#WiLteD Production

[the-lion-guard-88]

🥀We got some SMG4 Wilted Rose Syndicate AU Angst!🗡️

For those wondering who the silhouette woman is, her name is Martha and she is the second member of the Wilted Rose Syndicate

[philodendronplants]

Song of India_Pot

Light

The Song of India requires bright indirect sunlight, at least four hours a day. You will get the most vibrant leaf coloration in these conditions but be sure to remember that too much sun is a bad thing. It can cause scorch which will appear as browning of the leaf tips and margins.

Water

Keep your plant’s soil moist but not soaked spring through fall. You should keep it less watered in the winter. Never overwater this plant as it can cause root rot. One issue to be aware of is the genus’ sensitivity to fluoride. A good practice is using bottled, or purified water to water your plants. A symptom of fluoride damage is yellow wilting on the leaf margins.

Fertilizer

The Song of India should be fed bi-weekly in the spring and summer with a 10-10-10 water-soluble fertilizer diluted by half. No feeding is needed during the winter months.

[kathaelipwse]

Soft Drinks & Sharp Tongues | Y. Jeonghan

Pairing: Troublemaker!Yoon Jeonghan × Student Council President!Reader

Word Count: 7,974 words : Reading time: 29-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to lovers | Secret softie × Overworked achiever | Protective bad boy | Poor girl x rich school

Warnings: Bullying, classism, mild violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of loss (death of a parent), angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: She was the school’s strict student council president with no time for nonsense—or feelings. He was the academy’s golden boy troublemaker who got under her skin like no one else. But when a cruel comment sparks a brutal fight and her secret life is exposed, she realizes that the boy who always pushed her buttons… was also the only one who ever truly saw her. In a world that judged her for being different, Jeonghan stood between her and the world—and maybe even her own walls.

-

The crisp autumn air of senior year did little to soothe the persistent thrumming behind your temples. "Another day, another disaster waiting to happen," you sighed, the weight of the student council head badge feeling less like an honor and more like a lead weight dragging you down. Just as you managed to organize the stack of permission slips threatening to topple off your desk, a familiar, infuriatingly casual voice echoed from the doorway.

"Well, well, if it isn't the iron-willed Prez in her natural habitat," Jeonghan drawled, leaning against the doorframe with an effortless swagger that somehow never failed to irritate you and make you lose your mind at the name 'prez' altogether. He pushed off the frame, sauntering into your small office with the confident air of someone who paid the university's exorbitant tuition fees ten times over, despite the crumpled pink detention slip dangling from his fingertips.

"Lost again, Han?" you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, the exhaustion from last night's late shift at the café still clinging to you like a persistent shadow.

He chuckled, a light, airy sound that grated on your nerves. "Lost? Never, my dear Prez. Merely… exploring the less-traveled paths of disciplinary action." He flicked the detention slip onto your meticulously arranged desk, the corner bent and smudged. "Though, I must confess, your sanctuary of rules and regulations does possess a certain… stark appeal this morning." His eyes flickered around the small space, lingering for a moment on the wilting potted plant in the corner.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the familiar headache intensifying. "Han, for the last time, gluing Mr. Kim's prized toupee to the rotating blades of the science lab's ceiling fan is not an act of artistic expression. It's disruptive, disrespectful, and frankly, the third time this month. Do you have a personal vendetta against follicularly challenged educators?"

He feigned an expression of wounded innocence, his usually sharp eyes widening in mock surprise. "A vendetta? My dear Prez, I'm wounded by the accusation! Perhaps the toupee simply yearned for a more… dynamic existence? A chance to experience the thrill of flight?"

"The thrill of flight that resulted in Mr. Kim nearly having a coronary," you countered dryly, already reaching for the detention log. "That earns you a solid hour of supervised detention. With me." The thought of spending an entire hour in forced proximity to him was hardly your idea of a productive afternoon, but rules were rules, even for the infuriatingly charming Jeonghan.

"Ah, but that's where the real intrigue lies, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned closer, resting his hands on the edge of your desk, a disarming smile spreading across his handsome face, a smile that you knew had melted the resolve of many a teacher. "Spending quality time in the hallowed halls of disciplinary action, under the watchful gaze of the student council head? A rare and undoubtedly enlightening experience."

You simply leveled him with a withering stare, the kind you'd perfected over countless student council meetings and rule infractions. "Don't even try, Han. This isn't a negotiation."

-

Later that afternoon, just as you were finally catching up on paperwork, your phone rang. It was a flustered Mrs. Lee, her voice bordering on panic. "He… he's gone, (Y/N)! He's just… vanished!"

You sighed, running a weary hand through your hair. "Let me guess. He charmed his way out of detention again?"

"He… he complimented my new scarf," Mrs. Lee stammered, a strange, almost dreamy quality entering her voice. "And then he offered to help me carry a rather heavy stack of textbooks to the library… I only turned my back for a moment…"

"Of course, he did," you muttered under your breath, hanging up the phone with a frustrated click. It was always the same infuriating pattern. His effortless charm, that disarming smile, the casual flirtation – it was a weapon he wielded with infuriating effectiveness.

What the perfectly coiffed and privileged student body, with their designer clothes and trust funds, remained blissfully unaware of was the quiet battle you fought every single day. The silence in your small, rented apartment after your mother left for her second job echoed the gaping absence left by your father's passing.

"Just trying to make ends meet, sweetheart," your mother would say, her shoulders slumped with a weariness that mirrored your own. To ease her burden, you pulled double shifts at a small, out-of-the-way café, the clatter of cheap cutlery and the pervasive smell of stale coffee a stark and unwelcome contrast to the hushed, hallowed halls of your elite university.

"Another lukewarm latte, another step closer to paying the electricity bill," you'd often think, the meager tips barely making a dent in the ever-growing pile of overdue notices.

Your no-nonsense approach as student council head had already earned you the thinly veiled disdain of those who considered rules mere suggestions. "She thinks she's so high and mighty just because she got in on a scholarship," you'd overheard a group of impeccably dressed girls whisper in the hallway, their eyes flicking over your slightly worn uniform.

"No mercy for anyone. Probably has something to prove." They saw you as rigid, unyielding, someone who had forgotten her place. Little did they know the constant tightrope walk you performed daily, the relentless pressure to maintain your perfect GPA and your scholarship, the gnawing anxiety that one wrong step could send your carefully constructed world crashing down.

Yet, amidst the predictable chaos that Han routinely unleashed upon the school, there were these… strange anomalies. One particularly draining Monday, after a particularly grueling weekend of juggling assignments and café shifts, you arrived at your desk to find a single can of your favorite soda, the obscure brand you rarely indulged in, sitting there as if it had materialized out of thin air.

No note, no explanation, just the cool, familiar weight of the aluminum in your hand. And then there were the days when the familiar, agonizing cramps of your period would leave you pale and trembling. On those mornings, a small, neatly wrapped bar of dark chocolate – the expensive, imported kind you usually only dreamed of – would be placed discreetly beside your planner, as if someone knew exactly what silent battle you were fighting.

One particularly frustrating afternoon, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a nagging sense of unease, you finally decided to confront the enigma that was Jeonghan. He was leaning against a sun-drenched wall in the courtyard, effortlessly surrounded by a gaggle of giggling students, his usual magnetic charm in full effect. "Han," you called out, your voice cutting through the laughter, the authority of your position instinctively taking over.

He turned, that familiar, infuriatingly handsome smirk returning to his lips. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor, Prez?" he drawled, the title laced with a playful mockery that usually sent your temper flaring.

You gestured vaguely towards your office. "Those… things. The soda. The chocolate. Why?"

He simply shrugged, that characteristic air of nonchalance returning, his eyes flicking away as if the topic bored him. "Had extras." The casual dismissal was infuriatingly convincing, leaving you with a swirling mix of confusion and a strange, unsettling warmth that you couldn't quite decipher.

--

The fragile peace of the university courtyard, usually a backdrop for idle chatter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional strumming of a guitar, shattered with a sudden, brutal sound. A sharp crack, like bone meeting bone, ripped through the lunchtime murmur, silencing the surrounding conversations as abruptly as a slammed door. You, mid-sentence with the perpetually flustered treasurer, Sooyoung, about the logistics of the upcoming charity bake sale and the alarming rate at which the student body consumed red velvet cupcakes, whipped your head around, your meticulously organized clipboard scattering a flurry of sign-up sheets onto the paved ground. The scene that unfolded before you sent a shockwave of cold disbelief, followed by a surge of adrenaline, coursing through your veins.

Jeonghan, the ever-teasing, perpetually laid-back Han, the master of witty remarks and harmless pranks that somehow always skirted the edge of outright rule-breaking, was locked in a vicious, unrestrained fistfight. His usual playful expression, the one that could charm even the most jaded professors, was gone, replaced by a mask of raw, untamed fury that contorted his handsome features into something almost unrecognizable. His knuckles, already reddening, were white against the other student's increasingly bloodied face, his movements jerky and fueled by a rage you had never witnessed in him before. This wasn't the Han of stolen exam answers and strategically placed whoopee cushions; this was something primal, something dangerous, a side of him completely hidden beneath the layers of charm and nonchalance.

Instinct took over, overriding the shock that had momentarily rooted you to the spot. The student council head within you, the one who had to maintain order and uphold the university's (admittedly often ignored) code of conduct, kicked in.

You found yourself pushing through the stunned onlookers, a knot of fear tightening in your stomach, your voice surprisingly sharp and authoritative as you barked orders. "Break it up! Now! What in God's name do you think you're doing? Jeonghan! Stop!" It took the combined efforts of several bewildered students, their initial shock slowly giving way to a hesitant urgency, to finally separate the two combatants.

Han’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his usually bright eyes now dark with a simmering anger, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. The other student, a usually boisterous jock named Minho, captain of the university's baseball team, was a mess of split lips, a rapidly swelling eye already turning a sickly shade of purple, and a trickle of blood snaking down his chin.

Later, the sterile air in your small, often overlooked student council office crackled with an unfamiliar tension. Minho, sporting an impressive ice pack that did little to soothe his bruised ego, had been escorted to the university infirmary by a concerned coach. Han sat opposite you, slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chair, unusually silent. His usual playful demeanor, the easy smile that could disarm even your sternest lectures, was completely absent, replaced by a brooding intensity. The knuckles of his right hand were already starting to swell, a stark and unsettling testament to the brutal violence you had just witnessed. You sat behind your desk, the scattered bake sale sign-up sheets a forgotten mess, your mind still reeling from the unexpected eruption of fury.

"Han," you began, your voice tight with a mixture of disbelief, lingering shock, and a growing sense of unease. "What… what was that? I have never, ever seen you… like that." Your words hung in the air, the silence amplifying the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.

He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his injured hand, turning it over as if it belonged to someone else. Finally, he looked up, his eyes dark and troubled, a stark contrast to their usual mischievous sparkle. "He deserved it," was all he said, his voice low and rough, devoid of its usual playful lilt.

"Deserved what?" you pressed, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the cluttered surface of your desk. "A brutal beating in the middle of the courtyard? What in God's name could possibly have happened to provoke something like that?"

He hesitated, his jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, his usual easygoing nature battling with the raw anger that still emanated from him. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he finally mumbled, his gaze flicking away from yours.

"Nothing I need to worry about?" you repeated, incredulously, your voice rising slightly. "Han, you just engaged in a full-blown fistfight! This is serious. There will be consequences. And frankly, I need to understand what happened. For the official report, if nothing else."

He finally met your gaze again, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something beyond his usual teasing or indifference. It was a raw protectiveness, a simmering anger that still seemed to vibrate beneath his skin, a fierce loyalty that surprised you. "He said some… things," he mumbled, his voice still rough, the words seemingly dragged from him.

"What kind of things, Han?" you persisted, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You had a bad feeling about this, a sense that whatever Minho had said had struck a nerve, a deep and volatile one.

He turned away again, his gaze fixed on the peeling paint of the opposite wall, as if the answers were hidden within its imperfections. "Just… garbage. The kind of crap guys like him spout all the time. It's not important."

But the university grapevine, as always, was relentless and remarkably efficient. The whispers started circulating almost immediately, fueled by the stunned witnesses and the sheer unexpectedness of Han's violent outburst. It wasn't long before the unsavory details, twisted and embellished with each retelling, began to reach you. However, the core of the incident remained consistent.

Apparently, Minho, emboldened by his usual entourage of jock friends and a misplaced sense of entitlement that seemed to cling to him like expensive cologne, had cornered you near the library earlier that day. His words, repeated with a sickening accuracy by those who had overheard and were still reeling from the audacity, echoed in your mind, sending a shiver of disgust and a prickle of humiliation down your spine:

"Hey, scholarship princess. Heard you're scrubbing floors at some dive to pay mommy's bills. With a body like yours, you could probably make way more than minimum wage if you actually tried. Maybe drop the goody-two-shoes act and use what you've got, huh?"

The blatant objectification, the crude insinuation about your body and your desperate financial situation, the sheer disrespect in his tone, made your blood run cold. It was a violation, a disgusting intrusion that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, the carefully constructed walls around your private life crumbling under the weight of his vulgar assumptions.

--

Later that week, the memory of Minho's words still a bitter taste in your mouth, you found yourself alone with Han near the humming vending machines, the awkward silence between you thick and uncomfortable. You hesitated for a moment, the question weighing heavily on your tongue, then decided to broach the subject again. "Han," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper, the humiliation still raw. "I… I heard what Minho said. About… about my body… and… everything." The words felt foreign and shameful, a stark reminder of the vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal.

He flinched, his eyes, which had been idly scanning the snack selection, snapped to yours, hardening into a dangerous glint. "Who told you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"It doesn't matter," you said quietly, meeting his intense gaze. "What matters is… why? Why did you…"

He cut you off, his voice surprisingly harsh, the raw protectiveness evident despite his dismissive words. "Why do you wanna know? He spouts shit, and you aren't all that… you know." He trailed off, his usual eloquence failing him, the memory of Minho's disgusting appraisal clearly still fueling his anger, a possessive fury that both surprised and slightly unnerved you.

You stared at him, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. Hurt at his dismissive tone, a flicker of something akin to gratitude for his defense, but also a strange, unsettling warmth blooming in your chest at the fierce, albeit violent, loyalty he had displayed.

The image of his enraged face, the sheer, uncharacteristic fury in his eyes, lingered in your mind, a stark contrast to his usual playful demeanor. It was then, amidst the lingering shock, the uncomfortable tension, and the unsettling protectiveness in his gaze, that the buried feelings you’d tried so diligently to ignore since your first year began to stir, their roots running deeper than you’d ever dared to acknowledge.

The line between irritation and something far more complex was beginning to blur, and the unexpected violence, ignited by those vile words about your body and your circumstances, had somehow shaken it all awake, leaving you questioning everything you thought you knew about Jeonghan.

The relentless rhythm of university life continued, a predictable cycle of lectures, assignments, and the ever-present weight of your responsibilities as student council head.

But beneath this familiar surface, a new layer of anxiety had begun to fester. The memory of Minho's crude words, coupled with the unsettling protectiveness in Han's violent reaction, lingered like a persistent shadow. Adding to this growing unease was the constant, gnawing fear of your carefully guarded secret being exposed.

The chipped mugs and the weary smiles of your colleagues at the café had always been a world apart from the polished veneer of your university. It was a life you kept fiercely compartmentalized, a necessity born of your family's circumstances that you shielded with a quiet desperation from the judgmental eyes of your privileged classmates. The fear of that wall crumbling had always been there, a low hum of anxiety beneath the surface of your daily life.

Then, the inevitable happened. It started with a fleeting notification on your phone, a screenshot shared within a class group chat you rarely engaged with. A grainy, unflattering image flashed across the screen – undeniably you, in your slightly faded café uniform, a tray laden with steaming cups clutched in your hand, your hair pulled back haphazardly beneath a slightly stained hairnet. The caption, crude and mocking, stung more than you cared to admit: "Our esteemed S.C Head slumming it? Guess those scholarships don't cover everything." It had been taken during one of your late-night shifts, capturing a moment of weary concentration that was twisted into something pathetic and demeaning.

In a world where designer labels were practically a birthright and weekend discussions revolved around ski trips and yacht parties, the image was a stark, unwelcome intrusion. It ripped away the carefully constructed facade of the diligent, no-nonsense student council head, revealing the stark reality of your existence: the scholarship student working a dead-end job to keep her family afloat. The digital whispers began almost immediately, a low hum of curiosity quickly escalating into a deafening chorus of judgment and ridicule.

The fact that you had earned your place at this prestigious institution through sheer hard work and unwavering dedication, a testament to your intelligence and resilience, was conveniently ignored.

The narrative swiftly morphed. You, the seemingly unyielding and strict student council head, were now exposed, vulnerable, a target for the casual cruelty of those who had always resented your authority.

The air of respect your position once commanded seemed to evaporate, replaced by a palpable shift in the way people looked at you – a mixture of pity, disdain, and a smug sense of superiority.

Anonymous messages flooded your student council email. One particularly nasty one read: "So, S.C Head, when are you going to start serving coffee during student council meetings? Maybe you can earn some extra tips."

Graffiti, scrawled in hurried marker, appeared on the bathroom stalls. Underneath a crude drawing of someone vaguely resembling you holding a tray, someone had written: "From Council Head to Coffee Maid." The whispers followed you like a persistent shadow, echoing in the hallways. As you walked past a group of impeccably dressed girls, you heard one murmur, just loud enough for you to catch, "Well, look who it is. Fancy seeing her outside of a uniform." Another snickered in response.

You tried to ignore them, to keep your head down, to lose yourself in your studies, but the constant scrutiny, the thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of your peers, began to erode your carefully constructed composure. Even during lectures, you could feel their gazes on you, a silent, collective judgment that made your skin crawl.

One particularly cruel message, slipped into your locker, detailed fabricated stories about the supposed squalor of your "humble abode." "Heard the rats pay more rent than her family," it sneered, the implication clear that you were somehow an imposter, undeserving of being among them. The words, dripping with a disdain for a life you had no choice but to live, hit you with the force of a physical blow. A wave of shame, a feeling you had fought so hard to suppress, washed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and utterly humiliated.

You started avoiding eye contact, your shoulders hunching defensively as you navigated the crowded hallways. The snickers and muttered comments, though often just out of earshot, still stung, each one a tiny pinprick of cruelty chipping away at your carefully maintained stoicism.

The weight of your secret, once a private burden, was now a public spectacle, and the judgment felt suffocating, threatening to crush the very foundations of your hard-won place at the university. The unveiling of your other life had not brought understanding or empathy; it had brought only a fresh, stinging wave of disdain and isolation. You began to dread walking through the campus, the once familiar halls now feeling like a gauntlet of silent condemnation.

The cafeteria, once a bustling hub of student life, had transformed into a minefield for you. The clatter of trays and the boisterous chatter, once mundane background noise, now seemed to carry a sinister undercurrent, each laugh and whispered word potentially directed at you.

You had become a ghost in your own school, navigating the crowded tables with your gaze fixed firmly on the scuffed linoleum floor, a silent plea etched on your face to be rendered invisible. Lunchtime, once a brief respite, had become a daily exercise in forced solitude and silent endurance, each bite of your carefully packed lunch feeling like a leaden weight in your already burdened stomach.

Han’s usual raucous laughter and the easy, often insensitive, banter of his privileged entourage echoed across the vast space, a familiar sound that now struck a jarringly discordant note against the backdrop of your isolation. They seemed untouched by the subtle yet pervasive cruelty that clung to you like a persistent cloud, their world of inherited wealth and effortless comfort continuing its smooth, untroubled trajectory.

Yet, you had observed subtle shifts in Han’s demeanor in recent days. The ever-present smirk, his trademark expression, seemed to flicker less frequently, often replaced by a deep furrow in his brow, a restless energy in his movements, his gaze sweeping across the crowded tables with a searching, almost worried quality.

One particularly difficult afternoon, as you carefully maneuvered through the throng of students, clutching your worn lunch bag and desperately seeking the sanctuary of an unoccupied corner, you couldn't help but overhear fragments of their conversation. Jaehyu, Han’s loud and often tactless friend, was holding court, his voice booming with a cruel, self-satisfied edge.

"Did you see the comments under that photo? 'S.C Head serving the masses!' Hilarious! Looks like our perfect little scholarship student isn't so high and mighty now, wiping down sticky tables for a living." His cronies erupted in a chorus of boisterous laughter, the sound echoing through the cafeteria like a series of sharp, deliberate jabs. You flinched, your grip tightening on the brown paper bag, your cheeks flushing with a potent mix of shame and a simmering, impotent anger. You kept your gaze resolutely down, willing yourself to become one with the peeling paint on the nearby wall.

Finally, your eyes landed on a small, unoccupied table tucked away in a dimly lit corner near the overflowing recycling bins. It wasn't ideal, but it offered a semblance of privacy.

You hurried towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the whispered judgments feeling like physical shoves. You just wanted to eat your simple sandwich in quiet solitude, to find a brief, precious moment of escape from the suffocating weight of their disdain. But before you could even lower yourself onto the hard plastic chair, Jaehyu’s voice, laced with deliberate malice and amplified by a sudden lull in the surrounding noise, cut through the remaining lunchtime hum like a jagged shard of glass.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his eyes locking onto yours with a smug, cruel satisfaction that made your stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise in your throat. "Look who it is. The queen of rule enforcement, the one who docked points from our club for being five minutes late. Maybe you should focus on clocking in on time at your real job, huh? Wouldn't want to get fired from your oh-so-glamorous career."

A fresh, brutal wave of cruel laughter rippled through his small group, the sound hitting you with the force of a physical shove, each guffaw a fresh wave of humiliation. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively lowered your head further, the familiar sting of tears pricking fiercely at the back of your eyes. You squeezed them shut, fiercely blinking them back. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing you break, of witnessing your pain. You had learned long ago to swallow the hurt, to build an invisible wall against their relentless cruelty.

But before you could retreat completely into your self-imposed invisibility, a sudden, sharp, and undeniably violent sound ripped through the remaining laughter, silencing the entire cafeteria as if an invisible hand had clamped down on the noise. A sickening thud, followed by a collective gasp and a sharp intake of breath from the stunned onlookers.

You looked up in stunned disbelief, your eyes widening in shock. Han stood over Jaehyu, his usually playful face contorted into a mask of thunderous, incandescent fury. Jaehyu lay sprawled on the sticky linoleum floor, clutching his jaw with a look of utter shock and dawning, agonizing pain contorting his features. The entire cafeteria fell into an eerie, absolute silence, the only sounds the scraping of overturned chairs and the hushed, disbelieving whispers rippling through the stunned crowd. A few brave (or perhaps foolishly curious) souls fumbled for their phones, their screens illuminating the unfolding drama with a cold, digital glow, capturing the unbelievable scene.

"Apologize to her," Han’s voice was low, dangerous, each syllable laced with a cold, hard steel you had never heard before, a stark contrast to his usual lighthearted tone. His eyes, blazing with a fierce, protective rage that seemed to emanate from his very core, were fixed on Jaehyu, who was slowly pushing himself up, his face a grotesque tableau of pain and utter bewilderment.

Jaehyu, clearly disoriented and not quite comprehending the sudden, brutal assault, stammered, "W-what? Why the hell would I apologize to her? She's the one who needs to apologize for being such a stuck-up-"

Han’s glare intensified, a silent, lethal threat that brooked no argument. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely suppressed violence. "Apologize. To. Her. Instantly, Jaehyu." His voice was a low growl, promising swift and unpleasant consequences for disobedience.

Jaehyu, despite his confusion and the throbbing agony in his jaw, seemed to recognize the raw, unadulterated fury in Han’s eyes, a primal anger that promised further pain if he dared to defy it. He mumbled a grudging, barely audible, "S-sorry," in your general direction, his gaze darting nervously between your stunned face and Han's menacing glare, his usual bravado completely evaporated, replaced by a palpable fear.

Confusion rippled through Han’s small group of friends. Seokhyun, usually the most jovial and easygoing of the bunch, stared at Han in utter disbelief, his mouth agape. "Yah, Jeonghan! What the actual hell was that? Why would you hit him? He was just joking! She needs to lighten up! She’s always acting like she’s better than everyone, lording her student council position over us."

Han’s head snapped towards Seokhyun, his eyes flashing with a raw, untamed rage that made Seokhyun visibly flinch, taking an involuntary step back, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. "Shut your damn mouth, Kim Seokhyun," Han spat, his voice dangerously low, each word dripping with contempt. "Making fun of someone for working hard to support their family isn't a 'joke.' It's pathetic, cruel, and reveals more about your rotten character than hers. Unlike some of us who waltzed in here on daddy's platinum card, she earned her place with a hundred percent scholarship. She's smarter, more hardworking, and possesses more integrity in her little finger than all of you entitled brats combined. And you want to tear her down for helping her mother? You want to make her feel ashamed of her strength and sacrifice? You'll have to go through me first, you understand?"

He turned abruptly, his gaze, still burning with a fierce protectiveness, locking onto yours across the stunned silence of the cafeteria. Without a word, he strode towards your table, his movements rough yet strangely determined, his eyes conveying a silent message of solidarity and unwavering support. He reached you, his hand closing around your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the lingering tension radiating from him. He didn't say a word as he pulled you up from your chair, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, and began to lead you out of the stunned cafeteria, leaving behind a sea of bewildered faces, dropped trays, and the lingering echo of his unexpected, fierce, and utterly bewildering defense. As he guided you through the stunned crowd, you could hear whispers following in your wake, a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, perhaps grudging, respect.

Han’s grip on your arm, though firm enough to guide you through the stunned and whispering crowd, possessed a surprising gentleness, a stark contrast to the raw fury he had displayed moments before. The whispers followed in your wake, a low, persistent hum of confusion, speculation, and perhaps even a grudging respect, but you barely registered them. Your mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, the unexpected outburst replaying in a loop, the fierce, almost possessive protectiveness Han had exhibited a stark and bewildering contrast to the carefree, infuriating troublemaker you thought you knew.

He didn’t speak as he steered you out of the bustling, judgmental atmosphere of the cafeteria and into the relative quiet and anonymity of a deserted hallway, the echoing silence amplifying the frantic beating of your own heart. The tension between you was thick, a palpable weight of unspoken questions, lingering shock, and a strange, burgeoning sense of… something you couldn't quite name. He finally stopped near a row of cold metal lockers, turning to face you, his hands still resting lightly but possessively on your arms, his touch sending a confusing mix of warmth and unease through you. His usual playful eyes, so often crinkled in amusement or mischief, were now dark, troubled, and filled with an uncharacteristic intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Why?" he finally asked, his voice rough, the earlier, incandescent anger still simmering beneath the surface, a low growl in his tone. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you just… stand there and take it? Why are you so… ashamed?" The question hung in the air between you, a direct accusation that pierced through the carefully constructed layers of your stoicism.

The dam you had so carefully, so painstakingly constructed over the past few weeks, the fragile barrier you had erected against the constant barrage of judgment, finally cracked. The carefully constructed walls you’d built around your deepest insecurities, your most vulnerable truths, crumbled under the unexpected weight of his fierce defense and his direct, probing question. The words tumbled out of you, a torrent of raw emotion you hadn’t even realized you were holding back, a desperate outpouring of the pain and exhaustion you had carried in silence for so long.

"Because…" your voice trembled, catching in your throat, thick with the unshed tears that had been threatening to spill over for weeks. "Because it's true, isn't it? They're right. I am the scholarship kid working a dead-end job. I do come from nothing. And every single day, I walk through these halls feeling like I don't belong, like I'm an imposter in a world that wasn't built for me. I work my ass off at the café after classes, come home late, help my mom with bills, with rent… I’m tired, Han. So incredibly tired of trying to pretend that I’m just like them, that their cruel words don't cut me to the bone, that their disdain doesn't leave me feeling hollowed out."

Your voice broke completely, the carefully held back tears finally breaching the surface, hot and stinging against your pale cheeks. You hated crying in front of anyone, the ingrained habit of appearing strong, self-sufficient, and in control too deeply ingrained in your very being. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms, trying desperately to regain some semblance of composure, but the floodgates had opened, and the vulnerability was already out in the open, raw and exposed for him to see.

Without a word, Han’s expression underwent a profound shift. The lingering anger in his eyes softened, the hard edges melting away, replaced by a look of something akin to deep understanding, a surprising tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat and your heart clench with a confusing mix of emotions. He gently released your arms, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment, and with a hesitant, almost reverent movement, reached out and cupped your face in his surprisingly warm hands. His touch was a small, unexpected comfort in the overwhelming storm of your emotions, a silent acknowledgment of your pain.

He didn't say anything, just looked at you, his gaze searching, empathetic, as if he were trying to absorb the depth of your hurt. Then, in a move that completely took you by surprise, a gesture both unexpected and strangely comforting, he gently scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms a surprising anchor in your turbulent sea of emotions. You gasped, a startled sound escaping your lips, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support, your face buried in the soft fabric of his expensive-smelling shirt, the familiar scent oddly grounding.

He carried you out of the university building, the surprised and curious glances of the few students you passed in the hallway fading into a blurry, irrelevant background. He didn't say a word, just held you close, his steps steady and sure, his presence a silent promise of safety and understanding. He carefully settled you into the plush leather of the passenger seat of his sleek, impeccably maintained car, his eyes filled with a quiet concern and a depth of emotion you had never associated with the playful, often infuriating, Jeonghan.

"Let it out," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand resting gently but firmly on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin in a small, comforting gesture. "Don't hold back. I won't turn around unless you tell me to." He was about to close the door, giving you the privacy you so desperately needed, when you reached out, your hand gripping his arm tightly, a silent plea for connection. You pulled him towards you, burying your face in his chest again, the sobs you had been fighting back for so long finally wracking your body, each one a release of pent-up pain and humiliation. The tears streamed down your face, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the soft fabric of his shirt, a physical manifestation of the emotional dam finally breaking. And the whole time, he just held you close, his arms a safe and unexpected harbor in the storm of your emotions, his presence a silent, unwavering promise of comfort, understanding, and something that felt suspiciously like… care.

The rhythmic sound of your sobs gradually subsided, each hiccuping breath leaving behind a raw ache in your chest and a damp, slightly embarrassing patch on the front of Han’s expensive-looking shirt. You finally pulled back, your face flushed and tear-streaked, your eyes swollen and red, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that had just poured forth. You felt utterly exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to be in years. The fact that it was Han, the very person who usually exasperated you with his antics and tested your patience to its limits, who had witnessed your complete emotional unraveling felt strangely disorienting, yet also… oddly comforting.

He didn’t say anything, just offered you a small, surprisingly gentle smile, a stark contrast to his usual mischievous grin, and a clean, subtly scented handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. You took it with a shaky hand, dabbing at your wet cheeks and swollen eyelids, avoiding his direct gaze, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you. The silence in the car was thick, no longer charged with the earlier tension and unspoken shock, but with a fragile, almost sacred intimacy, a quiet understanding that had unexpectedly blossomed between you.

After a few moments of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence, you finally found your voice, still thick with the remnants of your sobs. "Thank you," you mumbled, your gaze fixed on your hands, which were clasped tightly in your lap, the knuckles white. "For… for everything. For today… and…" you trailed off, unsure how to articulate the confusing mix of gratitude and burgeoning realization swirling within you.

He just nodded slowly, his eyes still filled with that unfamiliar, tender concern that made your heart flutter in a way it never had before. "Are you… okay now?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a genuine worry that surprised you.

You took a deep breath, a shaky exhale that still hitched slightly. "I will be," you said, the words carrying a newfound lightness, as if releasing the pent-up tears had also released some of the immense weight you had been carrying for so long. You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question, a hesitant curiosity, forming in your eyes. "Han… why did you do all that? Back in the cafeteria. And… all those times before? The drinks… the chocolate… you always act like you can’t stand me, like I’m just a constant source of irritation."

Han shifted uncomfortably in his plush leather seat, finally breaking eye contact and staring intently out the front windshield, as if the answers to your questions were etched on the glass. A faint blush, starting at his ears, crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his rare discomfort. "I… well, that's not exactly true," he mumbled, his fingers fiddling nervously with the car keys dangling from the ignition.

"What isn't true?" you pressed gently, a hopeful tendril reaching out within you, a hesitant anticipation of something unexpected.

He finally turned back to you, his gaze earnest, almost vulnerable, the usual playful mask completely gone. "I never hated you, (Y/N). Not even a little bit. Annoyed? Maybe sometimes," he admitted with a small, sheepish grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hesitated, then took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a plunge into unknown waters. "Actually… it's kind of the opposite."

Your eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, your carefully guarded composure momentarily forgotten. "The opposite?" you echoed, a bewildered laugh escaping your lips.

He nodded, his cheeks now flushed a deeper shade of pink, his gaze darting between your eyes and his fidgeting hands. "Yeah. I… I liked being around you. Even when you were scolding me for some ridiculous prank. Your frown… it was kind of cute, actually," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of his usual teasing creeping back in, but tinged with a newfound sincerity. He avoided your gaze again, a nervous energy radiating from him. "And… well, I noticed things. You always looked so tired, those dark circles under your eyes… and I remembered you mentioning once, ages ago, how much you loved that specific brand of overly sweet soda. The chocolate… well, I just… I know how bad period cramps can be. My younger sister… she goes through it too."

Your heart skipped a surprised beat. He noticed? All this time, amidst his chaotic pranks and infuriating teasing, he had actually been paying attention to the small, insignificant details of your life?

"You knew… about my period cramps?" you asked, a surprised, slightly disbelieving laugh bubbling up despite the lingering sadness.

He nodded sheepishly, a small, endearing smile finally gracing his lips. "Yeah, well… you always seemed to reach for dark chocolate those days. It wasn't exactly rocket science, Sherlock." He finally met your eyes again, his gaze surprisingly direct and unwavering. "And I knew about your scholarship, about your family… from the very beginning. You have this quiet strength about you, (Y/N). It's hard not to notice."

Your breath hitched in your throat. He knew? All this time, he had known about your struggles, your carefully guarded secrets, and instead of judging you, he had… he had been leaving you small, anonymous tokens of comfort?

"You always seemed so… together," Han continued, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, the playful teasing completely gone. "So strong, carrying all that responsibility on your own, never asking for help. But I could see it sometimes, the weight you carried, the exhaustion in your eyes. I just… I wanted to do something. Anything small, just to… to let you know someone saw it. So you wouldn't have to carry it all alone." He looked away again, his ears now a delicate shade of pink. "I… I think… I’ve liked you… a lot… since first year." The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and unexpected.

He backed off slightly, a nervous energy radiating from him, his expression a mixture of hope and trepidation, unsure of your reaction, his long-held secret finally laid bare. To his utter surprise, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they tangled in the soft strands of his dark hair. You gently tugged him closer, your eyes searching the depths of his earnest gaze. And then, without thinking, without analyzing, without allowing the years of exasperation and perceived animosity to cloud your judgment, you leaned in and kissed him. It was a tentative kiss at first, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected depth of his feelings, a soft exploration that spoke volumes. But it quickly deepened, a rush of long-suppressed emotions – gratitude, relief, and a powerful, undeniable affection – flooding through you, washing away the years of carefully constructed barriers. Your hands tightened in his hair as he instinctively pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, a silent, comforting embrace that spoke of a connection you had never dared to imagine.

He mumbled a soft, heartfelt, "I love you," against your lips, the words echoing the long-held secret that had finally found its voice within your own heart. "I love you too, Han," you whispered back, the confession a sweet, liberating release, a fragile beginning to something entirely new.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and luminous, reflecting the shock and the burgeoning, almost incandescent joy that had bloomed in his chest. "You… you really do?" he murmured, his voice thick with a raw emotion that mirrored your own, a hopeful tremor running through him like a live wire. The nervous energy that had been radiating off him just moments before seemed to dissipate entirely, replaced by an almost childlike wonder, a sense of disbelief that mingled beautifully with his happiness.

You nodded, a genuine, heartfelt smile finally breaking through the remnants of your tears, a radiant expression that mirrored the pure joy now illuminating his handsome face. The heavy, suffocating weight that had been pressing down on your chest for so long, the burden of your secrets and your struggles, seemed to have miraculously lifted, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity. In the small, intimate sanctuary of his luxurious car, tucked away from the judgmental eyes and cruel whispers of the university, the harsh realities and societal pressures of the world outside seemed to recede into a hazy background, the only tangible reality the unexpected, profound connection you had forged in the crucible of vulnerability and unexpected affection.

Han reached out, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a feather-light, almost reverent touch. "So," he said, his voice soft, a tender whisper that resonated deep within you, a hint of his usual playful tone finally returning, but now imbued with a newfound depth of sincerity. "What… what exactly happens now, Head Girl?"

You leaned into his warm touch, a profound sense of peace settling over you, a feeling of finally being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time. The weight of your carefully constructed facade had finally been lifted, replaced by the liberating vulnerability of being completely yourself with someone who not only saw you but cherished you, flaws and all. "Now," you whispered, your eyes locking with his, a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a quiet strength blossoming within you. "Now, we start over. Together." The word resonated with a profound sense of rightness, a solid promise of shared burdens, mutual support, and a future you no longer had to face alone.

A wide, unrestrained grin, the genuine, heart-melting kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his entire face, spread across his features, chasing away the last vestiges of nervousness and uncertainty. A familiar spark of mischief flickered back into his eyes, a hint of the playful troublemaker you knew, but this time, it was different. It was a shared secret, a conspiratorial glint that hinted at future adventures, a promise of unwavering support, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding affection that transcended the superficial barriers of your different worlds. He leaned in for another kiss, a slow, tender exploration that sealed your unexpected beginning, a silent vow to face whatever challenges lay ahead, hand in hand, heart to heart. The road ahead wouldn't be easy; the ingrained prejudices of your classmates wouldn't vanish overnight, and the stark realities of your different socioeconomic backgrounds still loomed. But for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you had to shoulder the weight of the world on your own. You had Han, your infuriating, surprisingly perceptive, fiercely protective, and now, undeniably loving Han, by your side. And somehow, in that precious moment, that realization made all the difference in the world, painting a hopeful hue over a future that had previously seemed so daunting. The persistent headache that had been your constant companion throughout the tumultuous senior year seemed to finally recede, replaced by a quiet, burgeoning warmth that spread through your chest, a tangible promise of brighter, shared days to come.

The End

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Just Friends | Theodore Nott ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem! Reader

Warnings: characters are 18+, wizarding war, substances, smut, injuries, mentions of death and grief, its not canon

Summary: Fluff | Smut | Angst | Two survivors, one fateful summer, and a silence heavy with everything left unspoken.

Word count: 18 321

author's note: I had to re-upload this guys aghh sorry. This is looong. I kept writing a bit every night when I felt like it and had time. This is a product of months and its my favourite thing I have written ever. I really really hope you like it.

Theodore Nott and you had always been just friends.

It began in the late bloom of summer, in a garden lined with white roses and wilting lavender, the air thick with the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made time slow. You were only three when your mother’s hand found yours, soft and firm as she guided you across the gravel path of the Nott family’s estate, your new neighbours. Her voice was light, pleasant, perfumed with diplomacy as she greeted the Notts, who stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis like they belonged there.

But you hadn’t cared about greetings or titles or the sharp way Mr. Nott looked at your father. No — your eyes had found him. A little boy with grass-stained trousers, wild hair that refused to be tamed, and pale eyes the color of steel before a storm. He was squatting in the sandpit the groundskeeper had barely finished raking, dragging a stick through the dirt with the focused intensity of a philosopher.

He looked up, squinting.

You stared back.

And without a word, you wobbled off the path, let your newly polished shoes sink into the dusty sand, and dropped beside him like you were meant to be there all along.

You didn’t speak much at all at the time. Not in full sentences, anyway. There were giggles and grunts, soft babble and bright laughter as you fought over a chipped blue bucket and declared war with tiny shovels. He handed you a broken seashell, claiming it was enchanted. You gave him a clump of damp earth, insisting it was a gift. You left with sand in your shoes and a sunburn on your nose, and he left with a bruised shoulder because you’d shoved him for smashing your castle.

From that day forward, he was your best friend — and you were his.

At six, he caught a wasp in a jar and left it on your windowsill “as a pet.” It was a particularly sweltering July afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered above the cobblestones and even the house-elves seemed too hot to scold you for tracking dirt inside. You’d been sulking on the floor of your bedroom, limbs sprawled dramatically across the cool marble tiles, bemoaning the injustice of being forbidden from visiting the lake because “pureblood children do not splash about like Muggles.” You had just begun a truly Oscar-worthy sigh when you heard the soft clink of glass outside your window. Curious, you padded over and peeked out, nose nearly pressed to the pane. There, sitting in the sunbeam on your windowsill, was a glass jam jar—still sticky with remnants of plum preserve. The lid had been punctured with haphazard holes, and inside it buzzed a single, very angry wasp. Pinned to the jar with a scrap of parchment and a glob of melted wax was a note. The handwriting was wobbly, but unmistakably his:

“I got you a pet. His name is Stingy. Don’t let him out. He’s got issues. —Theo”

You shrieked.

Your mother came running, wand drawn, thinking you'd been hexed or worse. But all she found was you, standing at the window with a jar in your trembling hands, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Theodore left what on your windowsill?”

“A wasp,” you squeaked, still unsure whether to be touched or horrified.

A moment later, you saw him down in his estate’s garden — shirt untucked, shorts ripped, dirt smeared across one cheek — grinning up at you like he’d just delivered a bouquet of roses. He waved. The grin widened. You didn’t wave back.

Instead, you brought the jar to dinner with you the next time the Notts visited. You set it in front of his place setting with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster and whispered, “He’s your problem now.” The wasp was long dead, of course. Theo looked at it solemnly for a moment, then leaned toward you and whispered, “You didn’t feed him.” You almost shoved your mashed potatoes in his face.

Just friends.

At nine, he dared you to climb the sycamore tree at the far end of your garden — and then pushed you off the lowest branch to see if you’d bounce. You didn’t. You landed on your left wrist with a sickening crunch that made your vision swim. He stared down at you, pale-faced and trembling, his earlier laughter dying on his lips.

“I didn’t think you’d actually fall,” he muttered, then knelt beside you, arms shaking as he helped you up. He didn’t call for the house-elf. He didn’t yell for help. He carried you the whole way back himself, his breath ragged in your ear, whispering apologies so frantic you couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of your pain than the inevitable scolding from his father that was about to come.

Just friends.

When your Hogwarts letters came, you were ten and inseparable — always found pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on your estate’s library floor, or curled up in window sills arguing about which constellation was the prettiest. You read potion books together, the same moment, eyes wide and breath caught. When September arrived, you sat side by side on the train, legs swinging and nerves burning, watching the countryside blur into dusk. You were sorted into Slytherin together. He smirked at you as you passed through the Sorting Hat, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer, softer — something unspoken. You sat beside him at the long emerald-draped table that night, heart pounding, and when the noise of the Great Hall swelled too loud and the silverware felt too heavy in your hand, he nudged your knee with his and leaned in with a half-smile. “Don’t pass out. I’ll have to carry you again.” You rolled your eyes. But your fingers twitched beneath the tablecloth, brushing his. 

Just friends.

As the years passed, your friendship grew in quiet ways. It no longer lived in muddy knees and fake wars in the garden. No, it began to settle into something quieter. Something warmer. It was in the way he handed you a quill when yours broke during Transfiguration without needing to be asked. In the way you always remembered how he liked his tea — two sugars, no milk, even though he always insisted he hated sugar. You grew up together, side by side, inch by inch. Until one day, you stopped — stuck at a measly five-foot-two — while he just kept going, shooting past you. Shared detentions became less about mischief and more about the thrill of rebellion — the two of you sneaking out past curfew not to set traps or prank Gryffindors anymore, but to watch the stars from the Astronomy Tower, shoulders brushing, words soft and slow like the night itself. You'd lie on the cold stone floor with your robes draped like blankets and talk about things you were slowly beginning to understand — fear, pressure, family legacies, and what love might look like if it ever found you.

By third year, Theo had learned how to charm chocolate frogs to sing opera in the library. You nearly choked laughing. 

By fourth year, he’d started noticing girls. You noticed, too.

There was a shift in him — subtle, quiet, but impossible to miss when you knew him as well as you did. His eyes lingered a bit longer in the corridors, tracking the swish of skirts, the curve of a smile. Not brash like the other boys. No, Theo’s gaze was different — quiet, calculating, laced with curiosity and something almost wary, like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be looking for. You tried not to pay attention. But you did. Of course you did. You watched him as he watched them. And you tried not to wonder if he’d ever look at you like that — with interest. With purpose. With anything other than the familiar softness of childhood comfort. You caught him once, staring at a girl from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament festivities. She had long, shimmering hair and laughter like bells. Theo’s expression had been unreadable, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed together in quiet observation. You didn’t know why it stung. That night, you tossed in your bed long after lights-out, staring at the emerald canopy above you like it might give you answers. It didn’t.

And then there was that Hogsmeade trip.

You remember the chill in the air that morning — how the wind bit at your cheeks as you tugged your scarf tighter, your gloved hand brushing his as you walked side by side down the sloped cobblestone road into the village. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t say anything either. You spent the afternoon as you always did — sharing a butterbeer, elbowing each other in Honeydukes over who got the last Acid Pop, squabbling over which quill looked the most pretentious in Scrivenshaft’s.

And then it happened. A boy from Ravenclaw — tall, with a sharp jaw and easy charm — stepped forward just as you were shifting your books in your arms. You recognized him from Arithmancy, always smiling, always one too-smooth compliment away from detention.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already reaching.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then handed over the topmost book with a quiet “Thanks.” He grinned. Theo stood to your left, silent. As the boy led the way toward the carriages, chatting easily, your eyes flicked back to Theo, who was walking silently by your side.

He wasn’t looking at the boy. He was looking at you. Expression unreadable. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long black coat, shoulders drawn slightly in. His jaw was tense — not obviously, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your heart stutter.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Just walked next to you, watching you as someone else was at your other side. You waited for him to say something on the way back. A comment. A smirk. A jab at Ravenclaws and their “hero complexes.” Anything. But the silence stretched. So you said nothing, either. You didn’t talk about it. You never did.

By fifth year, games turned into dares. Not childish ones like “steal Filch’s keys” or “hex someone’s quill.” These were quieter, more dangerous. “Say nothing if you’re jealous.” “Don’t flinch when I touch you.”

Gentle teasing turned into long, lingering eye contact that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush for reasons you didn’t care to name. The space between you thinned, became charged, electric — like something unspoken was constantly brushing against your skin.

You stayed up later than you should have. In the common room, on slow-burning nights when the fire had turned to embers and the world outside was dead quiet, you’d sprawl across the green velvet couch with your legs draped over Theo’s lap as you read. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be annoyed. Other times, he’d trace absentminded shapes onto your calf while studying. When he was tired, he’d tilt his head back against the cushions, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and your foot would press lightly against his — not quite fully touching, but never far.

Your friend group had solidified by then. Blaise, ever the flirt, always had some girl wrapped around his finger — though he swore he was far too handsome to settle for just one. Pansy bounced between gossip and heartbreak, her eyes always darting to Draco even when her lips swore she was “over him.” Daphne played it cool — indifferent and unimpressed, until someone with strong cheekbones and terrible intentions caught her eye. And Draco... well, Draco had begun entertaining the idea of courtships, pureblood expectations trailing behind every glance he offered. They all noticed something between you and Theo.

Blaise would smirk at the way Theo’s hand rested casually on your knee, always just a little too long.  Pansy would make snide remarks like, “God, just kiss already,” and then roll her eyes when you both scoffed. Daphne said it once at breakfast, loud and plain as day: “They act like they’re married and don’t even realize it.” Draco, for the most part, didn’t say anything — just observed, cool and composed, his gaze flickering between the two of you like he was calculating something. Like he knew.

But you didn’t. Or maybe you pretended not to. That was easier, safer. Familiar.

“Are you two—?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Come on, you practically finish each other’s—”

“We’re just friends.”

You both laughed. Every time. Like it was absurd. Like the very idea was hilarious. Like the thought had never once kept you awake at night. But it had.

Especially when Theo let his hand rest against the back of your neck during study group, warm and idle, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Especially when you leaned over to show him a passage in your book and felt his breath on your collarbone. Especially when you saw him flirting — real, obvious flirting — with a girl from Ravenclaw at a party, all charm and smirking eyes, and you laughed too loudly at someone else’s joke just to pretend you didn’t notice. The truth lingered there, always — just beneath the surface of your ribcage, waiting to break free. But neither of you spoke it.

Just friends.

By sixth year, things weren’t so funny anymore.

Not when he was now a whole head taller and he never let you forget it, either. At the school library he’d smirk and lean against the nearest shelf while you dragged a ladder over just to reach a book he could easily pluck with one hand.

“Need help, you grumpy gnome?” he’d ask, eyebrow raised, full of mockery and affection.

You’d roll your eyes and scoff. But still, you let him get the book for you every time.

Not when your breath caught in your throat every time his fingers brushed your lower back in a crowded corridor and stayed there for one heartbeat too long. Not when his gaze lingered on your mouth during stupid, pointless arguments — eyes dark, unreadable, like he was daring you to say something. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d lose his restraint if you said the right word. But you never did. Neither of you did. Instead, he dated girls who weren’t you. Pretty ones, loud ones, polished ones with glossy hair and beautiful smiles. You watched them cling to his arm in the hallways, batting their lashes and whispering into his ear. He let them. He even smiled sometimes, soft and small. But the smiles never quite reached his eyes.You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That this was how things were meant to go. That it was normal. Expected from hormonal teens exploring love. So you let yourself fall, too — into half-hearted flings with boys who smelled like cologne and praise. Boys who told you you looked beautiful when you hadn’t tried. Boys who kissed you behind the tapestry near the Prefect’s Bathroom and pressed you up against cold stone walls with eager hands and promises you didn’t believe.

Your first kiss was with a boy named Callum. Warm lips. Too wet. Too fast. You didn’t feel a thing. You remember telling Theo about it — late one night, legs curled beneath you on the common room floor, the fireplace throwing gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly, nodded once, and reached over to pluck a Chocolate Frog from your stash like it was any other night.

“Did you like it?” he asked after a long pause, voice low and unreadable.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the flames.

“It was... fine.”

When you asked him about his first kiss, he told you it was with a Hufflepuff named Eevee in a broom closet during a game of Truth or Dare. You’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you needed to. Because something in your chest twisted too tight at the image of it. She wasn’t the last. He had girlfriends. Some of them stuck around longer than others. You had boyfriends. Or flings. Or long, drawn-out mistakes. But the pattern was always the same. The stupid teenage love fights. The fading affection. The silence that followed.

And then — always — the comfort.

It was Theo who found you on the Astronomy Tower the night Callum told you that you were “a bit too cold for his taste.” You’d gone there to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. Instead, you found him leaning against the railing like he already knew you’d come. He didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a flask of pumpkin cider and stared up at the stars with you until the burn in your chest eased. It was you who knocked on his door the night Eevee dumped him for a Quidditch captain, claiming Theo was “too emotionally unavailable.” You sat beside him in silence while he drank hot chocolate out of a chipped mug and muttered about how feelings were overrated anyway. You wiped his tears when he didn’t realize he was crying. You held his hand under the table during breakfast the next day, hidden by the edge of the bench. None of your friends ever commented on it anymore. They just knew. That no matter who either of you kissed —No matter whose hand you held, no matter whose name you would mention — It was always Theo who walked you back to the dormitory when your head hurt and your patience wore thin. Always Theo who sat beside you in Potions and handed you your knife before you could even ask. Always Theo who noticed when your laugh wasn’t quite real, and who said nothing — just slid a chocolate bar onto your desk before class and looked the other way. It was him. Always him.

Just friends.

Toward the end of sixth year, things began to shift again — subtly at first, then all at once.

The pressure outside the castle walls was building. Whispers of war and disappearances. You all felt it. The tension in the air. The silence between classes. The way the professors began watching too closely and speaking too softly. The letters from home didn’t help — cryptic, urgent things from your families, warning you of family histories you were still too young to fully understand, but old enough to know you couldn’t ignore. So naturally, your friend group did what young, privileged, reckless and extremely sheltered Slytherin teenagers do when the world starts to feel like it’s cracking at the edges: You partied.

Not the kind of parties that ended with polite kisses and quiet laughter. No — these were wild, clandestine things hidden deep in the castle, behind abandoned classrooms and in forgotten corridors that smelled like dust and danger. The Slytherin common room became a haven after curfew, drenched in contraband Firewhisky, stolen weed, and various shrooms someone always managed to sneak out of Herbology under their robes. You’d sit on the velvet couches with a half-empty bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, your legs swung over Theo’s lap like always — both of you high enough to forget the ache, drunk enough to laugh at things that weren’t funny. It was a new kind of thrill. A way to feel something. Or nothing.

You all craved distraction. And you found it — in drinks that burned too quickly, in spells cast sloppily, in the shadows of darkened rooms and the heat of someone else's hands. You were seventeen. The first time it happened — with someone who wasn’t Theo — it had been at one of those parties. A boy with a charming smile and a crooked jaw, whose name you barely remembered and whose touch never quite settled into your skin the way you thought it would. It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable. Afterwards, you sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your skirt back into place while he slept, your head foggy and your heart hollow. You never told Theo. Not really. But he must have known. He always knew.

And him?  He had his own moments. A new girl in Ravenclaw. Then a Hufflepuff with a thing for older boys. He’d return to the common room with his collar wrinkled and his smile sharp — like he was trying to prove something. To himself. To the other boys. To you. Blaise and Draco boasted the loudest, of course. Like it was a competition. Like sex was a rite of passage rather than a sacred, complicated, awkward thing. Theo joined in just enough to keep pace, tossing out smirks and one-liners that didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. You always rolled your eyes at him, your expression unreadable. And when the others talked openly — about who had done what with whom, about what they liked or didn’t — you always brushed it off with a dry smile and a shrug.

“Overrated,” you’d say.

It made them laugh. But not Theo. Theo would watch you quietly when you said things like that. Like he was trying to read between the words. Like he wanted to ask if it had meant anything. He never did. And you never told him how it really felt. How you laid in bed that night, staring at the canopy above you, feeling… nothing. Not dirty. Not broken. Not sad. Just… empty. Because you’d always imagined that moment differently — softer, quieter. With someone who made you laugh until your ribs ached. With someone who knew your favorite constellation and the exact way you took your tea. With someone who handed you chocolate on bad days and never let your silence go unnoticed. With Theo. But it wasn’t him. So you drank. You danced. You smoked. You played your part in the grand distraction of teenage rebellion while the world outside grew darker. The laughter became louder. The nights longer. The dares more dangerous.

But even in the chaos — in the smoke and the spells and the forbidden kisses — it was always Theo who found you when the party quieted and the ache returned. Theo, who tucked your hair behind your ear when your mascara smudged and pretended not to notice. Theo, who held your hair back when you threw up behind the Quidditch stands after too many drinks and handed you a stolen bottle of water with a quiet, “Idiot.” Theo, who helped you sneak back to your dorm and whispered, “You good?” in that low, rasped voice that always meant more than it sounded like.

Just friends.

Late Summer before year Seven. Your house. Empty. Quiet. Haunted.

Your parents were gone — flown off in the dead of night like shadows dissolving into deeper shadow — and so were Theo’s. Both families off to do the things Death Eaters did when they thought their children were old enough to be left behind. Old enough to fend for themselves. Old enough to understand what silence meant. Except you didn’t understand. Neither of you did. No one cared to explain, or no one dared. There were no long goodbyes, no answers — only the tremor in your father’s voice when he kissed your forehead too fast, the way Theo’s mother clutched his hand like she might not get to again. You could hear the fear in them, feel it coiled tight beneath their words, and it left you both too paralyzed not to listen. They gave no return date. Just a hushed goodbye, a stack of protective wards, and an order not to leave the manor grounds. So you didn’t. Neither of you did. For two weeks, it was just you and Theo. Two dark manors. Various dark rooms. Two cigarette boxes steadily emptied under skies that never felt light again.

You never asked why he came over that night. You didn’t have to. He showed up at your gates with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette between his lips. You let him in without a word, just stepped aside, heart heavy and hands cold. And when night came, and the house began to feel too vast, too hollow, too still — you didn't even consider sleeping in your own bed. The shadows were too deep in your parents' absence. The corners too loud. Even the house-elves had begun moving differently, quieter, with soft, sad eyes that followed you down the halls. You found him on the balcony of the guest room, where the view stretched over moon-drenched gardens and perfectly polished stone. You didn’t speak at first. Just passed him a new cigarette, your fingers brushing his as he took it from your hand and lit it with a flick of his wand. It was your worst habit — something your other friends still did for fun, to look cool. But for you and Theo, it was different. It had become a ritual. A comfort. A shared vice in a world that kept demanding too much.

The smoke curled between your faces, silver ribbons twisting into the thick August night air. You leaned against the railing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders — school, war, the mark on your forearm that had yet to be carved, but already burned in your blood. Neither of you laughed anymore. Not tonight. The conversation was slow. Muted. War. Obligation. Death. You spoke about the things you didn’t say to anyone else — the shadows you carried, the things that kept you up at night. What you were afraid of. What you couldn’t stop dreaming about. The moment you saw your father with blood on his sleeves and realized it hadn’t come from him. The way he looked at you like he wished you hadn’t seen. The moment Theo overheard something he wasn’t supposed to — whispered names, punishments, plans — and couldn’t forget the sound of someone screaming for mercy, the way it echoed in his ears for days. It wasn’t light conversation. It wasn’t gossip. It was real. Ugly. Twisted. You couldn’t fully grasp what was happening — how could you? Your families did their best to shelter you both from knowing too much. But you weren’t stupid. You weren’t children anymore. You could read between the lines. You could see the cracks in your parents’ facades, the fear beneath the orders. You didn’t know everything, but you knew enough. You knew it was bad.

When the cigarette burned low between his fingers, he flicked it off the balcony, watching as the ember spun through the dark like a dying star before vanishing into the garden below. His hand lingered in the air for a moment… then twitched. Just once. Like it wanted to do something — reach, touch, say what he couldn’t — but didn’t yet dare. And then… he said your name. Soft. Frayed. Like a warning. Or a question. You turned to him slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. Smoke-kissed. There was something fragile in them — something raw and unspeakable. His hand reached out, tentative, resting at the curve of your hip like it had every right to be there. Like it had always belonged there.

And then he kissed you. No hesitation. No smirk. No snide remark to follow. It was slow — achingly slow. A drag, not a spark. Warm, smoky and quiet. His lips tasted like tobacco and the kind of grief you didn’t talk about in daylight. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in. Because this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t messy or desperate. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was honest. The air around you was thick with everything unspoken — years of glances, brushes, laughter turned hollow. All of it igniting between your mouths, breath and fire and need. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He said nothing. Neither did you. You never spoke of it again. Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the way your heart had stuttered in your chest like it wanted to break free from your ribs and press itself into his hands.

You stayed friends. Just friends. Because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk the ruin of what little comfort you still had.

Seventh year began.

A painful, unnatural thing — a year painted in false smiles and tight dresses, wild parties and louder laughter, all masking the dread clawing up your throat. You danced like everything was fine. You drank like the world wasn’t ending. You smoked more. Slept less. Your body began showing the signs. By winter, your reflection had thinned. Your long hair was gone, shorn to your shoulders on a whim you couldn’t explain. Something about feeling too heavy. Too soft. You’d watched the strands fall in the bathroom mirror with numb eyes and a blade in your hand. Theo said nothing about it. Not really. Just passed you a cigarette and lit it for you. His eyes lingered, though. Longer than they used to.

Christmas that year was a cold affair. Not in weather — the manor was spell-warmed, the fireplaces roaring, golden flames licking at logs stacked too perfectly. But in every other way, it was frigid. A small gathering — just your family and his. All stiff robes and colder smiles, Death Eaters trying to mimic holiday cheer like they hadn’t spent the past year cloaked in blood and secrets. Laughter sounded wrong. The wine was too red. You sat at the end of the table beside Theo, both of you silent, staring into the candlelight like maybe — just maybe — you could burn away the guilt growing beneath your skin. Your mother had over-baked the dessert. A blackened crust. Filling hardened into something between toffee and tar. She served it anyway, and nobody commented. Not even Theo. No one had the heart to point out the obvious flaw, too busy picking at their plates with quiet detachment, eyes flickering with things they couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. The air was suffocating — names not mentioned, events not acknowledged. You were both dressed in your finest, but your eyes were tired, your posture slumped. The candlelight only deepened the shadows under your eyes. It felt colder than it should’ve. You felt duller. Like something inside you had hollowed out to make room for fear. For the weight of everything unspoken. You hadn’t heard from some of your cousins in weeks. Your uncle’s name had been whispered in one of those horrible letters that arrived in the dead of night — the kind your parents never read aloud, only burned. Next to you, Theo didn’t touch his food. Just held his glass loosely in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes even tighter. His thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table, an anchor in a sea of ice. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You were both waiting for the storm to break — and trying, in the quiet between bites, not to shatter first. After dinner, presents were exchanged in a strained attempt to soften the air. Brightly wrapped boxes appeared under the flickering lights of the drawing room — gold foil, emerald ribbons, all perfectly tied. You watched as your mother handed Theo a silver pocket watch engraved with runes, her smile too wide, her hands too pale. His father gifted you a jeweled hairpin, something old and ornate, set with a blood-red stone in darkened silver. Delicate. Sharp. Useless. The gifts were expensive. Carefully selected. Nothing was done halfway in your world — not even in times of looming dread. But they were unnecessary, irrelevant things. Symbols of a normalcy that no longer existed. Still, you and Theo were polite. Practiced. You murmured soft “thank you's” and offered faint smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. He rested his hand on your lower back as you said your thanks and you mirrored the gesture later as he nodded his way through a compliment about the watch’s engraving. It was theater. Every movement rehearsed. Every breath strained. Your families tried. You could give them that. They did their best to pretend, to shield you both with tradition and false warmth, with gifts and crackers and familiar carols playing quietly from the phonograph in the corner. But the cracks were showing. You could feel it — the unraveling. The way your parents glanced toward the windows too often. The way Theo’s mother fidgeted with her rings. The way none of them mentioned what was happening just beyond the wards. As if silence could keep it all at bay. But you and Theo knew better. You accepted the gifts. You smiled, you played along, because it was easier than breaking. Because it was Christmas. And because pretending — even for one night — was all anyone had left.

Later that night, in a house too dark and too quiet, you found yourself in your room. But this time, there was silence. You sat across from each other on the edge of his mattress, shoulders barely touching, shadows flickering from the hearth across his jaw.

“I have something for you,” you said softly, reaching into the folds of your robe and pulling out a small velvet pouch.

Theo raised an eyebrow, but took it without question. When he tipped the contents into his palm, a ring rolled into his fingers — smooth, darkened silver, cool to the touch. His initials were engraved on the outside, delicate and precise.

He turned it slowly between his fingers. “You got me a ring,” he said, voice unreadable.

You shrugged. “I know you always lose things…don’t you dare lose this too.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was warm. He slid it onto his finger without hesitation. “Fits perfectly.”

Your throat tightened. “I measured your finger while you were asleep last month.”

Theo’s smile faltered — just a little. But something gentler took its place in his eyes. “You’re insane.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

A beat of silence. A shift in the air.

Then he stood up, walked across the room, and pulled something from his own discarded robe. A small black box, no ribbon, no card. Just a quiet offering. He held it out to you.

Inside was a silver necklace — a fine chain and a charm shaped like a safety pin. But wrapped tightly around it was a delicate serpent, fangs bared, emerald eyes glinting like secrets.

“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Sharp. Clever. Dangerous when necessary.”

You said nothing — just turned, lifted your hair, and let him clasp it around your neck. His fingers lingered, not just to fasten it, but to feel you. The slope of your neck. The warmth of your skin. The quiet, steady beat of your pulse beneath his touch. His lips hovered there for a second. Then touched. A soft, slow kiss at the base of your throat — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something tender and dangerous and unspoken. You turned to face him and he looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin. Or maybe like he already had began in his mind. You reached for him, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, laying you gently across the mattress, pressing his lips to yours again — slow, deep, meaningful. The kind of kiss that trembled with everything you were both too afraid to say. Your fingers slid over the warm skin of his back as his shirt hit the floor. Yours was halfway undone, the clasp of your bra slack, the necklace still gleaming between your collarbones. His hands traced your waist. Yours tangled in his hair. Breathing unsteady. Kisses turning more urgent. But you didn’t go further. Not yet — not because you didn’t want to, but because the moment never gave you a chance.

Because just then, voices rose from the corridor beyond the bedroom door. Muffled at first. Then clearer. Sharper. Urgent. Your name. His. Whispers of the unthinkable. Turning you into Death Eaters. Marrying you off to each other. Hiding you away — to protect you, to save face, to give you a chance of survival. They spoke of it like strategy, not lives. Like your bodies were pieces on a board. Two heirs. Two bloodlines. Two names too valuable to risk. The proposal wasn’t romantic. It was cold. Practical. Transactional. There was too much to lose — the shared business, the old money, the ancient reputations so carefully kept intact. If the world crumbled, you had to be kept safe. Together. Away. Somewhere nobody could touch you. Behind the thick oak doors, your mothers argued with your fathers — voices rising, brittle and desperate.

“They deserve to know!” his mother snapped, sharp with grief already blooming beneath her stern voice.

“They’re not ready,” your father bit back, voice low, tight with the kind of fear he never let you see.

“Then make them ready!” your mother had hissed — and it stopped you cold. She never argued with him. Never raised her voice. Not like that.Her words trembled on the edge of panic. “Or do you want the shock to kill them if we don’t make it back?”

A sharp bang followed — Theodore’s father slamming his glass down, his voice rising over all of them.

“Nobody is dying.”

Silence. Sudden. Staggering. As if, all at once, they realized you and Theo could hear everything. As if your names had been spoken too loudly. As if the truth had bled too far. The silence that followed was louder than the shouting had been. A silence that said what none of them would admit out loud: They didn’t expect to survive.

Your body went cold beneath him, every nerve taut. Your fingernails dug into his bare chest as he sat frozen above you, his jaw clenched, his muscular arms flexing with either fury, fear — or both.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

The rest of the night was silent. The air too still. The fire burned low in the hearth, the shadows long and unforgiving. You curled into his side, shivering despite the heat of his skin. He held you. Kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cried into his chest — quietly, steadily, until sleep took you both like a mercy. From that night on, you never spoke of it. But he always wore the ring you gave him, like it anchored him to something. And you — you never took off that necklace. Like it might protect you from a world that had stopped making sense. Like it might remind you that for one moment in time… you were his.

Just friends.

March. Your eighteenth birthday.

A blur of green lighting, music thumping through the common room walls, and Firewhisky burning a path down your throat like it was trying to cauterize the ache in your chest. Everyone was there — Blaise with some girl on his lap, Pansy dancing barefoot on a table, Draco brooding with a drink in one hand and a sharp grin on his face. Theo didn’t leave your side all night. He watched you with unreadable eyes as you laughed too loud, danced too close, leaned into someone else's touch just long enough to make him angry. When the party finally thinned, and the halls emptied of smoke and song, you pulled him into your room without a word. And this time— This time you didn’t stop.

You kissed him hard, your hands yanking him toward you like you were starved. His shirt was gone in seconds. Yours followed. Your back hit the mattress with a thud, and the rest was heat and whispered curses. Raw. Lust-filled. Unapologetic. His name fell from your lips like a sin. Yours left his like a promise he never got to keep. It was the kind of night that could've changed everything. But it didn’t. Because the next morning, you woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, and he was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Already avoiding your eyes. Already retreating behind that same careful silence.

Your friends teased, of course.

“Oh, they’re at it again.”

“Just make it official already.”

You both laughed it off. He smirked like he wasn’t dying. You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.

Just friends.

But by the time the final term rolled around, everyone knew what you were. A twisted kind of constant. A pattern. A secret with no secrecy left.

Oh, they just fuck.

That’s what they said now. Not with venom. Not with judgment. Just... with a shrug. As if that explained all the nights you spent in his bed, half-clothed and quiet. As if that explained the way his hands found your hips like they belonged there. As if that explained why neither of you could look at each other for too long in the daylight. Just sex. Just lust fueled from fear and frustration. Just friends. And yet, sometimes — when your lips met his in the dark, and your hands clutched the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you secure — it felt like something more. Something that could wreck you. But you never said it. Neither did he. As if speaking it would make it too real. As if the fragile, unspoken thing between you would shatter under the weight of honesty. Because that was the one rule you never broke. Don’t call it love. Don’t make it love. As if you were afraid — terrified — of ruining what had always kept you tethered. The friendship. The shared childhood. The years of unfiltered existence. The quiet comfort of someone who knew you before the world got to you.

By the end of that final year, the harsh reality of life got to you both. Your sheltered upbringings cracked like porcelain dropped on stone. No amount of wealth, no inherited status, no pureblood pride could shield you from the way war hollowed people out and left nothing but ruin behind.

Theo’s mother — Gone. Just… gone. No body. No explanation. One day there, the next, a missing name whispered behind locked doors. The Nott estate hung a black veil over its gates, and no funeral was ever held. There was no point. Grief like that was wordless — just cold halls, two untouched teacups and a father who stopped speaking altogether. Lord Nott, once sharp and cruel with his lectures, had gone fully nonverbal. Not by curse — but by choice. As if silence was the only form of control he had left.

Your father — alive, yes. Barely. He came back from that damned mission, but not the same man who had tucked you into bed with stories about ancient magic and told you to always think three steps ahead. His body was broken beyond recognition. The medics didn’t let you see him at first. They said it would be “too distressing.” Eventually, you did. And they were right. He was unrecognizable. Wheelchair-bound. Spine bent at an unnatural angle. One leg gone from the knee down. His wand hand — once so steady, so sure — was now a twisted, useless claw curled permanently against his chest. His face was gaunt and pale, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Scars like lightning bolts slashed down his neck. His eyes were sunken and wild. You remembered staring at him in silence, unable to move. Because he terrified you. Not in the way an enemy would. But in the way a nightmare does when it looks like someone you love wearing the wrong skin. A ghost in a body that wasn’t built to hold him anymore. He couldn’t speak at first — not from any injury to his throat, but from shock. From trauma that settled into his bones and refused to leave. And when he finally did speak again, his voice was rough. Short. Cold. Barked orders and fragmented thoughts. No longer your clever, strategic father — the man who once gently corrected your spellwork and taught you how to read people like books — but something else entirely. A man stitched together from grief and pain. A shadow with too many memories and too little future. Your mother — still healing from her own wounds — became his nurse. She rose with the sun and fell asleep in chairs beside his bed, hands blistered from potion bottles and bandages. She stopped wearing jewelry. Stopped painting her nails. Her posture slumped. Her laugh disappeared. She aged years in mere months — not from time, but from the weight of it all.

You heard her crying once, through the door of the grand kitchen. Quiet. Shaking. Then silence. Then the kettle boiling like nothing had happened. You stayed away from your parents' room as much as you could. And hated yourself for it. But every time you looked at him… you didn’t see your father. You saw what war did.

Your mothers had been right that Christmas. The fear in their voices, the tension in the way their hands had trembled as they poured wine and tried to smile — it had all been true. They had known what was coming. And still, no one prepared you.There were no instructions. No easing in. You and Theo were thrown into it — contracts, vaults, magical properties, shared estates, heirlooms, taxes, infernal negotiations with families older than stone. The joint businesses, the web of wealth spun between your last names, all fell into your hands. You were expected to just know — to manage, to lead, to represent, to preserve legacies that were already falling apart. You had to learn everything in a matter of days. Not weeks. Not months. And you did. So did he. Because what other choice was there? You were no longer just students. You were heirs to something crumbling. You were survivors of something that never truly ended.

Theo, who once smirked during Potions and drew obscene doodles in the margins of your notes, now wore tailored suits and pinched the bridge of his nose over budget ledgers. You, who used to skip class to nap in the sun, now read estate law by candlelight and signed contracts that made your stomach turn. Shared business. Shared history. Shared ruin. And yet, in the quiet, in the moments between meetings and estate visits and painfully public galas, you still found each other.

At night, when you thought everyone was asleep and the world had gone quiet, you’d meet in the corners of your decaying privilege. His study. Your greenhouse. The stables at the Greengrass estate during a black-tie engagement party neither of you wanted to be at. You’d find each other in the dark. A familiar rhythm. The same kiss. The same desperate hands. The same way your body knew his, like you’d been made for this, even if you never got to officially claim it. It wasn’t passion anymore — not really. It was survival. Because without it — without him — you weren’t sure you’d still be standing. School officially ended. Graduation came and went without you. While your classmates celebrated the start of a new life, you were already buried in the old one.

As the months rolled on, it began to change you. Not just inside — not just the fatigue, the sleeplessness, the weight of responsibility. But outside too. Theo grew leaner, his sharpness no longer boyish but sculpted by loss. His stubble always present now — not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because he didn’t have the energy to care. And you —You’d grown colder. Still beautiful, but distant. Your fingers slender and always stained with ink, your voice quieter, but never unsure.You moved like a woman who knew how to survive. Together, you navigated endless meetings; estate conflicts and public appearances — always seated side by side, always quietly aligned. Like a married couple. Like a power duo. Like something real, even if it wasn’t.

You’d been in the Nott estate office for hours. Stacks of parchment, ink-smudged records, bloodline documentation, contracts, estate transfers — all tangled up in the web of shared legacy that neither of you had asked for, but now had to untangle. The windows were drawn. A single lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Above you, the yelling started again. Theodore’s father — a once dignified, articulate man — now reduced to ghostlike fury, roared behind closed doors. You could hear him stumbling, the scrape of wood against stone, a loud crash as something shattered. And then again — cries. Muffled, broken. You couldn’t tell if they were from pain, grief, or madness anymore. You and Theo had long stopped reacting to it. You sat across from each other, bent over opposite ends of the desk, searching desperately for one specific scroll that had vanished in the chaos. Your hands trembled. Theo’s jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The silence was heavy. Suffocating.

“You filed it wrong,” he snapped finally, voice low but sharp.

You looked up, exhaustion fraying your edges. “I didn’t. I double-checked. It’s not here.”

“It has to be,” he growled, standing abruptly. “We can’t afford to lose this one. Not this one.”

You stood too. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Theodore. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

His hand slammed against the desk, papers jumping in every direction. “It’s not enough!”

Something cracked. Not the desk. Not the lamp. You. He moved opposite you, towering over your frame, the air between you tense and buzzing. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched, anger etched into every sharp angle of his face — but it wasn’t just anger. It was everything. Grief. Pressure. The unbearable weight of inheritance and expectation pressing down on both of you.

“You think I don’t know that?” you hissed. “You think I’m not drowning too?”

The silence that followed was dangerous. Alive.

Then, in one breathless movement, Theo swept the remaining papers off the desk with a furious snarl, grabbed your waist, and shoved you back against the polished wood. His hand gripped your neck — not harsh, but firm — his breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “Fuck you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, voice low, steady. “Do it then, bastard. Fuck me.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours — hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real. Raw. You kissed him back with equal force, hands fisting in his collar, dragging him closer as his hips pressed into yours. A clash of teeth and tongues, of fury and grief and longing. Hushed gasps. Scraped sighs. You clawed at his back like it might anchor you to the moment, to something that still made sense — leaving angry red streaks in your wake, some broken just enough to draw blood. His hand slid under your shirt. Yours tangled in his hair. You didn’t care about the desk. The office. The yelling upstairs. For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but heat — the ache of needing to forget, the need to feel alive, to release anger, if only briefly. And when it ended — when your breaths slowed and your foreheads rested together — you didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t explain. You simply slid off the desk, tugging your oversized shirt back over your shoulder, smoothing the hem of your loose shorts with trembling hands. Then, wordlessly, you began collecting the papers scattered across the floor. Theo helped, running a hand through his disheveled hair, jaw set and unreadable. Neither of you looked at each other. You smoothed out a torn contract. He re-inked the title line. And you went back to work. The marks you left on his back stayed for weeks — angry, raw reminders of a moment you both refused to speak of. You tended to them in silence, dabbing salve over the scabs with careful hands. Theo never complained, even when the pain made him wince. He just sat still, jaw clenched, as if he needed to feel the sting, to feel something.

People whispered. They always did.

“They’re perfect together.”

“They run their families like they were born for it.”

“They have to be together, right?”

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how you’d sign the last page of a treaty with your hand trembling and Theo would place his fingers over yours — just for a second ��� to steady you. How you’d brush against each other on the gala stairs and both flinch, as if the touch was too much. They didn’t know about the arguments behind closed doors, the way grief twisted everything tight. Didn’t see you both unravel — trying to keep up with legacies you were never meant to carry alone.Didn’t see the way your fathers now sat silently in the shared manor farm’s garden, side by side — your father’s hands gnarled and motionless in his lap, Theo’s father pushing the wheelchair in slow, stiff silence during their mandatory daily walks. Didn’t see your mother smoking alone at dusk beside the grave of Theo’s mother — a grave with no body. Just a stone. Just a name. You were still just friends. Still clinging to the label like it might save you. Not because you didn’t want to call it love anymore — but because now, you couldn’t. There was no time. No energy. No room left for soft words and safe confessions. Not with everything else you were carrying.

The peace after the storm came three years later.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Not all at once. It came slowly, like the way bruises fade — inch by inch, color by color, until one day you looked in the mirror and realized the ache was gone, but you still remembered exactly how it felt. You and Theo had learned to breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough. Enough to survive the meetings. Enough to sleep for more than four hours. Enough to stop jumping when owls arrived unexpectedly. Enough to function in the daylight, to keep your voices steady, to hold a quill without shaking. You were still sleeping in your own homes with your parents, still tethered to the ruins of what had been. But more often than not, you found each other in Theo’s bed — not for passion, not for pleasure, but for stillness. For warmth. For something close to peace. Just holding each other in silence, hearts beating like stubborn clocks in the dark. One morning, you had walked alongside your fathers in the garden. Slowly. Carefully. You had finally gathered the courage — or maybe just the numbness — to stomach the way they looked now. His father guiding your father’s wheelchair, both silent as ghosts, eyes cast low like men already half-buried. It was there that his father first openly pitched the idea of marriage to both of you. Not as a romantic gesture. Not even as protection anymore. But as necessity. Politics. Legacy. A tie to keep everything standing. Theo hadn’t said you were just friends. He hadn’t said no. He had only said, flatly, “There’s no time.”

And your father — your once-sharp, untouchable father — had started crying. Not loud. Just quietly. Shamefully. Because he couldn’t walk you down the aisle without assistance. Because he couldn’t hold a wand. Because he was no longer the man you had looked up to with such blinding pride. You had clutched Theo’s hand so tightly his fingers had gone pale. He hadn’t let go. That same night, you had sat outside in the old tree — the one he’d pushed you from years ago. The bark still scraped. The branches still high. The memory still vivid. You didn’t speak. You just sat in the crook of the trunk, a cigarette burning slow between your fingers, staring out into the dark, and wishing everything would stop spinning — just for a while. Theo had climbed up beside you like he always did, the wood creaking under his weight. And without a word, he’d pulled you gently against his side, his arm wrapping around your back with the kind of ease only years could grant. His lips found your temple — soft, gentle — and he whispered something quiet into your ear. You didn’t catch all of it. You didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered — low, steady, like an anchor dropped into stormy water. You leaned into him, resting your head beneath his chin, letting the smoke curl upward as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, the world stood still.

One summer afternoon, an owl arrived. You were in Theo’s study, both of you hunched over estate plans in silence, the kind of quiet that had become second nature — not hostile, just heavy. The open window let in the distant hum of cicadas and the faint scent of warm stone. The owl cut through it all with a sharp flap of wings, landing on the back of Theo’s chair with practiced ease. You blinked, reaching for the parchment tied to its leg. Pansy’s handwriting. Flowing. Delicate. Dramatic. A vacation. Her beach villa. Two weeks. Sun, sand, alcohol, “and absolutely no business, darling.”

Around you, life had kept moving — faster than either of you could follow. The Malfoys had escaped the war with little more than scratches and enough gold to polish their name clean. Draco had expressed interest in Daphne’s sister Astoria, fallen in love, and now they were expecting their first child as a married couple — a picture-perfect future handed to them on a silver spoon. Pansy had found love in Blaise, of all people, and last you heard, they’d gotten engaged. Daphne had vanished off to some far land, buried in magical research and ancient libraries, sending the occasional vague postcard with too much sun and too few words. Everyone had moved on.Except for you two. You’d declined nearly every group invitation over the years. Some never even reached you anymore. The others came wrapped in awkward politeness — sympathy laced into the phrasing, like everyone knew but no one wanted to say it aloud. Everyone knew your situation. They whispered it behind their hands at galas and in footnotes of society columns: the heirs who stayed behind. The children who became the legacy. Only Pansy had stayed in contact properly. Owls passed between you — sometimes short and sweet, sometimes long and rambling. She never pushed, just reminded you that she was still there. Still waiting. But you’d never gone. Never had the time. Never had the energy to pretend you were whole enough to relax. Until now.

“Is this… a joke?” Theo asked eventually, voice low and flat.

You didn’t answer. Just folded the parchment once more and placed it on the desk between you like it might detonate. A vacation. A real vacation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had one. No duties. No legacy. No headlines. No contracts. No whispered condolences. No tense galas. No black robes or uncomfortable meetings. Just… escape. It felt foreign. Unreal. Irresponsible. And still —Still, a part of you ached for it. Not the beach. Not the cocktails. Not the idea of rest. But the idea of being you again. Not your name. Not your family’s. Just you. Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. You watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his shirt clung to his collarbones, the way exhaustion lived in his body like a second soul. The silence stretched, heavy and careful, like all things between you. You reached for the letter again, scanning it once more.

 “Two weeks,” you said quietly, setting it back down. “We’d be off the grid. No meetings. No correspondence. No expectations.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s impractical,” he muttered. “We have three estate reports due. I still need to finalize the imports for—”

“We can delegate,” you interrupted, calm. “Take the work with us if we must. But I think—” You exhaled slowly. “I think we need the distance. From all of this.”

You gestured vaguely to the desk, the stacks of parchment, the endless flow of sealed envelopes. Theo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on a dark spot in the wooden grain of the desk. Then, finally, his gaze met yours.

“We go,” he said. “Just a few days. Nothing excessive.”

“Fine,” you agreed with a slight nod. “I’ll write back.”

No smiles. No jokes. No laughter. Just two people who had grown used to survival. Two people who made decisions like allies, like business partners. Because that's what you did. You endured. Together. 

The vacation came. And for the first two days, neither of you knew what to do with it. You arrived late in the afternoon — salt in the air, the light golden and low, the villa glowing with warm sandstone and the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. It was almost too beautiful. Artificial. Like stepping into a memory you didn’t belong in. Pansy greeted you at the door, her hair twisted into a silk scarf, her grin wide and bright, a new engagement ring on her finger gleaming like a spotlight. Blaise was behind her, hand resting lazily on her waist. He smirked and said something about you two looking “as thrilled as a pair of accountants at a rave.” You didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t either.

Inside, the villa pulsed with sun and music — warm and alive in a way that felt almost foreign. Draco was already lounging shirtless by the pool, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily stroking the curve of Astoria’s very obviously pregnant belly. She looked radiant, her skin kissed golden by the sun, her laughter ringing out as she tipped her head back at something he whispered. Around them, their friends glowed with the same ease — pleasant tans, light clothes, relaxed smiles. Like the war had never touched them. You and Theo looked like ghosts. Pale. Drawn. Unseasoned by joy. You'd packed three swimsuits, but couldn’t bring yourself to put any of them the first day. You’d grown so slender in recent months that your reflection no longer felt like your own. Your body — once yours, once familiar — now felt like something borrowed and worn thin. You stood in front of the mirror too long. Silent. Theo noticed. He always did.

“It was your idea,” he muttered later, tension clipped into his voice as he stood in the shared bedroom of the villa. “You’re the one who said we needed this.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you replied, equally quiet. Defensive. “Like we don’t belong here anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t really about swimsuits. Or sunlight. Or laughter.  It was about what you’d become — and how far you’d drifted from your friends. Then, without a word, Theo stepped behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back into him. You felt his lips brush the side of your head as he whispered, “You worry too much.”

A pause.

“You’ve always been gorgeous.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You just leaned into him, letting the words settle between the two of you like something fragile.

That same night, after a dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal, you sat curled up with a book in your lap — not reading, not even pretending to. Your fingers gripped the spine too tightly, knuckles white. The pages didn’t turn. Theo was nearby, sprawled on the adjacent chair, one arm draped lazily along the back. His eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on the horizon, sharp and quiet, like he was daring it to say something. Dinner had started innocently enough. Pansy had tried — really tried — to keep things light, even as she sipped from her wine glass with the telltale smirk of someone trying to pull threads back together.

“So,” she began, eyes flicking between you and Theo across the candlelit table, “What finally dragged you two out of your cave? Don’t tell me it was the promise of tan lines and mocktails.”

Theo didn’t smile. Neither did you. It was Blaise who chuckled into his drink.

Pansy tried again. “Still just messing around like you were at Hogwarts? Or did one of you finally grow up and confess something real?”

You had managed a dry, noncommittal smile. Theo stabbed his food with a bit more force than necessary, the clink of silverware sharp in the quiet.

“No time for discussing feelings,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate. “Too much work.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded, barely. Silently agreeing.

Then, after a pause, he added, quieter this time — as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit — “But we’re still close.”

Pansy didn’t push. Nobody did. Then Draco — in a tone too casual to be careless — leaned forward slightly and asked, “How are your families?”

The question hit like a slap. Sharp. Unwelcome. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around your fork. Heat flared in your chest — not anger, but something more bitter, more helpless. Like a scream trapped behind your ribs. Your hand slid under the table, gripping Theo’s thigh through his shorts. Your long nails dug in, leaving harsh, red crescents in his skin. A warning. A plea. He didn’t flinch. His hand covered yours — warm, relaxing. He gave it the faintest squeeze, thumb brushing your knuckles once, then said quietly, with no elaboration: “Better.”

That one word hung in the air. Final. Clipped. Uninviting. The conversation moved on, awkwardly, stumbling into safer territory. Someone laughed a little too loudly. The subject shifted to the weather today being unbearably hot, then to Astoria’s pregnancy, and then — mercifully — to dessert. You didn’t mind Draco. You liked him, even. He’d been a close friend for years. But the question — innocent or not — had sliced right through what little armor you still had left. If Theo hadn’t spoken first, you weren’t sure what might’ve come out of your mouth. And so later, when the moon was high and most of the others had wandered off to their rooms or the beach, you sat outside together in a comfortable silence that wasn’t really comfortable at all. Just familiar. The book lay unopened in your lap. Theo’s jaw was tight as he stared at the sea. No one joined you. No one interrupted. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was just... distance. The kind you grow used to when you’ve lived too long behind walls no one else knows how to climb.

Day two bled into heat and salt and sun. The others were scattered — Blaise and Pansy off snorkeling somewhere beyond the rocks, their laughter occasionally echoing over the waves. Draco was seated under a shaded umbrella, massaging Astoria’s swollen ankles with surprising tenderness, the two of them tucked into their own quiet world. Theo had gone for a run. His body moved like he was chasing something — or maybe trying to outrun it. Every flex of his shoulders caught the light like marble. He’d shaved — the first time in what felt like months — and the sharpness of his jaw, no longer hidden beneath stubble, made something unfamiliar twist in your stomach. You’d gone to grab a brush from the bathroom that morning, pausing in the doorway for a heartbeat too long. He stood by the sink, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him, his movements precise, methodical. The aftershave he wore — the one you’d given him for his last birthday — lingered in the air, fresh and clean and far too rare. He barely used it. There was never time. You stepped closer, silently, meeting his reflection in the mirror as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter. Then, without a word, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw — soft, fleeting, almost questioning.

“Smells good,” you mumbled against his skin, the words barely audible but thick with meaning.

His hand paused mid-motion. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one tugged at the corner of his mouth. Almost. But not quite.

His hair, damp from an earlier swim, was slicked back, a few strands falling forward as he ran. You sat on a sun-warmed rock a few meters away, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Theo’s shirt draped over your swimsuit. You’d burned yesterday — badly — and now his button-down protected your flushed skin. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just staring. Watching him like it was the first time you’d allowed yourself to see him. Something in your chest thudded — quiet but impossible to ignore. He caught your gaze mid-stride, his expression softening in the way it always did when it was just you. And then he waved, slowing as he jogged toward you, his breath steady, lips slightly parted. You didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer, wondering, without meaning to, what you both could have been if the timing had been right for once.

By day three, something shifted.

It was small. Barely there. You were eating breakfast outside on the patio, legs pulled beneath you, a cup of bitter espresso growing cold beside your plate. Theo sat across from you, hair damp from a morning swim, shirt wrinkled from a night spent tossing.

He looked up from his plate, brow raised at your silence, and muttered, “If you frown at that book any harder, you’re going to scare the author out of retirement.”

You blinked. Then laughed — surprised by the sound of it, startled by the sudden lightness. The rest of the group went quiet. Pansy’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Draco raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Blaise shot Theo a look and smirked. It was subtle, but the reaction was there — like they’d just seen a ghost exhale. No one said anything. Not out loud. Theo didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened as he looked at you. That same night, the two of you went for a walk on the beach. It was quiet. A silence neither heavy nor awkward — just there, between footsteps on wet sand and the sound of distant waves. His hand found yours as naturally as breathing. Your summer dress swayed softly with the breeze, the silver serpent necklace still resting cool against your collarbone. He was still wearing the ring. The one you’d given him. It was duller now, a few new scratches cutting through the initials — but he wore it. Always. After a while, Theo glanced at you and muttered,

 “This whole thing’s... not too bad.”

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“No,” you murmured. “It’s not.”

You both stopped near the dunes, where the sand was still warm underfoot. The moon cast a pale glow across the waves.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter.

You didn’t reply — not in words. Instead, you stepped closer, let your head rest lightly against his shoulder as you both sat down. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. You just let his arm wrap around you while you stared out at the sea.

By day four, he threw you into the pool.

You were in the middle of drying your legs in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, a rare moment of ease softening your expression. He walked past casually. Paused. Looked down at you. And without warning, without ceremony, scooped you up and launched you into the water. You came up gasping, hair stuck to your cheeks, laughing through a stream of curses. He dove in after you. You splashed him. He dunked you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was familiar — messy, chaotic, joyful. Like a version of yourselves you’d buried beneath duty and grief. A life before the war, before bloodlines and business, before everything became sharp-edged and quiet.

Blaise had laughed from a deck chair, calling the others out to watch the chaos unfold. “Merlin, they’re alive!” he shouted, grinning like it was the most surprising thing he’d seen all summer.

You managed to climb on Theo's shoulders with pure, stubborn determination, shrieking as you tried to dunk him beneath the water. He grabbed your waist and threw you off again, the splash echoing through the courtyard. But you didn’t go down quietly. You surfaced with a wicked grin, swam up behind him, and yanked his shorts down under the water with a triumphant snort. His bark of laughter turned into a string of curses muffled by your laughter. You gave him the finger, tongue stuck out like a smug child, and climbed out of the pool victorious — dripping wet and absolutely unbothered.

The deadline you gave yourselves — “just a few days” — blurred. Stretched. By the end of the week, you weren’t keeping track of time anymore. Theo spent less time staring into the distance, more time beside you. You weren’t clinging to your book anymore — sometimes it sat forgotten beside a half-drunk glass of wine, your head tipped toward the sun. There were moments now. Small ones. Soft ones. Moments where he laughed without bitterness. Where you smiled without flinching. Where the two of you shared silence without the weight of the past pressing on your chests. You still didn’t talk about what you were. But for once, you weren’t pretending. Not lovers. Not friends. Just two people breathing for the first time in years. Most nights, you’d lay in bed beside each other, sharing lazy, hushed conversations. About everything and nothing. Estate renovations you’d never actually start. Which room had the best light for tea in the morning. The dumb things Blaise said. The even dumber things you two had done as teens. You’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, smiles lingering. After the others went to bed, you always slipped away together for a walk. It became a habit neither of you named — just something that felt necessary. You’d walk along the quiet shore, or wander through the villa grounds barefoot, whispering under the stars. One evening, after Theo joked about throwing you into the sea if you had kept teasing him, you playfully elbowed him and muttered that you’d haunt him in his bath forever if he did. He had chuckled, said “worth it,” and then, with a strange kind of quiet certainty, leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, nothing like the other times. Theo started waking you early, just after sunrise. He’d tug you from bed with a grumble of “come on, lazybones” and force you to join him for morning workouts. You hated them. You were horrible at most of the exercises he showed you — uncoordinated, sleepy, constantly complaining. But you always outran him. Every time. Barefoot, laughing, hair tangled in the wind, leaving him behind on the sand while he cursed after you with a grin. One morning over breakfast, you found yourself in an unusually animated conversation with the girls. Astoria talked about the baby’s nursery while Pansy passed around wedding brochures and complained about choosing a flower color. You made a particularly crude joke about what labor sounded like, mimicking a hippogriff in heat. Everyone laughed — even Astoria, who nearly choked on her juice. Theo, from across the table, had turned slowly to stare at you, utterly scandalized. You just sipped your coffee with a smirk while Pansy wheezed beside you, clutching her stomach.

Week two had settled into your bones like sunlight. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. Neither of you had. But time moved differently here — slower, softer, like the universe had finally stopped asking you to fight. The morning began the way many had: with Theo doing pushups in the sand. This time, though, you didn’t join. You sprawled on his back as he worked through the set, pretending to be a drill sergeant barking orders. He grumbled, muttering something about poor form and insubordination, but didn’t try to shake you off. The laughter that followed felt foreign. But not unwelcome. You returned to the villa a bit earlier, digging through an old handwritten recipe book you’d packed — one of the few things his mother had left behind. You found the worn page with her pancake recipe, smudged with flour and time. You made them exactly as written. No substitutions. No modern twists. Theo returned not long after, fresh from his workout, shirtless and sun-warm. He walked straight to you, arms slipping around your waist as you flipped a pancake. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring something about how it felt like home. His hands gently rubbed along your stomach, a motion so instinctive, so familiar, it sent a shiver through your spine.

“I forgot how good this smells,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair. “It’s like she’s here.”

You set the table quietly, the others still asleep, the sun casting lazy beams across the kitchen floor. The villa smelled faintly of chocolate and butter — the pancakes charmed to stay warm. Theo was gone, showering but taking uncharacteristically long. Long enough that your stomach twisted. You opened the bathroom door just in time to hear the hitch in his breath — the sharp, silent kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders even under the hot stream of water. His body was curled in on itself, hands braced against the tiled wall like he was holding himself upright on memory alone. This was the first time you’d seen him cry in years. You stepped in, fully clothed in your short summer dress, no hesitation. The steam clung to your skin, your hair already dampening. You didn’t speak. Just wrapped your arms around his back, let the water soak through you completely. He didn’t pull away. He sagged against you like it was the only place he knew how to fall. You kissed his shoulder as best as you could reach. His spine. His jaw. Whispered into the heat and silence:

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

“I’m still here.”

“Still breathing.”

“Still with you.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed — ragged, wet, broken — into your shoulder. But then, barely audible above the water and the ache in his chest, he mumbled something. Words you couldn’t quite catch. Your brows knit, lips parting to ask him to repeat it — but before you could, he turned. His hands found your waist, fingers trembling. Then your back met the cool tile of the shower wall. It wasn’t the kind of release that came from desperation or fury — not this time. It wasn’t making love either. It hovered in between. There was restraint in the way he kissed you, in the way his mouth trailed your collarbone like a habit he couldn’t unlearn. There was a tenderness in how his hands and hips moved, like he didn’t want to hurt you — not anymore. But it was still tension. Still need. Still the only way he knew how to let go. And you let him — because you felt it too. That pressure in your chest, the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t say. You needed the closeness. The quiet violence of it. The comfort of two bodies still reaching for something in the dark. So you gave in, together — not to forget, not to escape, but just to feel something that wasn’t loss.

Breakfast was oddly silent. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just careful. Respectful. Protective. Theo’s eyes were red-rimmed, his expression unreadable as he focused on his food. His hand brushed yours once beneath the table — briefly, barely — but it was enough. It was obvious he’d cried. Undoubtedly, everyone had heard the stifled gasps and creaking pipes from the bathroom, the low rhythm of bodies against tile despite your efforts to stay quiet. But no one said a word. No teasing from Blaise. No knowing glance from Pansy. Even Draco, usually unable to resist a smirk, simply nodded a silent greeting. Instead, they complimented the pancakes.

“These are… amazing,” Astoria said with a gentle smile, reaching for a second helping.

“Might be the best I've had,” Pansy added, sipping her coffee like it was just any other morning. “You’ll have to share the recipe.”

You’d replied softly, eyes on your plate, “It’s Theo’s mum’s. Family secret.”

Next to you, Theo stilled. Then looked away. And that was it. No more questions. No comments. Just a table full of people choosing kindness over curiosity — the kind of friends who knew better than to ask.

The afternoon was golden. A slow breeze rustled through the tall palms as sunlight shimmered across the surface of the pool. Everything smelled like salt, suncream and fresh lime. Pansy floated lazily in the pool, humming under her breath, sunglasses perched crooked on her nose. Blaise and Draco sat under the pergola in deep conversation, voices low as they argued — again — about Quidditch teams and playoff brackets like they hadn’t aged a day since sixth year. Astoria was curled up nearby on a chaise lounge, one hand resting gently on her stomach, her book half-forgotten in her lap. Too many cocktails had been sipped — fizzy, colorful things with ridiculous garnishes — and the laughter that floated across the patio was light, untethered. Astoria's glass, of course, was alcohol-free, her drink bright pink and sparkling with some enchanted citrus blend. She looked radiant, even without the buzz. You, on the other hand, were tipsy for the first time in years. Giddy in a way that made your limbs loose and your words just a little slurred. Theo was too, stretched beside you on the lounge chair, one arm slung lazily over the side. His cheeks were flushed, his grin unguarded. He muttered something under his breath — probably a complaint about the ridiculous paper umbrella in his drink — and you burst into laughter that wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t remember the last time your bodies weren’t tight with tension. The alcohol loosened something deeper — not just in your limbs, but in your hearts. For once, you were just two people melting into a sun-drenched afternoon, not heirs, not soldiers, not survivors. You returned to the oversized sunbed tucked beneath the shade of the canopy, balancing two fresh cocktails in your hands. The heat clung to your skin, the salt from earlier still drying on your legs. Theo lay sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, his chest slowly rising and falling. You sat beside him, careful not to spill the drinks, and leaned over to place his on the small side table. His eyes blinked open lazily, taking you in — bikini, sun-flushed skin, and all.

“Merlin,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “You look too damn good in that.”

Before you could respond, he tugged at your wrist, pulling you down so that your upper body settled across his chest. You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and he smirked against your hair. His arms curled loosely around you, one hand idly tracing the curve of your spine, the cocktail forgotten for the moment. He was in nothing but his swim trunks, his skin sun-kissed and damp from the earlier dip in the pool. As you finally settled against him, he reached up with one hand, running it through his messy, wind-tossed hair. The other hand fumbled lazily for the cigarette box on the table. He pulled one out, lit it with a flick of his wand, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling between you. You watched as he exhaled toward the open sky, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, lingering. He turned his head slightly, meeting your lips properly this time, a slow, familiar exchange. When he pulled back, he passed you the cigarette without needing to ask, his fingers brushing yours. You took it, took a drag, and let the smoke drift into the breeze. Your cheek against his sternum, your eyes half-lidded, your body draped over his like he was home as you continued your previous drink infused, lazy argument.

"I am not letting this one go, Theodore. You are the one who insisted we plant that stupid frostleaf in zone five," you murmured, voice slow, lips brushing his collarbone as you spoke.

Theo scoffed, head tipped back against the cushion, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.  "You said it needed partial shade."

"And you said you'd reinforce the dome charms. Which you didn't."

"Because someone forgot to order the runestone stabilizers," he said, turning his head slightly, his voice rough and lazy. "We lost four moonfruit pods because of that."

You hummed, tapping your finger against his chest. "Mm. Still think it’s your fault."

He reached for the cigarette again, took a drag, and handed it back — but this time, his fingers paused around yours. His eyes flicked to your lips. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. He leaned in slowly, brushing your nose with his before pressing his mouth against yours. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. It simply belonged. Slow. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that started with a sigh and ended in silence. His lips moved with yours like he already knew how — like he always had. You kissed him back just as slowly, shifting your body slightly over his, your hand curling around the side of his neck. His fingers found the small of your back again, grounding you. Not pulling. Just holding.

You pulled back a little, your nose brushing his again. "We're supposed to be relaxing."

He smirked lazily, not opening his eyes. "I am relaxed. You’re the one who keeps bringing up the bloody farm."

You kissed him again. Just a soft press. No tongue, no urgency. Just lips grazing. Lingering. Then again, deeper this time — not heated, not rough. Just there. Steady. Familiar. Like you could spend a lifetime kissing him like this and never get tired.

His mouth parted slightly, and your teeth scraped gently against his lower lip before you pulled away, just enough to whisper, “We should probably hire someone to manage it.”

“Mm.” His eyes opened halfway, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “We could. But then we wouldn’t have anything to argue about while making out in the sun.”

You smiled against his jaw. “So this is your strategy. Pick fights with me to justify the kissing.”

“You caught me.” He kissed your temple. “Shameful, really.”

You passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers running lazily along the side of his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still lying on top of me,” he said, taking another drag. “So I win.”

You laughed, low and warm. His thumb rubbed circles into your back. You rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Another kiss. Soft, aimless. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about sex or tension or release. Just presence. And for the first time in years, there was no edge in it. No hiding. Just this. Just now. Your friends glanced over every now and then — not with curiosity, not even with surprise, but with quiet relief. As if they were all silently thinking the same thing: finally.

Pansy made some offhand comment — something about you two being “The best cupid ever.” and “Honestly, I should start charging for my matchmaking services.” — which drew a few soft laughs and a dramatic eye-roll from Blaise. You didn’t react, just gave a lazy middle finger in her general direction without lifting your head.

Theo smirked. “Charming as ever.”

You hummed. “Mhm. Remind me to hex her drink later.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

He kissed your temple again, slower this time, lingering. You could feel his smile against your skin. The warmth wrapped around you like a blanket — the lapping of the pool water, the scent of sea salt and citrus, the weight of Theo’s arm around your waist, firm and sure. You could stay here forever. But some part of you — the part still wired for responsibility — stirred.

“We still have that event when we get back,” you murmured eventually, words barely above a whisper, your lips brushing the space between his collarbone and throat. “The Rosiers’ fundraiser thing. And the estate check-in the day after.”

Theo groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t say anything,” he mumbled, cutting you off mid-sentence. He turned his head toward yours and kissed you again — slow, drawn out, silencing. His fingers slid gently up your spine, grounding you once more in the moment. “We’ll think about it when the time comes.”

You sighed into the kiss, nodding slightly, even as your thoughts tried to drag you back. But he kissed you again. And again. Until you forgot what you were trying to remember. Until there was nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way his hand rested over your heart, as if to remind you: Not yet.

Dinner that night had started with Theo at the grill, shirt half-buttoned, wand tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. Most of the others had wandered off toward the beach, drawn by the promise of a final dip before the sun disappeared. But you and Theo had stayed behind — still very much buzzed from cocktails and sun, swaying more than walking, laughter catching in your throats like bubbles. He was flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames casting golden light across his cheekbones.

“You know,” he began, eyes narrowed at the meat as if it had personally offended him, “your dad once smacked me in the back of the head with a spatula for salting too early.”

You snorted. “Fifth year, right? He said you were ruining centuries of culinary magic with your ‘lazy seasoning.’”

Theo grinned. “Swore if I ever married into the family, he’d disown me if I served undercooked lamb.”

You leaned on the counter beside him, eyes playful. “Well, lucky for you, your meat’s never undercooked.”

He glanced sideways. “Are we still talking about lamb?”

You grinned, leaning in close, your voice a sultry murmur. “Depends. You planning to show me how well-seasoned it is, Nott?”

That earned you a kiss — rough, sudden, his hand finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You kissed him back eagerly, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The heat wasn’t just from the grill anymore. At some point, the tongs clattered to the ground. A skewer nearly rolled off the edge. You both stumbled into the counter, knocking the entire barbecue over, bits of meat splattered everywhere.

“Shit—”

“Fix it!” you laughed, breathless, smacking his chest as he scrambled for his wand.

A quick Reparo saved the dinner. Mostly. You were still breathless with laughter as you floated the slightly-singed peaches back onto the platter.

“Perfect,” Theo declared proudly. “Just how your dad didn’t teach me.”

You winked. “We’ll say it’s rustic. He’ll cry tears of joy.”

Draco, already halfway through his second helping, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said casually, “I’ll give it to you, Nott — your meat’s surprisingly well-seasoned.”

You choked mid-bite, coughing as a piece nearly went down the wrong pipe. Theo patted your back with all the faux innocence of someone definitely not responsible.

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, she’s had plenty of practice enjoying Theo’s meat in her mouth.”

You groaned, still recovering from the coughing fit, while Theo muttered under his breath, “Can we please stop with the bloody meat jokes?”

Astoria, giggling behind her glass of lemonade, gasped, “Stop, stop — I swear, the baby’s pressing on my bladder, I’m going to pee myself.”

Laughter erupted around the table, soft and honest, the kind that curled around your ribs and loosened something tight inside. Even Theo was smiling, his hand brushing your thigh under the table in a quiet kind of affection.

As the night wore on, the music had slowly faded. The clinking of silverware had long since stopped. The scent of grilled skewers and roasted peaches still lingered faintly in the breeze, but the world had gone soft — wrapped in a silk silence that only came with places far from the real world. You were lying on the same sunbed as earlier, only now a light blanket was thrown over your legs, and the air was cooler, salted with wind from the sea. The pool water shimmered in lazy ripples nearby, catching the moonlight in fractured reflections. Theo was stretched beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across your waist. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the occasional red glow brightening the line of his jaw. The two of you were quiet, like the night — like the stars themselves had hushed to listen in. You tilted your head back, staring up. The sky was vast. Deep and dark and impossibly full.

“Remember when we used to sneak out just to do this?” you murmured, your voice lazy, full of sun and wine and salt.

“Mm,” Theo hummed in response. “Back when we thought stargazing made us poetic.”

You grinned. “Back when we thought anything made us poetic.”

A pause.

Then you added, voice faintly amused, “Hard to believe everyone’s already asleep. Pansy, especially. She used to threaten to hex anyone who even mentioned bed before 2 a.m.”

Theo chuckled, low in his chest. “Years of partying caught up with them. We’re surrounded by old souls now.”

You turned your head against the curve of his shoulder, looking up at him. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t gone dancing shirtless on a table in at least... three years.”

He exhaled smoke and smirked. “True. But at least I haven’t gone full Draco.”

“Oh Merlin,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “That man went from brooding teen heartthrob to doting husband and father in record time.”

“And yet somehow, that unborn child is not the product of anything prim or proper,” Theo said with mock seriousness, eyes still on the stars.

You snorted. “Right? There’s a reason Pansy said she heard things through the walls during that holiday they took months ago.”

Theo looked at you then, his grin lazy, eyes shining in the low light. “Poor Pansy.”

“She’s scarred.”

“She deserves it.”

You both fell into another comfortable silence, eyes drifting back up to the stars. The sky stretched endlessly above you — scattered with constellations you used to memorize.

You squinted. “That one’s... the hunter. Right?”

Theo glanced up, unimpressed. “No. That’s clearly the swan.”

You lifted your head, offended. “That’s not even close to a swan.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You forgot everything, didn’t you?”

You jabbed him in the side with your elbow. “I did not. That one—there—is definitely the hunter.”

“That’s the dipper,” he said flatly.

You stared.

“…Is it?”

Theo smirked. “No idea.”

You blinked at him.

He grinned wider. “I just wanted to win.”

You let your head fall back with a laugh, resting against his chest. “You’re the worst.”

He kissed the top of your head. “And yet, here you are. Laying on top of me. Again.”

You smiled into his shirt, your hand finding his under the blanket. Fingers interlaced. No words. The stars stretched on above you. The stars above were achingly bright. Far too distant to touch, yet somehow closer than they’d ever felt before. The warmth of Theo’s body beside you, the quiet hush of waves brushing the shore just beyond the villa walls, the low hum of cicadas in the distance — it all wrapped around you like a second blanket, thicker than air, softer than memory. You let your eyes trace the patterns in the sky. Not that you remembered what they were. Not anymore. There had been a time when you and Theo would stay up late, sprawled in the tall grass behind your estate, naming constellations like you owned them. Now, you could barely tell Orion from a smudge on glass.

“I thought I’d have a child by now,” you said, your voice so soft it barely stirred the air.

Theo stilled. Not completely — his chest still rose and fell beneath your cheek — but you felt the way his breath caught, how his thumb paused its motion against the back of your hand.

You didn’t look at him. “Not because of pressure, or expectation. Just…” A faint, wistful smile tugged at your lips. “I always imagined holding someone small. Someone new. Teaching them how to swim. How to breathe through a nightmare. Loving them in all the ways I wished I’d been loved.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. And then—

“That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed once, dry and amused. “It is. But it’s beautiful, too. You get to start over. To raise someone from scratch. Make sure they know how wanted they are.”

Theo’s voice came slower this time, a little unsure. “Are you—thinking about it? Seriously?”

You turned your face into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe the strange ache blooming in your ribs. “Not right now. I mean, look at us. We can barely remember to eat when we’re knee-deep in family estate paperwork.”

He gave a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close. “So you’re saying you haven’t secured a secret baby deal with some charming wizard behind my back?”

You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “No, but now I’m considering it. Just to spite you.”

“Charming,” he muttered. “Truly maternal energy.”

You smiled. It lingered this time. As the stars wheeled above and the warm night pressed in around you, something shifted. Like a current turning under still water. You felt it in the way Theo’s fingers tightened around yours, the way his breath changed — deeper now, steadier. And quieter.

He spoke again, barely more than a murmur. “What are we?”

The question should have startled you. It didn’t. It just settled, gently — like it had always been there. Waiting.

You shifted slightly to look at him. His profile was half-shadowed, all soft angles and stubble, moonlight catching in his lashes. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first — they stayed fixed on the stars, like he couldn’t bear to look at you if this moment turned fragile.

“I mean…” He swallowed. “We’ve been everything, haven’t we? Friends. Enemies, kind of. Coworkers. Fuckbuddies. Family, almost.” A dry laugh escaped him. “Not in order.”

You said nothing, just watched him quietly.

“I think I’ve always wanted to ask,” he continued, voice even softer now. “What this is. What you are to me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His eyes finally met yours. And there it was — that expression you’d seen a thousand times but never understood until now. Something raw. Something bare.

“Because if I asked, and you said the wrong thing… I wouldn’t survive it.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I gave this a name,” he went on, “it might crack. And I’d lose the only real and constant thing I’ve ever had.”

You stared at him, helpless against the emotion building in your throat. The weight of years between you. Of missed moments. Of long nights and longer silences. You sat up slightly, your blanket falling just low enough for the night air to kiss your bare shoulder.

“The world never gave us a chance,” you whispered. “Not really. There was always something. A war. A legacy. A fire to put out.”

“And we let it,” he said, quietly. “We let it take what could’ve been ours.”

A long pause. His eyes searched yours.

“I don’t want to let it anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, held it tightly between both of yours. Your voice trembled, but your words didn’t.

“I don’t need a name for this,” you said. “I just want something real. Something that’s ours. Not inherited. Not strategic. Not survival.”

His hand rose slowly, brushing your cheek with reverence.

“You’ve always been real to me,” he whispered. “Even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”

He looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing the past, present, and future all at once. Like every version of you he'd ever known had folded into the woman before him now, and he didn’t want to blink in case she vanished.His gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly — as if pulled by something older than reason, older than time — he leaned in. Not in a rush, not with intent to conquer or claim, but with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred thing. As if kissing you might unmake him, and he wanted to savor every second before the unraveling began. His breath brushed yours first — soft, uncertain. Then his lips touched yours. And this time — this time, it wasn’t stolen or frantic or desperate. It wasn’t about lust or tension or pretending not to care. This kiss was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that settled instead of sparked. That said more than words ever could. Your lips moved against his in the kind of rhythm only years could create — familiar, but new. His thumb brushed your jaw as his other hand curled around your hip beneath the blanket, pulling you in gently, like you were something sacred. When he pulled back, your breath mingled. Neither of you moved far.

“So we stop pretending?” he asked, voice husky, heart in his throat.

You nodded. “Even if we’re bad at this.”

His lips brushed yours again — once. “Even if we’re terrified.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Another kiss followed, this one lingering like a promise. Your hands found the edge of his shirt, fingers sliding beneath, palms against warm skin. His touch mirrored yours — careful, reverent. Not in a hurry. Not this time. He shifted over you slowly, weight balanced between his arms as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten in the hush of the night. The stars blinked quietly above, casting their silver light across your bare shoulders, tangled legs, the slow press of mouths and hearts finally moving in sync. Your breath caught as his lips traced your neck — not rushed or claiming, but memorizing. Like he'd kissed you a hundred times before but only now understood what it meant. Clothes became memories. Fingers traced old scars and familiar curves as though seeing them for the first time. There was no rush, no rougness, no anger— only the soft sound of skin meeting skin and the way you whispered each other's names like confessions. He murmured things against your collarbone. You responded in sighs, in gasps, in the arch of your body meeting his. Moans swallowed by kisses, hands in his hair, his stubble against your cheek.

Then — quiet, nearly lost in the moment — came the words:

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, as if he’d been holding them back for years and they finally broke free.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. You just kissed him deeper, slower, your mouth shaping the same words into his.

“I love you too,” between kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth again.

Another kiss.Not a hungry one, not rushed or desperate — but the kind that settled instead of sparked. The kind of kiss that said stay. That asked, without words, are you sure? You answered with your hands, grasping the sides of his bare toned torso, pulling him closer, grounding him with the silent truth that had always lived between you. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And then, slowly — like time itself had stretched open just for you — he became one with you, his touch reverent, steady. Everything about it felt intentional. There were no boundaries now. No pretense. No performance. Just you, him, and the soft rustle of linen as the blanket fell away fully. Neither of you said anything about protection. The thought drifted by, then vanished, drowned in the slow rise of heat between your bodies — in the way your skin fit his like a memory long buried and finally remembered. You weren’t reckless. Just… undone. Quietly, completely. When he finally fully sank into you, it was with the gentleness of someone who knew every piece of you — and wanted to love them all. You gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t angry or frustrated. Each movement was slow, deep, deliberate. Like you were writing something onto each other, something lasting. A rhythm born not of lust, but of meaning. Of knowing. Of years of holding back finally melting into touch. Your mouths met again and again — between sighs, between whispered names, between soft moans and gentle gasps. You held his face like he might vanish, and he touched your waist like he’d been dreaming of it. And then, breathlessly, his forehead against yours, voice fraying at the edges — “I love you so much.”

You kissed the words into his mouth before saying them back. “I love you more.” Again. Slower this time. Surer. 

You made love under the stars that night, the sleepy villa hushed around you. Tangled in the warm summer night and years of unspoken truth. Touches that felt like questions. Kisses that felt like answers.Hands tracing paths long memorized but never truly explored — until now. The tension unraveled slowly, achingly. Like the final page of a long story you’d both been too afraid to read. Quiet whimpers slipped from parted lips as you reached your peak — together, finally. A soft gasp, a stuttered breath, a whispered name like a prayer. It wasn’t loud.It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of undoing that settled in your bones and stayed there. When the world stilled, when the echoes faded and the waves whispered just beyond the terrace walls, you stayed wrapped around each other — skin to skin, soul to soul. His body pressed to yours, protective and warm, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. You shifted gently, your lips ghosting across the line of his jaw, down the curve of his throat, pressing soft kisses there — lazy, loving, lingering. He hummed low in his chest, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go.

“I think,” he murmured, voice sleep-soft and rough from use, “this is what peace feels like.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then let’s not lose it this time.”

There was no answer at first — just the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the soft hush of breath against your temple.

“We won’t.”

The next day arrived too soon.

Suitcases thudded closed. Sunglasses were pushed up into hair. The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, but the sleepy villa already felt quieter, heavier — like it knew you were leaving. You stood near the gate with Theo, both of you still in flip flops, skin warm from the last morning rays, the scent of sea salt  lingering on your clothes. There was something different in your posture now — not just exhaustion soothed by vacation, but a softness neither of you had worn in years. A calmness that had finally settled beneath the surface. Pansy noticed it first. She looped her arm through Astoria’s as the two of them watched you from the porch, their silhouettes framed by climbing bougainvillea and the gold-pink of early noon. Astoria, glowing and content, sipped from her glass of water with a knowing smirk. But it was Pansy who spoke, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“Told you this trip would finally get those two to stop acting like sexually repressed soulmates,” she muttered with a smug smile.

Astoria laughed, turning slightly toward her. “You did say that. And you were absolutely right.”

You caught the tail end of it and rolled your eyes with a half-smile. Theo just smirked, wrapping an arm lazily around your shoulder like it was second nature now — as easy as breathing.

“Ignore her,” he said, brushing his lips against your hair in a quick, almost casual gesture. “She just never left her matchmaker phase.”

Pansy raised her glass in mock salute. “I'm just thrilled I don’t have to listen to the will-they-won’t-they saga anymore.And I still hold the title of best matchmaker, thank you very much.”

“Cheers to that,” Blaise added as he joined Pansy and Astoria on the front porch, coffee in hand.

You turned to Theo, your hand slipping into his — warm, steady, real. There was no panic in it this time. No flinching. Just a quiet confidence built on years of falling and finding each other again.

“Ready to get back to work?” you asked.

He squeezed your fingers gently. “As I’ll ever be.”

You both looked back at the villa one last time — at the floatie still drifting in the pool, at the sand clinging to the edges of your towels, at the place where things finally changed. Slowly,  you stepped into the waiting car — no longer pretending, no longer hiding. Just you and him. Finally. But something lingered. Stayed. Buried deep within you, like a secret whispered by the stars. Unseen. Unfelt. But there.  A spark. A beginning. The softest trace of life, already blooming in silence.

A promise made not with words, but with touch. With love.  A wish breathed into the night sky — “I want a child someday” — caught by a falling star, and answered in the heat of that kiss, in the slow, sacred rhythm of that night.

As the sun kissed the horizon and the car carried you both away, a tiny heartbeat — still weeks from its first beat —had already begun to make a home within you. The product of tenderness. Of love. Of everything you'd both been too afraid to say — finally spoken, finally heard. Neither of you knew yet. But the stars did. And they were smiling.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

© slytherinsmuse. please do not copy, claim, translate or steal any of my works as your own.

[puckinghischier]

Quinn 1000% percent is the type of boyfriend who quietly takes care of you. He may not be flashy with his gestures but they’re always endearing.

i will live and die by the fact that man is the most intense but gentle lover there ever is.

it’s like, day by day his love is quiet and reserved, but looking back over the course of your relationship, you realize just how intense his love really is. because of course he’s vocal about the fact he loves you, never leaving it unsaid anytime you two part, even if just for a few minutes.

but really, it’s all the things he does you don’t even know about. it’s the days you come home and forget there was a pile of laundry you told yourself you needed to do, because it’s done already.

it’s the moments when you talk about needing to go to the store to replace your favorite coffee creamer, but groggily opening the fridge the next morning to a fresh bottle, not even registering the added weight in your hands.

it’s never running out of your favorite skincare products, somehow always having an endless supply. always having your favorite snack on hand. always having a full tank of gas. always having a soft blanket on your side of the couch.

day to day, these things don’t even cross your mind. your routine is so…routine, that you never wonder why all of these thing are. they just are.

until you see quinn come home after practice with a few bags in hand, one branded exactly the same as your favorite nighttime serum. or a grocery bag with a familiar looking carton poking through the frosted plastic.

you don’t question it until you walk out of the bathroom after a shower to him sitting a full cup of water on your night stand, that way you can crawl right into bed. not until you step into the living room to see him folding your favorite blanket, freshly washed, and tossing it over the back of the couch where you always sit.

your suspicion isn’t there until you get back from a walk to see your car gone, but quinn’s still in its parking spot.

you never wonder why your favorite flowers on the kitchen table never wilt until you see the branded brown paper from the local florist in the trash can.

the point is, you never think about it because you don’t have to. quinn does everything he can to show he cares about you, he loves you, he sees you. and he does it quietly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

so yeah, day to day he might be quiet, focused on hockey and his team, watching footage of old games and opposing teams while you’re reading next to him on the couch, but he’s never quiet with his love for you. not really.

when you look back on all he does for you, with no complaint or mention of it at all, it’s almost suffocating. it’s suffocating in the best way, to know how intensely he pays attention to you and how effortlessly he shows you, without you even knowing.

[random-random-things]

It's entirely too easy to fall into one of those two groups. The demands placed on people leave so little room to actually develop and be yourself. Not to mention that once you start falling into one of those groups you start to lose your support networks that could actually step in and help you.

The adult examples of my family can be categorized in "not loved by anyone, hated by some, is depresed and abuses substances, is dying alone" or "overworked but never sees any reward for it, just survives, no hobbies, no hopes, no rest, no dreams, others take advantage of them, they're always tired so they're always angry and mean to others".

And people wonder why my expectations for the future have always been so low.

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 damn, he got lucky | isagi yoichi x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; isagi yoichi as your boyfriend ! ♡

love mail — take her from him and then leave him w nothin' ! lazy post. sue me! wrote this cus i got a cuuutie isagi keychain and i love him v much. nbdy asked for this but we write anyway (^_^) hashtag i heart bllk

i can see isagi as the type of guy to like subtle affection. brushing his fingers over your knuckles, hand on the thigh, locking arms and stuff like that. more intimate touches are meant for closed doors, but he likes letting people know you're taken. makes jokes that he gets as fired up as he does on soccer because 'he wants to crush the dreams of anyone looking at you'. cus obvi ure a dreamboat and he's the luckiest boy alive.

he's big on matching stuff. puts some matching keychains you bought for him on his bag, you have his jersey number on your phonecase, and his shoe laces are your favorite color. they are small things that most people don't notice, but you do. and so does he. his heart skips a beat when you wear his favorite hoodie or shirt to any of his games.

if you're into skincare, he BEGS you to let him use your products. not cause he needs it, because he does, but because you don't trust him to finish your bottles and serums in one go. (he'd buy you new ones anyway, why do you care?) and so, you have a tendency to do it for him. isagi just likes being cared for, feeling you caress his skin calms him down and he almost falls asleep every time you do his skincare.

his faaaaavorite petname for you is angel. you're just so.. angelic. you're so sweet, and funny, and kindhearted, and your hands have healing powers he swears on it.. everyone on the team wants to knock his brains out whenever he hears him gush about 'his angel'.

type of guy to keep and care for one flower from the bouquets he buys, so he knows when they start to wilt and get you a new one. spoiling you is his favorite thing but if you feel like it gets too much, he knows when to chill.

adores praise. probably why he likes spoiling you rotten, loves to hear you gush about how thankful you are to him and all the compliments that spill from those pretty lips that he's sure he'll get to kiss till he's silly for playing well in a game that day. favorite reward tbh.

gets pissed tf off when smbdy tries to insult you, on some bullshit about you not being good enough to date one of blue locks best players. gets on the news for being a little too devious with his insults and gets a scolding for getting carried away. 。。(〃_ _)

he likes kissing. as previously established, i see him as the type to sneak in a quick makeout before a game, hiding behind a locker to practically swallow you whole because his nerves r getting the better of him.. you walk out a little breathless and he's running full speed into the field because he's hyped up now. genuinely the cutest nd kinda hottest thing he can do for real.

bought a #ILOVEMYGF/BF/PARTNER shirt that he wears at home. got dared to wear it outside once, and had a matching pair of pants and hat. shameless, but it was funny nevertheless.

melts when you run your hand thru his hair. a goner, immediately. turns soft at the touch and wholeheartedly believes he could fall asleep after only 5 minutes.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[mossangelll]

Im absolutely enchanted with your yandere jinx....This brings the question tho....how would Yandere Jinx handle her darling being on her period? (I mynself am on my period and I kid you not- I feel worse than when eating taco bell)

yandere!jinx x reader on their period

honestly not as much of an overt yandere as usual - if you squint, it’s pretty much a normal jinx hc!

hcs like this which are more ‘slice of life’ are super fun and i would be interested in doing them for more characters (e.g. what they’re like when you’re sick) if anyone’s interested!

tysm for requesting

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

cw: periods, mentions of blood, mentions of kidnapping, sexual mentions but not in too much detail, slight noncon, reader isn’t referred to by any gendered pronouns but female anatomy is mentioned

yandere!jinx who can’t sleep without holding onto you during the night

yandere!jinx who reaches over for your body just to feel the cool bedsheet under her

yandere!jinx who notices the bathroom light is on and without hesitation believes that your escape attempts have finally resulted in a success

yandere!jinx who crashes into the bathroom to find…you, crying on the toilet with your head in your hands

“toots, i hope you aren’t thinking of making any stupid decisions.” her voice is still grumbly from sleep but it doesn’t manage to hide the underlying annoyance simmering beneath

you look up at her with pained eyes and that’s when she notices your underwear, pooled at your ankles and stained with blood

her eyebrows shoot to the top of her head and her demeanour softens like she was never mad in the first place

“oh! i didn’t know it was that time of the month.”

she sees how you wilt away in shame, arms crossed over your midsection, at such a normal bodily function and rushes over to cuddle you, toilet be damned

yandere!jinx can be a lot of things - overbearing, compulsive and downright abusive, but she knows that what you need right now is someone to comfort you

yandere!jinx who understands what you’re going through painfully well

yandere!jinx who still acts awkward around you for the first few periods you have when you’re in her captivity - the cons of relying on her sole father figure growing up

yandere!jinx who doesn’t trust you to go outside without trying to cry for help so she ends up getting essentials for you

yandere!jinx who doesn’t need to ask what kind of products you usually buy; she already snooped around your house before she took you and knows whether you prefer pads, tampons or cups, the kind of snacks you crave, whether you’re the angry or teary type - she knows everything

yandere!jinx who gets you a ridiculous pile of desserts she stole from some fancy piltie bakery just to make sure your cravings are satiated

yandere!jinx who washes any bloody sheets, clothes or underwear for you with her own two hands - not only is she gratified at how flustered you get, she wants to feel closer to you in any way possible and getting to do such intimate chores is honestly euphoric for her, it emphasises how you belong to her and her alone

yandere!jinx who doesn’t let you use a hot water bottle; she wants you to come to her for comfort, wants to be the one to hold her hands over your stomach and ease the cramps

yandere!jinx who gives you tiny drops of shimmer, not enough to get seriously high but enough to take the pain away

yandere!jinx who loves how your pink eyes match hers after she’s dosed you

yandere!jinx who loves to see you cry at something that’s not her because it means you won’t reject her attempts to make you feel better

yandere!jinx who hopes and prays that your cycles sync up so that you two become even more attached

yandere!jinx who massages your lower back when you complain about it aching, maybe even using special shimmer-imbued lotion she got from singed to aid her efforts

yandere!jinx who would love if their darling gets tender breasts around their period since she can cop a feel while using “pain relief” as her get out of jail free card

yandere!jinx who doesn’t care about any of the symptoms that you think are “gross” or “disgusting” - everything about you is perfect and she can’t find it in her to hate any of it

yandere!jinx who isn’t turned off by the sight of a little blood and tries to convince you to let her pleasure you, even if you are shaken up by the idea - after all, she heard that orgasms help alleviate cramps!

yandere!jinx who tells you all about her embarrassing period stories from when she was younger to make you feel better if you bleed through your clothing in front of her

yandere!jinx who becomes your personal jester if you’re bedridden; she tells you jokes and does a myriad of insane tricks that you can’t even fathom how she pulls off - it definitely gets your mind off of how terrible you feel

yandere!jinx who supports you every month and hopes that when you become accustomed to your new life, you’ll eventually do the same for her <3

masterlist

[sightoru]

Katsuki's never been someone who's used or enjoyed pet names all too much, preferring the intimacy of saying someones first name instead of mushy shit like 'baby', 'honey', or 'darling'. It's just never really made sense to him, why say something like that when he can just use your name? Surely the tone of his voice conveys any emotion he might need. Your name mixed with curses when you forget to turn off the lights at night, your name accompanied by the sound of his boots at the door when he's home, your name mixed with the sounds of sheets in bed.

and you've never cared or paid any attention if it, even though calling strangers 'honey' and 'sweetheart' rolls of your tongue so naturally Katsuki spent the first month of your relationship wondering how it's possible to hold so much love in your heart for people you don't even know. the way you seem to care about strangers, asking questions about their day, remembering the details and bringing it up the next time you see them; all accompanied by sickly sweet words of affection, casually woven in between well wishes and giggles. you promise to return to them, and they promise to be there waiting.

Katsuki looks at you, one of these times after you both leave the market late at night (he always insists on going with you, says it's too dangerous for you to go alone. you always try to tell him you've been fine all these times before, but never fight his insistence too hard), takes in your body that glows gold under the streetlights, your tote bag full of things you bought (flowers, since the ones on the dining room table are starting to wilt. an eggplant for the Thai curry you've been meaning to make — though when you get home you'll see the lemongrass you've bought is bad and you'll have to make another trip, not that you or Katsuki mind. Green onions, chives, fresh thyme. Soft white bread lays on top of it all, and you're careful not to crush it under your arm.), and the way you mindlessly talk about your day. The cat you passed on the street, the stranger you regularly make conversation with at the bus stop. Your coworkers personal drama you can't help but be invested in — despite claims that you're not.

When he goes to bed with you that night, his keys in the same dish as yours ( a little ceramic one that sits on the table by the door. it's shaped like a sardine can. you giggled the whole way home after you bought it), his boots next to your flats — his are neat, sitting up right and yours are haphazardly thrown next to his. He'll fix them in the morning before he leaves— you'll wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face between his shoulder blades in an attempt to steal his warmth. You'll mutter something about your day, follow it up with 'good night, my love.' and something about it, will have his heart grow 4 sizes in his chest.

My love, my love, my love

He'll hold onto it the next day, and the one after that. let it settle into his mouth like honey before he starts whispering it to you when he thinks you're not listening. My love, my love, my love, the words seep into the air between you both and permeate the space. Chopsticks passed to you before dinner, handing off the remote so you can put on YouTube videos (make up tutorials, obviously. katsuki pretends he's not interested while he makes mental notes at the products that elicit a gasp from you) all followed up with those two words.

He looks at you, bundled on the couch, thinks of all the beautiful things he sees and the way that all reflects in the beauty of you.

Maybe he likes pet names, after all.

[the-lion-guard-88]

THAT’S RIGHT EVERYBODY! Mr. Puzzles in the Wilted Rose Syndicate is getting a Q&A!

Between today and May 1st, you can ask Mr. Puzzles ANY QUESTION! Whether it be who his favorite Wilted Rose Syndicate member is, what the members’ favorite foods are, what their favorite movie is, anything! You can even send him fanart or a funny meme! Whatever you want! Whatever your creative vision desires!

A few rules to follow for this Q&A

Do NOT send ANYTHING NSFW to Mr. Puzzles, he will delete it immediately.

Please do not raid the ask box, he doesn’t care if you send multiple asks, but don’t send too many!

Please be patient with asks! Even Mr. Puzzles needs a break from the web!

Please don’t ask Mr. Puzzles what he thinks about you and/or another user. He just met you.

Send questions through my Tumblr ask box and not through a reblog/separate post.

If you want to ask me a question about the AU instead of Puzzles, that’s fine, please just specify if a question is for me or for Mr. Puzzles.

🥀Have fun with the Q&A🗡️

P.S.

Posts relating to the WRS Puzzles Q&A will be in red

Posts relating outside of the WRS Puzzles Q&A will be in green

[heartkaji]

　 ★…𝐀𝐓𝐋4𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 ?! ❞

୨ৎ synopsis. blue lock characters but they’re hood. based on the atlanta lock ! tiktok trend.

୨ৎ includes. bachira meguru, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, otoya eita

୨ৎ notes. this has been in my drafts since july cuz ive been procrastinating, hope it’s not too late to post this 🙏

★ BACHIRA MEGURU— LIL SMOKEY

“shit, we making it out the hood with this one y’all ! run the track again—fire flame flow productions ain’t neva miss.”

you roll your eyes as bachira daps up isagi.

you’ve been here for an hour & you can feel your eardrums beginning to rot like dead peaches. bachira raps over a beat you swear you’ve heard from lucki, but he’s quick to shush you when you bring it up. you cross tired arms over your chest as the music winds up and bachira starts his verse again.

“pretty bitch, yeah she got me seein’ stars, like it when i thrust, fuck her all the way to mars,”

isagi whistles. you contemplate suicide.

“she think that i’m loyal but i switch my bitch like cars, new whip every day and no i’m not just penning bars !”

“type shit !” isagi calls. you still in your seat. what ?

your chest swells with something akin to rage. you were already exhausted, ears wilting at the boom of the bass. bachira’s been redoing the same verse for hours, but you’d never paid attention to your boyfriend’s lyrics till now. you march over to the sound panel and shut it down with closed fist.

“bachira meguru—!”

“fucking hell, woman ! the fuck did you do that for—?“

you march into the booth and slap him silly.

bachira looks back at you with mouth agape and red tinged cheeks. his face is blood drenched and you almost feel guilty but you tighten your chest & straighten your back.

“what the hell did you just say, meg ?”

“what are you on about—“

“don’t play with me right now, meg. word to my mother i’ll slap y’ left cheek too. fuck you mean you riding a new bitch every day, huh ?”

bachira groans, rubbing at his cheek. “god, those are just lyrics ! you tripping for real—“

you slap his left cheek.

“you think you’re future or something ? fucking try me meg. you’re lucky i know you don’t actually have the balls to cheat. change those lyrics. now.”

bachira mumbles something under his breath before marching to the sound station. a boyish giggle breaks the quiet, and you shoot a glare at yoichi, causing silence to envelope the room once again before bachira revs up the track.

“she know that i’m loyal cuz i treat her like a star, call me yuki chiba man, ‘watashi wa star !’ ”

★ ISAGI YOICHI — YXNG EGOIST

“yoichi, you were raised in a gated community. you do not have opps.”

isagi clicks his tongue. the sound is muffled under the wool of his thick balaclava, but you manage to make it out regardless. “you don’t understand, princess. just keep watch for me, alright ?”

“yoichi.”

you heave your third sigh of the evening. you and isagi were at a high end restaurant for a date, but suddenly you wished you were home. you’d been looking forward to having dinner with the busy striker all week, but now that you’re here together with you in a fancy dress while he sports a thick balaclava, you can’t help but feel embarassed.

“yoichi i’m literally begging you to take that off.”

isagi lifts the chin of his mask to sneak a bite of chicken with his fork. he quickly takes a sip of water before dragging the mask back over his lips, eyes darting from side to side to scope his surroundings. he breathes a relieved sigh. “i think i’m safe for now..”

“alright, i’m going home.”

“huh ? what — no, babe, i’ll take it off, come back !”

★ NAGI SEISHIRO — SUGARHILL SEI

“riddle me this, sei. how the fuck your bank account low but your ass getting high ?”

you and reo stand arms crossed over a faded nagi, his eyes blood tinged & cheeks hot & swollen. his breathing is labored as he fits the blunt to his lips to take yet another drag.

“cuh i ain’ even got time fuh dis forreal. y’all mothafuckas just be bouncin’ on my dick fo’ no reason man.”

“what the hell is he saying ?”

“i think he’s speaking ganglish ?”

“oh hell no.” reo snaps his fingers over his head, “i rebuke every spirit of hoodlum in you, bro. what the fuck nagi, is this what you’ve come to ?”

nagi rubs his forehead & for a second he bears an uncanny resemblance to travis scott. “cuh i ain’ even—“ FWAM !

reo dashes a hot slap to nagi’s cheek. the red handprint glistens against his pale skin & your palms fly to cover your gaping mouth. “reo ! that’s—that’s too far !”

“stay out of this y/n,” nagi lays limp on the room floor, his eyes rapidly blinking with his mouth agape. “this is just the beginning. if we don’t correct him now, he’ll start dressing like a carti fan before you know it !”

reo hops unto one foot, aggressively tugging a chancla off the other. he turns to nagi.

“sorry bro, i don’t wanna do this,”

“cuh—“

FWAM !

★ SHIDOU RYUSEI — MR. FREAK

“gyattttt”

“i’m breaking up with you.”

“no mami i’m sorryyy,” shidou drawls playfully, arms circling your hips. he tugs you closer to him so you’re pressed flush against his skin.

“respectfully asking you to wear these ‘forbidden tights’ more often, ma. this recoil is insane.” he makes a slurping noise and you question your existence.

“ryusei—“

“boing !” shidou chuckles to himself as he slaps your ass. the flesh is soft in his palms and he’s about to indulge his intrusive thoughts once again before you slap him with your purse.

“shidou ryusei ! in the public eye ?!”

“government name is crazyyy.”

“i’m going home.” you begin heading towards the exit with a noisy shidou calling after you, “bae come back ! it was just jokes !”

★ OTOYA EITA — LIL’ FLOCKA

“nah cuz what you know about ken carson for real though.”

you groan for the third time today. “eita it’s enough.”

“no babe i’m just sayin,” he rubs lazy circles along your hip bone, lips pressed lazily against the back of your shoulder, “since you wanna be lip syncing to unreleased ken, you must know more about him than i do, right ?”

“oh my fucking god. literally who said that ?”

“no but you implied it. look at you posting yoself singing with your big ole’ tatas.”

“eita i’m literally gonna leave you for karasu right now.”

“nah nah chill it’s just,” he swipes through your story, clicking his tongue when he notices you’ve posted yourself to yet another underground artist, this time thouxanbanfouani. he bites his inner cheek to stop himself from asking you to take your story down.

“you don’t get him like i do, you feel me ?”

“congratulations otoya. the fuck you telling me that for ?”

“take your story down.”

“we’re over.”

© ─ heartkaji ; do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

[dreamjoymemoir]

anaxagoras with a sensitive partner

-maybe it's not immediately apparent how life has worn you down, and anaxagoras does not treat you differently to any of his other colleagues. out of habit, you put up a convincing front that not even he can see past.

-however, he doesn't miss the little signs of discomfort: how when he raises his voice to give an impassioned lecture, you grow stiff and avoid looking at him. when he makes a comment that's a little too scathing, and it wilts your smile. he really doesn't mean for any of these things, but he understands that intention can only go so far.

-by the time you court each other and eventually start dating, he has already fine-tuned his behavior to better accommodate you. he doesn't speak louder than what is normal to you, and while he remains honest to a fault, he considers his words a little more. wounding your feelings isn't necessary or productive, and he wants to cooperate with you rather than tear you down. i firmly believe that as a scientist who experiences many failures, he is willing to admit when he's wrong and apologize when he's hurt you.

-he is also a good listener; just as he asks you not to interrupt him, he will not interrupt you or diminish your feelings if you confide in him the things that bother you and remind you of painful times. he just sits quietly and takes everything in, hoping to share your burden at least a little. if you want, he will hold you very tight while he laments that this nonsensical world has treated you so poorly. you are his only remaining loved one in this life, and he really cares about your happiness.

-he can't take away any of your bad experiences, and maybe he can't fully protect you from life's woes, but he won't be one of the things that bring you pain. as sure as evernight, you will have a safe place in him, someone who gave his life twice for the sake of humanity and who is inexorably intertwined with love.

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 2]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

With an iced tea in hand, you unlocked the glass doors of your shop and entered. You turned on the lights, placing your tea on the counter and your bag in your locker. Since you were the only worker here, there was no one else to use the lockers but you.

"Roses, tulips, carnations..." You grabbed your notepad to check the incoming deliveries today. The first thing you did was check on your plants and water them.

"You're growing well." You smiled softly, seeing the plant that you sprout, moving the pot away from the direct sunlight.

"(y/n)?" You heard the familiar voice of your supplier at the back door and went over.

"Good morning, Mr Lee. Do you have any surprises for me?" You giggled. You had a good relationship with all your suppliers, they always helped you bring in quality products.

"Well, besides your usual orders, I have some hydrangeas if you would like." He climbed into his truck.

"Here." He pushed the bucket to show you.

"Oh, they're absolutely beautiful. I'll take them." You smiled. He nodded and helped you bring everything in, he usually knew where everything went.

"Sunflowers aren't selling too well." You shook your head in disappointment, seeing your sunflowers there.

"Sunflowers aren't trendy anymore. Have you seen what's on the internet? My daughter told me that girls are content with just bouquets of baby's breaths now. How times have truly changed, right?" He chuckled with a click of his tongue. You nodded and moved the roses into the refrigerated area.

"It's a minimalist thing, no? Bigger isn't better anymore. No one comes in for traditional bouquets anymore." You sighed, going to the cash register to get the money.

"Tell me about it... And this should be everything." Mr Lee said, glancing over the flowers that he brought in.

"Thank you, this is the payment." You handed the money to him. He nodded and placed it in his pouch.

"Also, Mr Lee. I remember you mentioning that Mrs Lee keep getting her hands burnt when she's working at her restaurant. I made her an aloe balm. This should help soothe the burns." You held the tin out.

"Oh, you're too kind, (y/n). Thank you so much for making this." He patted your shoulder.

"Have a nice day. See you next week." You walked him out.

"See you." The both of you bowed to each other and he jumped into his van before driving off. You returned to your counter and began your work for the day.

"Let's see..." You checked the online orders that you had and printed it out for reference.

Moving to your work bench, you began to prepare the flower preparations for each other. You trimmed the stems, removed the excess leaves and cut thorns away before wrapping them up with either cellophane or tissue paper.

"Hello? Are you open?" The bell above the door jingled. A girl walked into store, carrying a pot with her. You cleaned your hands and walked out to the front.

"Yes, we're open. How can I help you?" You smiled.

"My fern seems to be wilting and I can't seem to revive it. Can you help?" She asked.

"Let's see what's the issue." You escorted in. She placed the pot on your work table and you inspected it. The girl patiently waited, watching you as you checked it.

"From what I see, the soil isn't draining water properly. It's retaining too much water and suffocating the roots of the plant." You said.

"What? Can that happen?" She blinked.

"Yes, so that suffocation prevents the roots from absorbing the vitamins and minerals. You should mix a well drainage soil of this ratio and move your fern in." You wrote the ingredients down.

"And I can find this at the plant store?" She asked, reading through what you wrote down.

"You should be able to find the components. But if you don't mind waiting, I can mix some for you to take home." You offered. Hearing that, she let out a sigh of relief and nodded her head excitedly. You went to your storage area to grab the different soil components that you need.

"Peat moss, sand and potting soil." You mixed the components into a bag, adding some fertiliser as well since the fern currently lacked essential nutrients.

"For two weeks, put two drops of this plant reviver into the soil even if you are not watering it." You handed her a small vial.

"Thank you. Actually, do you mind repotting it into the new soil for me? I'll pay you." She requested.

"Alright." You took the fern out and got rid of the old soil. You poured the new soil in, creating a well to put the fern in. After that, you loosely covered the roots with the soil.

"Done." You smiled, removing your gloves.

"Thank you. This is actually my mum's plant and I'm helping her take care of it. I know nothing about plants." She said in embarrassment.

"No worries, the plant should be fine from here. If there are anymore issues, you can come back." You chuckled and rang up her bill. She nodded and paid.

"Thanks again." She bowed and walked out of the shop. After that, you went back to preparing your orders. There were some pick ups today so you wanted to make sure that everything was in order for a smoother pick up.

"Hi, I'm here for a pick up?" A guy walked into the store.

"Sure, can I see your order number?" You asked. He showed you the confirmation email and went to retrieve his order. It was a flower box instead of a bouquet.

"Just make sure everything is okay for you before paying." You said, rounding the counter to the cashier.

"Do you mind changing the ribbons to pink too? She really likes pink." He requested.

"Of course." You grabbed the ribbon. With pink flowers, you wanted to add contrast with a different coloured bow but since he wants it to be pink, there was no issue with changing it.

"That's better. Thanks." He handed you his card.

"I wrote the congratulatory message as you stated in request email but if you'd like to write your own message. This is a spare card, on the house." You handed him the blank card.

"Thank you, I don't know what else to write but if I come up with something I'll add it." He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. You hummed and rang up his bill, writing the invoice and handing him a copy, along with his credit card. With a grateful bow of his head, he left the shop.

Before you knew it, the clock hit 1pm, with customers coming in to buy, place advance orders or collect orders they've placed.

'Closed for lunch.'

You sat behind the counter with a tired sigh, taking out your lunch box. Your meals usually consisted of sandwiches or leftovers from dinner the night before.

Which was why Mrs Kim would usually come with food for you, always disapproving of how your eating habits.

RING!

"Sorry, we're closed at the moment." You said from behind the counter, not looking at the door. But you didn't hear the second ring of the door opening again so you stood up.

"Oh!" Your eyes widened in surprised as Hongjoong stood there, looking around the shop.

"Hongjoong sshi..." You blinked, maybe you were dreaming. Maybe your guilt was too much that the male was appearing in your dreams.

"Good afternoon, (y/n) sshi. Is this a bad time? Should I come back at another time?" He asked with a slight tilt of his head, fingers resting on the buttons of his blazer. You shook your head, reaching to get a tissue to wipe your mouth.

"It's fine. What can I help you with?" You came out from behind the counter to properly greet him. He patiently waited as you pulled a chair for him to sit.

"Please, would you like something to drink?" You offered.

"No, I'm fine. Actually, (y/n) sshi, I came to apologise for my reaction during my mother's funeral." He stood back up.

"What? There's nothing for you to apologise for, Hongjoong sshi. I should be the one apologising, I overstepped and said too much. It wasn't appropriate of me." You bowed deeply.

"You didn't overstep at all. Your intentions were good, I reacted poorly." He bowed back.

"No, you're grieving, it's normal." You smiled softly.

"Thank you for understanding." Hongjoong held his hand out but remembered that it was bandaged and cursed under his breath, hiding it and putting his other hand out for you to shake. If you were phased by his injury, you didn't show it. You smiled and slipped your hand into his to shake.

"I should go and let you carry on with your meal." He said once you both let go.

"No, it's fine. You can stay if you'd like." You smiled softly. He let out a small hum and continued to look around your shop, observing all the plants around.

"So, this is where my mother hung out?" He asked, picking up a stalk of rose from your work bench and twirling it.

"Sometimes... She would come for lunch or tea. We would just chat over food." You replied awkwardly.

How much were you supposed to say about Mrs Kim to her own son? You didn't want to sound like you were boasting about your time with her either, that wouldn't do any good.

"I see." He said, placing the flower back down.

"Hongjoong sshi..." You rubbed your arm, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

"Sorry for making you uncomfortable. Just... The truth is, you know a lot about my mother that I don't. You've spent time with her while I didn't so I can't help but feel curious. My relationship with her wasn't as good as she made it out of be." He informed.

"Oh. Hongjoong sshi, it's not my place to judge you or your relationship with Mrs Kim. Whatever relationship I had with her is vastly different from your own." You said.

"You're very kind, (y/n) sshi." He complimented. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment.

"I should go." He stood up.

"Wait before you go. Your bandage, do you want me to help you replace it?" You pointed. Hongjoong looked down and saw the blood beginning to seep through.

"It's fine, I shouldn't take up more of your time." He shook his head.

"Not at all. I can help if you'd like." You offered. With a soft sigh, Hongjoong sat back down.

"I'll go get my medical kit. Be right back." You told him and went to the back room to get what you needed. You also took a salve that you usually used for wound care.

"I'm not a doctor but I am first aid certified and I study medical plants in botany so you don't have to worry." You smiled and took a pair of cutters to cut away the bandages that Yeosang had wrapped around Hongjoong's hand. Hongjoong quietly observed you, not saying anything else while you focussed.

"I made this salve for wounds. It should help with soothing the wounds and healing." You explained, cleaning the blood.

"Do you always make your own medicine?" He asked.

"No, I just make simple stuff. I'm still learning." You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear before applying a thin layer of the salve over the cuts and wounds.

"Does it hurt?" You looked up at him. He shook his head and you sighed in relief.

"You can bring that home with you to apply when you change bandages. I have some more." You explained.

"You do a better job than my brother." Hongjoong said after observing how you properly wrapped a new bandage around his hand and secured it in place.

"You should remove the bandage after 3 days to let the wounds breathe and dry." You said.

The entire time, you never once asked Hongjoong about how he got injured or acted differently. You treated it like any other scrapped knee and healed him. Usually, people would be scared or ask him how he got injured like that.

"Thanks." He looked at his newly bandaged hand.

"You're very welcome. If you see signs of infection or get a fever, go to a doctor." You advised. He nodded and took the small pot of salve, putting it into his pocket.

Will he use it? Probably not. But he saw how dedicated you were and for some reason, didn't want to disappoint you by not taking it.

"Bye, Hongjoong sshi. I'll see you around?" You blinked at your own words, uncertainty in your voice.

"Have a nice day, (y/n) sshi." He didn't address it, merely bowing his head and leaving your shop. You let out a long exhale, feeling like you've been holding your breath the entire time.

"Ah!" You suddenly remembered the silk handkerchief that you had washed and in your bag.

"Too distracted." You scratched your head and went to the counter to eat a few more bites of your lunch before you had to reopen.

You were not too bothered that you hadn't returned the handkerchief to Hongjoong. Even if you did feel guilty, you had an inkling that you would be seeing Hongjoong again soon. What ate at you more was how foreign Hongjoong spoke about his mother, like she was a stranger that he didn't know.

"Hongjoong, where are you?"

"I went out to run an errand, Seonghwa. Don't worry, I didn't drive. I got the driver." Hongjoong sighed, sinking into the backseat of the Rolls Royce he was in.

"I'm not worried about that. I just wanted to make sure you didn't do something dumb like blow up a building."

"Geez that happened ONCE, let it go... And I'm going to work, I have to go to my club." Hongjoong said, looking at his bandaged hand.

"You don't have to go back to work right away, Hongjoong. The boys and I can take over while you take a few days. You've needed to take a break for a while."

"I'm the leader of Ateez, Seonghwa. I don't need all of you to take over my work." Hongjoong replied.

"But..."

"Yes, my mother died. But sitting around isn't going to bring her back to life. I still have roles to fulfill, I'm not going to let anyone strike us just because I'm down. There are people counting on us, relying on us." He continued.

"Alright. Stay safe then, Hongjoong. I'll see you at the docks meeting at 5pm?"

"Yeah, thanks Seonghwa. I'll see you later." Hongjoong hummed and hung up. The car stopped before Hongjoong's club and the manager came out, opening the door for him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Kim." The manager bowed. The club wasn't open yet so Hongjoong could get some administrative work done.

"Get me a drink and come up to the office." Hongjoong said, walking into the club.

"Yes, sir." He bowed. Upon his entrance, all the workers stopped and bowed down to greet their boss This was the main club Hongjoong worked out of so they were used to seeing him around.

"Give me 10 minutes. No one is to enter." Hongjoong told the guard who stood by his office door.

"Yes, sir." The guard bowed.

Hongjoong entered his office and sat down in his chair. There were some things he needed to do and catch up on privately, without any interruptions. As the leader of Ateez, he had to keep track of the other Ateez members and their work, on top of his own. But the boys always did their work so it wasn't hard on him.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"S-Sir?" Hongjoong heard the timid voice of the club manager outside his door, making him look up from his phone where he was sending messages to Yunho.

"Has it been 10 minutes?" Hongjoong asked back, tucking his phone into his blazer pocket.

"Yes, sir." The male on the other side replied.

"Come in." Hongjoong said. The door opened and the male came in with his iPad and Hongjoong's whiskey in hand. Hongjoong nodded over to the chair and the manager bowed, taking a seat opposite him.

"Update me." Hongjoong took a sip of his drink. The manager began to update Hongjoong on the business.

"We have been thinking of letting our bartending apprentice go. He had been drinking on the job and getting drunk." He informed.

"Who?" Hongjoong leaned forward.

"This is his profile. The next page has some employee complaints and customer complaints that were logged." The manager informed, pulling up the ex employee's profile and handing it over to Hongjoong to look it over.

"I won't read this, let him go. I won't let anyone be caught lacking in my business. One complaint is as good as ten. Make him compensate for what alcohol he took." Hongjoong instructed.

"Of course, sir." The manager nodded, taking back the iPad and going through the other updates.

"Continue to manage necessary manpower and suppliers to the club. Revenue is still good." Hongjoong told him.

"I will. Thank you for giving me this responsibility, sir." The manager bowed from his seat.

"This is the list of VIPs coming. As usual, make sure they are well taken care of." Hongjoong slid over the list of VIP names and the dates that they would be coming.

"Of course." The manager folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"You can go." With that, Hongjoong waved him off and he left. Hongjoong may seem cold and merciless but he treats his employees right, at least those that do their job well. He is a perfectionist and always wants the best, there shouldn't be anything that's lacking when it came to his business.

"Send Wooyoung and San for that private poker game. That's wheret they'll meet our informant." Hongjoong said to those that were in the group call.

"Oooh, I can get a new suit done." Wooyoung's focus and excitement was obviously on other things.

"What about the governor meeting that's coming up, hyung? Are you going with Seonghwa hyung?" Jongho asked.

"Seonghwa should go with Yunho. They know how to work the charm. Plus the governor's wife seems to favour Yunho." Hongjoong thought out loud, making the other laugh.

"No one can resist that face." Seonghwa chuckled.

"Yunho's ears just turned bright red." Yeosang informed and the others could hear Yunho's yell of protest in the background.

"Wait, what time is Seonghwa hyung and Hongjoong hyung settling the issue at the docks? I want to tag along, I could use some action. It'll be fun." Mingi asked.

"Oh! Me too! If Mingi's going, I want to go!" San agreed. Hongjoong could hear Seonghwa wanting to interject but it was ignored. Hongjoong and Seonghwa could never fight the younger ones, they were simply outnumbered.

"You guys always make a mess when you get involved... This time, call your own clean up crew." Seonghwa hissed.

"You gave in way too easily, Seonghwa ah." Hongjoong laughed and leaned back into his seat.

"I already have enough to think about. I have to pick my battles. Plus, if they can handle it for us, I won't risk getting blood on my new coat." Seonghwa said.

~

Series masterlist

[bumblequinn]

hi @sourpatchsquids! thank you for your question.

as an artist with ADHD, i know this struggle very well. unfortunately offering advice on this kind of thing can be tricky, because what works for me may not work for you (and vice versa!). nonetheless, i can try; take whatever works for you, forget the rest, or reshape any part of it as you see fit. :)

but before i offer any actual tools, i have one caveat. i want you to take a moment to reflect and consider if you should be:

changing expectations

the timing of this question seems fated, because just the other day i had a therapy session wherein i expressed my grief and frustration over struggling to work lately due to my seasonal depression. it's not fair that i'm struggling just because it got a little darker outside! i just want the spark i had in the summer! i was so much more consistent!

my therapist's response: nothing about human beings is consistent. we get sick, we get tired, we get hungry and thirsty (and thirsty) and sad and lonely and restless and stressed and overwhelmed. this all gets amplified for folks who are atypical in some way or another.

when my therapist compared our seasonal cycles to those of plants and other animals, who wilt and slow down and hibernate, i protested aloud that i wanted to be a perennial instead. at this she said: even perennials change with the seasons. rose bushes have to be pruned, sometimes down to half their height! it was a dose of perspective i didn't particularly want, but really needed.

so when you're struggling to work through executive dysfunction, burnout, or brain fog, it can help to first check in with yourself about a few things. what do you have the capacity for right now? do you need any accommodation? and if so, what changes you might make to accommodate yourself?

with practice and self reflection, i've learned a handful of specific routines that help me when i'm struggling with creative work, which i'll detail next. note that while your question is specifically about music and i am specifically a musician, i believe that all of these suggestions can apply to most any form of digital creative work.

with that in mind:

#1: work slower

when i'm at the top of my game, i can get a LOT done in a day. but when i'm depressed, fatigued, or distracted, i just can't go full steam. sometimes i'll try to convince myself that i can if i just push harder, but what actually ends up happening is that i'm just fiddling with settings and going in circles rather than moving forward.

instead of that, when i want to work a lot but can't, i try to work slow. how slow? however slow i need to. take four hours to figure out the melody for a single verse. take all day to figure out that drum groove. yeah, i take a lot of breaks in between. who says i have to be my Absolute Most Productive Every Day Or Else? that's the puritan work ethic talking. kill it. be kind to yourself.

i'm reminded of advice i once read about some super successful and prolific author (gaiman? king? pratchett?) who said they wrote only four hundred words every weekday. that's already less than the word count of this post, and i'm only—[travels into the future to check my final word count]... 22.8% of the way through writing it!

now, i don't think i could function that way, because ADHD means some days i'm hyperfocused like crazy, and other days i just have no steam at all (more on that in #4-6). but it seems to me that if even someone highly respected in their profession can achieve what they have with only a little bit of work on a regular basis, maybe i don't have to punish myself for not pumping out a finished work every single week.

doing less work per day means you're much less likely to burn out, which does a lot for working more consistently. if that consistency still doesn't look like a five-day work week, that's okay! as long as it helps you work even a little more often when you want to, it's something worth doing.

however, if you're still feeling truly stuck, all hope isn't lost. you can still try:

#2: switch projects

sometimes the reason i'm moving slow is because of a bad brain day, but sometimes the reason is that i just cannot muster the motivation to do the specific task i'm trying to do right now. ADHD is fueled by novelty and interest, and if i'm not interested in what i'm doing, or it's feeling stale, that's a sign that i need to switch gears.

this is why first it's helpful for me to have more than one project going at a time. this might mean completely unrelated works, or it might just mean related tracks as with the music for a game like SLARPG or susan taxpayer.

the idea here is not to start a dozen different projects and bounce around them like i'm playing whac-a-mole—though i have done that. (i don't recommend it.) the idea here is to have a manageable number of different projects i can be working on so that if i get bored or stuck on something, i have fallback options.

what that number of projects is depends entirely on the week. maybe right now it's two, maybe another time it's three. i would probably be getting carried away if i tried more than that, but that's just my own limit. maybe yours is different. that's something for you to think about.

but it doesn't have to stop there.

#3: switch focus

maybe there is this one project that i just HAVE to work on, but the task i'm trying to do at this stage just isn't coming to me. okay, well, why don't i try working on a different task?

let's say i can't figure out what i want to do with the melody in one part of the song:

what if i try jumping ahead to a different part of the melody? ...no, i'm stumped on melodies today. okay, how about working on the drums instead? ...hmm no, i think i'm just completely tapped out on writing parts right now. alright, what if i organized my tracks, making sure they're all grouped and named in a way that i can work with easily? what if i did a rough volume balance for the mix?

and so on. if that's not enough to shake the off stuckness, i might consider: what can i do to make this project more interesting to me?

what happens if i try using an instrument or effect that i almost never reach for? what if i try sampling something obscure? what if i bang out the drums using my midi keyboard instead of drawing it in on the piano roll?

any approach that breaks me out of my usual habits is bound to get that feeling of novelty and fun back when i need it.

or maybe i can't do any of that right now, and so i take the time to answer a question from a fellow musician instead. i consider that part of my work, too, in a broader sense. check in with yourself and figure out what you can do right now. the rest will still be there later.

but okay, let's say you try switching gears, and switching again, and again, and nothing is moving. you try new approaches, but that wall of awful is insurmountable in this moment. it happens! the next thing you might try is:

#4: learn something new

when you aren't able to make progress on your projects, you can still make progress on your knowledge and craft. i often find this stokes a flame of inspiration in me where there wasn't one before. and even when it doesn't, it still gets my brain out of that feeling of stuckness and dread and into one of thought and action. learning also benefits in the long term because it adds to the well of knowledge from which you draw for all your future works.

for all the awfulness that exists on the internet, it remains an absolute treasure trove of teaching. there's an endless ocean of videos, blog posts, and articles from which you might learn something about your craft. (and if you sail the seven seas, plenty of book PDFs as well. 🦜🏴‍☠️)

it's true that the quality and depth of information out there can vary wildly, but in my experience most resources get at least some things right. and the more you research, practice, and figure out what works for you, the better you will learn to differentiate between the advice worth keeping, and the advice to forget. (that goes for all of what i'm saying here, too!)

that said, since our shared focus is music, a few resources i would highly recommend are:

music theory and composition music matters, 12tone, charles cornell, music with myles, 8-bit music theory, and this introduction by andrew huang

mixing and production dan worrall (especially this series for fabfilter), kush after hours, red means recording, andrew huang, alice yalcin efe, in the mix

general inspiration nahre sol, ben levin, david hilowitz, game score fanfare, posy, jerobeam fenderson, open reel ensemble, and ELECTRONICOS FANTASTICOS!

(if any readers have their own helpful resources for creating music or any other media, feel free to share in the replies & reblogs! 💓)

of course, on an especially bad day, it might be a challenge to seek out information, let alone retain it. that can feel pretty bad, but remember: be kind to yourself. the next thing you might consider trying is:

#5: consume art you love

not just music. books. shows. movies. games. illustration. animation. whatever moves and inspires you.

but do it intentionally. don't just pull up some random thing the algorithm suggested! check in with yourself about what you want (or are able) to engage with right now. choose accordingly. if you get a little way into it and realize it's not scratching that itch, hit the bricks. check in with yourself again. wash, rinse, repeat, until you find whatever it is that speaks to you right now.

and do it actively, if you can. don't just let it go in one eye and out the other! really pay attention to the work. what do you like about it? what are its themes and motifs? what makes it work so well? what are its flaws, and how much do they matter? what might you do differently? you can write notes as you do this if it helps, but even simply noticing and thinking goes a long way.

what you don't want to do is come at this with a lens of shame or envy. you're not here just to say to yourself, "ugh, if only i could do THAT." it's okay if it happens. use that thought as a springboard for curiosity: "well okay, how DID they do that? do i have the resources for it? if so, how could i apply that to my own work? if not, how can i adapt it, or what do i need to learn?" keep your mind open and approach the work with a sense of wonder.

as a creative person, it's very easy to think, "i should be making something right now, not watching a movie!" but that thought forgets something vital: your art is a response in a conversation. of course the "language" you use is your own, and maybe if you're lucky you'll invent a new word. but most of the words you use have been around long before you were born. you're just one voice in a dialogue that spans continents and generations, and that's okay. it's even the whole point.

none of us is an island. we are profoundly social animals. just as we can't live without eating, we can't make without learning. so half of making art is consuming it. consider this part of the process as well.

and finally,

#6: rest, and live your life

let's say you're in really dire straits. you've tried working slower. you tried changing focus, you tried changing projects. you want to take in new information or actively engage with your favorite art, but you're not in the headspace for it. what now?

take a nap. take a walk. take a shower. eat a nice meal, or an okay one. talk to a friend. maybe even do that chore you've been putting off (you know the one).

it's human to always crave making, but you're not a machine—and even if you were, machines need regular maintenance, too! you wouldn't drive a car that's completely out of gas, and you won't do yourself any favors treating your body that way either.

i know that when you take a break it feels as though you're not accomplishing anything, but you are: you're taking care of your animal self. and while you do that, your creative brain doesn't stop working! much like windows, it has countless background processes running at any given moment, with inscrutable names like "cbdhsvc_692da" or "Microsoft Edge Update Service." it's true, i checked.

when you're stuck on a project and you step away to rest, your brain is still chipping away at your ideas unconsciously. i like to tell people, "it's percolating." much like waiting for a pot of water to boil, that idea is still heating up, even when you take a step away. just be sure to check in on it once in a while. the time will pass, and it'll be boiling again before long. :)

before i go, i'll leave you with one last thing to keep in mind as you try all of these strategies:

be kind to yourself.

being human is just about one of the hardest things you can do. let alone being a human trying to survive capitalism while living with disabilities! the last thing you need on top of that is to overwork yourself, talk to yourself negatively, or treat yourself harshly. there are plenty of other people in the world who do that to you—don't be one of them.

i'm not saying that you shouldn't try to challenge yourself, to test your limits and go above and beyond your ambitions, if that's what you want to do. just remember that hard work and self compassion are not mutually exclusive. so be careful not to bully yourself. take pride in the progress you make, even when it seems small. encourage yourself like you would a friend who's going through a hard time. and when you challenge yourself, be your own cheerleader.

i hope you find this advice helpful! remember, this is just what helps me, so don't feel like you have to follow any of it exactly. maybe taking time to learn new information helps break you out of your rut more than working slowly, so you reach for that tool first. maybe having multiple projects going at once is too distracting for you, so you prefer to stick to one at a time. whatever your needs are, feel free to alter and adapt these ideas to fit you.

thank you for reading, and i wish you the best of luck in your creating.

with care, bee 🐦

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

April Fools Idea

{Warnings: This is purely made as a joke, if you have issues with the lore or characters. Please read at your own discretion.}

[Aight so I had a idea: What if LADs Bois had siblings and they're siblings fell in love with the other Male Leads??? Hear me OUT-]

-

Zayne / Rafeyal Sib (Y/N)

"So... What did you order?"

Zayne blinks, raising a small brow at you. Before turning back to his menu as they call out another order.

"I got the number three and five, along with a six."

"Oh? I got the number one, there dipping sauce is so good!"

"I haven't tried it."

"Yeah, it's not the healthiest... But, it's worth, from-! Ya know.. Time to time."

A slight, amused look lingers in his eyes. "Then I'll be, "adventurous," tonight." 

A small laugh left you, "Good."

"Are you sure your brother doesn't mind we eat without him?"

"Hmmm, probably?" You said without much thought as Zayne frowns, brows furrowed in worry. Not wanting to seem rude as he eyes the ice clicking in his drink. You reach over the table, patting his hand. "Zayne, it's chill..." You wink as he scoffed at your attempt of flirting. "He'll... Love you, he's clumsy all the time. He'd appreciate a doctor in the family."

"That's a bit... Worrisome."

You shrug, "It'll be finnnneeee...Oh damn it."

Gesturing to the window, you see Rafayel spying on the two of you from his car. While his manager sighs at the antics displayed so openly.

"...He's usually better at it."

Zayne eyes you with mirth, while all you could do is grin at him, waving at Rafayel from your spot.

-

Sylus / Zayne Sib (Y/N)

Tense, you scoot closer to Sylus as Zayne finishes the bandages around his mid-section. Blood covers your brothers gloves as you holds Sylus hand to give him comfort. "May I speak with you privately?" Zayne asks, more-so telling you. You feel your shoulders deflate as you nodded, getting up.-

"Wait." You stand still at the command, turning to Sylus who lays on the couch. A bitter smile as he sits up, you try to aid him. Yet he holds out a hand for you to keep in place. You nodded, watching him arise to sit up. He smirks at Zayne, lightly patting the bandages.

"I see where their worry stems from, and their medical knowledge. They admire you clearly-" Grabbing a pillow, you raise it above your head-

"-!" Zayne was about to chide your actions.

You place it behind Sylus's back, hiding your bashful expression as Zane relaxes. A bit surprised, yet he lets out a tired groan. "The two of you can stay here for the night."

You beam at him.

"SPERATELY."

You wilt dramatically, clutching your head as Zaye scoffs at your groveling. Coughing into his sleeve as he takes off the gloves. All while you happily nuzzle into Sylus side. Delicately trancing the wound, hushed whispers of worry leaving your lips as Sylus takes ahold of your hand. Holding it gently with a small squeeze of reassurance.  

-

Caleb / Sylus Sib (Y/N)

Happily fussing over Kieran and Luke, you pauses when you hear the sound of a unfamiliar car.

"That's not Sylus's..." You mumble, finishing the touches of hair product in Luke's hair as you get up. The two males following after you as Sylus leave his study at the sudden noise.

All four of you, weapons in hand, peak through the window.

A unfamiliar male parks his car, he stops in front of the house. A bouquet of flowers in hand, dressed rather professionally as he waits by the door eagerly.

Noticing you peaking through the blinds, he winks at you.

You gasp, holding your weapon tight as you swoon. Leaning against Kirean as he grunts at the unforeseen action, while Luke laughs at his brothers misfortune.

Sylus scowls.

"It's Caleb!" You chirp happily.

"... I recall..." His frown deepens. Remember when you brought the male to dinner once at one of Sylus private lounges. The male far too polite and docile, but his eyes told a much deeper story. Then his arm...

"You're not riding in that." Sylus states.

You smile, rolling your eyes.

"You take your own, riding in that hunk of junk will-"

"I understand Sylus, it'll be fine." You nodded to him kindly, pocketing your weapon. You ruffle the males hair before leaving.

"Luke, Kieran,  invite him inside! Tell him I'll be right out!" You say joyfully, leaping up the stairs in a hurry.

"Welp, Boss, we got an hour to mess with him. Any requests?" Luke asks.

"Make it a show." Sylus grinned

-

Rafayel/ Xavier Sib (Y/N)

Rafayel sighs as he doodles on the notepad you had given him, it had been two hours waiting for your family to arrive.

His patience was thinning with each ticking of the clock.

The merman was more surprised he held it together so long.

You on the other hand...

You finished making dinner ten minutes ago, the comforting smell linger all around your home. You kept yourself busy by working on dessert, occasionally checking your phone for updates. Sighing dejectedly as you put it down and continue cooking.

Rafayel's anger simmers, more so in small bubbles until he notices your smile becoming less present within the hour, he gets up from his spot at the table.

"So... Are they arriving or not?" He asks, his tone highlighting his anger. You pause your actions, gazing at him. "Oh, They... Hadn't told me." You reply. 

"I... I'm sorry Rafayel." You sigh, closing your eyes as your face turns towards the ceiling tiredly. "I'll take you home, it's way too late to call-"

"-I still haven't ate dinner." He replied, interrupting you.  While he was upest, he still wanted a nice evening with you.

"Neither you...W-we, can always reschedule." Your lips part slightly at his words. "I don't mind, I... Know this is important to you, so. It's fine."

You step close to him, quickly wrapping your arms around him as he yelps in suprise. "Thanks, really.. Thank you so much." You whisper into his ear as he felt his pulse quicken. 

A nice dinner with the two of you alone sounded perfect to him-

A knock interrupts his thoughts, he groans into your neck.

"Oh! They're here!"

"....Yay.."

-

Xaiver / Caleb Sib (Y/N) [NOT MC]

Hauling the male up to your side, you hold him up on your hip. Having gotten used to his constant sleepiness, you walk out of the theater without a care as his snores cause you to giggle.

"Hey! Quit shoving me!"  A harsh (loud) whisper was heard near you. Choosing to play oblivious, you stand in line for the snack bar as the (loud) whispering became louder with even more overseers. "Pipsqueak, I think they're on the move! You on it Zane?"'

"Yes."

"Are they kissing?"

"No, more like he fell asleep."

"So...?"

Caleb sighs, lightly flicking MC's forehead as she squawked in pain. All while Zane sips from his cold drink, eyes going towards you and then the loud duo.

Finishing your order, one of the workers pulls giant tray of snacks and food. Asking where to take it, you point to where the trio sat. The three friends watch in quiet terror as you follow the waiter to their table, grabbing two chairs as your lover merely snoozed away in your hold. 

You thank the waiter as they place down the tasty items, before heading back to their station.

Plopping Xaiver on a seat, you push his chair in. Watching the trio's quiet gazes towards the newcomer, pushing a bit of food to the three. You sit down as well, arms crossed you raise a brow. Pointing your stern look at Zane, he caves immediately.

"We were worried." 

You turn your glare to the other two, "I expected this from you both." Caleb doesn't meet your gaze, while MC scoffs. "Not Zane?"

"ESSPICALLY HIM." You voice loses it edge as said male slightly slumps in his seat.

Xaiver stirs in his seat, blearily blinking away the sleep in his eyes as he eyes the trio in front of him in confusion. He turns to you for a answer, yet you instead push him a bowl of ramen instead.

He relents his questioning gaze, choosing to dig in, as the trio eat as well. Side-eyeing the blonde with glares, as if he was the reason for why they were in "trouble".

You scoff, "I'm not... Upset, I don't mind that you wanted to check on me. But please, be AT LEAST more discreet about it. MC, you're a Hunter. Caleb, you know your occupation and Zane, you're a doctor."

Xaiver sips on the soup as he smiles, the sound of your voice made him feel refreshed.

Ya'll can interpret the readers as like adopted or whatever head canon yall want idk.

If yall have a idea though, with this silly idea. Let me know!

-

[HAPPY APRIL FOOLS! I KNOW, ITS Silly, this purely made out of sheer head canons and "what ifs". Thoughts and comments are super appreciated! To my Error fans, part 3 will happen one day!] 

[twistedpink]

HI UM ITS THE FIFTH FOR ME AT 9PM SO IM PRETTY SURE REQUESTS ARE OPEN STATESIDE(or what timezone you’re in)..?

Mayhaps I was thinking Riddle, Azul, and Epel with a fem!fairy reader/S/O…? 👉👈 Fairy as not in fae, but straight up. ✨she was a fairy✨. like wings, being able to commune with plants, and classic fairy things! Perhaps it’s a Yuu who comes from a fairy world or something both. just likes flowers and the moon and animals and nature !! And PERHAPS a little fairy devious.

platonic and romantic. if that’s okay ><.

TYSM FOR YOUR WRITING. IT HAS ME KICKING MY FEET LIKE A TEENAGE GIRL IN LOVE(I literally am one wtf am I on)

You’re actually so real bro lol @bju3c0re

Riddle’s weirdly whipped for you. Not in the traditional sense of “weird” like if you were cruel or hateful, but strange because he’s,, Jealous of you- of all the light and happiness your presence brings just by walking into a room, how everyone seems captivated by you, and god, don’t even let him mention your wings. He still dreams about the day he got butterfly kisses just by walking an inch too close in the hallway. He hates how special you make him feel- but if you were to hex him, he’d embrace your mark with open arms <3

Azul’s first thought about you was how to mass produce fairy dust. His second was how the hell the light was hitting your face to make you look like that in an underground office- turns out you’re just built different :^ (Yknow, in the way that you produce your own lighting but STILL) There’s a constant battle raging in his head after you make it official,, How’re you supposed to meet his family with that situation if you can’t even take a hot shower without wilting?? After many hours of googling and commissioning and ‘babe, come to bed’s, he’s finally found a solution- sure, the transformation can be a little intimidating at times, but at least he’ll be holding your hand when you get your sea legs <3

Epel really just wants to switch lives with you- you’re so free and full of whimsy that he can’t help it :( Not even gravity can bring you down!! When Vil comes looking to push some new product on him, all he can think of is growing his own pair of wings and flying off with you- with the spelldrive club, he finally can! Every flight around the island’s like sharing a whole new world with you, and even if he has to share his jacket every now and then, you’ll always have your lovebird <3