which meant he hated you. Which, somehow, only made you like annoying him more. Today was no different. The Argo II had taken damage — again — so you stopped in a small Italian port town. Hazel, Frank, and Piper had gone to get groceries. Leo led the second half of the group to find supplies to fix the ship, dragging half the tools on his back. Well… You always said fate had the funniest sense of humor. Because out of everyone on the Argo II of course the universe stuck you with Jason Grace. Mr. Duty-and-Discipline. Mr. “Let’s focus, guys.” Mr. “That’s inappropriate.”

PROFESSOR SCAMANDER

The lights of New York shimmered like a constellation trapped beneath glass. Yellow carriages without horses darted along the avenues, horns echoing between the high stone buildings, and even the air seemed charged with restless curiosity. For a moment, you just stood there, your suitcase in hand, dazzled by how different it was from the quiet greyness of Hogwarts. Professor Scamander watched you with that faint, distracted smile of his. His coat was dusted with travel soot, hair a little wild from the Atlantic wind, but his eyes were full of that soft, greenish-blue excitement he only ever showed around magical creatures or students who truly understood them. It had been almost two years since he started teaching at Hogwarts. You had loved Care of Magical Creatures long before he ever walked into the paddock, but when he did, everything changed. Lessons turned into adventures. Homework became fieldwork. He never treated you like “just a pupil,” but like a young naturalist whose curiosity deserved space to bloom. Evening teas in his office had become a quiet ritual—steaming mugs, a puffskein asleep on the bookshelf, parchment maps full of sketches and runes. So when Dumbledore himself announced that Professor Scamander and you would represent Hogwarts at the International Symposium on the Preservation of Magical Fauna, it had felt like a dream. Now, a week into your stay in the MACUSA campus guest house, the thrill hadn’t faded. Every morning meant lectures on transcontinental migration of thunderbirds, every afternoon, walks through New York’s enchanted Central Park with Newt explaining traces of local creatures. He was in his element—scribbling notes in his leather journal, pockets clinking with vials and crumbs for Bowtruckles. But tonight, you were both exhausted. The symposium dinner had lasted too long; your head spun from the noise and lights. Back in the quiet dormitory suite that MACUSA provided—two adjoining rooms filled with books, feathers, and borrowed terrariums—you finally exhaled. Your boots were dusty, and your shoulders ached from carrying the equipment bag. “Tea?” Newt asked, already halfway into the little kitchenette, because of course he’d smuggled his favourite teapot from England.

TRAVIS STOLL

The second you stepped into Camp Half-Blood again, the air changed. It always did. Pine, sea salt, magic. But this time… there was something else. A spark — loud, chaotic, familiar. Travis Stoll. Your partner-in-crime. Your unofficial brother-in-Hermes. Your childhood menace soulmate. A whole year without him felt like training with no weapons, quests with no prophecy, summers with no sun. Everyone said you two were trouble when you were together — but separately? You were incomplete. The reunion dinner was loud, messy, chaotic — classic Camp Half-Blood — but while everyone was too busy greeting old friends, eating too much barbecue, and causing fireworks to misfire, you slipped away. He did, too. Of course he did. The Hermes cabin waited in that perfect twilight quiet — lit only by moonlight slipping through the windows, dust motes floating like tiny spells. A half-tidied mess of pranks and stolen items. The exact home you remembered. Then a door creaked. Footsteps. A breath. And before you even turned around— “There you are,” Travis murmured. Gods. You didn’t even have time to reply before he picked you up — full-body, arms around your waist, spinning you in a stupid half-circle like you weighed nothing. You squeaked. He laughed. Something inside you unclenched so violently it was embarrassing. “You missed me,” he declared into your neck. “You wish,” you tried — but your grin ruined the whole act. He set you down but didn’t let go. His hands stayed on your waist, warm, familiar, grounding you in that way only he could. “You grew,” he said, squinting at you. “Like two inches. Maybe three. You’re what now, a full adult? Gonna start bossing me around?” “Already do.” “True,” he admitted, ruffling your hair the way he always did, the way he knew annoyed you. “Still cute, though.” You shoved him, but only lightly. He pretended it hurt — dramatically, of course — and collapsed backward onto the bed with a groan. Then he tugged you by the wrist, pulling you right down beside him. Soft mattress. Shared warmth. Moonlight painting the two of you silver. Gods, you’d missed him. He rested his head on your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was. For years. And with the whole camp partying, singing, and shouting around the campfire, the Hermes cabin felt like a secret bubble — just you and him, curled up as if you never spent a year apart. Just moonlight. His arm around your waist. His hair brushing your cheek as he laughed softly at one of his own jokes. And that intoxicating feeling — the one you only ever got with Travis Stoll. Being home.

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ losing never felt this good

WILL SOLACE

You used to think of Will Solace as nothing more than the blond shadow that trailed after you wherever you went. He was sweet — painfully sweet — with that sunny Apollo–kid smile and a voice that cracked every third word. Two years younger than you, always carrying a medical bag twice the size of his arm, always begging to *“just practice a little bit, please? I swear it won’t hurt.”* Back then, when you were fourteen and he was barely twelve, it felt like babysitting. *Will, don’t run with scalpels.* *Will, that’s not how you wrap a bandage.* *Will, no, you cannot diagnose Annabeth with “general stress.”* But two years passed. You turned sixteen, he was turning fifteen soon… and gods, something shifted. Your friendgroup — Percy, Annabeth, Grover — always teased you about having a personal healer who followed you like a golden retriever. And maybe they weren’t wrong. Will was *everywhere*. Training field? *There*. Dining pavilion? *Also there.* On quests? Somehow convinced Chiron he *needed the experience*. And today? You lay stretched across Will Solace’s bed in the Apollo cabin, arms thrown above your head, staring up at the carved sun designs on the ceiling while Will hovered over you with a concentration so intense it almost didn’t suit him. “Hold still,” he murmured, adjusting the glowing cloth over your shoulder. His fingers brushed your skin — gentle, precise, learned. How did the kid who once tripped over his own wrists become… competent? You blinked up at him. “You’re getting good at this.” His cheeks went pink. “I have a good patient.” It felt different now, being here with him. He wasn’t the annoying kid you half-parented. He was still warm, still gentle, still Will… but taller now, calmer, more confident. His hands were steady, his voice deeper, and the way he looked at you — focused, determined — made your stomach dip in a way you didn’t expect.

PERCY JACKSON

Percy Jackson had no right — *no right at all* — to be that perfect. And gods, you hated how much you noticed it. He was annoyingly tall, annoyingly handsome, annoyingly heroic, annoyingly adored by literally *everyone* in camp. He had the whole “golden boy of Olympus” vibe without even trying. He tripped over his own sandal and people still clapped for him. Meanwhile you were… you. Normal. Overlooked. Trying to be good at *something* and Percy somehow always appeared just in time to be better. Of course you would never admit any of this out loud. (Only in your journal. Multiple pages. Some with angry doodles.) And of course the gods decided to be cruel. Because Chiron had looked at you with that wise-centaur-patient smile and said the worst sentence imaginable: *“You’ll go with Percy.”* Why? Why couldn’t the son of Poseidon go alone if he was so amazing? Why did you have to be the emotional support mortal-demigod-disaster backup? You spent the entire first day of the mission in a state of quiet, annoyed suffering. And Percy? Percy was… Percy. Carrying bags. Paying for bus tickets before you could protest. Handing you water every time he thought you looked tired. Smiling that stupid soft smile when you complained about the heat. By the time you finally reached the cheap hotel — faded wallpaper, flickering hallway light, a carpet that smelled like the 1980s — you were exhausted. All you wanted was to collapse face-first into your bed and pretend Percy Jackson did not exist. But no. No, he had to ruin that too. Because after unlocking the room, he glanced at you and said, in the softest, most sincere tone imaginable: “You okay? I know today was rough. If you want the bed next to the window, you can take it. I already put your bag there.” *He moved your bag for you.* You hated him and his kindness.

XAVIER THORPE

The studio smelled like turpentine, charcoal dust, and half-finished ideas. It was late—of course it was late, because both of you thrived at hours where the rest of Nevermore was dead silent. You and Xavier had claimed this corner of the academy as your own from the very first week. Two easels side by side, canvases leaning against cracked brick walls, sketches layered over sketches until it all blurred into one enormous, chaotic mural of the both of you. You’d always clicked. He was that brooding, annoyingly gifted boy who could turn shadows into shapes and paint emotion like it was bleeding from his veins. You were fire to his quiet smoke—bold strokes, colors so vivid they demanded attention. Opposites, but in a way that only made sense in art: your chaos and his control completing each other. It had been friendship at first. Sharing paint, teasing each other’s drafts, long nights with music humming from someone’s old speaker while you worked until your hands ached. Xavier was the only one who could sit in silence with you for hours without it feeling heavy. The only one who understood that art wasn’t a hobby—it was survival. But lately, something had shifted. It wasn’t about the way he leaned over your shoulder, his breath brushing your neck as he pointed out a detail in your sketch. It wasn’t even about the way your knees kept bumping beneath the shared worktable, neither of you pulling away anymore. It was in the pauses—how you caught him watching you mix colors, how his sketches of faceless figures suddenly had your profile hidden in the lines. How laughter lingered too long. That night, it was quieter than usual. He was working on some moody piece—charcoal smudges staining his fingers—while you battled with your own unfinished canvas. The room was soft with lamplight, warm shadows dancing over peeling plaster.

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i need your help

JASON GRACE

Everything about the whole situation was weird as Hades. One day camp was normal, and the next — three strangers literally spawned out of nowhere: Jason, Leo, and Piper. No memories, no explanations, just pure confusion and the entire camp staring at them like they’d fallen straight out of the sky (which, to be fair, wasn’t impossible). Jason Grace, the tall, blond, built-like-a-statue Roman mystery boy, looked especially lost. Quiet. Stoic. A little stiff. And totally out of place among the chaotic Greek demigods. But he wasn’t ready for you. You, the walking explosion of sunshine from Apollo cabin — all dancing, teasing, laughing, and existing in your own little world. You were vibrant. Loud. Alive. Everything he wasn’t. And gods, the way he reacted to you? Every time you cracked a joke, he flushed. Every time you danced at the nightly camp party, he swallowed hard and pretended not to stare. Every time you even walked near him, he went stiff like some soldier being inspected by his superior officer. Every time you twerked ironically during late-night shenanigans with Leo? Jason looked like a Victorian boy seeing an exposed ankle. He was, essentially, a flustered puppy trapped in the body of a six-foot-something built blond king. And you loved teasing him for it. Tonight was no different. Capture the Flag had just ended — bruises, glitter, mud, laughter, healing magic, and someone probably set half the woods on fire (again). After every battle came a celebration, and the Apollo cabin had turned the big clearing into a party with glowing lanterns, loud music, and dancing demigods everywhere. Your kind of night. You jumped onto a log by the fire, hair glowing in the warm light, moving your hips to the beat because why wouldn’t you? You were born to be a spotlight. Leo was howling with laughter, encouraging you. Will Solace whistled. Some Hermes kids cheered. And Jason? Oh gods. Jason stood on the opposite side of the fire, holding a cup of blue soda like it was a holy relic keeping him alive. Shoulders tense. Cheeks bright pink. Eyes absolutely glued to you… until you caught him staring. *That was so weird.* Then he straightened immediately like a soldier being inspected. “Enjoying the party, Grace?” you asked, voice dripping with sunshine and mischief. He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s… loud.”

JEREMIAH FISHER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the blanket

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ inteligent souls

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always together

BANGCHAN

The tour in America had been everything your band dreamed of. Bright lights, screaming crowds, interviews, afterparties — all the glitter of K-pop life magnified across an ocean. And even though you were still young compared to most idols, your band had skyrocketed. The novelty of a mixed group, the energy you carried on stage, it all put you on the top charts before you’d even realized how fast it was happening. That also meant you crossed paths with Stray Kids constantly. They weren’t just colleagues anymore — they were your older brothers, your mentors, your drinking-buddies-for-some, and in your case… your weakness. Because there was Bangchan. He’d been there since the beginning, a steady presence who always checked on you, reminded you to drink water, to rest your voice, to eat before rehearsals. He was that kind of leader who worried about everyone, but with you, it was different. Softer. He’d call you princess sometimes, half-joking, half-serious, and the other members teased you endlessly about it. And somewhere between fifteen and eighteen, your crush on him stopped being just some silly teenage dream. It turned into something sharper, harder to ignore — especially now that you were technically old enough for it to matter. But Bangchan was still Bangchan. Older, responsible, untouchable. Except tonight. You were at an event in LA, some industry dinner with music executives and stylists and way too many flashbulbs. Hours of smiling, nodding, posing, pretending your legs weren’t about to give out. By the time it ended, you thought you’d collapse. You’d been restless all day, unable to sit still, shifting in your seat, tugging at your sleeves, fidgeting with anything you could get your hands on. The kind of restless that wasn’t just nerves. Your body was betraying you in ways you couldn’t admit, not even to yourself. And of course, he noticed. Bangchan always noticed. Now, back at the hotel, the others were scattering — some heading out to late-night food runs, some already passed out in their rooms. You lingered in the lobby, pressing the cool edge of your phone against your cheek, hoping the heat under your skin would calm down. “Hey.” His voice came low, warm, familiar. You turned, and there he was. Dressed down now, hoodie and sweats instead of stage clothes, hair a little messy. He studied you the way he always did, eyes sharp but kind, like he could read you better than you read yourself. “You’ve been… fidgety today,” he said gently. “Everything alright?” Your throat tightened. Because of course he’d bring it up. He couldn’t just let it slide. He’d seen you twisting in your seat during the speeches, bouncing your knee under the table, tugging at your rings. And now here he was, asking with that careful tone like he actually wanted to take the weight off your shoulders.

JASON GRACE

The Argo II always felt like a living thing—creaking wood, the hum of celestial bronze machinery, Leo’s inventions sizzling somewhere deep in her ribs. You’d grown used to the rhythm of it, the constant motion, the closeness of seven demigods who had become something like a family. You were Greek. One of Percy’s oldest camp friends, one of Annabeth’s trusted fighters. You belonged to the prophecy, to the war, to the endless battles that left you older than your years. But even after everything—Tartarus, giants, gods—the strangest plot twist of your life was still this: stepping onto the deck one morning, groggy and bruised, and meeting them. Frank. Hazel. Jason. Leo. Four Romans who upended your world. From the beginning you’d been helplessly, embarrassingly soft for Leo Valdez. He was the spark in the darkness, the joke when things got bleak, the warmth that cracked your chest open. He was chaos and comfort all in one compact, brilliant, grease-stained package. Whenever the group split up, you chose his team. Whenever something funny happened, he looked at you first. Whenever things were tense, he was the one who made you laugh. You never hid the way your eyes followed him, even if it was stupid and teenage and entirely doomed. But Jason Grace saw everything. Too much, maybe. From the moment you’d stepped onto the Argo II, Jason had watched you with that steady, piercing Roman blue stare. Serious. Controlled. Always standing two steps away, like getting too close might crack him. He noticed how your smile widened whenever Leo entered a room. He noticed how you ran to Leo after missions, checking him for burns or new bruises. He noticed how, at night, you’d sit beside Leo in the engine room while he worked. And it ate him alive. Because Jason—tall, flawless, built like a marble statue that decided to walk off its pedestal and lead armies—Jason Grace was painfully, hopelessly in love with you. He tried so hard to hide it. Romans didn’t pine. They didn’t yearn. But he did. He hated how small Leo was compared to him. He hated how Leo’s jokes made you giggle, when his own attempts at humor came out stiff and strange. He hated how Leo fit into your space so easily while Jason felt like a storm tearing your whole world apart. So Jason tried. Gods, he tried. He tried to joke. He tried to flirt. He tried leaning against walls the way Leo did—except he nearly knocked down a lamp once. He tried teasing you the way Leo did—except it sounded like a military order. But he kept trying, because it mattered. You mattered. And today—finally—he’d gotten you alone. Most of the others were off training or showering after a rough morning on deck. You were sprawled on the large couch in the Argo II’s main living area, legs curled up, hair still messy from battle, a half-eaten granola bar in hand. A peaceful moment. Jason sat beside you. A little too close. A little too stiff.

KAI SMITH

You arrived at the monastery the same way Lloyd did. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Like the universe had shrugged and said sure, why not. You were even younger than him back then — small, curious, stubborn in a quiet way. Sensei Wu took you in without question, and just like that, the monastery became your home. The four ninja raised you alongside Lloyd, and over the years, they each took on a role in your life without ever naming it. Wu was your teacher — patient, mysterious, always watching more than he spoke. Jay was your laughing partner, the one who could pull a smile out of you even on the worst days. Zane was comfort — calm hands, gentle words, quiet understanding. Cole was reliable, grounding, always ready to help without making a fuss. Lloyd was your brother in everything but blood. And Kai? Kai was hot. Not just his powers — him. Loud, confident, everywhere at once. He filled rooms without trying. As a kid, you’d followed him around shamelessly, heart racing whenever he paid attention to you. You’d blushed when he praised your training, smiled too hard at his jokes, and absolutely melted when he ruffled your hair like you were something precious. Now? Now you were a teenager, which meant you denied all of that even to yourself. You told yourself you were over it. That it had been childish. That Kai was just… Kai. One of your family. Nothing more. Totally normal. Except he still joked with you like it was his favorite hobby. Still teased you, still lingered near you, still managed to make your brain short-circuit with a single grin. And the worst part? He did it without even trying. That evening, the monastery was quiet. Training had been brutal — hours of drills, sparring, control exercises that left your muscles screaming. You’d collapsed onto the couch in the living room, legs tucked up, arms loosely crossed over your stomach. The lights were dim, the windows open just enough to let the cool air in. You stared at the ceiling, exhausted in that deep, bone-heavy way that came after pushing yourself too hard. Footsteps echoed behind you. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. “Wow,” Kai said, voice warm and amused. “You actually stopped moving. I thought that was illegal for you.” You groaned. “Don’t start.” He chuckled and dropped down onto the couch beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him — like standing near a fire you pretended didn’t affect you. “Rough training?” he asked, softer now.

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pranks rivalry

PROFESSOR R LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft

TRAVIS STOLL

The forest behind the camp had that warm, humming glow it always carried during summer weeks—fireflies drifting like tiny floating lanterns, the campfire chorus echoing faintly from far behind you, laughter rippling through the warm night air. Capture the Flag had been chaotic (like always), the research task earlier had been messy (also like always), and dinner had been loud, ridiculous, and perfect. It was that kind of week—full of energy, competition, flirting, sprinting from monsters, sprinting from chores, sprinting from angry Ares kids you may or may not have pranked. A typical Stoll-adjacent week. And you were, in fact, Stoll-adjacent. Practically an honorary Hermes kid since forever—long before you found out you carried Apollo’s blood. You’d grown up running with Stoll brothers, stealing snacks from the kitchens, breaking into the Big House for no reason, and turning half the cabins into circus acts. No wonder you and Travis stayed close even after you moved to Apollo cabin. Being good was simply not in your nature. Tonight proved it. After dinner and the campfire—where you’d been singing terribly and dancing even worse—Travis tugged you by your wrist and whispered, “Forest. Cards. Let’s ditch these losers.” Classic. You followed him between the trees, dropping onto the soft moss. Playing cards, teasing, making each other laugh so hard your stomach hurt—this was your thing. Your tradition. But as the campfire kept going and no one came looking for you, the world grew quieter. Darker. More private. A warm kind of private. Travis lay back on his elbows, glancing over at you with that familiar spark in his eyes—the one that always meant trouble. “Wanna play something new?” he asked. You raised a brow. “If it’s strip poker again, I swear—” He laughed. “No, no. Something easier.” He leaned closer, voice dropping mischievously. “A challenge.” Of. Course. His stupid competitive streak always kicked in around you. “Who can make the other blush faster.” he grinned. You stared at him. He stared back, wiggling his eyebrows like an idiot. “Seriously?” “Dead serious. Deadly serious. Absolutely life-or-death serious.” You snorted. “Fine. But you go first.” “Oh,” he said, leaning in with a lazy grin that was… annoyingly charming. “I planned to.” You expected something stupid. A joke, a bad pick-up line, some embarrassing story. But instead Travis shifted closer. Way closer. So close the warmth of him touched your skin long before he did. His voice dropped—soft, low, nothing like the goofy idiot you usually saw. “You know…” he murmured, brushing a fallen leaf from your shoulder slowly—too slowly to be innocent—“I don’t think you realize how fun you are.” And he was just getting started.

EDMUND PEVENSIE

Summers in the countryside were supposed to be idyllic — quiet mornings, long afternoons, and evenings filled with the hum of crickets and the smell of fresh bread cooling on windowsills. For you, they often were, at least when the house was full of Pevensies. Susan was like the sister you always wanted — gentle, thoughtful, someone you could pour your heart out to, who would always know what to say. Peter had been your makeshift older brother for years, teaching you games, offering advice, and shielding you from the worst of Edmund’s temper. Even Lucy was a confidante, your little partner in crime, the person you whispered secrets to beneath the covers at night. But this summer was different. Susan was away. Peter too. And Lucy had gone out with Eustace and some of the neighbors to help with errands. Which left you here, in the creaky old country house, with the one Pevensie you could least tolerate. Edmund. You’d sworn the boy had made it his life’s mission to irritate you since childhood. He had an uncanny ability to zero in on your patience and poke holes in it until it was leaking everywhere. He teased you relentlessly, pulled at your hair, and tossed snide remarks that somehow always crawled under your skin. And now — insult to injury — the two of you had been tasked with cleaning the house. Except Edmund, naturally, had no intention of lifting a finger. He lounged in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk as you swept the wooden floorboards. The dust danced in the sunlight, swirling around you like a mocking halo. “Very regal,” he drawled. “You should try curtsying while you’re at it. Maybe hum a little tune. It suits you.” You shot him a look that could have burned the wallpaper clean off. “You could help, you know. Unless standing there pretending you’re king of the world is exhausting work.” He grinned wider, clearly delighted at your irritation. “Oh, I’m helping. Supervising is very important, you know. Someone has to make sure you don’t miss a spot.” You gripped the broom tighter, imagining — for just a second — swinging it at his smug face. “If you don’t start helping, I’ll miss a spot right over your head.” Edmund stepped into the room then, slow and theatrical, like he was entering a stage play meant for his amusement. He plucked the broom straight out of your hands and leaned it against the wall. His eyes, sharper and darker than you liked to admit, locked on yours. “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “you’re much prettier when you’re angry.” Your jaw dropped. That was new. Teasing, yes. Annoying, always. But that? That was dangerous territory.

CEDRIC AMOS DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

JASON GRACE

You and Jason Grace had been tied together long before any prophecy decided the fate of the world. You’d known Jason Grace since you were practically toddlers in New Rome. You arrived at Camp Jupiter the same week — two kids with too-small backpacks, both unsure, both scared, both shoved into the Legion like lambs into a military academy. And from that first day, you’d stuck together. Childhood friends, sparring partners, teammates, partners-in-crime. Same cohort. Same schedule. Same bruises from the same drills. You’d been each other’s firsts long before you even understood what that meant. First kiss behind the stables at twelve. First time at fifteen in the barracks when the camp slept and the two of you thought you were invincible. Eventually both of you ended up in new relationships — you with Leo, Jason with Piper — and the world pretended this was normal. Except nothing about it was normal. Because you and Jason never stopped gravitating to each other like twin magnets that simply refused to weaken with time. Even Piper noticed. Even Leo noticed. Hell, all of them noticed. Because you and Jason… didn’t know how to stop being you and Jason. You still talked for hours. Too close, too soft, too familiar for new relationships. You still brushed each other’s shoulders when passing by, still hugged without thinking, still sat next to each other at meals like magnets snapping into place. Tonight was one of those nights that made everything even more complicated. You’d just fought through a pack of monsters — winged demons that clung to the masts, shredded sails, and tore through half the deck before you finally stabilized the ship. Hours of fighting. Hours of Jason shouting orders with that steady Praetor voice, while you moved at his side without ever needing an explanation. By the time everything calmed, the group was exhausted and snappy — Leo arguing with Hazel, Piper sulking in the corner, Annabeth and Percy tending to wounds, Frank trying to mediate. You and Jason were laughing softly at each other’s blood-smeared faces, leaning your foreheads together in relief. Bad move. Very bad move. Piper saw. Leo too. After the battle, after the travel, after the shouting and healing and patching up bruises, you and Jason announced — casually — that you wanted to have a s “Seriously?” Leo snapped, throwing a wrench onto the table. “Another sleepover?” But fights on the Argo II were like storms: loud, sudden, and pointless. Twenty minutes later Leo stormed off with Frank and Percy, Piper slammed the door of the Athena cabin, and Hazel just sighed something like they’ll tire themselves out eventually. That left you and Jason in the hallway. Same people. Same problem. Same pull. “So,” Jason said, rubbing his bruised knuckles, “sleepover?” “Obviously,” you breathed, because this was the only place you ever felt like you could actually breathe. Leo and Jason’s room was tiny — two bunks shoved together, notes and tools and clothing everywhere. But it felt more like home than any other place on the ship. Leo was gone. Jason locked the door. As soon as you sat on his bed, the atmosphere shifted into that old, familiar warmth — the one that ran deeper than romance, deeper than lust, deeper than any title like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” Jason sat next to you, thigh brushing yours. Nothing intentional… and yet everything was intentionally close. “Gods, today was insane,” he said, kicking off his shoes and dropping onto lower bed on the bunk.

WILL SOLACE

The sunset hit Camp the way it always did — like it was trying to paint everything gold. Cabins glowed, the lake shimmered, and the faint sound of campers warming up guitars for the campfire floated through the air. The sunset hit Camp the way it always did — like it was trying to paint everything gold. Cabins glowed, the lake shimmered, and the faint sound of campers warming up guitars for the campfire floated through the air. You walked beside Will Solace, your shoulder bumping his every few steps because that was just… how it had always been. You two existed like gravity. Since the very first day you’d set foot in camp. You’d been through everything together. War. Healing sessions. Mandatory archery practice you both hated. Lazy days drawing in the strawberry fields. Puberty that neither of you had the energy to overthink. Faith had wanted you to try with girls and him to try with boys and you both just… did. You and Rachel Dare behind the amphitheater, her lip gloss still sticky on your mouth. Will and Nico di Angelo somewhere in the forest, coming back with flushed cheeks and uneven breath. You never labeled anything. Never felt the need. Life was too chaotic. Too vibrant. Too full of monsters and music and art to sit down and pick a box. But you talked. About everything. As if your lives weren’t just parallel — but intertwined. But tonight… tonight felt different. The sun dipped behind the hill. A campfire crackled somewhere behind you. The breeze was warm and soft, carrying the smell of strawberries and cedar. Will walked beside you, humming some half-finished melody he’d been working on earlier. His fingers brushed yours once. Then again. Just small touches. Friendly. Familiar. Nothing more… right? Except your chest tightened each time, like a guitar string pulled a little too taut. Little sparks that shouldn’t have been there. Or maybe you’d never noticed them before. Will sighed, long and airy, and you looked up — catching him in that exact moment he was studying you. Really studying you. His blue eyes soft, warm, a little confused, like he was trying to read constellations written into your skin. He smiled — small, crooked, painfully gentle. “Y’know… it’s weird,” he murmured. “We’ve done almost everything together.”

XAVIER THORPE

The world of Nevermore had its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules. The whispers of gargoyles perched on gothic arches, the secrets traded between stained-glass shadows, the way rumors could slither faster than the Nightshades themselves. But in all that chaos, you and Xavier had carved something softer. It hadn’t always been that way. At first, you were just another name in his friend group — someone who laughed when Ajax did something dumb, someone who rolled your eyes when Enid dragged everyone into the latest dorm drama, someone who sparred evenly with Wednesday’s dry wit. But then life started to pile things on. Bad days. Worse nights. A grade you’d rather burn than see. Words from a teacher that cut too deep. His father’s shadow pressing on him until you thought he might break. And somehow, each time, it ended the same. In the quiet corners of Nevermore, the two of you had found your answer in comfort. A hand in your hair. His hoodie around your shoulders. His arms wrapped around you like they’d been designed to fit there. It was never supposed to mean anything. But god, it did. Outreach Day in Jericho was a nightmare dressed up as charity. By the time you’d finished, you were practically sleepwalking, your limbs heavy, your voice nearly gone. Xavier caught your hand before you even asked, tugging you past the chaos, past the clamor of returning students, through the silent halls of Ophelia dorm. Rowan wasn’t there anymore — everyone knew why — and that left Xavier’s room feeling oddly, perfectly yours tonight. The door shut with a soft click, and before you could even process it, he was pulling you toward his bed. No words, no explanations. Just the kind of exhaustion that went straight to your bones. You kicked off your shoes, barely managed to tug at your uniform sweater before collapsing beside him. And as always, Xavier made it easy. His arm was already around your waist, his chin nudging the crown of your head. He smelled faintly of turpentine and soap, his shirt worn soft with paint smudges. “You’re dead weight,” he murmured, voice muffled, but he didn’t sound like he minded. “Shut up,” you mumbled into his chest, already sinking deeper into the warmth. Silence. The good kind. The kind that only ever existed when it was the two of you. His thumb traced slow circles over your hip, steady and grounding. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, feel the way it picked up just slightly when you curled closer. The thing about cuddling with Xavier was that it had stopped being about comfort a long time ago. It wasn’t just about bad days or needing someone to keep you from drowning. It was about the way his hand lingered a second too long. The way his gaze softened whenever you caught it. The way the entire school could collapse in on itself, and it wouldn’t matter, not when you were here. And tonight, you realized something as you drifted off: if this was supposed to be temporary, if it was supposed to mean nothing, then why did it feel more real than anything else in your life?

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ demonic school

JASON GRACE

The Argo II had survived monsters, storm spirits, mechanical malfunctions, and multiple near-death explosions — courtesy of Leo Valdez, genius, son of Hephaestus, and the biggest menace the Seven had ever adopted. But now they had another problem. *You.* Leo’s little sister. You’d joined the quest because of a prophecy — one that mentioned you specifically, one that could save or destroy the world depending on how the Fates felt that week. Chiron hadn’t wanted to send you. Leo had tried to lock you in a supply closet to stop you. And Percy and Annabeth? They’d given up the moment you and Leo started bickering on deck. They were convinced the Argo II would either explode or sink by the end of the month. But even chaos had its balance. And your balance came in the form of one man. *Jason Grace.* Tall, broad-shouldered, carved-from-marble Jason Grace. Roman. Controlled. Responsible. A son of Jupiter with the tragic flaw of thinking everything was his problem. He was the opposite of Leo in every way. Where Leo was fire, Jason was sky — steady, cold, impossibly high above everything else. And gods, he intimidated you. Not because he was scary — but because every time he spoke, your stomach flipped like an untrained pegasus and your heartbeat did that embarrassing little skip. His voice did something to you. Low. Calm. Warm in a way he didn’t intend to be. A voice that could anchor you from a panic spiral or send you into one. Leo hated that. He complained nonstop about the way you melted whenever Jason came near. *“Bro, you’re embarrassing me,”* Leo would groan. *“You’re drooling. Over Jason. Of all people. The dude’s basically a flying refrigerator.”* Whenever your nerves spiked — and they often did — you never went to your brother. You never went to Percy or Hazel or Piper. You went to Jason. And Jason, for reasons no one could explain, always went to you. He shouldn’t have. He was the Roman praetor. Commanding, authoritative, untouchable. But around you? He softened. Too much. You were opposites, but you fit. Which explained why tonight, while everyone else had gone to sleep, Jason sat against the wall next to your bed, one hand brushing slow, absent circles on your arm as he coaxed your heartbeat down to something steady. The room glowed with faint lantern light. The Argo II hummed gently beneath you. Your eyelids fluttered. And Jason leaned closer, lowering his voice to that soft, honeyed tone you were embarrassingly obsessed with. “There you go,” he murmured. “Easy, sweetheart.” You felt warmth spread through your chest, molten and helpless. “Your breathing’s slowing,” he said lightly, thumb stroking your wrist. “Good girl. I knew you could do it.” Leo would combust if he ever heard this. Like genuinely explode, as children of Hephaestus do. But right now it was just you and Jason.

WILLY WONKA

It started the day your first chocolate bar outsold his in three major London sweetshops. Wonka didn’t say anything directly, of course. Not at first. But the very next week, he dropped a limited edition “Whipple-Scrumptious Sour Sea Salt Caramel” bar that tasted suspiciously like your signature flavor—and had packaging that glinted in the sun like it was laughing at you. You’d been in the industry less than a year. He’d been in it forever. But when your name started showing up in articles next to his—when the phrase “the next Wonka” got tossed around—you knew what this was. War. And he made it personal. Every interview, every public tasting, every Chocolate Makers’ Gala he decided to attend (even though he hated galas), there was something. A smirk when the judges bit into your truffles. A sarcastic little bow whenever you walked past. Once, at a press conference, he introduced himself as “Willy Wonka, chocolate artisan, inventor, and humble victim of flavor theft.” The crowd laughed. You did not. You weren’t just some eccentric upstart with pretty packaging and a Pinterest-worthy storefront. You were brilliant. Your candies melted perfectly at 37.5°C. Your sugar sculptures didn’t collapse after 48 hours. Your raspberry-marshmallow whip had layers. But Willy? Willy wouldn’t stop. He sent Oompa Loompas to your factory once. Claimed it was a “friendly inspection.” They rearranged your office furniture into a smiley face and left your blueprints dusted with glitter. You retaliated by anonymously sending him a basket of self-melting bonbons at the International Sweet Show in Paris. His hands were sticky the entire event. He knew it was you. Obviously. You knew he knew. Obviously. And somewhere along the line, between the sabotage and the sarcastic smiles, it all shifted. He stopped calling you “that candy girl.” Started calling you “darling.” He stopped mocking your ideas. Started asking about them. He started showing up uninvited. Just like now. You’re in your factory’s private test kitchen. Midnight. No press. No cameras. Just the whir of machines and the scent of dark chocolate and citrus. And then… him. Willy Wonka. Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place. (He doesn’t. He just acts like he does. Infuriatingly well.) He’s in one of his velvet coats—maroon tonight. Eyes gleaming like cinnamon and secrets. Gloves off. Hands in his pockets. Smile curling like caramel left too long on heat. “Well, well,” he says, stepping inside. “Working late? Or are you just avoiding me?”

FRED G WEASLEY

It was your third night at the Burrow, and you were starting to think you might not survive another one. At first, it had seemed like a dream — being invited by Percy to stay for the summer, to see where he’d grown up, to meet his family. You’d imagined quiet afternoons spent reading in the garden, helping Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, maybe even late-night talks with Percy about books and charms and all those safe, comfortable things you both loved. But you hadn’t accounted for Fred Weasley. From the very first evening, he’d made it his personal mission to make your life impossible. Every time you opened your mouth, he had a comment. Every time you walked into a room, he had that smirk — the kind of smirk that said he already had something awful planned. “So this is the girl who managed to get Percy to smile?” he’d said when you first met, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Merlin’s beard, we were starting to think he’d been cursed into permanent grumpiness.” You’d smiled politely then. That was your first mistake. By the third night, your patience was wearing thin. Dinner had been a disaster — he’d charmed your spoon to dance every time you reached for it, and when you glared at him across the table, he only raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, come on, love. You’re dating Percy — you should be used to boring cutlery by now.” And the worst part? No one else noticed. Mr. Weasley was lost in conversation about Muggle plugs. Mrs. Weasley was too busy scolding George for spilling pumpkin juice. Percy, bless his heart, was explaining something about Ministry internship paperwork — entirely oblivious. Later that evening, you tried to escape to the sitting room. You sat down with a book, hoping for a moment of peace. The twins were supposed to be upstairs, and Percy was helping his father in the shed. For once, the house was quiet. Until it wasn’t. “Merlin, you really are brave,” a voice drawled from behind you. You turned to see Fred leaning against the doorframe, his hair messy, his sleeves rolled up, that same teasing grin on his lips. You frowned, clutching your book tighter. “And why’s that?” He shrugged, stepping closer. “Because you’re here. With us. With Percy. That’s practically a triple threat.” “I happen to like Percy,” you said, trying to sound firm, but it came out more defensive than you’d intended. Fred smirked. “Oh, I’m sure you do. All those bedtime stories about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement must be very romantic.” You glared. “You’re insufferable.” “Thank you,” he said easily, sitting down on the armrest of the sofa, too close for comfort. “I’ve been told that before. Usually by girls who try not to like me.” Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re delusional.” “Maybe.” His voice softened a fraction, just enough to make your heartbeat quicken. “But you’ve been blushing since I came in, so maybe not.” You opened your mouth, ready to fire back something sharp, but no words came. And Fred — smug, reckless, infuriating Fred — grinned wider. “Don’t worry,” he said, standing up again. “You’re prettier when you’re mad.” You told yourself you hated him. You told yourself that Percy was the one you wanted — steady, serious Percy who never made your heart race or your pulse skip. But the night before, when you couldn’t sleep, you caught yourself thinking about Fred’s smirk, the way his voice dipped when he teased you, the way he seemed to see you in a way Percy never did.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ not-so-innocent game

JASON GRACE

The Argo II felt different that day. Not louder or busier — gods, that ship was always chaos — but charged, like the air itself remembered the two of you before your minds even caught up. Like bronze and storm and prophecy had been waiting for this moment as desperately as you had. Jason stepped onto the deck first, that unmistakable Roman posture, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes scanning for danger the same way he always did when he was nervous. And you were already there. Waiting. The moment your eyes met, it hit you both at the same time. A month. A month of radio silence, quests, separate battles, sleepless nights, longing so sharp it felt like a wound. His breath left him in a soft exhale — pure relief. “Hey,” you whispered. He didn’t answer. He just walked toward you, hands shaking a little, and pulled you right into him. That first hug after weeks apart wasn’t soft. It was everything you both had been holding back. His arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear again. Your fingers curled into the back of his t-shirt, your face buried in his chest, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart. Safe. Finally. When he pulled back, he scanned your face like cataloguing what changed since he last saw you — your hair slightly different, a faint bruise on your cheek, the tiredness under your eyes. “You okay?” he asked softly. You nodded. “Yeah. You?” “Better now.” It was barely a kiss — just the softest brush of his lips against yours — but the meaning behind it nearly melted you. It was the same tenderness as always, but deeper now, heavier with everything unspoken. By evening, everyone had drifted into their own corners of the ship. Meetings done. Plans made. Leo disappeared to tinker with the engine, Piper went to stargaze, Hazel and Frank took a walk on deck. And Jason led you to his room quietly, hand warm against yours. Once the door shut, the world felt… small. Gentle. Safe. His bed wasn’t big — not for a Roman brick wall like Jason Grace — but he sat on it and opened his arms to you with that shy half-smile that never matched his powerful presence. You crawled onto his lap, curling into him instantly, head pressed to his collarbone. “You have no idea how much I missed this,” he murmured into your hair, fingers tracing slow circles on your back.

EDMUND PEVENSIE

The village summer had been going so well. The long mornings with Lucy, the lazy afternoons reading by the window, even Eustace’s complaints — all of it was manageable. Except Edmund. He had always been your undoing. Ever since you were children, he seemed to find joy in tormenting you — yanking your hair, teasing your voice, finding your every weak spot and pressing on it until you snapped. This holiday was no different. With Susan and Peter gone, there was no older sibling to intervene, no referee to call him out. Which meant Edmund had free reign. And today, he went too far. A joke too sharp, words too cruel. You’d gone stiff, muttered nothing, and ignored him for the rest of the day. He noticed — of course he noticed. Your silence was louder than any argument. By evening, you’d retreated to your room. The air outside was warm and sweet with summer, but you curled into bed, back to the door, trying to sleep off the sting in your chest. The door creaked. You froze. You didn’t move. You didn’t even look at him. You didn’t move, though you knew instantly who it was. Only Edmund had the audacity to enter without knocking. A shuffle of footsteps, the creak of the floorboard you always avoided, and then — the unmistakable dip of the mattress as someone lay down behind you. “Move over,” Edmund muttered, as if barging into your room uninvited was the most natural thing in the world. He flopped onto his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he owned the place. “Still sulking?” His voice carried that familiar lilt of mockery. “I didn’t think you’d last the whole day.” You kept your gaze fixed stubbornly on the wall. “Go away.” Instead, he stretched out more, his shoulder brushing yours. “Oh, come on. You know I didn’t mean it.” You scoffed. “You never mean it, yet you always say it.” “Exactly.” He smirked, though you couldn’t see it. “It’s practically a compliment. Means you’re the only one interesting enough to tease.”

LEE FELIX

You’d never really imagined that your life would be like this — half-European step sister of Seungmin, which already felt surreal, and now basically living in the orbit of Stray Kids. Concerts, late-night practices, cramped vans, chaotic afterparties that weren’t really “parties” but more like everyone laughing at dumb jokes while eating fried chicken. You weren’t technically part of the band, but at this point? You were stitched into the group dynamic so tightly it felt strange to imagine not being there. And then there was Felix. The funny thing was that your connection with him had happened so naturally, like breathing. From the very first day Seungmin dragged you into a practice room and you accidentally snorted at one of Felix’s jokes, he’d looked at you like oh, this one gets it. Same sense of humor, same weird bursts of energy when everyone else was too tired, same ability to take life too seriously one second and not seriously at all the next. Of course, there was the age gap. Everyone knew it. You weren’t a child anymore, though—you were on that edge, young but not little, and it made every interaction with Felix feel like balancing on a thin string pulled tight between friendship and something far more electric. When no one was looking, the air shifted. More teasing, more lingering touches. His hand brushing yours when he passed you a controller, his gaze holding yours just a little too long across a crowded green room. He tensed visibly every time someone joked about your age, jaw tightening like he hated the reminder, like he wanted to shove it all away and just let you be you. And tonight, in a quiet hotel in Europe—one night before their big concert—things felt even more charged. The hotel room was nothing fancy, just beige walls and the faint hum of the city outside, but somehow it felt like its own little world. You and Felix were sprawled on the floor in front of the TV, controllers in hand, legs stretched out lazily as the two of you trashed each other in some racing game. “Yah, you’re cheating!” you accused, half laughing, as he sped past you at the last second. “I’m just better,” Felix smirked, his deep voice dripping with faux arrogance, but the way he leaned into your shoulder made it impossible not to grin. Hours slipped by in bursts of laughter, fake arguments, little moments where your hand brushed against his knee or his laugh was too close to your ear. The rest of the group had either crashed already or were in their own rooms—no one was paying attention. Just the two of you, in your bubble.

JOEY LYNCH

Shannon had been your best friend for so long it felt like the two of you were stitched together from the same childhood scars. You were so different — her small and fragile, you tall and curvy with that fiery hair that refused to blend in — but you understood each other like mirrors tilted at the same angle. Two bullied girls in a tiny Irish town, a Slavic accent on your tongue and bruises hidden under her sleeves. Her house used to be a battlefield. You only ever slept over when her father was gone for good stretches of time. You remembered the quiet relief in Shannon’s mother’s eyes when she said “Yes, you can stay.” This time was no different — her father on some “man trip,” the house breathing easier for once. But there was… one problem. Shannon had siblings. A lot. The two little boys — chaos incarnate. And the oldest: Joey Lynch. Joey. Blond. Tall. Athletic. Handsome in that stupid, unfair, painfully distracting way. And then there was the other thing. The thing you pretended never happened. The thing he also pretended never happened. How every one of those rare sleepovers ended with him accidentally walking in on you in the bathroom — always at the worst possible moment, always with mortifying timing as you took care of yourself, always leaving you wanting to bury yourself six feet under. You both never meant for it to happen. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But somehow the universe hated you, and Joey Lynch had the worst luck with locked doors. This time was no different. You’d been showering, trying to wash off the stress of school, thinking it would be a quick moment alone. Except the door handle clicked. Except Joey stepped in, eyes going wide, immediately whipping around with a strangled apology. Except you both acted like nothing happened when you joined Shannon again, your face still burning. Classic. You’d hoped — prayed — that maybe tonight, he’d forget. That you both would. But then Shannon’s mom called down the hall, cheerful for the first time in forever: “Would one of you help me make a little dinner?” It was a celebration in disguise. Of peace. Of quiet. Of the house not bracing for footsteps. Shannon ran upstairs to get something. Which left you and Joey alone in the kitchen. He stood by the counter, drying his hands with a dish towel, pretending to be absorbed in something extremely important — like the pattern on the tile. You could feel the awkwardness vibrating between you like electricity. “Hey,” he finally said, voice low, almost sheepish. “Sorry. About earlier. Again.” You blinked. He remembered. Of course he remembered. You tried to answer, but your throat tightened with all the embarrassment of every single time he’d walked in on you across your entire childhood. He glanced at you then — really glanced. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just… warm. Kind. A little flustered himself. “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose,” he added with a nervous laugh, trying to relieve the tension. “Timing’s just— insane.”

PAUL WESLEY

You’d known Paul forever. Not in a way that made it easy — if anything, it was the exact opposite. Your parents had been friends for years, both Polish, both stubborn as hell, and naturally that meant you and Paul had grown up bumping into each other at family dinners, name days, christenings — all the kinds of events that smelled of pierogi and vodka and old aunts pinching cheeks too hard. And for whatever reason, you and Paul never got along. No one could quite remember why. Maybe it was the fact that when you were ten he shoved you into the lake “as a joke” or maybe it was the way you called him a wannabe American heartthrob when you were fifteen. The two of you never admitted it out loud, but there had always been a sharp edge to your banter, something competitive, almost like you were both constantly daring the other to slip first. So when the casting for The Vampire Diaries came through — you as Elena Gilbert, him as Stefan Salvatore — you nearly lost your mind. Playing love interests with Paul Weasley? The boy who once told you he hoped you’d trip on stage during a recital? The boy who could make your blood boil just by breathing too close? It felt like the universe was pulling some cruel prank. You’d been furious, stomping around your apartment, ranting to anyone who’d listen. But the thing about actors — the thing about you and Paul — is that the second the cameras rolled, something shifted. And not just because it was your job. It was as if all that history, all those sharp words and years of not getting along, melted into something else entirely when you looked into his eyes on set. Suddenly, the tension wasn’t just irritation anymore. It was… chemistry. Dangerous chemistry. The first time you shot a real scene together — the one where Elena and Stefan meet outside Mystic Falls High — you swore you saw it in his eyes too. That flicker. That moment where fiction blurred just enough to make you forget the cameras. And when the director yelled “Cut!”, the old Paul — the one who’d teased you senseless as kids — was gone. Instead, he smiled at you, genuine, almost shy. It was an instant switch. Off-set, things changed. You started hanging out, not because the producers told you to build chemistry, but because you wanted to. Late-night rehearsals turned into grabbing coffee, which turned into laughing over Polish swear words in between takes, which turned into you both reminiscing about those awkward summers when your families made you sit at the kids’ table together. Somewhere along the way, the sharpness dulled. The tension softened. And now here you were, standing on set in the middle of another long day of shooting. You were in Elena’s bedroom — well, the set of Elena’s bedroom — with a crew scattered quietly in the shadows. The script called for a tender moment. Stefan was supposed to comfort Elena, brush her hair back from her face, hold her, kiss her forehead. A scene you’d rehearsed, sure, but now… it felt different. “Ready?” Paul asked softly, leaning in just a fraction. His voice was lower than usual, almost careful. His blue-green eyes flickered with something unreadable, not quite Stefan but not quite Paul either. You nodded. Too quickly, maybe. Your heart thumped too hard in your chest. “Action.” And suddenly he was Stefan — or maybe he wasn’t. His hand brushed your cheek like he’d done it a thousand times. His eyes locked on yours with that kind of raw devotion that felt too real. And when he leaned forward, pressing his lips gently to your forehead, something short-circuited in you. It wasn’t acting anymore. Not really. The director’s voice rang out, “Cut!” but Paul didn’t move right away. His hand lingered a second too long on your face. His eyes searched yours in the silence that followed. You both froze, caught in that dangerous space between make-believe and reality.

LUKE CASTELLAN

You had always belonged to them. Long before Camp Half-Blood, long before cabins and orange shirts and borders of magical pine, it had been just the three of you—Luke, Thalia, and you. A makeshift family stitched together out of fear, survival, and something that felt too much like love to name. He’d found you when you were barely old enough to hold a knife. Thalia had taken your hand. Luke had taken responsibility. For years you’d wandered the human world with them—running from monsters, stealing meals, sleeping under bridges, waking up to Luke shaking your shoulder gently because *“hey, sweetheart, we have to move.”* You were the youngest, the smallest, the one they’d both sworn to keep safe. And Luke—Luke had always been more than your protector. More than a friend. More than a brother. He was the first person you trusted completely. The first person who taught you how to survive. The first person who held your face in both hands after a fight and murmured, *“Good girl. Knew you could do it.”* You’d lived for his praise even then. Grover finding you had been the end of wandering and the beginning of something new. Camp Half-Blood: safety, training, a life where you didn’t have to run every day. You grew up, changed, got stronger, sharper, braver. But one thing never changed: *Luke still treated you like his girl.* Years later, you were old enough to see him clearly—really see him. The golden boy of Camp Half-Blood. Brilliant strategist. Skilled swordsman. A natural leader. Gods, he was handsome, too—sharp jaw, tan skin, blond hair falling into his stormy eyes. And around you? He softened. Always. You still pretended you didn’t melt when he called you *kiddo, baby, sweetheart*. When he fixed the strap of your armor without asking. When he manhandled you during training, pushing your hips into a better stance, adjusting your wrists, pulling your shoulders back with warm palms and a patient voice. That evening was another one of those days. A long training session, a monster simulation with the older campers, and a few too many hits to your ribs. You trudged toward the Apollo cabin like you were carrying the whole sky on your back. Luke caught you before you even made it to the steps. “Hey,” he called from behind you, voice warm, familiar. “Where do you think you’re going looking like that?” You turned, exhausted, and he was already standing in front of you—tall, broad shoulders, crossed arms, raised eyebrow, that half-smirk that always made you feel like a kid getting caught doing something cute. You croaked, “Bed?” “Nope.” Then he hooked two fingers into the back of your shirt and reeled you toward him like you weighed nothing. “Inside. Sit. I’ll take care of it.” Gods. You hated how quickly your knees went weak for that tone. Five minutes later you were on his bed, legs dangling off the side, shirt lifted to your ribs while he knelt in front of you with a warm cloth. His hands were gentle, thumbs brushing over the forming bruise.

WILL HERONDALE

The Institute breathes like a cathedral tonight. Silent, hollow, walls echoing only with the ticking of clocks and the rustle of parchment from the library. London outside roars with its chaos, but here—inside this fortress of wards and whispers—it’s just the two of you. Parabatai. That word alone is enough to cut through the quiet like a blade. A bond older than any vow, stitched into your blood, carved into your bones by angel fire. You and Will have fought back-to-back since you were marked, your souls tied in ways no one outside the Nephilim can truly understand. You feel his pain before he breathes it, his strength hums through your veins when your blades clash together in battle. There is no distance between you. There never has been. And that is the danger. You know the law. No parabatai may fall in love. No parabatai may cross that line. The magic that binds you would rebel, twist, break, turn deadly. The bond is a tether, but desire strains it, poisons it, until it collapses into ruin. History is full of parabatai pairs who tried—pairs who burned themselves to ash for one forbidden kiss. You’ve both sworn you wouldn’t. You’ve both failed. Will sits across the table, hair shadowing his face as he pretends to read a book that has been open to the same page for hours. His fingers drum against the paper like they’re restless, like they’re reaching for something that isn’t there—something that’s you. And your skin aches, because you can feel it. The bond lets you feel him pulling toward you like gravity itself. You try to distract yourself. Polish your stele. Sharpen a blade. Arrange training schedules. Anything. But the room is too big, too empty. The silence is too thick. And Will… Will is just sitting there, blue eyes like lightning storms, trying not to look at you. But then he does. And you can’t breathe.

PERCY JACKSON

Nico di Angelo was stupidly, painfully, hopelessly in love with Percy Jackson. And you were the only person he ever trusted with that secret. You carried it like a glass vial — close to your heart, careful with every step. Because Nico was young, lonely, and so intensely sensitive that the wrong word could make him withdraw for weeks. And Percy? Percy was Percy. Loved. Bright. Impossible to compete with. You were close to him too. Too close, maybe. But that didn’t matter. This wasn’t about you. It was about Nico. Your best friend. Your boy. And then, of course, the entire camp found out about Nico’s crush. Let’s not sugarcoat it — it was a disaster. Camp Half-Blood was a gossip machine, and the revelation hit like a grenade. Some kids were shocked, some mocked him, some whispered behind his back. Nico went silent. Completely silent. He barely looked at anyone except you. And that’s why, on the Argo II, you did the only logical thing a loyal friend would do: You went to talk to Percy. Just… clarify things. Explain the situation. Make sure Percy didn’t accidentally hurt him more. It was supposed to be an awkward five-minute conversation in the corner of the ship. It turned into something else entirely. Because Percy was sitting on the steps of the deck, looking troubled, elbows on his knees. And when he saw you, his face softened in that stupid heroic way of his — warm, kind, too patient for his own good. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay? You look… stressed.” You sat beside him. Mistake number one. “I wanted to talk about Nico,” you said gently. Percy nodded, worried. “Yeah. I figured. I don’t… I don’t want him to feel bad. I didn’t know he felt that way.” “I know,” you murmured. “He’s sensitive. He’s scared. And he cares about you more than he should.” Percy sighed. “I care about him too. A lot.” He said it so honestly your heart slipped in your chest. And that’s when you made mistake number two. You shifted a little closer. Just enough that your shoulders brushed. It wasn’t intentional (…right?), it just happened, but gods — it felt like heat spreading under your skin. Percy didn’t move away. In fact… he looked down at your hand resting beside his. Too close. Millimeters away. Then he glanced back up, eyes dark with something unspoken. “Thanks,” he said softly. “For looking after him. And… for talking to me. I don’t think anyone else could’ve.” His voice dropped. Intimate. Dangerously intimate. Your breath caught. You weren’t supposed to be noticing the way his knee brushed against yours. You weren’t supposed to be aware of the warmth of his shoulder. You definitely weren’t supposed to be distracted by how pretty his eyes looked under the glowing lanterns of the ship. This was about Nico. This was NOT about you. But Percy was sitting too close. And his voice was too soft. And his hand… oh gods, his hand was touching yours again.

TODD ANDERSON

Welton had this strange silence after dark — a silence that felt too heavy for boys your age, too formal, too strict. But you had learned the secret: after curfew, behind the rules and shadows, Welton became yours. A quiet kingdom where you could breathe, laugh, exist without the eyes of masters and prefects. Todd Anderson never would’ve discovered that on his own. He wasn’t the type to sneak out, break rules, or dare anything past the safety of his own room. But you… you changed the equation. Your girls’ school had cooperated with Welton for a while — shared campus, shared classes, shared events. That meant shared hallways and accidental bump-ins. Shared glances. Shared worlds. Your friend group bonded quickly with the boys from Todd’s class — Meeks, Pitts, Charlie, even Neil. Except Todd. Todd was the ghost of the group — present, kind, but quiet to the point he dissolved into the background. You noticed him long before he ever spoke to you. Sitting alone during free periods while everyone else made noise. Reading on stairwells. Avoiding eye contact in that soft, shy way that told you he was listening even if he pretended he wasn’t. You were everything he wasn’t — bright, flirtatious, social, the girl who practically carried laughter under her arm like a textbook. No one expected the two of you to ever talk. Except… you did. At first, Todd practically shut down whenever you approached him. Entire sentences collapsed into stutters. His hands trembled when you joked with him. You could feel the panic in him like static electricity — endearing, sweet, so painfully sincere that you never pushed too hard. And then months passed. And then a year. And somehow Todd Anderson wasn’t terrified of you anymore. Still flustered, yes. His ears still turned pink every time you teased him. But he talked. He even made jokes. You caught him smiling before he remembered to hide it. You shared books. You shared notes. You learned he wasn’t quiet because he had nothing to say — he was quiet because no one ever gave him a reason to speak. You became that reason. And now, tonight — just like always — you met him after curfew. The air outside smelled like cold stone and pine. The moon hung low. Welton’s windows glowed like a sleepy beast. Todd was waiting for you in your usual spot behind the arts building, hands shoved into his coat pockets, eyes lifting the second he felt you approach. That tiny, helpless smile of his spilled out. “You’re late,” he whispered, though he was clearly relieved you were here.

JASON GRACE

You’d known Jason Grace almost your entire life at Camp Jupiter. He wasn’t just a legend — he was *your* legend. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair always catching the afternoon sun like the gods themselves blessed him for aesthetics alone. Calm as still water, dangerous as a storm, disciplined, impossibly kind. The kind of man who made even the oldest veterans straighten up when he walked past. And you’d been the little Apollo girl trailing behind him and the older recruits, trying to imitate how he held his shoulders or how he carried a spear. He always looked back. He always waited for you. He always smiled. You never stood a chance. By the time you were sixteen, everyone knew Jason as the instructor. He always been born leader. He wasn’t pretor anymore, but gods, you could swear the title still clung to him. He trained the recruits, mediated arguments, handled disasters, mended shields, comforted crying probatio… all with that quiet strength that made you melt every single time. You were a soldier too — daughter of Apollo, fast, bright, talented — but next to Jason you felt like some soft, glowing thing orbiting a sun that didn’t know it burned you alive. He never noticed your crush. Of course he didn’t. Why would he? You were sixteen. He was in his twenties. You were a student. He was a warrior. But whenever he praised you: *”You handled that bow beautifully today, sunshine.”* *”You think fast, good instincts.”* *”I’m proud of you.”* You felt your entire body warm like his approval was a blessing straight from Apollo himself. Tonight the Senate House was nearly empty. Only torches flickered, throwing warm gold against the stone pillars. You’d just survived your first formal debate… and you’d won. The Senate had voted. The elders had approved. You were Camp Jupiter’s new praetor. Jason was the first to find you afterward. He always was. You sat together on one of the curved benches, both of you still wearing your formal purple-trimmed cloaks. Yours swallowed you a little. His looked carved onto him. “Hey,” he murmured, sitting beside you. “Deep breaths.” You exhaled like you’d been holding the air for hours. He smiled softly. “You did incredible.”

LLOYD GARMADON

You and Lloyd had always fit together in an easy, quiet way — not loud, not dramatic, just… natural. You’d been at the monastery long before he arrived. Cole’s twin sister. Earth in your bones, rhythm in your blood. Where Cole was steady and grounded, you were fluid — movement, balance, music. Dancing had always been your thing. A way to breathe when training got too heavy, when expectations pressed too hard against your ribs. When Lloyd first showed up, small and awkward and clearly carrying more destiny than any kid should, you hadn’t known what to do with him. He annoyed you at first. Asked too many questions. Tried too hard. Watched you like you were something important. But over time, something softened. You treated him like a person, not a prophecy. You teased him lightly, trained with him when the others were busy, defended him when the pressure got cruel. And Lloyd — gods, Lloyd noticed everything. Every smile. Every nod of approval. Every time you told him he did well. He was younger. A few years, but in teenage time that gap felt enormous. You were already an adult, already settled in who you were. He was… not. Puberty hit him like a storm — limbs too long, voice cracking, emotions all over the place. And through all of that, he carried a secret crush so obvious to everyone except you. You just thought he admired you. That evening, after a long day of training, the monastery was quiet in that soft, exhausted way. Everyone had split off to finish chores. You’d escaped to the living room, shoes kicked aside, music playing low from a small speaker Wu pretended not to notice. You moved without thinking. Bare feet against the floor. Hips swaying, arms loose, body finally free after hours of discipline and drills. Dancing wasn’t about performance for you — it was release. Joy. Being alive. You didn’t hear Lloyd at first. He finished his duty faster than usual — suspiciously fast — and wandered toward the sound like it had pulled him there. He stopped in the doorway, frozen. You were beautiful like this. Unguarded. Laughing to yourself when you missed a step, spinning back into rhythm anyway. Nothing like the warrior everyone trained beside. Just… you. His heart nearly beat out of his chest. When you finally noticed him, you laughed. “Were you just standing there the whole time?” He flushed instantly. “I— uh— I didn’t want to interrupt.” “You’re not interrupting,” you said easily, turning the music up a little. “Come on.” “Come on…?” he repeated, dumbly. “Dance,” you shrugged. “Unless the Green Ninja is scared.” That did it. He stepped forward, determined — this was his moment — and started dancing with far too much effort. Sharp movements, overthinking every step, trying desperately to look cool. You watched him for about three seconds before bursting into laughter. “Oh my god,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “Relax. You’re not fighting an enemy.” Your touch nearly short-circuited him. You showed him how to move — not correcting him like a teacher, but guiding him like a friend. Simple steps. Loose shoulders. Letting the beat do the work. He followed, clumsy at first, then slowly — slowly — finding rhythm. And when he finally did, when he laughed too, breathless and bright-eyed, something in his chest settled. This was why he loved being around you.

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gentle

NEVILLE A LONGBOTTOM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ nerdy boy

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ partner?

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cousin

XAVIER THORPE

You always knew fencing practice with Xavier meant trouble. From the very first day at Nevermore, when you both stumbled into the salle at the same time, almost colliding with swords in hand, something had just clicked. He wasn’t just your best friend—he was your partner-in-crime, your late-night confidant, the person you could tease mercilessly and still end up doubled over with laughter beside. Tonight was no different. Except, maybe it was. The class had long been abandoned, lights dimmed, only the pale moonlight spilling through the high windows. Everyone else had already gone back to their dorms, but you and Xavier? Of course you stayed. “One more match,” he had said with that half-smirk of his, the one that meant he was about to stir chaos. And of course, you agreed. It started serious—clashing blades, quick steps, the sharp sound of steel echoing. But then came the playful shoves, the mock insults, the kind of banter that only the two of you understood. He lunged too dramatically, you countered with an exaggerated spin, and before either of you knew it—he’d caught you off balance. And suddenly, Xavier was on top of you. The two of you crashed down onto the mats, his sword clattering away, yours sliding uselessly across the floor. His hair fell into his face, shadows mixing with moonlight, his chest heaving with laughter that mirrored your own. You laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, clutching your stomach, while he tried (and failed) to roll off you. “Okay, okay—you cheated,” you managed between gasps. “Me? You literally spun like a ballerina!” he shot back, his grin so wide you thought it might split his face. It was ridiculous. It was the kind of moment you always had with him. And yet… it felt different. The sound of his laughter this close, the way his weight pressed against you, the warmth radiating from his body—it made your chest tighten in a way fencing never could. You locked eyes for a second too long. The laughter died down slowly, replaced by something heavier, quieter. His breathing slowed, his smirk faltered into something else. Something that made the air between you buzz with the kind of tension you both pretended not to notice. But you did. And so did he.

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ lemme see your runway walk

CHARLIE WEASLEY

Snow fell quietly outside the crooked windows of the Burrow, blanketing the garden in soft white. The house was full — laughter, Weasley chatter, the scent of cinnamon and something perpetually burning in the kitchen. It was the kind of cozy chaos that made you feel alive and slightly dizzy at the same time. You’d been there for a few days already, visiting for the holidays with Harry and Hermione. Ron had begged you all to come — “Mum’s cooking, proper Christmas, c’mon.” You’d expected the usual: jokes from Fred and George, Ginny’s sarcastic remarks, Arthur rambling about plugs, and Molly fussing over everyone’s scarf. What you didn’t expect was Charlie. You remembered him vaguely from first year — that night with Norbert(a). He’d swooped in like some heroic big brother figure, handling everything so smoothly that you and the others could barely get a word out. Since then, he’d been little more than a name in the Weasley family lore — “Charlie, the one with dragons,” “Charlie, the one in Romania.” He was always too far away, too busy, too mythical to actually meet. Until now. He’d arrived two days before Christmas, bringing the smell of fire and wild air with him — something untamed that didn’t quite fit within the Burrow’s cozy walls. You noticed him the second he stepped through the door, hair longer than you remembered, arms strong, his grin bright and real. Everyone swarmed him, of course, and you’d just stood there awkwardly, clutching your cocoa. He found you later, by the fireplace. “You’re the one who helped smuggle Norbert out, yeah?” he’d asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. You laughed. “That was ages ago.” “Still. Brave of you lot,” he said, leaning on the mantel, firelight painting his freckles gold. “Most kids would’ve run screaming from a dragon, not raised one under a school roof.” And just like that, you started talking. It turned out Charlie wasn’t just brave and strong — he was funny, so funny, and endlessly curious. You talked about everything: dragons, creatures, traveling, magic, life. You didn’t even notice how the hours slipped by until Molly called for supper and you realized you hadn’t seen Harry or Ron since morning. The next day, it happened again. And again. Fred teased you, of course, and even Ron looked mildly suspicious. But you didn’t care, because he was like 15 years older. And because it wasn’t anything like that — not exactly. It was just that Charlie made you feel something you hadn’t realized you were missing. The way he listened when you spoke. The way he shared stories about Romania — his voice softening when he spoke about the dragons. The way he made you laugh until your sides hurt. He’d take you outside sometimes, pointing at the stars, telling you how the dragons would roar at them. He even let you see a few of his burn scars, explaining how each one had a story. You didn’t know why, but that trust — that quiet intimacy — meant more than anything. On Christmas night, you sat with him on the back porch. Everyone else was asleep. The air was freezing, but he didn’t seem to care — and neither did you.

ZAYN MALIK

You were Niall Horan’s little sister. Which basically meant your teenage years were just one big fever dream. Concerts, afterparties, endless backstage passes, vlogs with Harry stealing your phone, Louis calling you his “partner in crime,” the whole internet shipping you with basically everyone in one direction because you were always there. And truthfully? You loved it. You loved being their little sister who could keep up with all of them. You had the dream friend group every girl on tumblr wanted in 2014. Harry texting you late night vines. Louis teaching you how to sneak into clubs without IDs. Liam giving you advice when your stupid crush dumped you. But then there was Zayn. Zayn freaking Malik. He was… god, insufferable. He was mysterious, brooding, always with that stupid smirk like he was in on a joke you didn’t get. And of course, for some reason, you were his favorite target. “Nice outfit, Horanette,” he’d tease, eyeing your skirt. “You planning on tripping on those shoes, or is that part of the performance?” Or the classic: “Careful, love, you’re too loud—don’t want to overshadow us, yeah?” Every. Single. Day. You rolled your eyes, snapped back, swore up and down you hated him. He was annoying, cocky, smug, smug, smug. What you didn’t know was that everyone else saw it for what it was—Zayn didn’t flirt with anyone the way he flirted with you. And tonight? It all came to a head. After some fancy Glasgow event—red carpets, cameras flashing, fans screaming—you ended up back at a hotel with the boys. Everyone was exhausted, half the group went out for drinks, the others knocked out instantly. Somehow, by whatever cruel twist of fate, you ended up alone with Zayn in the hotel lounge. You in your little black dress, makeup smudged, heels dangling from your hand. Him in that sleek black suit, tie undone. At first it was the usual. “Long night for the princess?” he teased, smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t start with me,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch dramatically. But then something shifted. maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the quiet hum of the city through the glass windows, maybe it was just… finally, the two of you had no one else around to play it off for. Because instead of snapping back, you sighed. Really sighed. and for the first time, Zayn didn’t fire another joke—he actually looked at you. Properly. You two found laptops, deep in someone’s backpack, and started playing some games. Not competing, how you and him would definetly do back then, but playfully racing. “You’re not so bad when you’re not trying to kill me, y’know,” he said softly, leaning closer. And you laughed, a real laugh, because—wait. Was Zayn Malik being genuine? To you? The conversation slipped easier than you thought it would. You talked about music, about how insane it was being Niall’s sister, about your classes, about how he hated the cameras but loved the stage. And maybe, just maybe… You didn’t hate him quite as much anymore.

JOSHUA KIMMICH

Munich in autumn glows like honey — laughter spilling from every corner, brass music echoing between tents, lights dancing on glass mugs. You’ve never seen anything like it. Back home, in Poland, festivals were smaller, warmer in a different way. This was louder. Wilder. The kind of chaos that made you feel alive. You had spent most of the day with your teammates, but somehow — maybe by accident, maybe not — you always ended up near him. Joshua Kimmich. Bayern’s vice-captain. Every academy player’s role model. And for some reason, he kept looking for you, too. He wasn’t like you expected. You thought he’d be intimidating — strict, reserved, all discipline and sharp glances. But he was kind. Calm. Almost too calm for the noise around him. When he laughed, it was rare but real, and you found yourself craving that sound again and again. Evening came faster than you thought. Your feet hurt, your voice was half gone from talking and laughing, and you had no idea how you ended up walking beside him through the parking area behind the tents, holding a plate of half-eaten pretzel and roasted almonds. “Need a break?” he asked, nodding toward the car. You nodded back, too tired to pretend you didn’t. The inside of the car was quiet, the festival’s chaos muffled behind closed doors. The scent of cinnamon and roasted sugar still clung to your clothes. You leaned your head against the seat, exhaling.

BANGCHAN

The new house still smelled of fresh paint and unpacked boxes. Stray Kids had just moved in, and instead of rooms filled with furniture, there were mattresses scattered around, take-out containers stacked high in the kitchen, and laughter echoing through the half-empty hallways. You were there because of Seungmin, your adopted brother — but by now, the guys treated you like family too. They’d all flopped down into the same room, shoulders pressed together, blankets dragged across the floor to create one big nest. And you? You ended up right next to Bang Chan. At first it was casual — just him handing you cards for Uno, his sleeve brushing yours, his smile pulling you into comfort like gravity. But the more rounds you played, the more it became a private game between the two of you. He started teasing you for picking the wrong color, you started bluffing just to make him draw four, and the laughter that left you both was loud enough to make Han tell you to shut up before he lost his focus. But every time you looked at Chris, it felt like more than just playing cards. His gaze lingered. His voice softened when he said your name. And when you leaned forward to put down your winning card, your hair brushing his arm, his entire body went still for a moment. Like he had to remind himself to breathe. Everyone else in the room carried on — throwing down cards, yelling when they lost, arguing about rules — but you felt the shift in the air between you and him. The way his laugh lowered when it was just for you. The way his knee brushed yours under the blanket and he didn’t move away. There was this unspoken understanding: The leader, the older one, the one who carried the world on his shoulders. And you — Seungmin’s sister, still young, still figuring yourself out. But somehow, in that messy room with nothing but mattresses, you felt like equals. Like maybe all the walls between you were thinner than you thought.

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ carefree with you

ZAYN MALIK

You’d grown up with One Direction as more than posters on your wall — they were your brother’s actual friends, fixtures in your house like mismatched furniture. Niall stealing food from your fridge, Harry calling you “LiLi’s little shadow” every time he saw you. And Zayn… well, Zayn was different. He was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you want to lean in just to catch the joke under his breath. He wasn’t as loud as the others, but he didn’t need to be. One smirk, one little glance, and you’d feel your stomach flip like you were still twelve sneaking peeks at his interviews online. When Liam said you’d all be crashing at Zayn’s after the London event, you’d nodded like it was no big deal. Inside? You were practically vibrating. Zayn’s house. His space. The night blurred together — laughing in his kitchen, everyone still half-buzzed from the crowd’s energy, the boys drifting off one by one. You’d taken a shower last, humming softly, wrapped up in steam and your brother’s oversized hoodie. That’s when you stepped into the hallway and found him leaning against the wall, tattoos glinting in the low light. Zayn. Waiting. “Finally,” he smirked, eyes flicking over you in that lazy way that made your heart stumble. “Thought you got lost in there.” You rolled your eyes, clutching your bundle of dirty clothes like a shield. “Shut up. I don’t take that long.” He raised a brow. “You’re worse than Harry.” You laughed, because it was easier than dealing with the fact that Zayn Malik was standing way too close. He nudged your shoulder with his, casual, playful, like he always had. Except it didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t the kind of nudge you gave a kid sister anymore.

NEWT

Another day. Another set of chores. Another evening where the sun dipped low and painted the walls of the Glade gold, without the slightest hint of an opening in that endless stone. By now, you’d stopped waiting for one. At first, it had been suffocating — the high walls, the routine, the strange faces that weren’t family but had to be. But then the rhythm of life settled in. Work, meals, laughter by the fire. A life, in its own twisted way. And in that life, there was him. Newt had been there longer, long enough to know how to keep the balance, how to teach you to survive this strange place. He’d shown you the ropes: which jobs you could trade for, which boys to trust, which ones to ignore, where to find the quiet when you needed it. Somehow, through the mess of it all, you’d become close. Really close. Best friends, maybe. With him it was easy — the teasing, the soft insults, the constant push and pull. And yet you knew, without a doubt, if it ever came down to it, he’d always be on your side. Tonight, there was a fresh Greenie. Another stranger hauled up from the Box, another round of questions and half-answers, another face around the fire. The camp buzzed louder than usual, energy rising with the crackle of flames and the perfect summer air. You laughed, you ate, you listened. And when the night stretched long, one by one, the boys peeled away toward their hammocks. You followed, tired but content, your limbs heavy from work, the glow of fire still warming your skin. You’d just settled, breath slowing, when a whisper brushed your ear. “Oi. You asleep yet?” Newt. You groaned, tugging the blanket up over your shoulder. “Yes. Completely. Go away.” He chuckled low, the sound vibrating close, too close. “Funny, considering you just answered me.” “Newt…” you muttered, voice half-whine, half-warning. But he didn’t move. Instead, he crouched down beside your hammock, his hand resting on the edge as he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “C’mon... Don’t crash out on me now. Big night, new Greenie, clear skies… what d’you say we do somethin’ stupid?” You cracked one eye open, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth, the spark in his eyes that promised trouble. Typical. Always with him.

ROBIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ new titan

SEUNGMIN

You never disliked Seungmin. How could you? He was funny, sarcastic in the best way, always hovering around with that dry humor that kept even the longest schedules from feeling unbearable. You liked him, sure — but only the way you liked any friend in the industry. Cute, sharp-tongued, a little awkward. Just Seungmin. Because your eyes had always wandered to others. Chan’s leader aura, Minho’s sharp edges — that was more your taste. And Seungmin? He was just… there. Joking with Changbin, pulling faces during rehearsals, flashing that mischievous grin that made fans scream but never made your heart beat faster. At least, not then. But lately… something changed. He wasn’t just the sweet one anymore. He carried himself differently, like he knew people were looking. The way he dressed, the way his hair fell, the way his sarcasm sharpened into confidence — it unsettled you. Somewhere in the blur of months, Seungmin had stopped being cute and started being… magnetic. You didn’t remember how the amusement park trip even started — one moment, the bands were talking about days off, and the next, you were here. Neon lights. Cotton candy. Stray Kids and your group spilling through the park in one messy wave of laughter and chaos. And then, somehow, you ended up alone. With him. It wasn’t planned. Just a drift in the crowd until the two of you realized no one else was in sight. Awkward silence at first, then easy conversation — teasing about which rides you’d chicken out on, complaining about the overpriced popcorn. And when you passed the photobooth, it felt natural to stop. “Wanna?” Seungmin asked, chin jerking toward the machine, tone casual. But there was something in his eyes that wasn’t casual at all. You said yes before you even thought. Inside, the booth was small. Too small. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, knees brushing, the screen counting down before either of you figured out a pose. The first flash caught you both laughing. The second — his hand brushing yours on purpose. The third — his arm slipping behind you, tentative but sure. By the fourth, you realized your heart was hammering.

LEE MINHO

You hadn’t even been teaching for a full semester yet, and already, you couldn’t imagine doing anything else. The first weeks had been rough — figuring out lesson plans, catching the rhythm of grading, remembering all those names — but now, it felt like the school was yours. Students greeted you in the halls, other teachers smiled when you walked by, and you had your own little quirks of teaching that made kids actually listen. And among all the colleagues you met, there was one who stuck out like a sore thumb. Lee Minho. He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t stiff, or overly formal, or locked into some strict routine. He had this weird, sharp humor that cracked you open from the first conversation, the kind of sarcasm that scared students but made them adore him anyway. And when you started hanging around him, you realized the two of you were on the same wavelength. Same energy. Same chaotic streak. Same way of making people laugh without even trying. No wonder the students loved you both the most. You texted sometimes. Dumb jokes, memes, complaints about grading, little life updates. But most days you saw him anyway — in the office, in the hallways, at lunch. He was always there, and you found yourself looking forward to it. That afternoon, you were done. Your last class had been a hurricane of noise — kids practically bouncing off the walls — and you left them behind with a smile plastered on your face, but inside, you just wanted a nap. Thankfully, your schedule blessed you with a free hour before the next one. The teachers’ office was quiet when you slipped in, coffee in hand, planning to collapse into one of the chairs and maybe scroll your phone until your brain restarted. But the moment you opened the door, you saw him. Minho. He was already there, slouched lazily in a chair by the window, hair messy from running a hand through it too many times, a half-eaten snack on the desk in front of him. His head tilted up when he noticed you, that sly smile already tugging at his lips. “Well, well,” he said, voice warm but teasing. “Look who survived the loud ones.” You laughed, because of course he knew exactly which class you had just come from. He always did. And just like that, the exhaustion didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because you weren’t going to spend this free hour alone. You were going to spend it with Minho — and with him, it was never boring.

BANGCHAN

It always felt a little unreal to you that you were in this world at all. One day you were just Seungmin’s stepsister — half-European, half-Korean, a bit out of place in Seoul but still finding your rhythm — and suddenly you were part of the Stray Kids family orbit. You were at their practices, waiting in the studio with your headphones on, tagging along at events, concerts, hotel lobbies, late-night dinners. At first, you thought it would be awkward. You were younger, a little different, carrying curves and height that stood out in a scene where everyone seemed so… standard. But you never really had to try. They pulled you in naturally. Jokes with Han, debates with Seungmin, Enid-level chaos with Felix. But Bang Chan… he was something else entirely. He was the leader, the one who always had weight on his shoulders. And yet, with you, it was different. He could exhale. He didn’t always have to be “Bang Chan of Stray Kids.” He could just be Chris — laughing too loudly when you destroyed him at Mario Kart, half-rolling his eyes when you teased him about the number of hoodies he owned, humming when you carelessly sang in the hotel hallways. You both ignored the tension for as long as possible. More than decade between you was an invisible barrier, one he carried like armor. Whenever someone teased him about acting like your guardian, or when age slipped into the conversation, his jaw would tense. He’d laugh it off, but his gaze would dart toward you, quick and guilty, like his mind was already racing ahead to places he shouldn’t let it. Tonight, it was the eve of a European concert. You were all holed up in a hotel — one of those big chain ones with beige walls and too-bright lamps — and you ended up in his room. The others were scattered, doing their own thing, but somehow you and Chan gravitated back to each other like always. The PlayStation hummed, controllers in your hands, his knee brushing yours every time he shifted. His laugh filled the room when you beat him — again — and you leaned back, smug and grinning. “You’re cheating,” he said, accusingly, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re just old,” you teased, nudging his shoulder. He gave you that look — the half-smile, half-grimace that always came out when age got mentioned. But instead of brushing it off, he leaned closer. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll show you just how old I am.” It was playful, on the surface. But underneath, it hummed. His hand lingered on the back of the couch, close enough that if you leaned just an inch, you’d brush against him. The game sat forgotten on the screen, some menu music looping in the background. You didn’t have to say it aloud, but it was there: that something unspoken, slipping into all the cracks of your friendship. The way his gaze lingered too long when you laughed. The way your heartbeat jumped whenever his voice dropped low. The way both of you, despite logic, despite responsibility, couldn’t quite pull away. And maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was dangerous. But in that moment — the quiet hotel room, the hum of the city outside, the thrum of music waiting for tomorrow’s stage — it just felt like you and him. Always circling closer. Always finding each other.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected help

GERARD GIBSON

Gibsie had no filter, no shame, and absolutely no fear of God. Especially not when it came to you. Ever since the three of you — you, him, Johnny — were tearing through primary school hallways like a tornado with no moral compass, he’d liked you. Only now, at seventeen, he knew exactly what he liked. Back then, Gibsie liked you in the soft, stupid way boys like girls before their hormones switch on. But now? Now he was grown, tall, annoyingly handsome, slick-mouthed, flirty as hell, and absolutely feral about you. Tonight he was sitting beside you on your bed, helping with your school project, watching you bend over the desk like you didn’t just destroy the last pieces of his sanity. “Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” he randomly muttered dramatically from behind you. You turned your head slightly. “What?” “Nothing,” he said with a grin that absolutely screamed everything. “Just admiring the view.”

FRANK ZHANG

Camp Jupiter was brutal sometimes. Not the monsters, not the training, not even the endless chores — you were used to *all* of that. You were a soldier. You could spar until your arms shook, run until your lungs burned, march until your feet blistered. No. You’d lived here your whole life. Which meant you’d also lived with the constant comparison. What hurt more were the stupid, quiet moments. Like tonight. Dinner had been loud, chaotic, full of elbows and jokes and food flying halfway across the dining pavilion. You loved that part. You always had. But as soon as the meal ended, one of the caretakers — an older woman who cared more about rules and appearances than the feelings of sixteen-year-olds — had made a comment. A comment she didn’t even think was cruel. Something about how *“some girls should watch their portions”* and then she looked directly at you. *Up and down.* Lingering. And suddenly the buzzing hall felt too bright. Suddenly you were hyper-aware of your body — your height, your broader shoulders, your soft stomach, your strong legs that weren’t stick-thin like the Roman girls who seemed carved from marble. You weren’t small. You weren’t delicate. You didn’t glide like the willowy daughters of Venus or the sleek war maidens of Bellona. You were… bigger. Fuller. Curvy in some places, thick in others. And in moments like this, it felt like the whole camp noticed. You slipped out early, hugging your cloak around yourself, trying to keep your breathing even as you headed toward the empty training fields. You didn’t want anyone to see your face, to ask questions, to poke at the bruise already blooming under your ribs. You went straight to your barracks afterward, shoulders hunched, swallowing that familiar sting. And as always — as it had been since childhood — Frank Zhang noticed before anyone else. He ducked into your room before curfew even rang, tall as the doorframe, thick arms crossing his chest as he looked at you with that soft, worried expression only he ever wore. Frank had always been huge — broad, muscled, towering above most legionnaires — yet he moved so gently, so quietly around you. Even when you were kids, you used to joke that he was a bear who refused to admit he was a bear. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat beside you on your bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight, and said quietly: “Hey. Come here.” And gods help you — you came. Just like when you were eight and he was eight, curled up under a shared blanket after a nightmare. Just like when you were twelve and homesick and didn’t want anyone to see you cry. Just like last year, when a fight with another girl stirred up every insecurity you had. Frank knew. Frank *always* knew. You leaned into him, your head against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you instantly — solid, warm, protective. He smelled like cedar and training fields and that faint hint of campfire he could never seem to wash off. He held you like the world wasn’t allowed to hurt you.

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after classes

BANGCHAN

When you had first arrived in Korea as an exchange student, everything felt… overwhelming. The language bent in your mouth differently, the customs were strange but beautiful, and although you had prepared yourself for cultural shock, it still knocked the breath out of you. Some days you loved the thrill of discovering something new, and other days you lay in bed wondering if you made a mistake coming here. The one constant, however, had been Professor Christopher Bang. He was the English teacher at your school—young, striking, with an air of maturity that made students sit straighter the moment he walked in. Not intimidating in a cruel way, but in the kind of way that made you want his approval. He had that presence: the kind that lingered even after the bell. From the very first day, he treated you differently. Not like you were fragile, not like you were a foreigner who needed to be sheltered—but with warmth. He was patient when you fumbled over words, encouraging when you hesitated, and surprisingly easy to talk to. After classes, sometimes he’d linger and you’d find yourself spilling random thoughts to him: about how hard it was to fit in, how exciting Seoul felt at night, how different the food was from what you grew up with. He always listened, always answered with this quiet sincerity. Over the months, you blossomed. You found your rhythm. You made friends, started laughing louder in the cafeteria, even managed to banter in Korean. But the world has a way of testing you when you least expect it. It was subtle at first—the whisper behind your back, the exaggerated way someone mocked your accent, the shove that was “just a joke.” You brushed it off. You told yourself you were strong. But when it happened again, and again, something cracked. And today… you found yourself sitting on the cold tile floor of a quiet corridor, knees pulled to your chest, fighting tears you didn’t want anyone to see. That’s when he found you. “Hey,” Professor Bang’s voice was low, careful, like approaching a frightened animal. You looked up, and his eyes softened instantly. Without asking for permission, he crouched down in front of you. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Minutes later, you were in his office. It smelled faintly of coffee and the cologne you’d begun to associate with him—clean, warm, grounding. He didn’t bombard you with questions, didn’t press. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you gently into his chest. For a while, you just sat there, hearing his heartbeat against your ear, steady as a metronome. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your shoulder in small circles. “Just… let it out. I’ll cover for your next class.” Your throat tightened. You hated crying in front of people, but with him it felt less humiliating, more like safety. You let the tears come, muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

GORDON CORMIER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fashion killas

TOM M RIDDLE

You’d always thought teaching at Hogwarts would feel like coming home. After all, you had been a student here not long ago yourself — wandering those corridors, carrying stacks of books, worrying over exams. Now, the castle looked different. Still vast, still ancient, but the weight was heavier on your shoulders because you were responsible. For bubbling cauldrons, eager faces, and making sure no one blew up a classroom by mixing the wrong roots together. And for the most part — you loved it. You liked your students, you loved your subject, you even enjoyed the long evenings bent over essays with tea by your side. Life was steady, stable. You had your work. Your friends. A boyfriend in Hogsmeade who made things simple. But then — there was Tom Riddle. The boy every professor praised. The one every student whispered about. Flawless in class, immaculate in manners, clever enough to twist any situation into his favor. He always sat at the front, quill sharp, eyes sharper. The kind of student every teacher should be thrilled to have. And yet… he unnerved you. He lingered. Always the last to leave after class, asking “innocent” questions that went deeper than the lesson. He offered to carry books for you, walked you to the staff table in the Great Hall, found excuses to appear outside your office in the evenings. At first, you thought it was admiration — the same way other students admired Professor Dumbledore, or idolized their Head of House. But Tom Riddle wasn’t like the others. He had a way of looking at you that made your stomach twist — not like a boy looking at his teacher, but like… a man who knew something you didn’t. A calculating interest that set fire under your skin. Tonight was no different. The last of your students had gone, the classroom smelled of herbs and smoke, and you were erasing notes from the board. And there he was. “Professor,” Tom’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth as glass. “I had some questions… if you don’t mind.” You turned, already suppressing a sigh. He was standing there with his books tucked neatly under one arm, his prefect’s badge catching the candlelight. His dark eyes fixed on you in that unnerving, unblinking way. “You’re here late again, Riddle,” you said, trying for firm. “Shouldn’t you be in your dorm?” “I prefer to be here,” he replied easily, stepping closer. “You explain things differently. Clearer. The other professors… they don’t challenge me.” His lips curved, almost a smile, but not quite. “But you do.” You forced yourself to keep writing on the board, heart hammering at his words. He’s just a student. Just a brilliant, unnervingly intense student. But then his voice dipped lower, closer now. “I think you understand me better than the others, Professor.” You froze. Chalk snapped in your hand. When you glanced at him, he was right there, leaning casually against the desk, eyes locked on yours with that same dangerous calm.

JEONGIN

It was 2019, that magical year when everything in K-pop felt fresh and bursting with potential. Stray Kids were still carving out their place, and you… you were already living this double life that most could only dream of. A European girl turned painter, model, artist — your agency had struck gold when they sent you to Korea. Between galleries, fashion events, and random JYP deals, your face was popping up in more and more places. You weren’t an idol. But you had that thing — the presence, the look, the energy. And because of it, you found yourself running into JYP’s newest kids on the block constantly. MV collaborations, set photoshoots, waiting rooms. They all knew you. At first, it was just surface-level friendliness. Bang Chan’s polite leadership, Felix’s sunshine greetings, Hyunjin’s dramatic bowing when you teased him. But there was one person you clicked with right away — Jeongin. He was young, shy, still carrying that adorable awkwardness that made everyone smile when he spoke. But with you? It was like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, he was bold, witty, throwing jokes back at you with that braces smile flashing every time. You were three years apart — just enough to make it feel like you were orbiting the same star, unlike the chasm between you and the older boys. It started so small. Shared snacks on set. A glance across the room that lingered a second too long. Him walking you out after a schedule even though his dorm was the other direction. Everyone noticed eventually. Noticed the way you lit up around each other, the way your knees would bump when you sat close, how your conversations never ended even when you both should’ve been asleep hours ago. The tension wasn’t explosive, not yet. It was sweeter, like holding your breath at the edge of something inevitable. That “before” stage, where everything is electric but unspoken. The villa was too quiet without you there. Well, quiet in the way that Stray Kids’ house never really was quiet—Bang Chan humming in the kitchen, Han sneaking snacks, Seungmin complaining about something trivial—but still, the air felt lighter as soon as Jeongin texted you that morning. “Pool day?” You didn’t even hesitate. Three years apart didn’t matter when energy lined up the way yours did. You grabbed your bag, packed a sketchbook for the ride, and practically ran through the streets of Seoul to catch the subway to their villa. The sun was bright, the air sticky but perfect for swimming, and your heart was already doing its soft little stutters. When you arrived, Jeongin was waiting at the gate, wearing that ridiculous, oversized t-shirt he always insisted he could “swim in just fine” with his shorts. He grinned like a kid who knew a secret. And, well… he did. The pool was massive, crystalline blue, surrounded by white tiles that reflected sunlight in dizzying flashes. You could already hear the rest of the members in the background, laughing and splashing each other, but you and Jeongin immediately took your corner—your own little bubble of chaos. He pushed off the edge and swam over, grabbing a pool float and flinging it toward you with a mischievous grin. You squealed, dodging, but he was too fast. Soon you were both splashing each other, laughing so hard that your stomach hurt, and you didn’t even care if someone noticed. Hours slipped by in bursts of laughter, little splashes, teasing glances. Every now and then his hand would accidentally—or not accidentally—brush against yours. Every time, it lingered just slightly longer than normal, a spark between the two of you. He would look at you, cheeks faintly pink from the sun, hair plastered to his forehead, and you could feel it—the unspoken tension, the “almost but not yet” of everything. At one point, you both collapsed on a float, side by side, letting the water hold you. He turned his head, hair dripping into his eyes, and smiled. “You’re insane,” he said softly, voice low enough that only you could hear.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i know you too well

LEE FELIX

You had grown up in the spotlight. Debuting at fifteen meant you barely had time to breathe before schedules swallowed you whole — practices, recordings, interviews, fan meetings. By the time you turned eighteen, exhaustion wasn’t new, but it weighed heavier lately. Classes during the day, training at night, expectations pressing on your chest until you could hardly tell if you were standing straight or just going through motions. JYP became your second home, and with it came its family of idols. You met them all — Twice’s noona energy, Itzy’s bubbly encouragement, and Stray Kids, who always felt like big brothers. They’d seen you grow from a rookie who bowed too much and stumbled through lines into someone who could own a stage. And then there was Felix. Felix wasn’t just an idol you admired. He was Felix. The boy who matched your silliness with his own, who stayed after practices to play stupid rhythm games with you, who shared tteokbokki after long nights of training. Over the years, he had become your person. The one you went to for laughter, for comfort, for distractions. Dinner dates that weren’t dates, amusement parks where you both screamed too loud, cinema trips where you threw popcorn at each other. And his voice… oh, his voice. It wasn’t fair. You had always confessed that it was your weakness, the thing that could melt your stress away like magic. At first, he’d use it to lull you into calmness, humming soft melodies when you were tired. But recently — since you’d turned eighteen, since things between you had shifted ever so slightly — it wasn’t just comfort anymore. It was something else. Bolder. Teasing. Like he knew. That night, you were drained. No scandal, no heartbreak, just pure exhaustion. School hit hard, your body felt heavy, your mind foggy. You didn’t even want to go home and face homework. And Felix, being Felix, noticed. “Come on,” he’d said when you left campus. “My place. You need a break.” You didn’t argue. His house was quiet when you got there, the kind of space that felt safe just by existing. You dropped your bag, flopped onto his couch like you belonged there — which, by now, you kind of did. He sat beside you, one knee bent up, watching you with that soft concern he always had when you were worn out. “Tough day?” he asked. You nodded, eyes shut. “School’s hell. I need, like, a three-day nap.” He chuckled, and you felt it vibrate through the cushions. “Or…” His voice dipped lower, playful. “You could let me talk you to sleep. My voice works better than melatonin, right?” Your eyes snapped open just to glare at him, but the smirk on his lips told you he meant to push your buttons. “Felix,” you groaned, shoving at his shoulder. “Stop.” “Stop what?” he asked innocently, dropping his tone even deeper on purpose. “I’m just offering some… comfort.” You hated how your stomach fluttered. He knew. He absolutely knew.

LEE KNOW

You lay on the floor of the huge villa’s living room, legs crossed on the fluffy rug, with one of Minho’s cats sprawled across your lap like you were born to be its throne. The air was quiet except for the faint hum of voices somewhere else in the house—Seungmin and the others in the kitchen, laughing about something you didn’t quite catch. Beside you, Minho sat with another cat curled against his chest. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly—more at the way you gently scratched the little creature’s chin, its purr loud enough to fill the silence. But when your eyes met his, something soft tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he said slowly, his accent thick, English clumsy on his tongue. He pointed at the cat on your lap, then gave a little thumbs up. You laughed, the sound breaking the silence like sunlight slipping through curtains. “Good,” you repeated, giving him the same thumbs up. That earned you a smile—small, but real. The two of you had perfected this language of nods, half-words, and expressions over the last few weeks. You didn’t need full sentences. Not when a grin said more than words could, not when leaning just slightly closer felt like a whole conversation. You reached for your phone, typing into your translator app. *He’s the cutest cat I’ve ever seen.* You turned the screen toward him. Minho squinted, reading slowly. Then, instead of replying into his own phone, he mimed something. Pointing at the cat, then at himself, then shaking his head furiously with mock offense. Finally, he jabbed a finger toward his chest. “Me. Cute,” he said, with absolute seriousness. You burst into laughter, tilting your head back. “Oh my god.” *He was so silly.* Minho’s ears turned a little pink, but his grin spread, proud of himself. He nudged his shoulder against yours lightly, as if testing how close he could get. And that was the thing—you never understood each other fully with words, but you always did with presence. The way he offered you snacks without asking, the way you’d pass him a blanket when he got too still, the way silence between you never felt heavy. Tonight was no different. Just you, Minho, and his cats. You reached over, daringly brushing some stray hair out of his eyes before you realized what you’d done. He froze, then blinked at you. Slowly, his lips curved again, soft this time. “Pretty,” he said in Korean, too quiet for you to catch. But maybe you didn’t need to understand the words. Because his gaze said it all.

EDWARD CULLEN

You had bad days sometimes — and Edward always knew before you even said a word. He felt it the moment you entered the house. Your heartbeat was uneven, breath shallow in that way it got when you were overwhelmed, annoyed, tired, or all three at once. Your thoughts weren’t loud like humans usually were. Yours were soft, foggy, messy. He never intruded — but he felt the edges of your emotions brush his mind like static. So when you came home from school, backpack slumping down your shoulder, face tight with exhaustion, Edward didn’t ask questions. He just held the door open and said quietly, “Come upstairs.” You followed him automatically. He was always the safest place. Edward’s room was calm like always — books stacked in impossible towers, pale light pouring through the tall glass windows, a music sheet on his desk with half-written notes. The house was quiet. Alice and Jasper were out hunting; Emmett and Rosalie were in the garage; Carlisle and Esme were downstairs. Just you and him. Like it usually ended up. You dropped onto the couch against the wall with a sigh that felt like it shook the whole room. Edward stood for a moment, watching you with those unreadable amber eyes — studying you the same way he studied symphonies. Then he moved. Silent as air. He sat beside you, close but never crowding, his hand hovering near your knee like he was asking without words: Can I? You nodded. He set his cool palm gently against your leg, grounding you without pulling you into his calm too fast. “Rough day?” he asked softly. You pressed your face into your hands. “You have no idea.” He did — he literally did — but he only smiled faintly and leaned back, giving you space to breathe. “Tell me,” he murmured. So you did. All the small humiliations of school, the petty drama, the stupid comments, the exhaustion gnawing at you. He listened like your voice was music. Not interrupting, not judging. Just… Edward. Eventually you slumped sideways until your shoulder rested against his. He didn’t move. If anything, he shifted just enough so your head rested more comfortably against him. His coldness felt good against how hot and overwhelmed you were.

DRACO L MALFOY

It was somewhere past midnight when the dungeons started to spin. The Slytherin common room was lit like a cauldron fire—green, gold, and warm with victory. The Quidditch Cup gleamed on the fireplace mantle like a trophy from war, and the team was drunk on triumph. And Firewhisky. Mostly Firewhisky. You weren’t even that drunk. Just pleasantly numb. You’d spent most of the night laughing too loudly with Pansy and Blaise, sipping some sickly-sweet Muggle drink Millicent had snuck in—blue and glowing like it belonged in a potions cabinet. Someone had put on music. Theo had taken his shirt off. Crabbe and Goyle were trying (and failing) to invent a drinking game that didn’t involve just hitting each other with brooms. Everything was glorious chaos. And then— He appeared. Draco Malfoy. Hair immaculate. Robes barely wrinkled. Holding a half-empty tumbler of Ogden’s like he’d been sipping it with dignity all night, not downing shots behind the tapestry like the rest of you. He wasn’t smiling. “Alright, that’s enough for you.” His voice cut clean through the noise like a knife dipped in ice. You blinked up at him, half-lounging on the couch, your drink still in hand. “I’m fine.” “Not the point,” he said flatly, already reaching down and plucking the cup from your fingers like it offended him personally. “You’ve had three of these glowing abominations. That’s two more than I tolerate.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tolerate? You’re not my father, Malfoy.” “But someone clearly needs to act like it,” he muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder at the madness around you. He leaned in.

WILL SOLACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stressed

BANGCHAN

The room still hummed with leftover energy from training — the echo of basslines pulsing faintly in the mirrors, the floor still warm under your sneakers from hours of movement. You’d collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, hair plastered to your temple, and somewhere in the haze of exhaustion, you caught Bangchan’s eyes watching you from across the studio. It wasn’t new. He’d been watching you since that first, impossible night — the night you stumbled into the live audition by accident, jet-lagged and too curious for your own good, and somehow blew the roof off with a performance you hadn’t even meant to give. Everyone had whispered “too tall, too foreign, too curvy, too young,” but when you moved, the rules cracked in half. It wasn’t polish that got them, it was you. That spark, that untamed thing they couldn’t choreograph. Chan had seen it first. Not just the talent, but the way the room bent around you when you stepped inside. And since then, he’d been there — the leader, the anchor, the one who always looked after everyone but seemed to linger a second longer near you. Training had been brutal. Months of aching muscles, sore throats, endless rehearsals where every mistake echoed too loud in your head. But somehow you survived it — sometimes on caffeine, sometimes on pure spite, and sometimes because Chan sat down next to you when you looked ready to break and said something stupidly kind in his tired, raspy voice. Now, the two of you were the last ones left in the studio. The others had gone, leaving water bottles and hoodies strewn like casualties across the benches. You shifted, stretching your legs out, and groaned. “Dead?” his voice teased, warm and low. “Buried six feet under,” you shot back, tossing him a look. He grinned, pushing off the mirrored wall and crossing the room, towel slung around his shoulders. He sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, close enough you could smell the sharp, clean sweat and laundry-soap smell of him. For a moment neither of you said anything, just listening to the hum of the air conditioning.

LEE FELIX

You grew up around idols without even meaning to. Your dad wasn’t famous, but to you, he was practically a star — one of JYP’s best security staff, the guy who kept people safe without ever making them feel caged. Stray Kids loved him like family. He’d been with them for years, and through that, you were pulled into their orbit. For a K-pop fan like you, it was surreal. Concerts, rehearsals, backstage chaos — things others could only dream about, you got to see up close. Not all the time, of course; your dad was protective, always making sure you stayed out of trouble. But you were there. And that meant, inevitably, you were around Stray Kids. They weren’t just faces on posters anymore. They became real. Messy hair, sweat-stained t-shirts, stupid inside jokes — and Felix, with his freckles and sunshine voice, was the one who made you laugh the hardest. That day, you’d finally convinced your dad to take you along to one of the events. Just a regular promotional thing, but to you, it felt like walking into the heart of everything. Flashing lights, fans screaming outside, stylists rushing around — you were living the dream. Until it happened. The sharp cramp in your stomach, the uncomfortable shift, the panic when you realized what was going on. Not here. Not now. Of all the days for your period to start, it had to be today. You slipped away as discreetly as you could, ducking into the restroom. Half an hour passed while you tried to figure it out — how to calm down, how to fix it, how not to cry in a place where cameras and people were everywhere. That was when you heard it. A knock on the door. Gentle, hesitant. “Hey… you okay in there?” Deep voice. Felix’s. You froze. Why him? Why now? “You’ve been gone a while,” he continued, voice soft but laced with concern. “I was… I was worried.” Before you could answer, the door creaked open a fraction — just enough for him to peek in, careful, respectful. When he saw your face, pale and flustered, his whole expression shifted. His teasing smile melted into something gentler. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, lowering his voice. “Hey, hey… what’s wrong?”