MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleeping together (ex!tension)

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood besties

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ age gap

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wrong room

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ best friends to lovers

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fell asleep together

MATT STURNIOLO

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

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ best friends forced to kiss

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ swimming (ex-friends)

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bathroom

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ weird tension (sis’s!bf)

PROFESSOR H POTTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ professor’s favourite

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stepbrother

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after school trip

KENAN YILDIZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ buzz cut

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ height difference

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school trip

ARCHIE GRAY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school trip (classmates)

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ insomnia (anxiety!user)

HECTOR FORT

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ it had always been u

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he still see you as a kid

JAVON WALTON

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

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party

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.

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dad’s friend

JAMES FLEAMONT P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ affectionate deer

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ big boy

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you two grew up

JASON GRACE

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

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ your boyfriend

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sister’s bf

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s best friend

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood sweethearts

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ adoptive dad

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stay (soft!bf x party!gf)

HECTOR FORT

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealousy (siblings)

NICK BIRCH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected

DEAN HUIJSEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ your teacher

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ injury (sibling!comforting-user)

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ freak

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover (bsf!kids)

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ vacation (bf!affectionate)

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ something changed

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fell asleep together

PEDRI GONZALEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ mommy and daddy

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ football camp

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ halloween night

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ in the middle of the night

OSCAR GISTAU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover morning (fresh!friends)

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ praetors

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trio became duo

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pregnancy

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ comfort (bully!user x shy!matt)

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a girl from academy

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tent

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.”

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ after hours

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ spoiling you with tips

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re his physio

KAZ BREKKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hidden vulnerabilities

LAMINE YAMAL

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

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ boxing enemies (boxer!user)

FERRAN KING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ affection (siblings)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleeping together (ex!tension)

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ calm down

LUCAS BERGVALL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ physiotherapist

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ studying together

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

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

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the frat boy’s obsession

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft friendship

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.”

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ love advices

THE GHOST

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on a mission (from cruel prince)

MARC BERNAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sunset date

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wedding night

MATT STURNIOLO

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

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone-time (cousin!distance)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bad friends

JAY BILZERIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ school project

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re screwed

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hurt/comfort

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone in the car

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ bsfs who hated romance

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ long-distance bf

JAMAL MUSIALA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ chill w him (best-friends)

MATTHEW MACDELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gay friend fell in love with u?

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ kissing partner

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.

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ farmer’s daughter (one!bed)

MARC GUIU

needy boyfriend

JADEN WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the cat’s approval

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ doin’ nothing (bsf!comfort)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet v3

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ enemies (hockey!user)

BUNNY CORCORAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a match

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ coraline (au!)

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ locking eyes (frat!boy, hs!au)

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ reunion (long-distance!bsfs)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ clingy (bsf!affectionate)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone in the car

JADEN GEE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ in his arms

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i could be a better bf than him

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a tease

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ squats

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cozy evening (bsf!tension)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ boxing together (boxer!user)

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ holidays (jealous!bsf)

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ met at the wedding

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ party (bsf!tension)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ angry bird

MATT STURNIOLO

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

OSCAR GISTAU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover night (fresh!friends)

RICCARDO CALAFIORI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ day with your brother’s friend

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ supporter

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ skinny dipping

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

PRINCE GEORGE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trouble-maker brother

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cowboy (opposite!attract)

DARING CHARMING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ ur boyfriend’s brother

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i never cheated

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friend

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always watching

FERMIN LOPEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tree house (kids!au)

DEXTER CHARMING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ nerdy boy

NICOLA ZALEWSKI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ picnic (cute!bsf)

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

LLOYD GARMADON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friends

BILL DENBROUGH

You had always known Bill Denbrough as Uncle Bill. Not by blood — never by blood — but in the way adults sometimes earned titles simply by surviving life together. He and your dad, Stanley, had history. The kind that lived in silences, in glances that lasted a second too long, in conversations that stopped when you entered the room. Stan never talked about those years. Whenever you asked about Derry, about the old friends he used to have, his jaw tightened. He’d say something vague — we grew apart, people change, some things are better left alone. End of discussion. Except Bill. Bill stayed. Not constantly. Not reliably. He drifted in and out of your life like a recurring character — always gone for months, sometimes years, and then suddenly back again. Famous writer. Interviews. Book tours. A face you occasionally recognized on TV before your parents changed the channel. But when he showed up? Everything felt warmer. You remembered him crouching down to your level when you were little, voice soft, careful, asking real questions like your answers mattered. You remembered how he listened — actually listened — how he laughed with his whole body, head tilted back, eyes crinkling. You remembered how he always smelled faintly of coffee and paper. As you got older, you noticed other things too. How he never talked down to you. How his eyes lingered a fraction too long when you spoke. How he called you kid long after it stopped fitting. He never had a wife. Never kids. Just stories, cities, hotel rooms, and that quiet sadness he carried like an old coat. Recently, you turned eighteen. Your birthday party was small — intentionally so. Stanley and Patricia invited close family, a few cousins, a handful of aunts and uncles. Nothing wild. Just food, laughter, clinking glasses, polite conversation. Bill had arrived two days earlier. He said it was easier to stay with you than book a hotel — deadlines, travel fatigue, needing somewhere quiet to finish edits. Your parents agreed without hesitation. They always did with him. You noticed things differently now. The way his presence filled a room without effort. The way his voice sounded lower than you remembered. The way he looked at you — not inappropriate, not obvious — just… attentive. As if he was suddenly aware that time had done something irreversible. When it came time for gifts, you sat on the couch, knees tucked in, smiling politely as you unwrapped scarves, books, envelopes with cash. Then it was Bill’s turn. He didn’t hand you the gift right away. He leaned closer instead, close enough that you caught that familiar scent again — coffee, ink, something unmistakably him. His mouth curved into a smirk that felt far too knowing for an uncle. “You can’t open it here,” he said quietly, just for you. Your brows knit together. “Why not?” He tilted his head, eyes dark, amused. “Trust me.” The room felt suddenly too loud. Too bright. You took the midsize, neatly wrapped box from his hands, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long. Your stomach flipped. You nodded, trying to play it cool, while his gaze lingered — unreadable, deliberate. Whatever was inside that box, you already knew one thing for certain: Bill Denbrough hadn’t bought you a normal gift. And he knew exactly what he was doing.

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ trapped with him

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wedding tears

BILL SKARSGARD

You’d known Bill Skarsgård since you were a kid. Not in a fan way. Not in a distant, poster-on-the-wall way. In a very real, very strange way—long shooting days, trailers, scripts, quiet conversations between takes. You were young when you worked on IT, young enough that everyone kept a careful distance, young enough that boundaries were firm and supervised and very clear. Still, somehow, you and Bill had gotten along effortlessly. He’d talked to you like a person, not a child. Asked about what you liked, what scared you, what made you laugh. He was gentle in that low-key Scandinavian way—dry humor, soft smiles, calm presence. When filming ended, you didn’t become best friends or anything dramatic. You just… stayed in touch. Rare messages. A comment here. A check-in there. Years passed. Life happened. And then suddenly—reunion. You were almost eighteen now. Taller, sharper, more sure of yourself. No longer the kid trailing behind the cast, clutching a water bottle with both hands. The same people surrounded you, but the dynamic had shifted. You noticed it immediately. Everything felt familiar—but different. The jokes were the same. The teasing. The way long shoots bonded everyone into this strange little family again. But now you were allowed in on conversations you hadn’t been before. Now you could sit wherever you wanted. Now no one blinked if you talked to Bill for a little too long. And Bill noticed too. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the way his eyes lingered a second longer when you spoke. The way he listened more closely. The way his humor softened when it was just the two of you. Canada was cold, as expected. The drive to the filming location was long, winding through endless stretches of road and pine trees. People shuffled seats without much thought, and you ended up in the back—Bill beside you, bags and jackets piled near your feet. It felt… oddly intimate. Not in a romantic sense. Just quiet. Comfortable. You talked about everything and nothing. About how weird it felt to be back. About how different it was now. About how surreal it was that you were almost an adult and still working with the same people who’d watched you grow up. You showed him something on your phone. He leaned closer to see. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ catch up

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.

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s best friend

PHIL FODEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fishing

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood trio

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ summer camp

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ adoptive dad

CHRIS STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ car (flirty-friendship)

JAMAL MUSIALA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ basketball together

BILL WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cool best friends’ brother

LAMINE YAMAL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ acne

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft spot

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.”

BUNNY CORCORAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the table

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ on his lap

WYLAN VAN ECK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ different but similar

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ farmer’s daughter (au!)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ acne (siblings)

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ mommy and daddy

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ complicated

MATT STURNIOLO

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

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet v2

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ third wheels

MICKY VAN DE VEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

JAEDEN MARTELL

Playing on It had felt unreal from the very beginning. You were fourteen and suddenly your life was schedules, vans, hotel rooms, mountains, scripts, laughter echoing between takes, and the kind of tired happiness that only comes from doing something you loved every single day. Filming meant money, yes—but more than that, it meant belonging. Free food, long days, discovering places you’d never seen before, and a group of boys who somehow became your people. You’d been terrified when you learned you were the only girl on set. That fear lasted maybe… an hour. Because it turned out you fit in effortlessly. You teased them, they teased you back. You argued over snacks, stole each other’s hoodies, made dumb jokes during makeup, and sat cross-legged on the floor memorizing lines together. It didn’t feel like work. It felt like a very strange, very loud friendship. Jaeden was… Jaeden. Quiet in a different way than the others. Observant. Funny when he chose to be. Somehow always near you without it ever feeling forced. You talked a lot—about films, music, random thoughts that made no sense at two in the morning. Sometimes those talks happened over late-night phone calls, whispering so no one else would hear. Sometimes it was just sitting next to each other, shoulders brushing, comfortable in silence. And of course—everyone noticed. They shipped you. Constantly. You pretended it was ridiculous. Because it was. He was older than you and still somehow shorter, which you loved to point out dramatically. “How does that even work?” you’d complain, laughing while everyone else made exaggerated kissing noises. But the truth was… people weren’t pulling it out of nowhere. You were close. Just… quietly. That day, filming in the mountains had been exhausting. Cold air, long takes, endless repeats. By the time you piled back into the van to head toward the city, everyone was half asleep and running on sugar and adrenaline. At one of the stops, chaos broke out. Jack and Wyatt rushed for the front seats. Finn and Jeremy claimed spots somewhere in the middle. No one even questioned it when you and Jaeden ended up at the very back. It felt natural. The van started moving again, darkness pressing against the windows. Streetlights faded. The hum of the engine settled into something steady and calming. One by one, voices died down. Heads leaned against windows. Someone snored softly. You pulled a blanket over your legs and held up a bag of sweets like a peace offering. Jaeden smiled. “You always come prepared.” The space was small. Your knees bumped. Your shoulders touched. Neither of you moved away.

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ personal trainer

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ summer-camp

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ halloween party together

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dog

JAMES EARL OF WESSEX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ annoying older brother

KNOX OVERSTREET

From the very beginning of the school year, everything felt off at Welton—and not in the bad way. Charlie had been right. His dream actually came true. The girls’ school collaboration didn’t just mean shared lectures and joint assemblies. It meant presence. Laughter echoing down hallways that used to be silent. Color where there had only ever been gray discipline. A handful of girls who didn’t bother with perfect hair or polite smiles—who laughed too loud, spoke too freely, and looked like they’d rather climb trees than sit straight. You were one of them. Dead Poets noticed immediately. How could they not? You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You were cocky without being cruel, confident without being loud about it. Smart enough to keep up with Welton boys—and mischievous enough to tease teachers just shy of punishment. And Knox Overstreet? Knox was infuriated by you. At first, it was admiration he didn’t know what to do with. You spoke before thinking. You laughed at his jokes and then turned around and roasted him for them. You challenged ideas in class. You had this way of leaning back in your chair like the world had already proven itself to you. And the worst part? He couldn’t have you. Not like that. Because somewhere between autumn and winter, in the cave, under poetry and candlelight and stolen courage, you’d said it clearly—casually, even. “I don’t want a relationship. Not now. Probably not here.” And Knox had nodded. Smiled. Pretended it didn’t sting. Months passed. And something shifted. The longing didn’t disappear—it mutated. Turned sharp, playful, electric. Teasing became a sport. Arguments turned theatrical. Every conversation was a battle of wit and timing, and neither of you ever backed down. It became a thing. That evening was no different. The common room was warm and loud, boys sprawled everywhere, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. The Dead Poets occupied their usual chaos. You and Knox had claimed the couch in the back—close enough to be involved, far enough to cause trouble. You were leaning sideways, one knee tucked under you, flipping through a book someone had abandoned. “You’re holding it upside down,” Knox said lazily.

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ demonic school

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cocky coach

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ quidditch world cup

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ countryside (bsf ver.)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ be my lover

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden lover

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.

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ truth or dare

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dance (cocky guy x popular girl)

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you’re his coach

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ expecto patronum

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gravity falls (au!siblings)

JOAO FELIX

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ truth or dare

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ prefect’s bathroom

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

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sirius’ girlfriend

HENRY WINTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepless nights

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ extra time

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s care

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ siblings

PROFESSOR H POTTER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ call me harry

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ birthday boy

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?”

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.

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ his plus one

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ childhood friends reunion

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.

MARCUS RASHFORD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ tattoo artist

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.

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealousy

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ opposites attract

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a bet

EDMUND PEVENSIE

You had learned Edmund in fragments. In sharp remarks thrown like stones. In long silences that followed you down castle corridors. In the way he walked beside you—not quite with you, not quite away—like he couldn’t decide whether your presence was comfort or torment. Back when you’d first met him, during the chaos of Caspian’s war, he had been exactly as everyone warned: sharp-tongued, defensive, forever living in the shadow of a brother who seemed carved out of legend. You were closest in age, so you were paired together constantly—guard duty, errands, strategy discussions that always dissolved into bickering. You teased him. He teased you back harder. Sometimes you walked together without speaking at all, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. Sometimes you laughed until your sides hurt. Sometimes you annoyed each other so badly that Susan threatened to separate you like children. And somehow—quietly, dangerously—you grew close. Edmund never said much about his feelings. He didn’t have to. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened when Peter entered the room. In the way his eyes followed you when you spoke to his brother, then flicked away like he’d been caught doing something shameful. You didn’t know whether it was real or imagined—that attention he thought you gave Peter—but Edmund felt it like a wound. Peter was everything Edmund feared he wasn’t. And Edmund noticed everything. After the Telmarine war ended, Cair Paravel filled with peace again—sunlight on stone, laughter echoing through halls, banners fluttering instead of war cries. It should have been easy to breathe. But jealousy doesn’t care about peace. That evening, the castle was nearly empty. Susan and Lucy had gone to the lower markets, Peter and Caspian off on diplomacy. Which left you and Edmund—apparently the “most capable”—to guard the castle. You both knew it was an excuse. Edmund was… off. Less sarcastic. More cutting when he did speak. When you asked him a simple question, he answered with a mockery that didn’t quite land, like he hadn’t meant it to hurt—but did anyway. Now it was late. The garden was wrapped in darkness, the air cool and heavy with the scent of earth and flowers. Lantern light cast soft shadows over stone paths. You sat a little apart, both pretending to be busy—him sharpening a dagger he didn’t need, you absently braiding a loose thread from your sleeve. “You’ve been staring at Peter a lot lately,” he said suddenly, voice casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. You two didn’t look up at each other, just pretended it was normal. As always.

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.

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.

JAY WALKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone at potters manor

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teenage dirtbag

LEO VALDEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always coming back

PRINCE GEORGE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ attention

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.

OLIVER WOOD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ ur worst rival

MARC GUIU

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teasing you

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.

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.

JAMES FLEAMONT P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ love potion

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teacher’s pet

WALKER SCOBELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ wandered at the wedding

MARCUS RASHFORD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ teachers pet

PAU CUBARSI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ body switching

HARRY JAMES P

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ it had always been u

OCTAVIAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ clasing fates (enemies)

KAZ BREKKER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ father figure or lover?

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ countryside (bf ver.)

EDDIE KASPBRAK

You had known Eddie forever. Or at least that was how it felt — like your lives had always been stitched together by habit and fear and quiet understanding. You were the girl in the Losers Club with the emergency supplies: water bottle, tissues, bandaids. At first you told yourself it was just practicality. Then it became obvious who you were really packing for. Eddie. Back in the summer of ’89, in the sewers, when the air was thick and Pennywise’s laughter crawled inside your skull, it was your hand Eddie clutched when his chest locked up and panic swallowed him whole. You remembered the way his fingers dug into yours, desperate, grounding. You hadn’t let go. Not once. Back then it was innocent. Survival-level innocent. You were all just scared kids pretending bravery. Bill led. Richie joked. And you watched Eddie breathe. After It was gone, though, something shifted. The others went back to being boys. Teasing returned. Stan and Richie laughed about Eddie’s fears like they were old jokes worn thin. You didn’t laugh. You stood between them and him — sometimes physically, sometimes with nothing but a look. Sometimes you protected Eddie from the world. Sometimes you protected him from himself. By the time freshman year at Derry High rolled around, Sonia Kaspbrak tightened her grip. Hormones. Bad influence. Dirt. Germs. Failure. Eddie started suffocating in his own house. And you became his refuge. Richie was still his best friend — loud, familiar, safe in a different way. But when Sonia screamed about muddy shoes or grades or breathing wrong, it wasn’t Richie’s door Eddie knocked on. It was yours. Your protectiveness stopped being a choice. It turned instinctive. You noticed his hands shaking before he did. The way his jaw tightened before the panic hit. And Eddie — Eddie learned that your touch quieted the noise better than any inhaler ever could. Now it was the middle of second semester. You were both seventeen. Derry High drowned in rain and gray skies that pressed low against the windows. You sat in your room — the only place Sonia allowed him, so long as the door stayed open “a crack.” Biology textbooks were piled everywhere. Diagrams. Notes. Highlighters bleeding through pages. You heard his pen before anything else. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Too fast. Too uneven. Eddie sat hunched over the desk, shoulders curled inward like he was trying to disappear into himself. His face was pale, too close to the book. Sweat dotted his forehead, dark hair clinging to his skin. “Eddie,” you said softly. “Breathe.” “I am,” he snapped, voice already fraying. “I am, I just—if I don’t memorize the Krebs cycle I’m going to fail, and if I fail my mom won’t let me go to that med camp, and if I don’t go then I’m screwed, and—” His voice climbed, thin and sharp. You saw it coming before he reached for his pocket. His fingers shook too badly to grab the inhaler. You stood without thinking. You moved behind him and placed your hands on his shoulders. They were rock-solid with tension. Eddie froze. For a split second, his breathing stopped entirely. Then it broke loose in a long, trembling exhale, like something inside him had finally cracked. “Leave it,” you whispered, thumbs sliding up to his neck, pressing gently, rhythmically. “Look at me.” He turned in the chair. For a moment, the contrast hit you hard. He wasn’t the fragile little kid anymore. His shoulders were broader. There was strength there now — real muscle under cotton and nerves. And yet his eyes… Dark circles. That lost, frightened look you knew better than your own reflection. He looked ten again. Like he needed someone to swear the monsters weren’t real. Richie would’ve joked. Said something you being his mommy. Again. Eddie leaned forward suddenly, pressing his forehead into your stomach. His weight sagged into you as if his bones had finally given up holding themselves together. You wrapped your arms around him without hesitation.

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

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ c’mere

TRAVIS STOLL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ thief of my sanity

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.”

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stupid weasley

JADEN WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he’s trying again

PROFESSOR SCAMANDER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ evening with tea&him

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

PROFESSOR SCAMANDER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ another afternoon together

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ hottub

PABLO GAVI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the stars (footballer user)

BILL DENBROUGH

When you accepted the position in Derry, people had warned you. Mid-year replacement. Scandal-ridden town. A class already fractured by something no one wanted to explain fully over the phone. You were barely in your twenties, fresh out of university, geography degree still smelling like ink and library dust. Most schools wouldn’t hire someone so young without experience — but Derry needed someone willing. You had been willing. On your first week, they told you about him. Bill Denbrough. About Georgie. They didn’t give you details, just the shape of it — tragedy, loss, a boy who used to be bright and loud and now was something quieter, heavier. You noticed him immediately. He didn’t cause trouble. Didn’t demand attention. He sat straight-backed, eyes focused, answering questions when called on but never volunteering first. His stutter worsened when he was emotional — you picked up on that quickly. He carried grief like it was stitched into his uniform. You tried to treat him like any other student. But you also made space. You asked him how he was — gently, privately. You encouraged him when he answered well. You let him stay a few minutes after class once when he seemed lost. You thought it was support. You didn’t realize what it looked like from his side. He started staying back more often. At first it was small questions about assignments. Clarifications that didn’t really need clarifying. Then it became comments about books you mentioned in passing. He started reading things you recommended. He paid attention when you spoke about university — about travel, about maps, about cities outside Derry. You noticed the way his eyes followed you when you walked across the classroom. The way he straightened when you approached his desk. The way he got strangely defensive if another student interrupted you. Once, you caught him staring at you the way teenagers stare at something they don’t understand yet. Not crude. Not even bold. Just intense. You recognized it. You’d been that age once. You also noticed the drawings. Maps at first. Detailed, careful. Then sketches in the margins of his notebook — the classroom. The window. Once, unmistakably, the outline of your profile. You pretended you hadn’t seen it. Because you understood. You were different from the girls his age — not because you were better, but because you were stable. You were calm. You listened. You didn’t laugh at his stutter. You didn’t treat him like he was fragile or strange. And he was sixteen. Grieving. Angry. Confused about everything in the world. He hadn’t known where to look. He thought about you at night sometimes, and it embarrassed him. Not in explicit ways — just in soft, desperate ways. He imagined being older. Taller. Someone you might see as equal instead of student. He imagined telling you things he didn’t tell anyone else. He imagined you looking at him the way you looked at other adults in the faculty room. It was a foolish kind of falling. And it went nowhere. That day, he stayed after class because he’d gotten into a fight with Richie — loud, stupid, emotional. Words about Georgie. Words that shouldn’t have been said. He was sitting alone at his desk when the classroom door closed softly. You hadn’t left. “You want to tell me what happened?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t accusing. Just concerned. Bill stared at the wood grain of his desk. “It w-wasn’t a big deal.”

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sleepover

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ for gods’ sake, stop

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a bet

BILL DENBROUGH

You’d thought it long before you ever dared to name it. You wished Bill were your dad. Not in a dramatic, movie-confession way. It lived quieter than that. In the way your body relaxed when you were in his house. In the way you slept better there. In the way you never had to ask for things — he just noticed. You grew up with Richie because he chose to keep you. Accident or not, he stayed. And you loved him, you really did. He made you laugh. He was proud of you in loud, clumsy ways. He had money, fame, stories from TV studios and hotel rooms. But he wasn’t there. Not really. You learned how to do laundry because someone had to. You figured out dinners early because takeout gets old fast. You learned to read bills, schedules, messes — how to fill silence with responsibility. Richie floated through your life like a brilliant, chaotic satellite. Loving, but unreliable. Always late. Always gone. Always assuming things would somehow work out. They usually did. Because you made them. Bill was different in a way that hurt to notice. He wasn’t around often — he lived far, his life measured in book tours and deadlines — but when he was there, he was there. Fully. Solidly. Like the world slowed down to his pace. When you slept at his place, there was tea waiting before you asked. Breakfast on a tray, because he noticed you liked eating slowly in the mornings. He cooked every meal like it mattered. Like you mattered. He taught you things Richie never even thought about. Not awkwardly. Not rushed. He explained biology calmly, respectfully, like your body wasn’t something embarrassing or dangerous. Like it was just another thing worth understanding. He listened when you asked questions and never laughed them off. Never changed the subject. He noticed when you were tired. When you were quiet. When you pushed yourself too hard. And that week — the one he invited you over because he finally had time — it felt almost unreal. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and warm dough. Afternoon light spilled across the counter, catching in his hair as he moved around you, sleeves rolled up, focused and steady. You stood beside him, dusted in flour, hands sticky and laughing when things went wrong. He showed you how to knead properly. Slow. Firm. Patient. “Like this,” he said, guiding your hands without rushing, then stepping back, letting you try on your own. You realized, somewhere between cracking eggs and stealing bites of batter, that this was what you’d always wanted without knowing how to ask for it. Not money. Not freedom. Not jokes. Presence. Someone who stayed in the room. Who followed through. Who made ordinary things feel safe. Bill didn’t try to be your father. That was the thing. He just acted like one. And every time you laughed with him in that kitchen, every time he checked the oven instead of checking his phone (he never did that around you), something in you ached softly — not painful, just heavy — with the knowledge that you’d grown up needing this, and only now were learning what it felt like.

NOAH RISLING

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ something was off

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ fed u

NICOLO SAVONA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s friend

STANLEY URIS

You had always been Richie Tozier’s little sister. That was the role. Loud brother. Louder mouth. Everyone knew you before they knew you. You were younger — by just enough to be annoying, just enough to be underestimated. Same class as Stan Uris, technically, though he was older, having started school late. You knew him in the way you knew most people in Derry: vaguely. A nod in the hallway. A shared desk in biology because the teacher decided you needed someone “calm and responsible.” Stanley Uris fit that description perfectly. He never complained. He never joked. He lent you pens when you forgot yours (often), and you thanked him, polite and distant. That was it. That was all. Until summer. Until the Losers Club. Richie hadn’t wanted you there. He argued. Loudly. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you were too young. Said you’d “ruin the vibe.” And yet somehow, one afternoon, you ended up in the Barrens anyway — sun beating down, dirt on your shoes, arms crossed like you dared anyone to tell you to leave. Stan was there. Standing slightly apart. Serious. Watching. At first, none of them wanted a girl around. Especially not one younger than them. But that lasted about five minutes. Because you opened your mouth — sarcastic, sharp, funny — and suddenly they were laughing. Because you didn’t flinch. Because you fit. You were like Richie, yes. Same mouth. Same timing. Just smarter. And, according to Eddie, “way more dangerous.” By the end of the summer, you were one of them. And by some cruel, perfect twist of nature, you needed someone to tease. Someone who reacted. Someone who flushed and scowled and snapped back with that barely-contained irritation that made it irresistible. That someone became Stan. Stan, who shared your class. Stan, who still lent you pens. Stan, who always sighed when you poked his arm under the table or whispered something just inappropriate enough to make his ears burn. It was perfect. Tonight, you were all packed into the Tozier house — sleeping bags everywhere, lights still on, laughter echoing through the living room. Mike and Bev weren’t there — parents said no — but everyone else was. Eddie’s mother had sent him with half a pharmacy, which Richie hadn’t stopped commenting on. It was late. Too late. Ben was asleep against the couch. Bill’s head was tipped back, eyes closed but listening. Eddie was half-awake, clutching his inhaler. Richie was still talking, of course (to himself). And Stan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch. Which meant he was within reach. You were laying on the carpet with your chin propped on your hands, legs kicking lazily in the air, watching Stanley Uris lose his mind in slow motion. Which, to be clear, was *delicious*. “So,” you said lightly, “is this what Jewish boys do at sleepovers? Card tricks and quiet judgment?” He froze. Just for half a second. You saw it. The way his jaw tightened. “I’m not judging,” he mumbled, clipped. “And these aren’t tricks. It’s just shuffling.”

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ awkward (ex)

PERCY WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ opposites attract

BILL DENBOROUGH

Six months. That was how long it had been since everything between him and you ended. Half a year since the words “we should stop” had been said out loud, even though neither of you had really meant stop. More like pause and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Bill told himself he should be over it by now. Normal people moved on. Normal people didn’t still feel their chest tighten when an old laugh floated across the room, or when a familiar voice said their name like it used to — easy, natural, like it still belonged to them. But Bill wasn’t over you. Not even close. He tried to explain it away logically. You were still in the same friend group. You still showed up everywhere — bikes rides, movie nights, after-school wandering that didn’t really have a destination. Of course it was hard to move on when you were still there. Still laughing with Richie, still arguing with Eddie, still sitting cross-legged on the floor like you always had. That had to be it. It had to be proximity. Not feelings. Because if it was feelings, then that meant the breakup hadn’t fixed anything at all. You and Bill had known each other for years before you ever dated. You’d been friends first — the kind that understood each other without trying. Same humor. Same quiet moments. Same way of looking at the world like it was scary but fascinating and worth paying attention to. Soulmates. That was the word everyone used back then. Even Richie, who never took anything seriously, had said it once without joking. And then it got complicated. You started flirting. With everyone. Or at least, that’s how it looked to Bill. Smiles that lingered too long. Jokes that weren’t meant for him anymore. Attention that used to be his, suddenly spread everywhere. Maybe it wasn’t betrayal. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe it was miscommunication piled on top of teenage fear. But it still ended. And endings stuck with Bill in a way beginnings never did. Tonight, everyone was at Stan’s house. It was supposed to be simple — board games, snacks, killing time until someone’s parents yelled at them to quiet down. Normal. Safe. Except somehow — somehow — Bill and you kept ending up together. Every game. Every round. Partners. Teammates. Sitting too close on the carpet, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing when neither of you meant to move.

BLAISE ZABINI

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected friendship

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.

EDMUND PEVENSIE

Edmund Pevensie had hated you from the start. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. You’d come back to Narnia as Caspian’s relative, a piece of the past folded neatly into the present, and somehow you fit. Too well, maybe. You were Edmund’s age, but life had carved something steadier into you. Responsibility. Softness without weakness. A quiet confidence that came from knowing who you were. Peter noticed. Of course he did. It started innocently—training together, planning councils, laughter echoing through the halls of Cair Paravel. Then hands brushing. Then dancing in the great hall when the torches burned low and the musicians played just for themselves. Then love, unmistakable and unhidden. Edmund watched it all. He told himself he didn’t. Told himself he didn’t care. But he knew the rhythm of your footsteps, the timing of your walks, the way Peter leaned closer when you laughed. Sometimes he hated himself for it—standing in shadows, pausing in corridors, catching glimpses of something he told himself he despised. He hated how Peter touched you like it was natural. How you leaned into him like the world finally made sense. And he hated you for making him feel that way. From the beginning, he’d been cruel. Not openly vicious—no, that would’ve been easier to confront—but sharp. Ironic replies. Smirks that landed just a little too hard. Comments disguised as jokes, especially when others weren’t around. When you worked together lifting crates or training, he muttered things under his breath, words aimed low and mean, hinting at your body as if it were something shameful. You weren’t thin like Susan. You weren’t small like Lucy. You had curves—strong ones, warm ones—and Edmund didn’t know what to do with that. It terrified him how much he noticed. You noticed his cruelty, of course. You weren’t blind. But instead of snapping back, you tried to understand. You made him tea when he trained too long. Asked about his lessons. Invited him—gently, always gently—to watch you play music or rehearse with the court performers. He always snapped back. Always shut you down. Peter hated it. Susan bristled. Lucy didn’t understand it at all. But you stayed kind. That evening, Cair Paravel felt hollowed out, echoing. The castle breathed differently when the others were gone. Lucy was wandering the cliffs, Peter had ridden to the market, Susan was deep in her archery drills. You stayed behind. You were sitting at the long kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, kettle already warm, when you heard footsteps. Heavy. Familiar. Edmund stepped inside, shoulders tight, expression already sour like he’d walked in prepared for a fight. Of course he was. You looked up and smiled anyway. Not soft. Not forced. Just… you. “Hi,” you said. “I was just making tea. Do you want some?” He froze, just for a second. It annoyed him how easily you did that. How you offered peace when he came armed with resentment. How your voice didn’t tremble, how you didn’t shrink, how you acted older than him without ever saying so. His jaw tightened. “I don’t need anything from you,” he muttered, moving past you too quickly. He hated how much he wished you’d look at him the way you looked at his brother.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ jealous

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ close enough

MATT STURNIOLO

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ taking care of baby together

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.

DEVON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ you shouldn’t

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ kreacher dragged u to his room

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ head over heals

PERCY WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ proper prefect

JUDE BELLINGHAM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ TO FIX!

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ alone at potters manor

RICHIE TOZIER

You’d been part of the Losers Club forever. Which, honestly, just made things worse. You met Richie through Eddie — your cousin, the human embodiment of anxiety with legs. From there it was Bill, Stan, Ben, Bev. The whole circus. You fit in too easily, like you’d been carved from the same chaotic blueprint as the rest of them. Especially Richie. Same humor. Same mouth. Same instinct to push buttons just to see what happened. The same kind of filthy jokes that made Eddie choke and Stan sigh like he was reconsidering his life choices. Everyone said you were just bros. Richie agreed. At least at first. You didn’t know when it shifted. There wasn’t a moment you could point to. It just… happened. Suddenly Richie was walking you home instead of biking off with the others. Suddenly he showed up at your place before group hangouts, pretending it was coincidence. Suddenly he remembered your favorite sweets and bought them “by accident.” He even wrote you poetry once. Which was deeply alarming. Your friendship didn’t fade — it bloomed. Grew teeth. Grew heat. Grew something that made it impossible to look at each other for too long without feeling weird about it. Talking about it was out of the question. Too embarrassing. Too dangerous. Too Richie Tozier. Now you’d been dating in secret for a month. A whole month of stolen moments and loaded glances and pretending nothing was happening while everything absolutely was. Tonight had been rough. Too much running. Too many near-misses. Too many arguments snapped out of adrenaline and exhaustion. By the time you all collapsed into the clubhouse around nine, everyone looked half-dead. The rain started not long after. Soft at first. Then heavier. The sound drummed against the roof while the others spread out wherever they could — hammocks, old chairs, the floor. Low voices. Sleepy jokes. That heavy, safe quiet that only came after surviving something together. You were sitting on the floor. Richie sat next to you. Close. Casual. Like always. He slung an arm around your shoulders like it meant nothing — the same way he did with the boys. Friendly. Normal. Invisible. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t dare. In the dark, his fingers started moving. Slow at first, like he was just restless. Playing with the ends of your hair. Twisting a strand around his finger, letting it fall, then catching it again. Your breath hitched, barely noticeable — but he noticed. Of course he did. His hand drifted lower. From your hair to the back of your neck. His thumb traced lazy circles against your skin, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. You clenched your jaw. Richie leaned closer, his mouth near your ear, voice barely more than air. “Relax,” he whispered, amusement thick and dangerous. “You’re gonna give us away.” His thumb pressed just a little firmer. You hated him. You loved him.

LEGOLAS

You had never been meant to be there. That much was obvious to everyone—from the very first moment Boromir realized you’d followed him out of Minas Tirith, cloak too big for your shoulders, hands shaking not with fear but determination. You were sixteen, human, and painfully mortal among legends. You could barely hold a sword properly, let alone stand beside warriors whose names would be sung for centuries. Boromir had been furious. So had Aragorn. Gimli had muttered something about “liability.” Even Legolas, calm and unreadable, had watched you with careful distance. Gandalf, though… Gandalf had only sighed, eyes soft, and said that some paths were chosen before feet ever touched them. You stayed. Not because you were strong—but because you were careful. Because you listened. Because you carried water, tended wounds, learned maps, remembered songs, kept watch when your eyes burned with sleep. You did not try to be something you weren’t. And slowly, the Fellowship stopped seeing you as a burden. They saw you as Boromir’s sister. As their responsibility. As one of them. Somewhere along the long roads and cold nights, Legolas began to sit beside you more often than coincidence allowed. It was strange, in the quiet way only elves could make things strange. He spoke little, but when he did, it was thoughtful. You noticed how he watched the world—how his eyes followed the wind in the trees, how he paused to listen to things you couldn’t hear. You asked questions. Real ones. About stars, about names, about why elves sang even when they were sad. He answered. In turn, you told him about human poetry. Clumsy, heartfelt verses written by people who knew their lives were brief. He listened as if every word mattered. As if time, for once, had slowed to meet you halfway. And then came Rivendell. You had never seen anything so beautiful. Water like silver thread, air that felt alive, lights drifting like memory itself. It almost hurt to look at it too long. That night, while the others rested, you wandered the terraces with Legolas beside you. The stars above were brighter than any you’d ever known. Later, he handed you a bow. You laughed at first—nervous, embarrassed—but he only adjusted your stance gently, never touching more than necessary. His voice was calm, patient, ancient in a way that didn’t feel heavy. “Breathe,” he said. “Do not fight the string. Let it become part of you.” You missed the target. Badly. He smiled—not mocking, not indulgent. Just warm. Again. And again. When the arrow finally struck true—just barely—you turned to him, eyes wide, joy blooming in your chest like firelight. For a moment, he looked almost… awed. Not by the shot. By you.

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ sirius’ girlfriend (hurt/comfort)

BILL DENBROUGH

You’d always been part of the Losers. Back when you were kids, it was easy. Everything was scraped knees and bike chains, muddy sneakers and shouting contests in the Barrens. You were loud, reckless, fast on your feet. One of the boys—not one of the boys, exactly, but close enough that no one knew what to do with you, so they didn’t try. Back then, your body didn’t matter. None of yours did. There were jokes, sure—Richie’s stupid, half-understood comments that went right over everyone’s heads. Eddie’s flustered protests. Bill’s quiet smiles. It was all harmless, blurred by childhood, by the fact that none of you really knew what you were saying yet. And then time happened. Sixteen crept up on you like something sneaky and unfair. Your body changed first. It happened quickly, all at once. You filled out in ways you hadn’t expected—softer lines, heavier curves, weight settling where it wanted to. Hips, thighs, ass. It wasn’t something you chose, and it wasn’t something you hated, exactly. It was just… noticeable. So were the stares. You noticed when conversations stalled as you entered a room. When jokes got louder, more forced. When eyes flicked away too quickly—or didn’t flick away at all. The boys you’d grown up with suddenly didn’t know where to look, where to stand, how close was too close. You weren’t the almost-boy anymore. High school changed you in other ways too. You started caring about clothes. About colors and fabrics and the way things sat on your body. You liked skirts. Lip gloss. Feeling pretty—not for anyone else, but because it felt like you were finally catching up to yourself. But it made everything awkward. The Losers whispered more now. You’d catch fragments of conversations that stopped the second you got close. You couldn’t tell if they were embarrassed, curious, confused—or all three at once. Bill was the hardest to read. Which was probably why you’d chosen him as your project partner. You were sprawled on the floor of his living room, textbooks open, papers scattered between you. The house was quiet in that empty way it always was—no voices calling from another room, no reminders that anyone else lived there. Bill lay on his stomach beside you, chin propped on his hands. He was supposed to be reading. You could tell he wasn’t. He kept glancing at you like his thoughts were tripping over themselves. You turned a page. The paper rustled loud in the silence. “Y-you okay?” you asked casually, not looking at him. He startled, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Y-yeah. J-just—uh—thinking.” About the project, he probably meant to say. He didn’t. You shifted slightly, tucking one leg under you, unaware of how the movement made him tense. Bill swallowed, eyes darting back to his notes with sudden intensity, as if staring hard enough might make the words behave. It hadn’t always been like this. Once, sitting this close would’ve meant shoulders bumping, laughter, easy quiet. Now there was something else in the air—something unspoken, heavy, humming beneath the surface. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He was still your friend. The same boy who’d ridden beside you for miles, who’d listened when you talked, who’d always been gentle in ways the others weren’t. But a lot had shifted.

JAVON WALTON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ new look

VICTOR CRISS

Victor Criss had always sat in the back row. He, Henry Bowers, Belch Huggins, and Patrick Hockstetter carried their reputation like a second uniform. Cigarettes tucked into sleeves. Fights behind the gym. Blood on knuckles. Teachers already exhausted when they walked in. Everyone knew them. And everyone stayed out of their way. Except somehow… you never managed to. You weren’t unpopular. Not exactly. You floated somewhere in the middle — friends with the louder, cooler girls, but not untouchable. You laughed at the right jokes. Wore the right clothes. Knew how to keep your head down. But from freshman year onward, Victor made that impossible. It was always small at first. A pen hitting the back of your head. Your chair kicked. A muttered comment just loud enough for you to hear but not loud enough to report. Tug on your hair from behind from nobody. Once, in sophomore year, you felt a sharp tug — and when you turned around, a small piece of your hair fell onto your desk. He just stared at you like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your friends laughed. *“Secret admirer,”* they’d tease. He bumped into you in hallways harder than necessary. Stood too close when you were at your locker. Watched. Always watched. Not loudly like Henry did. Not cruel like Patrick. Victor’s attention was quieter. And that was worse. The phone calls started freshman year. Middle of the night. Breathing. Sometimes a low voice distorted like someone trying to disguise it. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Click. You never proved it was him. But you knew. Now, junior year, the English teacher paired you together for a semester project. You’d almost laughed when she said it — because it had to be a joke. It had to be. Victor didn’t react. Just leaned back in his chair, chewing gum like he’d already expected it. You were *furious*. It took effort to even speak to him about it. He made conversation feel like pulling wire through your teeth. Short answers. Shrugs. A look that said he was tolerating you. But when you told him you’d work at your house — easier, quieter — he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine,” he said. Like it was a burden. He showed up that evening. Except he didn’t knock. You were in your room, sitting cross-legged on your bed with papers spread around you, when you heard the front door open. No doorbell. No greeting. Footsteps. Your stomach tightened. Before you could even stand, he was already in your doorway. Leaning against the frame like he’d lived there. “You could’ve knocked,” you said, sharper than you meant to. He shrugged. “Door was open.” You were almost sure it hadn’t been. He stepped inside without waiting for permission, eyes scanning your room slowly — posters, desk, bed, the small details that made it yours. His gaze wasn’t frantic. It was observant. Like he was confirming something. “You always sit like that?” he asked, nodding toward where you were on the bed.

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ padfoot’s affection

OLIVER WOOD

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

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.

PEDRI GONZALEZ

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ TO FIX!

CHARLIE DALTON

Charlie Dalton had never believed in slow, quiet love. He was fireworks. Noise. Bold gestures and reckless smiles. He flirted like breathing, laughed too loud, lived like rules were optional and consequences theoretical. And then there was you. From the moment girls arrived at Welton, Charlie noticed the friendgroup first—the way you moved together, loud and bright, unapologetic in a place that thrived on restraint. You were different. You laughed with your whole body. You argued with teachers. You quoted poetry like it mattered. You didn’t shrink. You were his sunshine. And God, he fell. Hard. Embarrassingly hard. The problem? You wanted nothing to do with him. You were polite. Civil. But distant. You called him a womanizer without even trying to be cruel—like it was a simple fact, like gravity. You said you didn’t want someone like him. Didn’t want games. Didn’t want charm without substance. And that stung more than you’d ever know. Because for you, Charlie would’ve burned the whole reputation down. He wouldn’t look at another girl if you asked. Hell, even if you didn’t. But you knew him too well—or thought you did. You saw the jokes, the flirting, the chaos. You didn’t see the way he stopped laughing when you entered a room. The way he watched you listen to Neil like the world was softer around him. The way he never interrupted you. You stopped sitting close to him during hangouts. Stopped teasing him back. The boys told you he was head over heels, and you decided—wrongly—that it was just another chase for him. Another girl to win. So Charlie did something stupid. He failed his History test. On purpose. The teacher sighed like the weight of Welton itself sat on his shoulders. And when Charlie—grinning, casual, pretending not to care—suggested that you could tutor him, it was already over. You didn’t even have time to protest. The weekend arrived too quickly. Your dorm was quiet, almost eerily so. Susan was gone. The afternoon light spilled across your desk, your notes already laid out, neat and precise. You sat stiffly in your chair when Charlie knocked, jaw set, determined to get this over with. He walked in slower than usual. No loud entrance. No dramatic bow. Just Charlie, holding his books like they mattered. “Hey,” he said softly. You nodded. “Let’s just… start.” He sat across from you, closer than necessary, but not touching. Not yet. You launched into dates and causes and revolutions, your voice calm, controlled. He actually listened. Asked questions. Took notes. Didn’t joke once.

STANLEY URIS

Stanley told himself he was fine. The sleepover was logical. Harmless. A normal social activity. There was no reason for his heart to be beating faster than usual, no reason for his thoughts to feel disorganized, no reason for that tight pull in his chest that he couldn’t name without immediately wanting to correct himself. He laid stiffly in his sleeping bag, arms crossed over his chest, staring straight up at the ceiling like it might offer answers if he concentrated hard enough. This was ridiculous. He was Jewish, for God’s sake. He followed rules. He respected structure. He believed in restraint, in order, in keeping thoughts where they belonged. Feelings were manageable if you didn’t give them space. That’s what his father said. That’s what made sense. So why, the moment everyone finally settled down, did his body betray him? Why did he shift — just slightly — closer to you without meaning to? You were quiet beside him, breathing evenly, turned toward him. Not touching. Not doing anything wrong. Just there. And somehow that felt louder than Richie’s snoring, heavier than Eddie’s muttered complaints, stronger than all the reasons in Stan’s head telling him to calm down. He didn’t want to look at you. He did anyway. You were watching the shadows on the ceiling, expression soft, thoughtful. Peaceful. The kind of calm Stan rarely allowed himself. Something about it made his chest ache — not painfully, just… deeply. He swallowed. This wasn’t allowed. Not like this. Not so close. Not with the way his thoughts kept drifting where they shouldn’t. He shifted again, accidentally — he told himself it was accidental — until your sleeping bags brushed. That was it. That was all. But it felt like too much. Stan’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, but he hated that he noticed it at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening, silently reciting prayers in his head — not because he was afraid of punishment, but because he needed something solid to hold onto. Rules. Order. Control.

BILL DENBROUGH

You didn’t mean for it to feel like this. It just… happened. Like most things with Bill. You’ve only been in Derry a year, Richie dragging you into the Losers Club like it was inevitable, like the universe had already decided you belonged there. And maybe it had — because from the moment you met Bill Denbrough, something settled into place. Easy. Familiar. Like finding the missing sentence in a story you didn’t know you’d been writing. Best friends, everyone said. And they weren’t wrong. You spent your summers on bikes, knees scraped, lungs burning, laughter echoing through streets that felt too small for all of you. Today was no different — sun high, heat heavy, the whole group riding everywhere and nowhere, stopping for sodas and stupid arguments and Richie’s mouth running nonstop. But it gets late. The sky softens into orange and blue. One by one, everyone peels off toward home. You don’t have your bike today. So you ride with Bill. You sit sideways on the back, hands gripping his jacket, forehead nearly between his shoulder blades. He pedals steady, careful, like the idea of you falling is unthinkable. The wind presses cool against your skin, and for a moment it’s quiet — just the sound of tires on pavement and Bill’s breathing. His house is closest. Your parents say they’ll pick you up in an hour. “C’mon,” Bill says, already heading inside. “Y-you l-look t-tired.” Upstairs, his room is dim and familiar — books stacked everywhere, papers half-filled, half-abandoned. You both collapse onto the bed, limbs heavy, exhaustion sinking into your bones. You lie on your back. Bill sits beside you, elbows on his knees, then eventually leans back too. You talk. You always do. About school. About fear. About the things that wake you up at night. About the things that make you feel alive. The conversation flows the way it always does — unforced, honest, raw in places you don’t share with anyone else. Eventually, it drifts where it always seems to drift. Writing. “I c-can’t g-get anything out,” Bill admits quietly, staring at the ceiling. “I-it’s j-just… n-nothing.” You turn your head to look at him. His jaw is tense. Frustrated. Like the words are trapped somewhere behind his ribs. “Then don’t try to make it perfect,” you say softly. “Just write anything. It doesn’t have to be good. Just… let it exist. You can try now.” He exhales, thoughtful. “I d-don’t h-have p-paper.” You glance around. Nothing. No notebooks. No loose pages. Just one pen, lying abandoned near the headboard. An idea sparks — impulsive, simple. “Use this,” you say, lifting your leg slightly. Most of it was exposed since you were wearing shorts. “Write on me.” “I—” he swallows. “A-are y-you s-sure?” You nod. “It’s just words.” He hesitates, then carefully uncaps the pen. The first touch makes your breath catch. It’s light — tentative — as the pen presses against your skin, cool ink trailing over warmth. He writes slowly, concentrating, like every word matters. You feel each letter as it forms, dragging softly along your calf. You talk while he writes. About characters. About dreams. About stories that feel too big to tell yet. His hand moves higher without either of you acknowledging it — from calf to knee, then just above. Still careful. Still respectful. But undeniably closer. Intimate. Your heart beats louder. You stare at the ceiling, acutely aware of how close he is, how focused, how gentle. His knee brushes yours as he shifts. The pen pauses occasionally while he talks, then continues — like the words are finally flowing through him. “This i-is g-good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I-it’s… w-working.”

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.

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.

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pinky finger

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s care

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ room of requirement

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.

PHIL FODEN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ he teach you fishing

JAYCE TALIS

You didn’t remember much from before him. Just flashes. Cold stone. Loud voices. Running. The kind of fear that lived in your chest and never really left. And then— Light. Warm hands. A voice that didn’t shout. That was how you met Jayce Talis. He was barely more than a boy himself back then. Twenty, maybe. Too young to be responsible for anyone else, let alone a scared kid from the Undercity who didn’t trust anyone. But he didn’t hesitate. He took you in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. At first, you expected it to be temporary. People didn’t keep things in your world. Not kindness. Not safety. But days turned into weeks. Weeks into years. And suddenly, you had a room. Books. Clean clothes. A place where no one raised their voice at you. Jayce never tried to replace anything you’d lost. He just… built something new. He made breakfast badly at first — burned toast, too much salt — but he kept trying. He read to you when you couldn’t sleep. He let you sit on the workbench while he built things, explaining every little piece like you actually understood. Eventually, you did. Science became your shared language. You learned how to take things apart. How to fix them. How to imagine something better and then actually make it real. You weren’t just someone he protected. You were someone he trusted. And somewhere along the way, without anyone saying it out loud, you became his. Not owned. Not controlled. Just… his person. “Jayce” turned into “Dad” sometimes. Then into teasing variations. And yes — sometimes, when you wanted to see him flustered, you’d call him “Daddy” just to watch him choke on whatever he was saying. He really loved it. Ten years later, everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had. Jayce Talis wasn’t just an inventor and student anymore. He was important. A councilman. A symbol of progress. A man people listened to. Piltover knew his name. You knew the way he forgot to eat when he was focused. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was stressed.The way he still checked if you’d locked the door at night. You lived in a high apartment now, overlooking a city that glittered like it belonged in someone else’s story. And yet— Friday nights were still yours. That evening had been long. Meetings. Conversations. Expectations. You saw the way they weighed on him, even when he stood tall in front of everyone else. Dinner had been nice. The kind of place where everything was too polished, too perfect. He’d relaxed more when it was just the two of you walking back. Now you were home. Shoes off. Lights softer. The city humming outside the windows. You disappeared into the bathroom first, washing your face, tying your hair back. When you came out, he was already in his room, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly undone — the polished councilman gone, replaced by the version of him that only you saw. “Movie?” you asked. He glanced up, a tired smile forming instantly. “Yeah. Definitely.” You didn’t even ask what to watch. You just dropped onto his bed like you always did, grabbing a blanket and wrapping yourself up in it. He joined a second later, lying beside you before leaning back, stretching slightly with a quiet groan.

JACK DYLAN GRAZER

The first day on the IT set felt unreal already—trailers, cables everywhere, adults yelling about light and sound like it was life or death—but then Jack Dylan Grazer showed up. And somehow, instantly, everything clicked. It was stupid how fast it happened. One look, one comment—something weird, something completely unhinged—and suddenly you were laughing like you’d known each other forever. Not polite laughter. Real, loud, snorty laughter. Jack didn’t look at you like you were new. He looked at you like, oh. You’re one of my people. He brought out your weird side without even trying. The voices. The inside jokes that made no sense. The random tangents about aliens, conspiracy theories, and why cereal is better dry. You grounded his energy just enough that he didn’t bounce off the walls—and he made you feel like being loud, strange, and expressive was not just okay, but encouraged. You got along with everyone, sure. Finn was kind, Sophia was cool, Wyatt hilarious—but Jaeden… Jaeden was different. He was quieter. Softer. The kind of person who sat next to you instead of across from you. Who listened more than he spoke. You played around with him—nothing serious, nothing named—but you could tell he felt things deeper than he showed. And yeah. Sometimes he looked at you and Jack with something unreadable in his eyes. Because you and Jack? You were too close. Too comfortable. Sitting way too near each other. Legs tangled on the couch, stealing each other’s snacks, saying the most unhinged stuff with zero shame. Touching shoulders, leaning in to whisper jokes, laughing so hard you had to pause whatever you were doing. But to you, it was simple. Jack was your best friend. Right? Also, he was short as hell, so obviously that meant nothing. Obviously. ⸻ The sleepover wasn’t supposed to be a thing. Someone joked about it. Someone overheard. Suddenly everyone knew, and the teasing started immediately. “Ooooh,” “Sleepover, huh?” “Better behave.” You rolled your eyes through all of it. Now you were sitting on Jack’s bed, hair still damp from the shower, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, a bag of Lays between you. Jack was cross-legged beside you, towel still draped over his shoulders, scrolling through videos on his phone like his life depended on finding the funniest one. “This one,” he said suddenly, shoving the screen in your face. “This one is you.”

SIRIUS III BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ cousin

SAM GOLBACH

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ demonic school

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.

JAVON WALTON

You’d come to the USA thinking the hardest part would be the language. Turns out, it was the food. Back home, you walked everywhere. Ate lighter. Moved without thinking about it. In America, everything was bigger — portions, cars, distances — and without even noticing, your body softened a little. Not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar. Your jeans fit differently. Your reflection felt slightly off, like a version of you adjusted for a new climate. So you decided to move again. Your host mom meant well. She always did. When she mentioned that one of her coworkers had a son who boxed — seriously boxed — and that his mom thought you could tag along to training, it sounded like fate dressed up as coincidence. That’s how you met Javon. You expected someone intimidating. Loud. Maybe cocky. Instead, he smiled at you like it was the most normal thing in the world that a European exchange student had wandered into his gym. You were sixteen, he was nineteen, and the age difference barely registered — not in that space. Not with the way he spoke to you. Calm. Focused. Encouraging. He never pushed too hard. *“Again,”* he’d say, gentle but firm. *“Breathe first.”* *“Good. That’s better.”* He trained you a few times a week. Drove you home when your host parents worked late. Explained footwork like it was a language you already half-knew. Treated you like someone worth investing time in — like a responsibility he took seriously. Almost like a younger sister. *Almost.* Through him, the world widened. His twin brother, loud and charming. His younger brother, always watching. His sister, sharp and confident, her girlfriend just as intense — both boxers, both terrifying in the best way. You slid into their orbit easily, learning how gyms smelled, how gloves felt after hours of use, how discipline shaped people from the inside out. Months passed faster than they should’ve. Now there was only one left. One month until the exchange ended. One month until “back home” stopped being theoretical and became real again. It had been nearly a year since the first time you stepped into this gym, awkward and nervous and unsure. Today felt different. Training was quieter. Gym less crowded. The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, turning dust into gold. You were working combinations when Javon stepped closer than usual, his voice dropping instinctively, like the gym itself required respect. “No— here,” he said, reaching out. He adjusted your stance with careful hands, guiding your shoulders, tapping your elbow into place. His touch was professional, precise — but you were suddenly very aware of it. Of how close he was. Of how easily his presence filled the space around you. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured. “Trust your body.” When you threw the punch again, it landed cleaner. Stronger. He nodded, pride flashing across his face before he caught it, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

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.

BILL DENBROUGH

Bill Denbrough had always liked evenings best. The Barrens felt different then — quieter, softer around the edges. The air cooled, the sky stretched wide and bruised purple, and for a little while it felt like nothing bad could reach them. Like they were just kids again, laughing until their stomachs hurt, throwing rocks, daring each other to get closer to the water than was sensible. You laughed a lot today. Bill noticed that. He always did. By the time they headed back, the three of you — you, Bill, and Ben — were tired in the good way. Mud on your shoes, grass stains on your jeans, that loose happiness that came from surviving another day together. Ben peeled off at his house with a wave and a promise to see you tomorrow, leaving Bill alone with you on the long walk home. Same way. Same silence that was never really silent. At first, the weather just felt… wrong. The air grew heavy, like it was holding its breath. Bill glanced up at the sky, frowning. “Th-think it’s g-gonna—” Rain hit them before he could finish. Not rain. A downpour. Within seconds, they were soaked, hair plastered to their foreheads, shirts clinging uncomfortably. You shrieked in surprise, then laughed — bright and breathless — and that sound cut through Bill sharper than the cold ever could. You both ran. The abandoned greenhouse loomed ahead like a miracle, its glass cracked and clouded but still standing. You ducked inside just as the rain turned violent, hammering the roof hard enough to drown out everything else. For a moment, they just stood there, breathing hard. Then you both burst out laughing. It was ridiculous — dripping wet, shivering, trapped in a broken greenhouse in the middle of nowhere. Bill wiped water from his eyes, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “Gr-great p-planning,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

OLIVER WOOD

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ capitan’s favourite

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.

EDDIE KASPBRAK

Eddie Kaspbrak had serious mommy issues. That wasn’t exactly a revelation. Growing up with a mother who treated the world like a biohazard and him like a walking medical emergency did that to a person. Fear came baked into his bones. So did guilt. So did the constant feeling that he was doing something wrong just by existing. So maybe it wasn’t surprising that when you showed up in Derry, something in him latched on a little too tightly. You weren’t his mother. Not even close. But you were everything she wasn’t. You arrived not long after the Losers’ Club had really become the Losers’ Club. Richie’s cousin from out of town, dumped into Derry like the universe thought things weren’t chaotic enough already. And somehow, instantly, you fit. It annoyed Eddie at first. You were too loud. Too confident. Too fearless. You didn’t flinch at the stuff that made his chest tighten. You joked about danger instead of panicking over it. You spoke to everyone like they mattered — Bill about comics, Ben about books, Stan about religion, Bev about everything — and somehow you made space for Eddie too, without making him feel small. That was the problem. You didn’t treat him like he was fragile. You treated him like he was human. The first time Eddie really broke in front of you, it wasn’t dramatic. Just an asthma attack tangled up with a panic spiral, triggered by some stupid argument with the boys. Voices raised, insults flying, Richie being Richie. Eddie bolted. He always did. You were the one who followed. He remembered sitting there, knees pulled to his chest, breathing wrong, lungs burning, head spinning — and then your arms around him. Solid. Warm. Real. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t rush him. You didn’t tell him to “man up” or shove an inhaler at his face like a weapon. You just held him. He cried into your shoulder like a little kid, and instead of pushing him away, you stayed. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. After that, something shifted. You and Eddie started finding excuses. Little ones. Harmless ones. “We’ll be right back.” “We’re getting water.” “We’re checking something.” Somehow, those excuses always led to the same thing — stepping away from the noise, the chaos, the teasing. Just the two of you. You talked. About everything. About fears Eddie never said out loud. About things you pretended didn’t hurt you. Sometimes you didn’t even talk. Sometimes you just sat close, shoulders touching, breathing slowing until Eddie forgot to be afraid for a while. He didn’t tell anyone. But he was completely, hopelessly smitten. Tonight was no different. Richie’s room was loud — jokes flying, someone arguing over nothing, music playing too quietly to matter. Eddie sat on the edge of the chaos, tense as always, until you caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Stairs? He nodded before he could overthink it. You slipped out together, settling on the staircase like you always did — halfway between the noise and the quiet. Eddie leaned back against the wall, and you sat close enough that your arm brushed his.

HENRY BOWERS

You were a sensation the moment you appeared in Derry. Tall, foreign, sharp-featured. Your accent sliced through the hallway like glass. A Slavic girl in a town that hated anything it didn’t understand. They whispered before you even learned their names — about poverty, about communism, about “easy girls,” about where you must have come from and what that supposedly meant. You learned quickly that being different in Derry wasn’t just lonely. It was dangerous. The Losers were the first ones who didn’t look at you like a rumor. Bill listened. Beverly smiled. Ben flinched the same way you did. Richie joked too loudly, like noise could shield you. Eddie hovered. Stan watched carefully. You stuck with them because the rest of the town had already decided you were something to be corrected. And sticking with the Losers meant one thing. Henry Bowers noticed you. The first day you really saw him was the day you saw what they did to Ben. The way they cornered him, laughed, pressed him smaller and smaller until he folded into himself. You didn’t think. You didn’t calculate. “Hey,” you’d called out, sharp and loud. “Nice haircut, ginger squirrel.” The insult was stupid. Instinctive. Slavic bluntness with no filter. But it worked. Ben got away. Henry didn’t forget. The words came out sharp, accented, wrong in a way that made people freeze. Henry turned slowly. And smiled. From that moment on, it got worse. Names followed you down corridors. Hands brushed you on purpose. Hair pulling. Knife play like with Ben. Blood, bruises, fear. They mocked the way you spoke, twisted your vowels, spat fake words at you like insults. Sometimes you caught Henry watching you from across the yard, chewing on his toothpick like he was tasting the idea of you. You learned where not to walk. You learned when to keep your head down. You learned fear. That night, the air felt wrong the moment you stepped out of the theatre. It was late — almost ten. The streetlights buzzed weakly, throwing long shadows that didn’t quite line up with the buildings. Your acting bag hung heavy on your shoulder, shoes quiet against the pavement as you forced yourself to walk calmly. Your parents were out of town. You were alone. You felt it before you heard it. That pressure between your shoulder blades. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. Your spine stiffened. You listened. At first, nothing — just your breath, the distant hum of a car somewhere far away. Then it came again: the faint scrape of a shoe, careful, deliberate, keeping distance. Not running. Following. Your pace didn’t change. You’d learned better than to panic. Panic was what they wanted. You passed a darkened storefront, and in the glass you caught it — not a face, not clearly — just movement behind you. Tall. Loose-limbed. Familiar in the way nightmares are familiar. Henry Bowers didn’t need to talk or touch to be present. His violence was anticipation. The way he lived in your head even when he wasn’t there. The way he’d leaned in once at school and murmured something about how you “walked like you wanted attention,” his breath hot, his smile wrong. You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms. You didn’t look back. Looking back gave him power. Another step. Another scrape. Closer now. Your heart hammered, but your face stayed blank — Slavic stone, you told yourself. You’d survived worse than a boy who thought fear made him a king. The streetlight ahead flickered. You kept walking.

KNOX OVERSTREET

Knox Overstreet had always thought friendship with you was easy. Effortless, even. From the moment girls started attending Welton, the two of you clicked in that dangerous way—too fast, too comfortable. You joked like you’d known each other for years. You skipped classes together. You sat shoulder to shoulder on stone steps after lessons, talking about nothing and everything, laughing until your stomach hurt. Being with you felt natural, like breathing. And that was the problem. Because somewhere along the way, Knox realized he didn’t just like you. He wanted you in a way that had no place to go. You were out of reach—untouchable not because you were distant, but because you’d made it clear. No dating. No labels. Just fun. Just chaos. Just flirting with Charlie Dalton like it meant nothing. God, Charlie. Watching you mess around with him—laughing too loudly, leaning too close, exchanging those looks—made Knox feel stupidly, irrationally jealous. And since he couldn’t have you, he did the next best thing. Chris. He didn’t even like her. Not really. She was convenient. A distraction. Someone to pour his attention into so he wouldn’t stare at you like a fool every time you smiled at Charlie. And honestly? Compared to you, Chris was easy. She was taken by some jock, which somehow made it simpler—less dangerous. But you? You got invested. You talked about his “crush” constantly, teasing him, encouraging him, helping him like it was your personal mission. You didn’t know it was fake. You didn’t know it was survival. And he hated every second of it. Friday came like a sentence being carried out. After school, Knox announced—too loudly, too confidently—that today was the day. He’d go to Chris’s house. He’d make a move. He’d try. The guys whooped. Charlie smirked. And of course— You volunteered to help. So now you were in his room. Just the two of you. The door closed behind you with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. Late afternoon light spilled through the window, dust floating lazily in the air. You sat on his bed like you belonged there, legs crossed, chin in your hands, eyes bright with focus. “Okay,” you said, all business. “Walk me through what you’re going to say.” Knox leaned against his desk, arms crossed, heart doing something stupid in his chest. “I don’t know. Normal stuff.” You groaned. “No, no. You need confidence. Eye contact. Compliments—but not creepy ones.” You laughed. “God, you’re hopeless.” He smiled, because he always did when you teased him, even though it hurt this time. “What?” he asked. “You’re the expert now?” You shrugged, grinning. “I just know people.” You stood up and stepped closer, adjusting the collar of his shirt without asking, fingers brushing his neck like it was nothing. Like it didn’t send electricity straight through him. “See? Like this,” you said. “Relax. Shoulders back. You’re cute when you stop trying so hard.” Cute. He swallowed. You kept talking—about timing, about tone, about not being an idiot—but Knox wasn’t listening anymore. He was watching the way your mouth moved, the way you paced his room like it was yours, the way you cared so much about helping him end up with someone else. He didn’t want to leave this room. Didn’t want to go to Chris’s house. Didn’t want this fake plan or fake crush or fake anything.

BILL DENBROUGH

You hadn’t meant to fall into Derry. It just… happened. Your parents said it was “temporary.” A job thing. A year, maybe less. You nodded, packed your life into boxes, and told yourself you could survive anywhere for twelve months. Richie Tozier was the first crack in the concrete. Neighbor. Loud mouth. Knocked on your door like he owned the place, grinning, already mid-joke. You clocked him immediately — same sarcastic rhythm, same quick comebacks, same way of coping by never shutting up. He was ridiculous. Annoying. Weirdly stupid. And somehow… familiar. So you let him stick around. Through Richie, you noticed the others. Boys on bikes, cutting through the street like they belonged to it. Bill Denbrough. Stanley Uris. Eddie Kaspbrak. You didn’t know their names at first — just shapes and impressions. The tall one with the steady eyes. The stiff one. The anxious one. You made other friends too. Girls, a few guys. You stitched together a life out of necessity, told yourself this city wouldn’t swallow you whole. Then, a few weeks before the end of the school year — May, maybe — Richie knocked again. This time, he wasn’t alone. You opened the door and there he was, blocking the frame, with the others behind him. Not joking. Not smiling. Nervous in a way that made your stomach tighten. Something was wrong. They didn’t say everything. Not at first. Just enough. Something bad. Something weird. Something that had followed them for a long time. Richie said your name like it was a last resort. “You’re smart,” he said. “And you’re… I don’t know. You don’t freak out easy.” They needed help. You should’ve said no. Instead, something clicked into place — like a puzzle piece you didn’t know you’d been missing. And just like that, you were in it. Pennywise. The Barrens. Fear with a face. At first, they didn’t know what to do with you. A girl. New. Probably boring. Probably emotional. Probably going to get in the way. Then you spoke. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You made a joke — dry, sharp — and watched surprise flicker across their faces. You stayed. You fit. And then there was Bill. From the moment your eyes locked with his, it felt like a string pulled tight between you. Not loud. Not obvious. Something low and steady, humming under everything else. You caught him looking sometimes. Just a second too long. Richie teased him for it — cruely. He flushed, looked away, smiled like he didn’t know what to do with himself. It was slow. Careful. Friendship first. He started walking you home after class. Always an excuse — asking if you’d come hang out, if you were busy, if your parents were home. Knocking on your door like it mattered that he did things right. It was your first crush. And you were his. You felt it in the way he stood — solid, protective. Taller than you, shoulders already broad, voice deep and steady even with the stutter. The watch on his wrist caught the light when he gestured, ticking quietly like a secret you shared. He was so different from the girls you’d known. From the boys, too. Summer wrapped itself around Derry, and somehow, around the two of you. Today, you’re supposed to meet the Losers at the Barrens. Bill comes early — earlier than planned — and knocks on your door with that soft, hopeful look that always makes your chest do something stupid. “T-Thought w-w-we could w-walk t-together,” he says. You do. But not straight there. He takes you into town instead, buys ice cream without making a big deal out of it. Chocolate for you. Vanilla for him. You sit close but not touching, shoulders almost brushing, both of you pretending your hands aren’t shaking a little. It’s friendly. Totally friendly. There was time. An hour before the others had showed. So you wandered down to the edge of the Barrens and sat in the grass, cicadas buzzing, the sun warm on your skin. Bill stretched his legs out, leaned back on his hands. You laid beside him, staring at the sky. It was quiet in that good way.

PROFESSOR R LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ soft

CHARLIE DALTON

You were probably the youngest teacher Welton had ever seen. Fresh degree. Fresh nerves. Fresh hope that literature—real literature—could survive inside brick walls built to polish boys into obedience. The headmaster had needed someone quickly, and somehow that someone had been you. Three years older than your oldest students. Close enough in age to remember what it felt like to sit where they sat. Far enough to know you couldn’t afford to forget which side of the desk you stood on. The first weeks were… deceptively perfect. You were the only woman on campus. That alone commanded attention. Boys sat straighter, answered eagerly, watched every movement of your chalk hand like it mattered. You talked about poetry as if it were alive—dangerous, even. They listened. Then the novelty wore off. They started testing you. Questions that weren’t really questions. Side comments. Smirks exchanged across rows of desks. You were young, inexperienced, and they knew it. You held your ground—mostly—but every day took more energy than the last. And then there was Charlie Dalton. Charlie didn’t test you. He performed. Always late, always grinning, always something clever to say that toed the line between charming and insufferable. He raised his hand just to derail discussion. Stayed after class under the pretense of “clarifying themes” that didn’t need clarifying. Leaned in doorways like he belonged there. You shut it down. Repeatedly. Calmly. Professionally. It never stopped him. That week broke you. You were running on coffee and irritation, papers stacked too high on your desk, patience worn thin. The boys sensed it—like sharks, really—and Charlie pushed hardest. Comments louder. Jokes sharper. That smile a little too pleased with itself. When the bell rang that day, you didn’t dismiss him. “Mr. Dalton,” you said, voice clipped. “Stay.” The room emptied fast. He lingered, slow and theatrical, dropping into a desk like he had all the time in the world. “You look tense,” he said lightly, smirk wider than ever. “Hypothetically, I could help you relax, Ma’am…”

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ annoying teasing

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ a vampire

CEDRIC AMOS DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ real face (enemies-to-lovers)

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.

CEDRIC A DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ vampire’s love

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

LUKE CASTELLAN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ him&i (before betrayal)

JAYCE TALIS

Piltover liked to pretend that progress came from polished halls and brilliant minds raised in comfort. But sometimes progress crawled out of the Undercity. Bruised. Refusing to stay where it was born. You and Viktor were proof of that. The two of you had grown up in the smoke and steel of Zaun, where broken machines were more common than working ones and knowledge had to be stolen piece by piece. He taught you theory. You taught yourself survival. And together, somehow, you clawed your way up. Out of the Undercity. Into Piltover. Into the Academy. Most people who heard your story thought it sounded miraculous. They never saw the years behind it. The hunger. The endless nights learning from scraps. Piltover loved genius when it was useful. Even if it came from places they preferred not to acknowledge. By the time you turned sixteen, your name had already started circulating through research circles. Your work wasn’t identical to Viktor’s or the rising Hextech field, but it was close enough to attract attention. And attention meant encounters. Encounters with the one man whose name had become almost synonymous with Piltover’s future. Jayce Talis. The man of progress. The first time you met him, you had been thirteen. Jayce had been… different than you expected. You had imagined someone distant. Arrogant, maybe. A council darling who barely noticed people like you. Instead you found someone warm. Loud. Curious. And unbelievably tall. Even back then you remembered thinking he looked more like a warrior than a scientist. Broad shoulders, strong hands built for lifting heavy equipment, dark hair constantly falling into his eyes when he leaned over blueprints. He had knelt beside your workbench that first day like your ideas were the most interesting thing in the world. Not a child’s project. A real invention. That moment changed something. For both of you. Because after that day your paths kept crossing. Three years passed. And during those years everything changed. Your inventions became more refined. Jayce watched all of it happen. He helped when you asked. Sometimes when you didn’t. And because Viktor’s health continued to decline, something else slowly happened too. Jayce started looking after you. At first it was small things. Making sure you ate when you forgot. Bringing biscuits to the lab. Walking you back to the apartments when you stayed up too late working. But as Viktor grew weaker, the responsibility grew heavier. There were days Viktor could barely leave his chair. Days where his coughing echoed through the lab halls like a warning neither of you wanted to face. On those days Jayce stayed close. Not just for Viktor. For you. He made sure you rested. Made sure you didn’t push yourself into the same fragile state your brother lived with every day. He never said it out loud. But somewhere along the way you both understood something. You trusted him. More than anyone else in Piltover. And Jayce… cared about you far more than he ever expected to. Which was why when Viktor’s condition worsened beyond what Piltover’s physicians could treat, there was only one decision left. Find someone else. Someone far away who might know something the Academy doctors didn’t. That meant leaving Piltover. For weeks. So the two of you set out together. Just Jayce. And you. The journey took you far beyond Piltover’s shining bridges and orderly districts. The world outside the city felt raw and unpredictable compared to the clean precision of Academy life. Two weeks passed. The journey should have felt frightening. But strangely… It didn’t. Because somewhere along those winding paths and quiet nights under unfamiliar stars, something else grew between you and Jayce. Real trust. The kind built through long conversations by campfires, shared exhaustion after hiking endless mountain trails, quiet moments where neither of you needed to speak to understand the other. You hunted together. Jayce had turned out to be far better at it than you expected.

STANLEY URIS

Disclaimer: In this story, Stanley Uris is reimagined as Christian rather than Jewish. This change is made purely for fictional purposes within this alternate narrative. Stanley left Derry the way some people leave a burning building — quickly, without looking back. What happened in that town carved something permanent into him. Fear, yes. But more than that — chaos. Things that did not follow rules. Things that did not fit into neat systems. And Stan had always needed things to make sense. So he chose something that did. God. Not the vague kind. Not the cultural kind. The structured, disciplined, ritual-heavy kind. Theology. Doctrine. Latin phrases. Order. Silence. He went to the city to study, buried himself in scripture, in philosophy, in moral theology. If monsters had once lived in the dark corners of his childhood, he would answer them with candlelight and liturgy. He finished fast. Too fast, some said. Driven. Focused. Controlled. And then he came to a small town. A place where Sundays were sacred. Where old women whispered rosaries and children still learned hymns before they learned rebellion. He was young for a priest. That was the first thing everyone noticed. The second was that he was different. He spoke with clarity, but also warmth. His sermons were not sleepy recitations; they were thoughtful, almost intimate reflections. He made faith feel alive instead of inherited. And that’s why you liked listening to him. You were still in high school. Old enough to think deeply. Young enough to be restless. Your grandparents were pillars of the parish — always cleaning, organizing, volunteering. So you were there often. Dusting pews. Arranging hymn sheets. Singing during mass. The town was small enough that closeness wasn’t optional. People knew each other’s routines. Their struggles. Their birthdays. You had spoken to him first about something harmless — a question after a sermon. He had answered you fully, seriously, not dismissing you the way adults sometimes did with teenagers. After that, conversations happened naturally. He was passionate about his faith in a way that didn’t feel performative. But he could also laugh. You didn’t think about the age difference. Not really. Less than ten years felt small when you were young and he was still young too. It was admiration. At least, that’s what you called it. The day before Easter arrived cold and pale, though technically spring had begun. It was confession day — the most important stretch before Easter Mass. You had dance practice that ran late. By the time you arrived, the main doors were already locked. You hesitated only a second before trying it. It opened. Inside, the church was almost entirely dark. Only the altar candles burned low. Shadows stretched long across the pews. The air felt colder than outside. You heard movement near the confessional. He had been about to leave. For a moment, he simply looked at you from across the nave. You could barely see his expression, but you knew he recognized you instantly. “It’s late,” he said quietly. “I know,” you answered, breath still slightly uneven from rushing. “I’m sorry. Practice ran over.” There was a pause. A rule existed about confession hours. It had technically ended. He studied you for a second longer — then he nodded once. “Go ahead.” The church door shut behind you with a heavy sound. The emptiness swallowed it. You slipped into the confessional, the wooden door creaking softly. The interior was small, close. On the other side of the partition, you heard him enter. The ritual began. “In the name of the Father…” His voice sounded different in the dark. Lower. Closer. Not projected for a congregation — just for you. You shifted slightly, and through the screen, you could just make out the shape of his profile — the slope of his nose, the shadow beneath his brow. He was close. Closer than he ever was during sermons. The space felt smaller. You became suddenly aware of how alone you were. Of how he had stayed for you.

BILL DENBROUGH

Exactly one year, seven months, and twenty-seven days ago, you appeared at his school. it wasn’t quite arrival. You were tall, pale, unmistakable — a curvy Slavic figure that didn’t belong to the narrow hallways of Derry High. On your very first day, you were already surrounded. People leaned in, whispered, stared. By second break, everyone knew your story: European immigrant, businessman father. Exotic. Untouchable. Interesting. And worst of all — parallel class. Bill noticed you immediately. Not like the others did — loud, obvious, hungry. He noticed you the way you noticed a fire from far away. Still. Careful. Afraid to get burned. He watched. From the background. From doorframes. From the end of corridors during breaks. He learned your schedule without meaning to. Learned where you stood when you laughed with your friends. Learned how long you stayed by your locker. Learned which staircase you used. After a week, he learned you danced. He found the newspaper by accident — or at least that’s what he told himself. A small local article. Your picture. An advertisement for a show in Derry. Of course he went. He sat in the back row, heart pounding so loudly he thought people could hear it. Watched the way you moved like gravity worked differently on you. Cut the picture out later. Folded it carefully. Kept it under his pillow. At school, he drifted closer. Never close enough. Close enough to hear. Your accent fascinated him — the thick roll of your R’s, the way English bent around your mouth before you let it go. He listened to you talk to your classmates, to strangers, to teachers. He memorized your laugh without realizing he was doing it. He noticed *everything*. The way you dressed. How your hips moved when you walked — not stiff like the girls here. Different. Confident. The food you brought to school that smelled unfamiliar. You were kind. Funny. Talented. And Bill was terrified. Too quiet. Too skinny. Too broken by his own voice. Too Bill. So he didn’t talk. Instead, sometimes, he followed you home from a distance. Or rode his bike past your house, circling the block once. Twice. Just to see the lights on. Just to know you were there. The Losers noticed immediately. The sketches during tests. Your face in the margins of his notebooks. The folded letter that slipped from his backpack one day. The way his eyes stopped seeing the world when you were nearby. They teased him. He stayed silent. Until Richie intervened. It was a long break, nearly a year after you’d arrived. You sat with your friends on the playground, laughing, sunlight catching in your hair. Richie wandered over like he owned the place, threw a few dumb jokes into the air. And somehow you laughed. You talked, remembered his name. Said hello to Richie every day. Slowly, carefully, you became adjacent to the Losers. Everyone else was awkward. You intimidated them without trying. But you were funny. You laughed at their jokes. You teased back. You stayed. It happened slowly. Like Bill was learning how to breathe again. He relaxed — a little. And you noticed things. How he finished your sentences. How he already knew the stories you told. How he nodded before you even explained what you liked. It was strange. But you didn’t know why. That day in the library, the air smelled like dust and paper and the beginning of another school year. Tests were coming. Stress hung low. After half an hour, Richie and Eddie bailed. Stan, Beverly, and Ben stayed to study English together. You struggled. Biology, especially. Scientific words tangled in your mouth. Definitions blurred when you tried to translate them in your head. So you asked Bill. He froze for half a second — then nodded. You moved to the corner of the library, sitting on the floor across from each other. Knees almost touched. The textbook lay open between you like a fragile treaty. Bill explained slowly. Carefully. He pointed to the words, pronouncing them clearly, breaking them down. “You s-see,” he said softly, “it m-means the s-same thing as—”

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.”

DRACO L MALFOY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ house unity project

REMUS JOHN LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ the lake knows

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.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden

RICHIE TOZIER

Richie Tozier had known you forever. Like, forever forever. Family barbecues. Sitting on opposite ends of ugly couches while your parents talked too loud. Inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. You were wired the same way—fast mouths, sharp humor, zero filter—except you had this annoying habit of being smarter than him, which Richie pretended didn’t bother him but absolutely did. When the Losers’ Club formed, you were already part of his world. It just intensified everything. Suddenly he saw you every day. Heard you laugh every day. Learned exactly how close he could sit before it felt… different. That realization made him insufferable. So when Richie showed up at your house one hot, dull summer afternoon and announced, “Get dressed, gorgeous, we’re going to the movies,” it wasn’t a question. You barely had time to grab your bag before he was already halfway out the door, sunglasses on like he was some kind of discount action hero. The movie was awful. Cheap horror, bad acting, predictable jumpscares. Perfect. You sat in the back row—Richie insisted, of course—his long legs stretched out, arm slung lazily across the back of your seat like he wasn’t fully aware of exactly how close he was to you. He didn’t shut up. Not once. Every character had a voice. Every dramatic pause got a whispered commentary. He leaned in constantly, mouth near your ear, breath warm as he muttered things that were half jokes, half absolutely inappropriate observations about you. “Oh, c’mon,” he whispered during dramatic scene. „If you screamed like that, I’d have a *problem*.”

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?”

NIKOLAI LANTSOV

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ desperate prince

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.

KNOX OVERSTREET

You had known, from the moment you accepted the position, that it would be complicated. Youngest teacher the academy had ever hired — whispered about in corridors, stared at in classrooms, tested by students who expected softness or weakness. You learned quickly how to stand straight, how to keep your voice steady, how to demand attention without raising it. Authority had become something you wore like a tailored coat: deliberate, earned. Still, you hadn’t expected him. You noticed Knox Overstreet the first week — not because he was disruptive, but because he wasn’t. He listened. Really listened. Sat forward, eyes bright, pen moving quickly, like he was afraid to miss something. When you asked questions, his hand rose without hesitation. When you spoke, he watched you like the world narrowed to your voice alone. At first, you told yourself it was harmless. A student inspired. A boy discovering literature and finding a teacher who made it alive. But Knox didn’t hide it well. He told himself it was admiration. He told everyone else it was motivation. He told his friends — with a grin too wide and a confidence too deliberate — that you were “everything.” That you were brilliance and fire and discipline wrapped into one person. Knox was smart about it. He studied relentlessly. Became the best in your subject without ever seeming like he was trying too hard. Quoted texts you hadn’t assigned yet. Asked questions that went deeper than the syllabus, questions that made you pause before answering — not because you didn’t know, but because he made you think. He stayed after class, always with an excuse ready. “Just one more thing, miss.” “I wanted to clarify the theme.” “I don’t think I understood your interpretation.” And you never refused. Because he was polite. Because he was brilliant. Because there was nothing improper in curiosity. Today is no different. The bell has rung. Chairs scrape. The classroom empties, voices fading down the hall until it’s just the ticking clock, the smell of chalk, and Knox standing by his desk, book tucked under his arm like it belongs there. You gather your notes slowly. Purposefully. He approaches your desk.

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.”

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.

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.

JEREMIAH FISHER

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ under the blanket

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dirty talker

BILL DENBROUGH

You’d always been part of the Losers. That never changed. What changed was Bill. Or maybe it was you. Either way, whatever you and Bill had didn’t look like anything from the outside. No loud flirting. No obvious touches. No jokes that crossed lines. If someone looked at you, they’d just see two people who’d known each other too long — standing too close, talking too quietly, sharing glances that lasted a second too long. Bill Denbrough didn’t do obvious. He did weight. You met him through Richie — of course you did — but Bill was different from the start. Quieter. Steadier. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, it mattered. You noticed early how he watched people. How his attention lingered. How he remembered things no one else did. Somehow, you became one of those things. You didn’t know when walking home together turned into a habit. When his hand started brushing yours on purpose. When late-night talks stretched until neither of you could pretend you were tired anymore. You didn’t know when it crossed the line. You just knew you’d been together — secretly — for a month now. Tonight had drained everyone. Too much fear. Too much adrenaline. Too many close calls that left your hands shaking long after the danger passed. By the time you all collapsed into the clubhouse, the air felt heavy with exhaustion. Rain started tapping against the roof. The others sprawled out wherever they could, voices low, fading in and out of half-sleep. Someone laughed quietly. Someone else yawned. It felt safe in that fragile, temporary way. You sat on the floor. Bill sat beside you. Close enough that your knees brushed. He didn’t move at first. Just leaned back against the wall, breathing slow and controlled like he always did after things went bad. You could feel the warmth of him next to you, solid and grounding. Then his hand shifted. His fingers slid against yours — not accidental. Never accidental with Bill. He laced them together slowly, like he was testing whether you’d pull away. You didn’t. His thumb pressed into your palm, steady and firm. A silent question. A quiet *are you okay*. You squeezed back. That was all it took. Bill leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his head dipping just enough that only you could hear him. “Y-you okay?” he murmured, voice low, careful. You nodded, though your pulse betrayed you. His thumb started tracing slow lines against your skin, grounding, familiar. Bill didn’t tease like Richie. Didn’t provoke. He anchored. Every touch deliberate. Every movement controlled like he was afraid of losing that control if he wasn’t careful. The rain got louder. Someone shifted across the room. Bill’s breath brushed your temple. His grip tightened just slightly — not possessive, not demanding — just enough to say I’m here. His gaze flicked to you, dark and intense in the low light, lingering for half a second too long. Something passed between you. Unspoken. Heavy. His other hand rested behind you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of it through your clothes. He didn’t touch — not yet — but the restraint was almost worse. Bill Denbrough always held himself back. Always had. His voice dropped lower. “D-don’t move,” he whispered, barely sound at all. Not a command. A plea. His fingers flexed against yours, knuckles brushing your thigh when he shifted closer. The contact was brief — accidental-looking — but his eyes never left your face.

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.

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.”

EKKO

You were Vander’s youngest. Which meant you grew up loud, surrounded by constant motion — voices overlapping, laughter cutting through arguments, the heavy sound of fists on tables and the quiet, tired sighs that followed. There was always something happening, always someone watching, always something to prove. Vi burned through life like it owed her something. Powder lived in her own world, chasing ideas no one else could see yet. And you learned how to move between both of them. And through all of it — there was Ekko. Benzo’s boy. Which meant he was always around, always somewhere in the background of your life until he wasn’t background at all anymore. From the beginning, it was easy. You built things together — or at least tried to. Half the time it was just scraps that shouldn’t have worked, pieces of metal and broken mechanisms that somehow came alive under your hands. You climbed rooftops, ran through alleys, argued over designs like it mattered more than anything. And for a long time, that was enough. The change didn’t come all at once. It never does. You were older. Not kids anymore. Still running the same streets, still laughing at the same stupid things — but now there was something underneath it. Something neither of you named, but both of you felt. Touches didn’t disappear. They just… changed. His hand on your waist when he passed behind you — it lingered now, just a fraction longer than necessary. Not enough to question. Just enough to feel. Your fingers in his hair stopped being careless. You noticed the texture, the way he stilled for half a second every time you did it. You still sat close on rooftops. But now your shoulders pressed together without either of you shifting away. Hands found each other naturally. By the time you were seventeen, it was dangerous in how normal it felt. You were still friends. Still argued. Still teased. Still built things together like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Some days it was nothing. Just you and Ekko, like it had always been. Other days… it wasn’t. It would start out of nowhere — a look held too long, a joke that didn’t land the same, a silence that stretched just a little too far. And suddenly the air would shift, pulling you closer without either of you saying a word. Then touching, rubbing, kissing, caressing. It wasn’t planned. And it was never talked about after. It would happen, pass, and then you’d go right back to normal — like it hadn’t meant anything. Except it did. You both knew it did. That was the problem. That day had been exhausting. The kind of day that left your body heavy and your thoughts slow. You’d been topside, moving through places that never really felt like yours, doing what you had to do to bring something back. Money, supplies — anything that made the effort worth it. Ekko had been at Benzo’s all day, fixing things that probably shouldn’t have been fixable anymore. You could picture him easily — sleeves pushed up, hands dirty, focused in that way he always got when he was trying to make something work. By the time you found each other again, neither of you had much energy left. But the moment you were side by side, it was there again. That quiet pull. Familiar. Unavoidable. Friday nights like this one were chaos. Vander had people over. Benzo’s place was worse. Noise, bodies, laughter spilling into every corner until there was no space left to think. So when Ekko glanced at you and tilted his head toward the stairs, you didn’t hesitate. You followed. Up, away from the noise, into something quieter. His room wasn’t much — small, cluttered, filled with half-finished ideas and scattered tools. But it was enough. It was his space. And somehow, it always felt like yours too. You dropped onto the bed with a quiet exhale, stretching your legs out slightly. “Finally,” you muttered. He shut the door behind him, the soft click cutting off the noise below. “Whole place is packed,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

NICOLO SAVONA

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ brother’s friend

FRED G WEASLEY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ pranks rivalry

STAN URIS

You didn’t fall into Derry so much as you were placed there. Your parents called it practical. Work. Opportunity. A fresh start. You called it temporary and promised yourself you wouldn’t get attached to anything that smelled like permanence. Derry didn’t care. It settled around you anyway. Richie Tozier was the first person who made it bearable. A neighbor. Loud. Sarcastic in the exact way you were, like your brains were tuned to the same frequency of dry humor and eye-rolling commentary. He was exhausting, ridiculous, constantly saying things that made you wonder how he’d survived this long. And yet — you kept opening the door when he knocked. Through Richie, you noticed the others. Boys at school. Boys on bikes. Always together. Bill with his quiet gravity. Eddie with his nervous energy. And Stan — always a little apart, posture straight, expression unreadable, like he was observing the world instead of participating in it. Then, a few weeks before the school year ended — it might’ve been May — Richie knocked on your door again. This time he wasn’t alone. The look on his face told you everything before he even spoke. Something wrong. The others stood behind him, tense, silent, eyes darting like they were expecting something to step out of the shadows. They didn’t explain everything. Just enough. Fear wrapped in half-sentences. A clown. The word Pennywise spoken like a curse. They needed help. You should’ve walked away. Instead, something clicked — that same instinct that had always guided you toward the truth, no matter how uncomfortable. You stepped aside and let them in. At first, they didn’t know what to do with you. A girl. New. Probably fragile. Probably emotional. Probably a liability. Stanley Uris was the most skeptical. You felt it in the way his eyes assessed you — not cruel, just careful. Measuring. Cataloging. Like he needed to understand where you fit before he allowed you to stay. Then you spoke. You were calm. Analytical. You asked the right questions. You didn’t laugh when things got uncomfortable. You didn’t panic when the subject turned dark. And Stan looked at you differently. The first time your eyes met, it was subtle. No lightning. No drama. Just… recognition. Something quiet and steady pulled tight between you, like a thread drawn too carefully to snap. It grew slowly. Friendship first. Shared looks when Richie went too far. Small smiles when you agreed on something without speaking. You caught Stan watching you sometimes — not staring, just… checking. Making sure you were still there. Bill teased him for it once. Stan denied everything. But he started walking you home after class. There was always an excuse. Asking if you were coming to the Barrens. Knocking on your door just to make sure you were okay. Standing a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he didn’t trust them to behave. It was your first crush. And his. You noticed things you’d never noticed before. How tall he was. The way his shoulders squared when he was focused. His voice — low, steady, grounding — and the watch on his wrist, ticking softly when he gestured, like time behaved differently around him. It felt… safe. Different from the girls you were used to. Different from everything. Summer settled in. That day, you were supposed to meet the Losers at the Barrens. Stan came early — earlier than planned — and waited on your porch, posture straight, expression carefully neutral. “I thought we could walk,” he said softly. You did. But not straight there. He took you into town instead, bought ice cream with the seriousness of someone making an important decision. You sat beside him, knees almost touching, pretending not to notice how aware you were of the space between you. It was friendly. Completely. And also… not. There was still an hour before the others arrived. So you went to the edge of the Barrens and sat in the grass, the air warm, the world strangely quiet. Stan checked his watch. “We’ve got time,” he said. You leaned back on your hands. He sat upright beside you, close.

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.

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.

TODD ANDERSON

You sat outside Professor Anderson’s office longer than you meant to, staring at the strip of light under the door like it might disappear if you waited too long. Welton had changed since the old days—everyone said so. Girls in the halls now, looser rules, a school trying to pretend it wasn’t built on pressure and fear. But anxiety didn’t care about reform. It still sat heavy in your chest, still made your hands tremble when expectations stacked too high. He noticed it the first week. Not in a dramatic way. Not with pity. Just a pause during discussion, a glance held a second longer than necessary, a gentle, “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to—writing counts too.” Small mercies. Intentional ones. Professor Todd Anderson was unlike any teacher you’d ever had. His classes were quiet but intense, filled with poetry read aloud not for performance, but for understanding. He asked questions that didn’t have right answers. He let silence breathe instead of crushing it. And when students spoke, he listened like their words mattered. You weren’t used to that. The first time he suggested you stop by his office, you nearly didn’t. You nodded, mumbled something noncommittal, convinced yourself it was just politeness. But a week later, after a particularly bad day, you found yourself knocking on his door anyway. That meeting had been… awful. At least, that’s how it felt to you. You couldn’t speak. Your hands shook. Your thoughts tangled. And then—embarrassingly, uncontrollably—you cried. He didn’t flinch. He handed you a handkerchief, waited, sat back in his chair and let the moment pass without rushing you through it. When he spoke, his voice was calm, steady, like he’d learned long ago that emotions didn’t need fixing—just space. “You don’t have to explain everything,” he said gently. “We can start wherever you want. Or nowhere at all.” That was the moment something shifted. After that, you kept coming back. At first, it was irregular. Then it became habit. A chair pulled closer to his desk. Tea cooling forgotten between you. Conversations that drifted from literature to life, from poems to fear, from expectations to the quiet weight of being someone who felt too much. Months passed like that. Sitting in his office late in the evening became a ritual—safe, predictable, grounding. The world outside shrank. Inside, there was just talk. Honest talk. About pressure. About identity. About the strange loneliness of being surrounded by people and still feeling unseen. He never made you feel small. Never made your vulnerability feel like a burden. Tonight was no different. You knocked softly, already knowing the answer. “Come in,” he called. The office looked the same as always—books stacked everywhere, papers marked with careful handwriting, the faint smell of old pages and tea. He looked up from his desk and smiled, that familiar, reassuring expression that made your shoulders drop just a little. “Long day?” he asked. You nodded, exhaling as you sat down. And just like that, the world felt manageable again.

CEDRIC AMOS DIGGORY

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ forbidden love

FINN WOLFHARD

You’ve known Finn for so long that it’s hard to remember a version of your life without him orbiting somewhere nearby. Auditions, table reads, long shoots that blur into each other. You filmed a few projects together before Stranger Things, but Hawkins is where everything really locked in place. Your role was technically “side,” but you were there — in most episodes, woven into the story, into the group, into the rhythm of filming days that stretched forever. You and Finn clicked immediately. Same weird humor. Same love for the awkward joke that lands just a second too late. Same way of coping with stress by being a little ridiculous. On set, you were inseparable — whispering during takes, sharing headphones between scenes, laughing so hard you got shushed by crew members. Somewhere along the way, the band happened. It wasn’t even planned. Just late nights, a guitar lying around, you humming something under your breath. Finn joining in without asking. You sang. He played. It felt natural, like it had always been waiting to exist. You treated him like a friend. Always had. But you weren’t blind. The way he looked at you — not quick glances, but lingering ones, like he was memorizing something. The way he got quieter when you were close, then louder when he was nervous. The way he denied everything a little too fast when someone teased him. You knew he liked you. He never said it. Never crossed a line. And you never named what wasn’t there, even though he knew. He always knew. He was perfect as a friend. Maybe even the best you’d ever had. But he wasn’t… what you thought you wanted. Too skinny. Too scrawny. Too awkward in that teenage way. You told yourself you wanted someone different — someone older, stronger, louder. A real man, whatever that meant in your head. Still, you liked the attention. Liked knowing he chose you, every time. Recently, though… something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. No big moment. Just a slow change in the air. He tried more. Not in an obvious way — just always there. Always offering help. Always listening a little harder. Standing a little closer. And you noticed. Today, it’s just the two of you. The rest of the band couldn’t make it — parents, schedules, excuses that didn’t matter. Your basement smells faintly like dust and old wood, amps humming softly, cables sprawled everywhere. You sit on the floor with lyrics scribbled in a notebook. Finn stands nearby, guitar hanging low, fingers absentmindedly plucking strings as he watches you. Not your mouth. Your face. “You ready?” he asks, voice casual but careful. “Yeah,” you say, glancing up. “Whenever.” You sing. Your voice fills the basement — raw, unpolished, real. Finn plays like he’s afraid to overpower you, like he’s following your lead instead of the other way around. When you finish, the sound lingers. Silence. “That was…” He stops himself, rubs the back of his neck. “That was really good.”

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ not-so-innocent game

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.

JAYCE TALIS

Piltover loved stories about progress. About how talent and determination could reshape the world. The Undercity was smoke, rust, chemicals that burned your throat, and the constant weight of survival pressing against every breath. Children down there didn’t grow up dreaming about inventions or academy awards. They learned quickly. How to fix broken machinery. How to bargain, run, endure. You saw machines not as scrap but as puzzles. Broken generators became lessons. Old discarded tech from Piltover’s waste channels became treasures you could rebuild, reshape, understand. You learned from anyone who would teach you. And when no one would, you learned alone. Eventually curiosity turned into something sharper. *Ambition.* You didn’t just want to survive the Undercity. You wanted *out*. And somehow, through talent, stubbornness, and a mind that refused to stop asking questions, you made it. *Piltover’s Academy.* The place that once existed only in stories told by merchants and smugglers. A city above the clouds. Clean air. Brilliant minds. And rules. *So many rules*. At first the professors treated you like a strange anomaly — a girl from Zaun who somehow understood complex engineering concepts better than some of their own students. Some admired you. Some distrusted you. Most watched carefully. You were only sixteen, but your work was already circulating through the Academy laboratories. Your inventions weren’t identical to the new Hextech technologies spreading through Piltover, but they were… adjacent. Innovative. Efficient. It also meant that your path kept crossing with someone else’s. *Jayce Talis. The man of progress.* The name alone carried weight in Piltover now. Inventor. Council member. Public symbol of the city’s future. You had known of him long before you ever spoke to him. Everyone did. But meeting him was… different. Jayce was nothing like the distant figure people described in lectures and public speeches. In person, he was louder. Warmer. Less polished. And significantly taller than you expected. The first time you stood near him you actually had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. He was broad-shouldered, built like someone who could lift half the lab equipment without effort. Dark hair usually a little messy from long hours working, sleeves often rolled up because he hated formal clothing. And his mind moved just as fast as yours. Your work fascinated him. Not because it was the same as his — in fact, it wasn’t. But the principles behind both of your work overlapped enough that you often found yourselves discussing ideas in the Academy labs. What started as professional curiosity slowly became something else. Comfort. Because for the first time since arriving in Piltover, you had found someone who understood the way your brain worked. And Jayce seemed to feel the same. Both of you lived in the Academy’s residential wing — small but comfortable apartments reserved for researchers and scholars. That meant your paths crossed constantly. Sometimes in the morning when you were both heading toward the labs. Or late at night when neither of you could sleep because an idea refused to leave your head. It became a quiet routine. Jayce knocking lightly on your lab door with two cups of coffee. Or you appearing at his workspace with a notebook full of calculations that needed a second opinion. He had a habit of bringing snacks. Biscuits, mostly. Despite the age difference, conversation between you felt… easy. Jayce was in his early thirties — a fact you only really noticed when someone else pointed it out. But he never treated you like a child. And you never treated him like some distant authority figure. You were simply two scientists who enjoyed each other’s minds. Though sometimes, when you looked at him for too long, you found yourself wondering. How was someone like him still alone?

WALKER SCOBELL

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ dance floor protector

NEVILLE A LONGBOTTOM

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ nerdy boy

STANLEY URIS

You moved to Derry three summers ago, thirteen and unsure, carrying boxes into a town that smelled like pine and asphalt and secrets. You didn’t know then that one wrong turn on your bike, one loud voice cracking a joke at the wrong time, would pull you straight into something that would change you forever. Richie Tozier dragged you into the Losers Club by accident. That was the story, anyway. One minute you were standing awkwardly at the edge of things, the only girl among a pack of strange, loud boys, and the next you were laughing too hard, pedaling too fast, running through the Barrens with scraped knees and grass stains on your jeans. At first, you didn’t know where to look. They were always together—swimming, biking, shouting, fighting monsters that shouldn’t exist and fears that very much did. You felt clumsy in your own skin sometimes, hyperaware of being different, but they never made you feel like you didn’t belong. Slowly, carefully, you fell in love with the chaos of it. With the freedom. With them. You fit in without trying. Your humor snapped easily into place with Richie’s. Eddie’s quiet gentleness felt familiar and safe. Bill’s creativity matched the way your mind wandered, always halfway into another world. And then there was Stan. Stanley Uris had always stood apart. Even back then, he seemed older somehow—more contained. He was serious, sharp-tongued, observant. Jewish, meticulous, quietly intense. He talked about birds with the same focus other boys reserved for bikes or movies. He cared deeply about things like order and cleanliness, as if the world might fall apart if he stopped paying attention. He was taller than the others, broader too, already growing into himself while the rest of them still looked like boys pretending. And somehow, standing next to him, you didn’t feel like a child anymore either. You fell in love with him quietly. It happened in the small spaces—accidental brushes of hands, glances held a second too long. Sitting outside long after everyone else had gone home, talking about nothing and everything. Walking together to get ice cream before meeting the others in the Barrens, sharing something that felt like a secret even when it wasn’t. It felt magical. Gentle. Unrushed. Year passed, and somehow you were still there—still together. A real relationship, even if it didn’t look like the ones people talked about. It was soft and intimate in its own way. Fingers threading through his dark curls. Comics spread out between you as you lay side by side. Late nights spent curled together, quiet and warm. Roses every weekend, without fail. You were waiting. Or maybe you were just content. You never talked about it—intimacy, the next steps, the things everyone else seemed obsessed with. There was no pressure. No urgency. Just the steady certainty of us. The Losers accepted it easily. Richie, of course, never stopped making sexual jokes. Stan rolled his eyes every time—and yes, he got jealous when you sat a little too close to Bill—but it never broke anything. Time moved the way it always does. Too fast. Suddenly it was winter. The new year crept in quietly. You were in high school now, old enough to go to the movies together without it feeling like a huge deal. That Friday, you went with the others—Stan, Richie, Beverly, Ben, and Bill. Stan’s hand never left yours, fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because actually, it was. He was your boyfriend. After the movie, you went home with him. His house was quiet. His room was neat and orderly, everything exactly where it belonged. A single lamp cast a soft glow across the space, shadows warm instead of frightening. You sat together on his bed, shoes kicked off, shoulders brushing. It felt safe. Familiar. Perfect. You leaned into him without thinking, and he adjusted automatically, an arm around you, steady and warm. With Stan, there was no chaos—only calm. Only certainty.

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.

EDDIE KASPBRAK

When you took the job in Derry, no one warned you about Mrs. Kaspbrak. They warned you about staffing shortages. About mid-year curriculum gaps. About “sensitive students.” No one warned you about the mother who would appear in your doorway twice a week with medical folders. The first time she came, she didn’t knock properly — she hovered. Pale, tight smile, purse clutched like it contained state secrets. “You’re the new teacher,” she said, not asking. You nodded. “I just need you to understand,” she began, already pulling out papers, “Edward has… sensitivities.” That word carried weight. It stretched. She told you about allergies, imaginary respiratory concerns, stomach pains that appeared during tests. She spoke as if the world were constantly trying to poison him and you were the latest variable. You listened. You reassured. You kept your voice calm. But you noticed something else. Eddie never spoke when she was there. He stood slightly behind her shoulder. Quiet. Watching your face. Waiting. In class, he was meticulous. Overprepared. Hands always clean. Desk aligned perfectly. He flinched at loud noises. Jumped at sudden questions but answered correctly almost every time. He tried so hard. Too hard. And when he stayed after class — which he often did — the mask slipped. The first time he cried, you weren’t prepared. It wasn’t loud. It was silent, frustrated tears when he couldn’t solve a problem fast enough. When he thought you looked disappointed. “I—I’m s-sorry,” he’d say immediately, even when you hadn’t corrected him harshly. He kept calling you “Mom.” It slipped out during a moment of panic. He froze the second it left his mouth. You pretended not to react. Just continued explaining the material gently, giving him dignity back in small pieces. You understood. Mrs. Kaspbrak hovered over him like a storm cloud. She called the school to ask if he’d coughed that day. She questioned grading policies. She once accused you of assigning homework that could “increase his blood pressure.” Eddie absorbed it all. He wanted approval like oxygen. And you, young and steady and attentive, became another authority figure he desperately wanted to impress. That day, he stayed after class because of a failed test. He didn’t cry immediately. He stood beside your desk, fingers twitching at the strap of his backpack. “I m-messed up,” he said before you could speak. You’d already graded the exam. It wasn’t catastrophic — just lower than his usual perfection. His breathing quickened anyway. “You’re d-disappointed.” That was the part that unsettled you most — the way he needed your approval so intensely it scared him to lose it. You leaned back slightly in your chair, giving him space without withdrawing.

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.

BILL DENBROUGH

The funny thing was that everyone else knew before Bill did. Everyone. Richie, especially. He saw the way Bill stared at you, how he moved closer every damn chance he got. And Richie had made it his personal mission to torment Bill about it — calling you Mrs. Denbrough, asking when the wedding invitations were going out, loudly announcing that Bill was “in love” whenever you walked into the room. Bill always shot back with something quick, sharp enough to shut him up. “Sh-shut it, Ri-Rich.” “D-don’t be st-stupid.” “I-it’s n-not like that.” That the way he noticed the small things — how you tucked hair behind your ear, how your concentration made your mouth tilt slightly — was normal. Platonic admiration. Nothing more. He told himself the way his chest tightened when you laughed wasn’t anything special. That the fact he always gravitated toward you without thinking — that was coincidence. Habit. Comfort. Nothing romantic. Except it was. Bill remained oblivious. Today’s ride to the glade was loud. As always Sun high, air heavy with summer, bike tires kicking up dust as Richie yelled something obscene about Eddie’s mom for the fifth time in ten minutes. Eddie complained. Bev laughed. Ben trailed behind, content. Bill barely heard any of it. Because you were there. When you reached the clearing, everyone scattered — diving into conversations, stretching out on the grass, arguing over absolutely nothing. Richie immediately started performing for an imaginary audience. Eddie followed him just to yell. You didn’t. You drifted toward the edge, toward the quiet. Bill followed without thinking. You sat together beneath the trees, knees brushing occasionally, close enough to feel but not close enough to call it intentional. The shade cooled your skin, cicadas humming somewhere unseen. You picked wildflowers absently, fingers gentle, focused. Bill watched you do it — not because he meant to, but because his eyes refused to look anywhere else. You handed him one without looking. You braided stems together, teaching him slowly, your hands close to his, sometimes touching. Each brush of your fingers sent something sharp and unfamiliar through him — not unpleasant, just… intense. You worked in silence for a while. It wasn’t awkward. It never was. Every so often, he caught you looking at him — not staring, not boldly — just checking. Like you wanted to know if he was still there, still with you in that quiet bubble away from everyone else. When your eyes met, neither of you looked away right away. It lingered for *seconds*. Bill felt his throat tighten. This was happening too often. “Y-You’re— you’re g-good at t-this,” he said finally, voice low.

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.

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.”

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ partner?

BRADY NOON

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ stuck together

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.”

BILL DENBROUGH

You were born seconds after Bill, but somehow he had always acted years older. Not because he wanted to — it just… happened. When Georgie left, the world narrowed. It folded in on itself until it was just the two of you in that quiet house, learning how to breathe again. Learning how to exist without the third heartbeat that used to echo down the hallway. You and Bill didn’t look alike the way twins were supposed to. Your eyes were brown, softer. Your body fuller, grounded. Bill was all angles — green eyes, thin wrists, sharp shoulders, like he had grown too fast and forgotten to fill in the rest. But inside? Inside, you were mirrors. Both of you hid in stories. Writing, drawing, imagining worlds where things made sense, where endings could be rewritten. You sat on opposite sides of the room with notebooks in your laps, sometimes not even talking — just being — and it felt like survival. Bill took charge without asking. He did the things that needed doing. Fixed what was broken. Carried groceries. Helped with chores before you even noticed they needed to be done. When you scraped your knee, he was already there with a tissue, jaw tight like he was the one who had gotten hurt. He never said it, but you knew. You were what he had left. At school, things blurred together. Same class. Same friends. Eddie and Richie and Ben gravitated toward Bill first — and you slipped in beside him naturally. If not for him, you weren’t sure how easily you would have fit into a group of boys. He walked you home. Waited for you. Always knew where you were. Most of the time, it felt safe. Sometimes… it felt heavy. Bill didn’t like it when Richie flirted with you — even as a joke. His jaw tightened, his eyes lingered too long. He stepped closer without realizing it. He didn’t like it when some guy whistled or said something suggestive. Didn’t like it when you grabbed Stan’s hand in the Barrens when Pennywise sent fear crawling up your spine. He told himself it was brotherly. When he found the magazine under your bed — some free thing you had grabbed without thinking, full of muscular boxers posing like statues — he lost it. His voice went sharp. Too sharp. “You c-can’t l-look at that,” he said, hands shaking as he threw it away. “You’re n-not— it’s n-not—” He didn’t finish. You stared at him, confused, embarrassed, a little angry. Later, he apologized. Said he was just worried. Said he didn’t mean it like that. You believed him. You wanted to. That evening, the Barrens were thick with summer — wet grass, cicadas humming, the air heavy enough to cling to your skin. You rode Silver home together, mud splashed up your shoes, sweat dampening your hair. You didn’t talk much. You rarely did after long days. At home, you showered separately. Changed. Met again without planning to. You ended up on Bill’s bed like you always did, sitting close enough that your knees touched. The notebook lay between you, its pages half-filled with crossed-out sentences and sketches of places that didn’t exist. Bill broke the quiet first. “D-do you… want to w-write?” he asked softly. You nodded and slid the pencil back toward him.

STANLEY URIS

Stan Uris believed the world made sense when it was clean. Clean lines. Clean hands. Clean thoughts. Everything in its proper place, like books aligned on a shelf or prayers recited exactly as they had been for centuries. Dirt was disorder. Dirt was what happened when you stopped paying attention. Sin, his father said once, was just another kind of mess. You were not a mess. That was the problem. Stan had known you longer than most people in his life. Longer than the Losers Club. Longer than the bike rides and the fear and the summer that changed everything. You arrived in Bangor with your family years ago, quiet and observant, slipping into the synagogue pew beside him like you’d always belonged there. From the beginning, it was routine. You sat together at every service. Youth meetings. Holiday dinners where your parents spoke softly with his, nodding in shared understanding. Familiarity became ritual, and ritual was safe. You studied Hebrew together in the empty synagogue when the light slanted through stained glass and dust floated like tiny constellations in the air. You practiced blessings, corrected each other gently, murmured prayers under your breath. Your voices echoed softly off the walls, careful not to disturb anything sacred. Stan liked that. Needed that. And yet. Lately, something had gone wrong. He stood at the lectern, Torah open before him, fingers gripping the edge like an anchor. The words were there — ancient, exact, holy — but his eyes betrayed him. They wandered. To your hands resting neatly in your lap. To the way your lips moved silently as you followed along. To the warmth of your shoulder brushing his when you leaned closer to check a line of text. It felt like spilling ink on a pristine page. The guilt came immediately. Sharp and hot. This was a place meant for devotion, not distraction. Purification, not confusion. He washed his hands before prayer. He straightened his collar. He focused harder, as if concentration alone could scrub his thoughts clean. But the more he tried to purify his mind, the more chaotic it became. You were his friend. Had always been his friend. That should have been enough. And yet something small and dangerous sparked beneath the surface — not loud, not reckless, but persistent. Like a smudge you couldn’t quite wipe away, no matter how many times you cleaned the glass. Today’s youth meeting was no different. You sat beside him, as always. Your clothes impeccable. Your posture perfect. Anyone looking would see two well-behaved teenagers, composed and devout, heads bent respectfully. Order incarnate. Inside Stan, everything was noise. He noticed the way your sleeve brushed his arm. The way your knee angled just slightly toward his. The quiet comfort of your presence, which once calmed him, now unsettled something deeper. He clasped his hands together, knuckles whitening, as if prayer alone could rinse the feeling away. But when you leaned over and whispered a question about the reading, your voice low and familiar, something in him fractured — softly, dangerously. For the first time, Stan wondered if some things weren’t meant to be purified away. And that thought — more than any dirt — terrified him.

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.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ unexpected help

JAVON WALTON

You grew up on the edge of the boxing world. Not inside the ring, not really — more like in its shadow. Your older brother lived and breathed the sport. Posters on the walls, gloves thrown over chairs, late-night fights playing on the TV while you curled up on the couch with snacks, half-listening. You were the couch potato sibling, the one everyone joked would never step foot in a gym. Until one day, you did. At first it was curiosity. Then stubbornness. Then something like pride. You started tagging along to trainings with your brother, sitting on the benches, watching the rhythm of it all — the footwork, the discipline, the way bodies learned to move with intention. That was where you met the Waltons properly. Jaden with his football schedule, Javon bouncing between training sessions and fights, both older, both already deep into their worlds. And somehow, you fit. You went to Jaden’s games. Cheered at Javon’s fights. Grabbed food together afterward like it was the most normal thing in the world. You weren’t the little sister for long — not really. You learned their humor, their pace, their language. Over time, Javon especially became… familiar. Comfortable. Easy. Best-friend territory. By the time you seriously decided to start training, he’d basically taken it upon himself to help you. Not officially — just small corrections here, teasing advice there, a quiet “keep your guard up” muttered under his breath. Today was supposed to be serious. A real session. Conditioning, drills, focus. Javon came in with that look — the one that said work. He wrapped his hands, paced the gym, talked through the plan like a coach. And then everything immediately fell apart. You tripped during footwork. He laughed. You mocked his instructions. He exaggerated them even more. Someone nearly dropped a jump rope, music switched tracks at the wrong time, and suddenly the entire session turned into chaos. Instead of discipline, there was laughter. By the end of it, the gym felt suffocating. The air was thick, heavy with heat and sweat. You were both bent over, hands on your knees, breathing hard, trying — and failing — to pull yourselves together. That’s when you kicked him. Not hard. Just enough to be annoying. He caught your leg mid-air like it was nothing. You barely had time to register the grin spreading across his face — all mischief, all challenge — before you tried to punch him back, light and clumsy, already laughing. “Really?” he said, still holding your leg, shaking his head. The next second was a blur. A slip. A laugh turning into a shout. Gravity winning. You both went down. The floor hit your back, the impact knocking the air from your lungs — and then Javon was there, landing on top of you, bracing himself at the last second so you didn’t get hurt. The two of you just lay there, tangled and breathless, laughter spilling out uncontrollably. Your chest rose and fell too fast. His did too. He was warm. Heavy in that solid, grounding way. His face ended up tucked near your neck as he tried to push himself up, still laughing under his breath, muscles shaking from exhaustion.

REGULUS A BLACK

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ i know you too well

TODD ANDERSON

You stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, knuckles hovering near the door, a familiar smile already tugging at your lips. Todd Anderson. God, he made this too easy. Welton had changed—girls in the halls, laughter mixed with old stone seriousness—but Todd stayed the same. Quiet. Soft-spoken. Eyes always dropping first. And hopelessly, painfully in love with you. You knew. You’d known ever since Charlie and the others had accidentally on purpose found his notebook. Sketches tucked between poems. Lines rewritten over and over. And your name—your name—scattered everywhere like a confession he never meant anyone to read. They teased him mercilessly after that. And you? You were worse. You told yourself it was harmless. That it was funny. That he’d survive. You teased him because it was easy, because his blush came fast and deep, because the way his breath stuttered when you leaned too close made you feel powerful. Because he was vulnerable and safe and never pushed back. And because—if you were honest—you liked the attention. You knocked. There was a pause. A shuffle. Then the door opened. Todd stood there in his dorm room, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, hair messier than usual, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He froze the second he saw you. “Oh,” he breathed. “H-hi.” His voice cracked just enough to make you smile wider. “Hi, Todd,” you said lightly, stepping past him before he could even think to object. “Am I interrupting something?” “N-no,” he lied instantly, hands fidgeting at his sides. Neil’s bed was empty. The room quiet. Safe. Too safe. You turned slowly, eyes taking him in like you always did, deliberate and unkind in the most casual way.

PETER PEVENSIE

You woke with a sharp breath, heart racing, the echo of hooves and steel still tangled in your dreams. Even though the war was over—won, sung about already by the dryads and fauns—your mind hadn’t quite caught up. Victory didn’t erase nightmares overnight. It only made the silence afterward louder. Cair Paravel was quiet as you slipped into the hallway, stone cool beneath your bare feet. Torches burned low. Narnia slept. You didn’t even hesitate about where you were going. Peter’s door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling out. He wasn’t asleep yet—sitting on the edge of his bed, sword leaned carefully against the wall, polishing the leather strap of his armor with slow, thoughtful movements. He looked up immediately when he saw you, like he always did, as if some part of him was tuned permanently to your presence. “Hey,” he said softly. Not surprised. Never annoyed. Just… there. You hovered in the doorway, suddenly feeling small again, younger than you’d been all day. “I had a bad dream,” you admitted, voice thin. “Can I… can I stay with you?” Peter didn’t even pause. “Of course,” he said, already setting things aside. He stood and crossed the room in two strides, careful, gentle, like you were something fragile and precious all at once. He guided you to the bed, pulling the blankets back. “Come on,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” You crawled in, and he lay down beside you, one arm immediately around your shoulders, pulling you close without question. He was warm, solid—real in a way that made the remnants of the dream lose their grip. His presence grounded you more than any victory ever could. You tucked yourself against his chest, your head just under his chin. He smelled like leather and clean fabric and the faint trace of pine from the forest—comforting, familiar. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. Edmund would’ve laughed, called you a baby, teased you endlessly for it in the morning. Peter never would.

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.

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.”

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.”

RICHIE TOZIER

Richie Tozier had noticed you long before high school. Not in a cinematic way. More like background static. Parallel classes in primary school. Same PE field sometimes. Shared camps where he’d see you across the cafeteria and think, oh yeah, that girl. You had your group. He had his. No crossover. Just awareness. Then high school happened. New building. New lockers. New anxiety. That weird first-week smell of cheap deodorant and panic. And suddenly you were in his class. Not all of the Losers — just him, Eddie, you, your best friend, and a handful of others who looked equally lost. At first it was just looks. Quick glances across desks. That silent *“oh, you again”* recognition from childhood corridors. The class turned chaotic fast. Too many boys. Too much noise. Too little control. And Richie, obviously, thrived in chaos. The teacher lasted maybe three weeks before giving up on organic seating and enforcing a plan. Which is how he ended up next to you. In every class. For the rest of the year. At first you looked skeptical. Like you expected him to be exactly what the rumors said — loud, obnoxious, impossible. He was all those things. But he was also funny in a way that wasn’t cruel. Observant. Quick. The kind of person who could read a room in seconds. You rolled your eyes at his jokes. Told him to shut up when he got too dramatic. Corrected him when he exaggerated stories. It fascinated him. Because Richie Tozier did, in fact, require attention 24/7. And you gave it to him — but on your terms. Within a month, you were sharing snacks. Within three, you were staying after class together “accidentally.” Within a year and a half, you were just… part of each other’s routine. You got along with the rest of the Losers naturally. Eddie adored you. Bill respected you. Even Stan tolerated the chaos more when you were around. And Richie? Richie decided you were his favorite person to impress. Now, Richie had the most “normal” household of the group. Warm parents. Stable home. Good money. Not obscene wealth — but more than enough. Enough that he always had cash in his wallet. Enough that spontaneous plans weren’t stressful. You weren’t poor too. But you didn’t have pocket money sitting in your jeans. If you wanted something, you had to ask. Which meant planning. Which meant waiting. Richie hated waiting. So he solved the problem. “I am, officially,” he’d declare dramatically while paying for your ice cream, “your *sugar daddy*.” You’d shove his shoulder every time. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.” “No, you won’t.” “Yes, I will.” “Nope.” And he meant it. Because it wasn’t about the money. It was about seeing you smile when you didn’t have to hesitate. About not watching you fake not wanting something. That Friday felt like spring had finally decided to show up properly. You all went out after school. Arcade. Ice cream. A comic shop where Richie insisted you needed a specific issue because “cultural literacy, babe.” He paid. Of course he paid. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered for the tenth time. “And yet,” he replied smugly, “you’re holding the comic.” When the others peeled off toward their houses, you lingered. Your dad wouldn’t finish his night shift for two hours. So you ended up at Richie’s place. His room was exactly what it had always been — messy in a controlled way. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. Comics stacked in uneven towers. Bed unmade. You were sitting cross-legged on it now, flipping through the comic he’d bought you. He lay on his stomach across from you, chin in his hands, just watching you. “What?” you asked without looking up. “You’re welcome.” You rolled your eyes but smiled.

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.

JASON GRACE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ always together

TOM M RIDDLE

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ inteligent souls

REMUS J LUPIN

𝜗𝜚 ₊˚ gentle

RICHIE TOZIER

Richie Tozier had always existed in flashes. He wasn’t steady like your father. He wasn’t structured like the life built around church schedules and carefully ironed shirts. Richie arrived in bursts — loud laughter, airport hugs, expensive cologne, stories about television studios and celebrities who were much less impressive than he made them sound. He’d sweep into your childhood like a storm and leave just as suddenly. And you loved him for it. He was the uncle who didn’t treat you like a child. The one who let you rant about music and books and whatever strange niche obsession you had that month. He asked questions no adult bothered to ask. He listened. Really listened. He never had a wife. Never had kids. Just late-night shows, flights, and applause. Your father never talked much about their childhood. Whenever you asked, he’d deflect with a joke or a tired look. But Richie? Richie would start to tell stories and then stop himself halfway, like he’d almost said too much. You grew up with the sense that there were chapters before you. Heavy ones. And Richie carried them differently than your dad did. When you turned eighteen, the house filled the way it always did for birthdays — cousins loud in the kitchen, aunts fussing over plates, your father pretending not to be sentimental while absolutely being sentimental. It wasn’t extravagant. It was warm. Richie had to stay a few extra days — something about a studio renovation and rescheduled filming. He complained theatrically about being “exiled to suburbia,” but he didn’t seem eager to leave. When it came time for gifts, he waited until the end. He always did. “Okay, okay,” he said, pushing his glasses up dramatically. “This one comes with instructions.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. He handed you a small wrapped box. Light. Compact. “Do not open that in front of the peanut gallery,” he added, jerking his head toward your cousins. “Trust me.” Your father frowned slightly. “Rich.” “It’s legal,” Richie shot back smoothly (it wasn’t). “Relax.” He smirked at you — that familiar, conspiratorial grin that made you feel like you were in on a joke no one else understood. You waited. You really tried to. But curiosity has always been your weakness. By one in the morning, the house was quiet. Dishes done. Guests asleep. The hallway dim. You sat cross-legged on your bed, the box in your hands. Your heart beat faster for reasons you couldn’t fully name. You peeled the wrapping away carefully… Then you saw it. For a second, your brain didn’t process. Then it did. Heat flooded your face. You just stared. He really— Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time. Shock. Embarrassment. Confusion. A sharp pulse of something else — not attraction exactly, but awareness. Why would he— Your phone buzzed. You nearly threw it. A text from him. **Richie:** “Before you spiral, read the card.” Your hands shook slightly as you dug back into the box. There was an envelope. Inside, a folded note in his messy handwriting. „*You’re eighteen. That means nobody gets to make you feel ashamed about your body, your curiosity, or your autonomy. I’m not your dad. I’m just the guy who thinks information is better than ignorance. If this embarrasses you, good. Growth usually does. If you hate it, I’ll take the heat tomorrow. But don’t let this town make you small.*” You stared at the words. Your heartbeat slowed, but not completely. Another text. **Richie:** “Also if you ever tell your father I’m dead.” That was uncle Richie. Too much. Too blunt. No filter. Trying to be progressive in the loudest way possible. You didn’t know whether to be furious or weirdly grateful. Probably both.

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.