#so its left me with thoughts but nothing tangible

[plush-rabbit]

are your requests open???

you can always send in things!! i'm a bit busy with finishing school atm, but like i'll to it,,, eventually

[jijournal]

CHARM ME UP | D.M

Summary: You’ve made it a habit to give small charms to those who need a reminder that they’re not alone. But there’s one person you keep finding reasons to give them to—one boy who always seems to need a charm.

Pair: whimsical!reader x draco malfoy

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It starts with a button.

Draco Malfoy is sorting through his school robes one morning before his Charms exam when he finds it—buried deep inside the lining. A small, copper button glints under the pale light of the Slytherin dorm. It’s not the sort of button that’s part of his uniform. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, then turns it over, finding neat handwriting on the back:

“A charm for clarity. You’ve got more in you than you think.”

He stares at it, his brow furrowing as he wonders if it’s some joke. A prank. Who would leave something like this in his robes? He’s about to toss it aside when he feels a strange pull to keep it. For some reason, the button doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels like… like it’s supposed to be there.

Without much thought, he slips it into his pocket, and the moment passes. He heads to the exam, but as he stares at the test before him, something feels different. His mind, normally clouded with thoughts of his father’s disapproval or his next move, clears. The questions seem easier to answer. By the end of the exam, he’s finished ahead of schedule. He walks out with a sense of accomplishment, something he hasn’t felt in a while.

Later, he checks his grade: top of the class.

Draco doesn’t believe in luck. Not really. But as he stands there, staring at the paper, his fingers instinctively reach for the charm still nestled in his pocket. He doesn’t question it—he simply keeps it.

A few weeks later, the charm reappears again, this time at a Quidditch match.

Draco pulls on his gloves before stepping onto the pitch, and tucked inside his left glove, he finds something small and coiled. At first, it’s nothing but a slight vibration against his fingers, but when he pulls it out, he sees a miniature broom, made of green thread and silver accents.

He examines it briefly before noticing a tiny inscription hidden on the side.

“For steadiness. And aim.”

Draco rolls his eyes at the absurdity. It’s another charm, no doubt—one of those ridiculous little trinkets that had become a nuisance around Hogwarts, but there’s something almost soothing about the weight of it in his hand. He tucks it into his pocket with a sigh, deciding it can’t hurt to keep it for good measure.

The match itself feels different than usual. His focus sharpens. He plays with a fluidity he hasn’t felt in months, his broomstick gliding through the air as if it’s an extension of himself. The team wins, of course—victory after a clean sweep—but it’s the ease with which they’ve done it that lingers in Draco’s mind.

When he later pulls the charm from his pocket, it feels like more than a silly token. It feels like something that worked.

He still doesn’t believe in luck. But he starts to think that maybe there’s more to these charms than he’s letting on. And once again, he tucks it into his tin.

Over the following weeks, Draco notices the charms popping up more frequently. Each time, it’s something different, something subtle—an object that seems so small but always holds a significance that lands right when he needs it most. A paper crane, its wings unfolding and refolding in a rhythmic pattern whenever he’s about to get a question wrong in class. A smooth stone with etched runes of protection, just when his father sends another cold letter. A tiny moon made of thread, glowing faintly in his hands, during the rare moments he’s truly alone.

It’s like magic—real, tangible magic—that only appears for him, and only when he needs it most. He doesn’t know who’s behind it. Doesn’t know how they’re doing it. But as time goes on, he doesn’t question it.

Not really.

Instead, he starts paying attention.

He notices you one afternoon in the library, bent over a stack of parchment, fingers working methodically on a charm of your own. You’re quieter than most, a bit of a mystery even among the usual crowd of Hogwarts students. But Draco’s not the only one who notices that there’s something different about you. While most people bustle about, you’re always where you need to be, your hands always working, always helping.

You’re not flashy. In fact, you’re the opposite of attention-seeking. But when he sees you slipping something into Pansy’s cloak before her Defense class, and then sees Pansy humming softly to herself like her cold walls crashed down, Draco knows. He doesn’t need anyone to confirm it.

It’s you.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a surprise.

One morning, Draco wakes up to find another charm tucked under his pillow, folded neatly like a forgotten note. He hadn’t expected it—not after the intensity of his father’s letter the night before—but there it is, sitting like a small spark of hope. It’s a simple charm—just a tiny star, stitched in gold thread, but it feels warm in his hand as though it’s been waiting for him.

“For brightness on dim days.”

He doesn’t know how you knew. He doesn’t need to know. But for the first time in months, he sits with it, feels its warmth against his fingers, and lets himself believe that things might just be okay. That maybe he’s still allowed to be good.

That he’s still allowed to be more than just a Malfoy.

The charm stays with him longer than any of the others. He keeps it in his pocket for a week, letting the weight of it ground him. It becomes his little secret, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there’s light—somewhere, somehow.

By now, Draco knows where to look. He doesn’t have to search the hallways like he did before. He simply keeps an eye on you, watches as you slip in and out of classes, a quiet observer in the background, always stitching and folding and mending things that no one else notices.

One day, he catches you in the library, sitting by the window with a small bundle of thread in your hands, your eyes focused on your work. He knows better than to approach you immediately. He’s learned to wait, to observe, and so he watches you for a while, seeing the way you pause when someone asks for help, seeing how you always offer something when others least expect it.

He clears his throat when he’s close enough, making you jump slightly in surprise. Your eyes widen, but you don’t back away.

“Who are they for?” he asks, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

You blink, surprised at the directness of his question. For a moment, you hesitate, then answer, “Depends who needs them.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “And who decides that?”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes him wonder if he’s stumbled upon a secret. “I listen.”

Something inside him shifts at those words. It’s so simple, yet so profound. You don’t just make the charms. You feel them. You understand them.

Draco finds himself leaning against a table, unable to break his gaze. He doesn’t say anything more. But from that moment onward, he watches you even more closely, noting the way your hands move with such intention, how your eyes flicker with understanding when someone comes to you for something more than just a charm.

And, in a way, he starts to wonder if he might need something more, too.

The next Saturday is sunny and warm—a rare break from the usual dreariness of Hogwarts. Draco finds himself walking through the halls, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest charm he’d received, a small coin that had somehow found its way into his pocket before a particularly tense conversation with his father. His fingers close around it now, absentmindedly, as he walks toward the greenhouse, only to stop short when he sees you.

You’re kneeling in front of a row of plants, your hands buried in the dirt. He watches you for a moment before he speaks.

“Got a charm for me?”

You look up at him, startled. Then your lips curl into a smile, soft and hesitant.

“I thought maybe you were ready for something different.”

You reach into your bag and pull out a small note. It’s folded neatly, no charm this time, just a scrap of paper with delicate handwriting.

Draco unfolds it carefully and reads the words:

“For when you’re ready to ask me to Hogsmeade.”

He looks up at you, his heart thumping in his chest, and for once, he doesn’t hide his smile. Not from you.

He holds out his hand, offering the same quiet invitation he’s kept hidden in his heart for so long.

“You free next weekend?”

And the smile you give him in return is all the answer he needs.

“Yes.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[quandaryqueen]

Psycho Sweet

Sub No Goggles Mark Grayson X Dom Reader

🔞 Minors DNI

Pet play, knife play, edging, Dom/sub dynamics

Mark stayed still like the good boy he prided himself as. Situated in your bed, the headboard sporting dents and chips from his misbehavior and lack of control, he didn’t need to be handcuffed, nor tied anymore.

His strength, he can control. Though his patience waned, he promised to remain behaved. His whines and whimpers, however, he could never get a grasp on, not even gags could muffle this little fucker. He has come a long way from being a rabid little thing. It gives him comfort and pleasure to know that he was being good to his owner, the reward was a bonus. You deserved the best, after all, and he would be damned to give you anything less. Such a good, disciplined pet he was. A sham of a Viltrumite, yet the thought does not cross him with guilt, no, he wore it like a badge of honour.

The situation before him had him panting like a dog, penetrative gaze refusing to stray from you. The wanton noise held from the back of his throat slips out when the light catches to the kitchen knife you held, glinting dangerously, oh so deliciously in your possession. Not allowed to touch himself, he fisted the sheets under him to assuage the inferna in his body.

“What are gonna do t’me, master?” he pleads, thighs pressing against one another. “Make me bleed on the sheets? Give me new holes for you to fill up? Stuff me with the knife?” Those, he said with utmost yearning, as suggestions. “O-or, I can stay quiet and let you do the work, master.” He added meekly, like a puppy tilting its head down after being kicked, pathetic brown gaze wielded methodically, designed to fawn.

“That’s a good boy,” Mark perks up upon hearing your voice, beaming further when you place yourself on his hips, right where you belong. He must have given you one of the most pathetic looks of wanting in his life that you sighed in a relenting manner, “What do we say?”

“May I put my hands on you, master?”

“You may, pet.” Not waiting to be told twice, Mark had his hands on your hips the instant words left your lips. Thumbs smoothing over your hipbone, he peers through his lashes like a flustered schoolboy when you chuckled at his display of eagerness. That earns him a hearty headpat, which he leans into, he would purr if he can.

“To answer your previous question, no, nothing too intense today,” you rumbled, words punctuated with a hypnotic twirl of a wrist as you admired the handiwork of the knife. One could see in his eyes that he almost deflated, but then you added something that made him perk up. “Maybe later.”

Poising the tip of the blade on his bare chest had Mark's breath lodged in his throat. The hammering of his heart accompanied his shallow breath, almost craving for the rise and fall of his chest to touch the point and poke him. He couldn't help but notice the knife's handle being his colours, your attention to detail impeccable as always.

Mark chants under his breath, a cry for relief. "I'm not fragile, I'm not fragile, I'm not fragile, you know that. More, more, more—"

The cold metal glides along his chest, dull-part against his skin, much to his disappointment, and impatience. He wanted his blood pooling in his skin, streaming down your sheets, staining your hands. But he knew to behave in the midst of anticipation. Gratification is tangible if he was on his best behaviour. It traces around his nipple, the cold colliding against sensitive flesh causing them to pebble at the contact. Letting out a pitiful moan, his back subconsciously arches to meet the sharp tip.

"I'm going to cut you now."

The knife trail upwards, grazes his skin, the first taste of pain sending him reeling fow more. The first cut drift from his sternum to his collarbone. A shallow incision akin to a kitten's scratch, beading with pricks of blood that remained stationary on the tiny cut.

"More, please." Mark breathes out, fingers digging into your hips, before apologetically smoothing his thumbs upon it with circular motions.

The second cut was made, applied with a little more pressure, from the expanse of his left collarbone to his shoulder, a pattern of spirals against his skin. This time, ample amounts of blood began to drip from the wound. Mark was breathing in the coppery miasma drifting in the room like his personal supply of drug.

Then another, under his rib on his left flanks where you wrote your initials. That had further tipped him on the precipice. Y/N'S. His master's pet. Just a little more...

"Mark," his own body corrects him, straightening up at the sound of chiding reprimand of your tone.

He swallows thickly, unaware of the drool dripping from the corners of his mouth. "Please... Cover me with your name. With... With hearts. Pretty, pretty please?"

In the haze of his pleasure, he found your smile the most heavenly of them all. Like the comforting, reassuring gesture of an angel. He will get what he wants.

His body was littered with your name in varying depths. Mark wished they could scar permanently, but on the bright side, you could always rebrand him. On his chest, arms, abdomen. Marks breath hitched when your knife approached his shaft after you carved your name on his hip bone. He bucks his hips forward eagerly when your gaze settled to his, in a imperceptible manner of assessing his reaction.

"Y-you can," he whines. "Let them know this cock is yours."

[vampyre-daisies]

I've kept so many of my thoughts on this era in the drafts for fear of being labelled a 'hater' and being bullied out of the fandom, but everything I've feared and expected and complained about, it's all been crystallized in The Reality War.

I say this as someone who adores this show, who has held it close to my heart for as long as I can remember, as a Flux defender, as a Clara apologist, as a classic and nuwho fan, as a pronoun having, protest sign wielding leftist, and with the deepest of wishes for the show to be better. I HATE this era.

We need NEW voices, we need RTD and his cliquey upper management out, we need a writers room where creatives can share and workshop ideas not some singular self-styled "genius" who doesn't share his plans with anyone until the day he hands in the script. We need redrafts, not first drafts (by Russells own admission many of his scripts are released as first drafts). We need lower budgets, because when the show is made to minimise on expensive spectacle it is forced to carry itself on the quality of its writing.

The criticism that the show is too full of its own history has been characterised by some as hollow because 'every era references the shows past'. But the problem here is framing and purpose. Russell has explicitly stated his GOAL is to 'generate content' and 'social media storytelling'. Every few episodes need the big REVEAL. To the point that by Wish World I personally felt literally NOTHING at the Omega reveal. Something that had it happened a few years ago I'd have been thrilled about, I left the episode numb. Because we had Midnight, Fugitive!Doctor, Susan, The Rani, Poppy and Rogue in the previous four episodes alone. Most of which are framed with flashbacks and the grand 'moment of reveal' and audience teasing, and I just knew they'd never pay off satisfyingly, they're there for the sharable moment on social media.

Both season big baddies this era are defeated by a random laser beam with no established precedent. It's Davies-ex-Machina at its worst, The Last of the Time Lords is my least favourite finale for this exact reason (among many more reasons) but even that at least SET UP the means of its big reset.

Answer me honestly WHY Omega was in this episode. Because he doesn't tangibly DO anything, either thematically or narratively. The Rani's scheme could have been to summon a giant ham sandwich and the plot would have been unchanged. The reason it was Omega was because RTD wanted people to post about it and go 'Wow Thing I Know' and get a million headlines like 'Doctor Who Just Did Something CRAZY'. Omega is reduced to a big CGI monster with less than 5 minutes screen time because he isn't Omega, the interesting villain with motivations of his own, he is simply a vehicle for the name recognition of Omega.

This is Doctor Who as content. As IP. It is the MCU, or Star Wars, or any number of modern franchises, where the 'big return' and references come first and the plot is thought up around making them happen not the other way round.

This is just scratching the surface of the problems, not mentioning the hollow corporate politics that are a thousand steps back from where the show was in the Capaldi run. The botched messaging on extremely important topics that come across bordering on straight up right wing. The failings of consistent characterisation. The ways in which Kate Stewart keeps doing deeply deeply fucked up things (excuse me you MICROCHIP and TRACK your employees, some of which are MINORS???) and the Doctor refuses to comment. The narrative failings of season arcs. The way so many of RTD's scripts this era are direct retreads of episodes he already wrote. The endless behind the scenes nightmares. The eight episode seasons being fundamentally a bad fit for a show with this core premise. I could go on for hours.

There have been great episodes in this era, just as there have been in every era. But on the whole this has been one of the deepest low points for me. I love Ncuti, I love Millie and Varada and the whole cast and I will miss those that are leaving dearly... this is not their fault. But if the show gets cancelled (which it WONT, it will return to being low budget) I will not mourn it. It has been dead to me for some time.

Sack Russell T Davies. Sack Julie Gardner. Sack Jane Tranter. Sack Phil Collinson. Sack everyone who has led to this era of ouroborosing the shark.

Stefan Powell can stay <3 ily bbgrl - keep pestering the folks on set

[crowttore]

Once Diluc settles with you, he finds that a new passion - bordering on obsession - has taken root in place of his desire for justice.

He needs to express just how grateful he is to have you by his side. You'd seen the damage left by all the times 'home' had been torn apart and taken with it a piece of his being. But instead of turning away, there'd been nothing but warmth in your eyes as you wove together what remained with strings of love.

Everyone around him had noticed the difference; 'You seem excited today, Master Diluc, something good happen?' 'Finally settling down huh? Who'd have thought you'd manage before me' 'It's good to see you smile again.'

But how could a mortal man hope to thank the sun for bringing dawn and disperse the dark night?

His fingers hadn't touched the violin since well before leaving Mondstadt. Despite several late night attempts, his fingers felt far too rough, grip on the bow too harsh. The notes didn't sound right.

Flowers didn't feel like enough (and something about having to watch them wither away didn't sit right)

Marjorie had suggested a piece of jewellery, but loathe as he was to admit it, the moment he laid eyes on but a fraction of the selection, his mind had locked up. What if you didn't like what he chose?

'Your mother didn't leave anything?' Marjorie had asked with nothing but good intentions, he knew, but Diluc was terrified that you'd turn tail and run at the weight of such a gift.

The picnic he'd invited you on had been perfect, gentle weather, solitude (he'd made sure to give his workers a paid day off), he'd been cooking all morning. Just the memory of your blissful expression as you'd looked up at him, head on his chest, had heat rushing to his cheeks.

Still, by the time the sun was setting, even with circumstances as perfect as that, Diluc had found himself tongue-tied. Words that had fought to be liberated from his heart for so long always vanished in your presence. Stunned into silence. Too busy revelling the sound of your breaths, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the weight of you against his body.

Could a man such as himself ever be worthy of it all?

When Adelinde had first suggested he write you a letter, pour his heart out and leave it upon your windowsill alongside a lamp grass, he'd nearly fallen to his knees, lamenting his own inability to consider something so simple yet effective.

It was a perfect idea.

It had been a perfect idea.

Surrounded by countless crumpled sheets of parchment, blots of ink staining both his fingers and the desk, words no longer a tangible concept in his mind, it seemed as impossible a task as the rest.

Letters danced before his vision, stringing together words that didn't hold half the meaning you did to him. It was downright humiliating to watch the growing pile of unsatisfactory drafts, to the point that meeting Adelinde and admitting defeat almost felt alluring.

A beast to be put out of its misery.

But he persevered, knowing it'd be impossible to find rest before at least managing to finish one letter.

A brush of warmth along the shell of his ear had him shivering, too keenly aware that the world was sideways before his eyes. Sitting up, Diluc noted with dismay that light already streamed through the windows, the candles that had kept him company burned down long ago.

When had he fallen asleep, and more importantly-

"Adelinde told me you hadn't left your study all night," you sounded almost amused, a realisation that tempered his initial shock at your presence, hands frantically moving to sweep together the scattered papers.

"Ah- I had business to attend to," another warm breath ghosted along his ear, "plenty of planning to get settled before harvesting begins."

His eyes widened in nothing short of horror as he turned towards you, blood running colder than it had in Snezhnaya when his gaze fell on your lovely hands.

Before more than a startled noise could leave his lips, yours had parted in a mischievous grin, "And your business often involves 'hands so gentle I could never bear to recoil from their touch, even if they should wish to drive a knife through my heart', or is this a special case?"

A string of stuttered protests were all that left his lips in the wake of your question, seeing how the amusement slowly bled from your features only worsening his guilt. Not only were you subjected to reading that but here he was, unable to explain himself.

The feeling of your fingers tangling in his hair and the press of fabric against his cheek calmed his frantic heart a bit, letting out a sigh in resignation as Diluc allowed himself to hide his face in your shirt.

"I didn't mean to pry, I was simply worried because you hadn't come outside to meet me like we'd agreed," your tone was soothing, but the realisation that he'd forgotten the plans you'd made stung, "Adelinde came out and explained what was going on. I think it's sweet, if a little silly, to be fretting like this Diluc. You don't have to prove anything to me, if you'd like, I can make a little list of all the ways I know you love me?"

Though it was said with a little chuckle, Diluc knew you were being honest, allowing himself a calming breath before trailing his fingers along your waist. He truly didn't deserve you, unable to even say aloud how deep his affection and gratitude ran, but he would make sure to treasure you in any way he could for as long as you'd have him.

Perhaps a list wasn't the worst idea.

Genshin masterlist

[spurbleu]

lassitude ✩︎‧︎⁎︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. the first time you are vulnerable with Ken Sato, you are half asleep. and for the first time, he is willing.

warnings: none, split pov

a/n: sorry for my lengthy absence, it got extremely busy for me lmao. i dont really like this- but i feel like i cant do much to make it better so here it is

word count: 1.7k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

The mumble of the morning stirred you from the pockets of your mattress. It was barely noticeable- the shift of the comforter- cool early air pooling between the hairs on your arm. The faint creak of the floorboards, (never good at keeping secrets) the spruce mumbling an Irish goodbye.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t see it coming. The sight of him.

Skin relearning to stretch over shoulder blades, peeking through your lashes in familiar foresight. The way his hands searched for his clothes through the birth of daylight- its first breaths placid against the bedsheets.

It all felt too beautiful- the apathy. Buried in lithe, lifeless blankets rather than the rhythm of his pulse, the plush of his embrace. The sudden emptiness of morning’s coffin, quilt seams ripped by the assumption that a goodbye wasn’t necessary.

Ironic- for how lonely the man seemed to be, he looked lethargic in the act of leaving. Near comfortable as he dressed, relief from the reclusive slump of his posture breaching a harsh breath that left the gaps of his teeth.

You were more awake now- enough to question why you cared.

He made it easy- cleaned up half the mess, took the other half out the door. And when it was time to ruin it again, he did it with kindness- gentleness in his absence. There was nothing you should’ve resented- he was doing you a favor. But you found yourself hating it more.

You knew it wasn’t a superiority complex- you were near equals as you slept next to each other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, because you knew within the next 12 hours, he’d be back again, pale in the face of his own affair.

Confounding. The principle that if he knew he was going to come back, why leave at all?

It struck you then- the putrid smell of your own confusion. The anger you held in the bed of your heart, fueled by the weak and needy creature of your own vulnerability. Its chubby hands wringing the veins that curled around your ribs. It spoke for you.

“Ken.”

It was weaker than you thought it would be- no louder than a whisper. At first, I didn’t even sound like his name- only a pathetic mumble that spelled out his silhouette. It became a bit more tangible, louder, when he turned to face you.

“Good morning.”

He slung his bag over the dip of his shoulder, dressed in the clothes from last night. They were wrinkled now, creased in the same shape as your bed, your floor, your home. It was hauntingly poetic- how he seemed to carry you with him in the quietest of ways.

A crease formed under the base of his lips- a smile. Still dry in early hours- complimenting the tanned sections of his jaw- spring kisses breaking the occasional sallow of his face. It was small, but under the shadow of his tousled hair, it looked near blinding.

(But that was Ken for you, wasn’t it? Blinding. Bright in the ways that make the air in your nose cold- fresh. Humane.)

“…Do you…need something?”

Fuck.

You should’ve followed the script. Typewriter font, black indifference, pretending to be asleep when he crept out the door. Feigning casual when reading the ‘text later’ note he’d leave on the counter of your kitchen, next to a day old, crushed protein bar (although, it would always be your favorite flavor).

But instead, you sat curled into the headboard of your bed, sheets protecting your fluttering gut as sleep fogged the more cohesive thoughts. It peeled back, though, the sensitive ones.

You wanted him to stay.

Although it felt like the first time you had admitted it to yourself, you found the blemish of your confession everywhere.

The pucker of your carpet beneath his socks. The indent on the left of your mattress- matching the round of his shoulder. The cool breath that escaped your lungs- collapsing against the rim of your heart.

And in the brevity of nerve, the one that spoke his name with so little foundation before, you answered him.

“Stay.”

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

It’s the tilt in your voice that curves under his adam’s apple in a slow gulp- dry. The softer tones blooming under your tongue, coloring your bottom lip in a nude pink- stainless and genuine. Your lash line drooping into a word that looked foreign to the valley of your cheekbones.

Please.

He mirrored you. The slow breath that hollowed ribs, the sharper edges of his shoulders bending to the will of your own. Even his smile began to falter into the same wary, desperate line that creased the corners of your cheeks.

The effortless effect you had on him.

He knew it was happening, somewhere in the canyon of his bone. Mind disconnected from the marrow, as the better parts of him seemed to reflect every vice of yours. Although it was maddening, conscious clawing at the cushion of his skull, he had learned to embrace it.

Held it as he cradled you- bow of your spine splitting his chest in two- revealing the plusher parts of him, affection safely shadowed by the midnight and your snore. (He’d never admit it to you, but he sleeps better in your bed than he does his own. Although Mina suggests it’s about the company rather than the mattress).

Similar to your aftertaste, he was familiar with your vulnerability- a lot worse at hiding it than you might think.

The haphazard stack of protein bar wrappers in the trash (ashamed to say he counted, once. You’ve eaten every single one he’s given you). The grip on his sweatshirt when you pull him through your door- flushed fingertips eager on the cool metal of its zipper. Even while you sleep your body betrays, burrowing yourself into him as if somehow, you’ll leave a mark (equally ashamed, but just a bit more hopeful, he wants you to).

Selfishly, he loved it. How much you made him feel wanted- needed, even. How the cage of your chest opened for him, his nails the shape of a key as he dug into the softer parts of you. Grime dyeing cuticles red, and he’s convinced that if he asked to crawl within you, you’d let him.

Reluctantly, if so. Looking away, pink on your cheeks, spurred by the flash of his teeth. Unwilling to admit he had asked you before you could have offered.

A begrudging devotion.

He swallowed it, syrup sweet against the cast of his teeth.

“You want me to…stay?”

He let his bag drop to the floor, relishing that as he took a step closer, knees to the bed, the center of your throat bobbed. Contrast to your bold request, a shyness in the creases under your eyes and mouth. It reeked of yearning, and made an illness bloom on Ken’s tonsils.

You nodded slowly as he came to lay next to you. If he listened more closely and focused less on the cross of your arms, he would have heard your heart pulsing a morse that sounded dangerously, sweetly, like his name.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Classical, predictable, the way his smirk warmed the edges of his lips.

“Because you never do…” anxious- eyes searching excuses for the lack of a real answer- “…and the protein bars are getting old.”

A genuine laugh furrowed the flesh beneath his collar bone, morning voice still breaking from the aridity of unuse. “What if I left an apple this time?”

You leaned into his chest, pulling the covers to your shoulder. God, did you look good like this. Tucked into him, a little wanting, a little kind. “You’re so boring. If you’re going to leave, at least give me something good.”

Ken placed a hand to his wounded heart. “Boring? Since when is your favorite flavor of healthy boring?”

You sank back onto the mattress, and he followed you, now facing you with his hands folded under his cheek, squishing his dopey smile. Although he didn’t know it- he looked beyond childish- silly in all respects. But that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it?

“Since the last 200 times.” You exaggerated, imitating him as you leaned on your own hands.

He searched you- not dissimilar to the way he accesses another player. The gate of their shoulder, the click of their jaw- or that slight competitive crinkle that tugged the corners of their lashes- angered by his run before he even hit the ball.

Being in the sport for so long, he had become accustomed to observing others- even from afar. Off the field, he’d find himself looking between the normalcy of strangers under the dark tint of his sunglasses. Envious- to live in blissful ignorance at their own open, bleeding hand.

He supposed that’s why he liked you. Equally as guilty of your own susceptibility- heart on your wrist. But goodness- even this close to you, he couldn’t read the glass over your eyes. As if you were those paintings behind velvet ropes- details clear from a distance, but fogged when you stand too close. Imperfections visible- but never telling.

(did Michelangelo find the Sistine Chapel just as beautiful from the floor as he did from his ladder?)

He hummed, a hand coming to trace the spring freckles that appeared on the plain of your cheek. His heart purred as he watched it bloom, every circle he drew spurring ripples of pink. He was so charmed- to see exactly what he did to you- so closely.

“Alright,” his hand drifted to the strands of hair that covered your ears, tucking it to see just a little more of your blush, “no more protein bars.”

You sighed against his face- and for a moment he was reminded how he had been there- on your lips. The stench of his own fervor- honey sweet between the cracks of its clay.

“Thank god- I was really getting sick of them.”

In his arms, you both dipped into a lullaby of silence, the sunrise cradling the fragile parts of your embrace. Those pockets of insecurity- the questions of why you asked for him to stay, and why he did. The looming assumption that this made you more than what you had been before- made you something, made it different.

You could have spent hours there, steeping in the change- elementary kids too scared to admit they ‘like-liked’ each other. Instead, you both fell asleep again.

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

When you awoke- you were alone.

Once you slipped out of bed, it was well past 11. Your light feet and sweltering head brought you to the kitchen counter- where you found a plate of eggs, toast, coffee, and a note.

----

Home Soon.

-Ken

ps. hope this is better than the protein bars.

[ko-existing]

Running in Circles, Searching for What?

Readers often describe feeling trapped in a loop: searching, chasing, doing more to get somewhere. Hoping for progress, proof, or an improvement that justifies all the effort. But here’s the real question:

Has it brought you anywhere?

Take a moment. How long have you been seeking? Months? Years? Have you "found" anything, or is it just more seeking, more questions, more frustration? You run in circles, chasing shadows, hoping the next practice, insight, or realization will be "it."

It’s not wrong to feel this way, but consider this: the very act of searching implies you think there’s something missing—something you lack that needs to be attained. But what if the assumption itself is flawed? What if the one seeking is the very illusion you’re trying to unpack?

Let’s step back and look at the nature of a "dream".

When "you" seem to "dream" at night, no matter what the "dream" looks like—whether it’s exciting, terrifying, or mundane—"who/what" is always "present"? Who is there in every "dream"? And how do you even know it’s a "dream"? You can feel sensations arising, hear the sounds, and even "think" within the "dream". Sounds familiar, no?

Now look deeper: where is the dream coming from? What gives it its apparent existence? When the dream ends, where does it go? And in those moments of so-called deep sleep, when you say, "I didn’t dream at all," how do you know that gap was even there? What remains?

In every dream, there’s an undeniable Knowing—a "presence" that holds it all, isn't there? The dream is fleeting, but the Knowing of it isn’t. It’s there whether the dream is "vivid", "faint", or "absent" altogether. And that same knowing is "present" now, reading these words, isn't it? You don't have to use any thoughts to notice.

So.. what are you really searching for? The next “aha” moment? A tangible shift? Something to confirm, “Yes, now I’ve got it”? But who would "get it"?

All there is, is this—this effortless "awareness" in which everything arises and disappears.

All seeking starts to dissolve when you see that what you’re looking for isn’t "out there." It’s the same presence that’s already aware of the seeking, the frustration, and the loop itself. Just like in a dream, you’re chasing answers without realizing you’re the space in which the entire dream unfolds.

Here’s the thing: I can tell you this over and over again, and I can write endless words about it, but at the end of the day, you have to see it. Nothing I say or anyone else says will make it clearer to you than seeing it directly.

Think of it like this: imagine I tell you about the taste of a "Tsampa" (tibetan foodstuff). Let me try to describe it—Tsampa has a simple, earthy taste—kind of nutty and a little smoky because it’s made from roasted barley. It’s pretty dry on its own, but when you mix it with butter tea (bo cha) or milk (or water), it turns into a creamy porrdige that’s super satisfying.

Do you now know how it tastes based off of this short description? No matter how much anyone tries to describe it, you wouldn’t really know what it’s like until you actually try it yourself. You might feel like you “get it,” but until you actually taste Tsampa (-Porridge) for yourself, it’s all just words. The actual direct experience is yours to have, and words will never compare to it.

It’s the same here. Look at the loop you feel stuck in. Look at the dreamlike nature of every experience. Look at what’s behind the looking itself. And notice: the seeking, the searching, and even the apparent struggle—what is all of it arising in?

The dream at night is your perfect clue. Who’s been there in every dream, in every scene, in every story in and out of it? Who’s the constant presence beneath it all? If you truly see that, will there be any questions left?

[jjkamochoso]

Pt. 2 of Imagine… Soshiro Hoshina Finding You on the Brink of Death

Angst, Fluff

Soshiro Hoshina x gn!reader

Warnings: mentions of hospital setting/devices

You can find the all angst ridden part 1 here!

One week.

That was how long it had been since Soshiro had seen your alluring (e/c) eyes, heard your infectious laugh, blushed at your gentlest smile reserved just for him. The past 7 days of you in a coma after almost becoming a kaiju meal had been devastating for him and the rest of your teammates. You had many visitors over the hours you lied completely still on your hospital bed, but you weren’t the only unmoving person in your room. Soshiro had rarely moved an inch from your side, only getting up to go to the bathroom. He couldn’t remove himself from his seat next to your fragile body in case you woke up; he couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone in such a vulnerable state anyway.

“They’re under the best care here, Hoshina. Go get some rest,” Captain Ashiro had told him on day 3, when Soshiro was sporting dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He respectfully refused, and Mina knew better than to fight with him right now—he was as stubborn as he was talented with his swords. Every time the nurses came in to check your vitals, they looked upon him and his sad state of being with sorrow, feeling awful to see the man in such despair. They had taken it upon themselves to deliver meals for him since they all knew he wasn’t leaving to eat. Even if most of the time the tray sat untouched, they took it as a win when a pudding or fruit cup disappeared.

Day 5 was the hardest for Soshiro. By that point, he was delirious from staying up practically all night in case you needed something. His typed reports stopped making sense, his brain nowhere near as sharp as usual due to the fog of grief that had settled in his mind. The steady beeps of your life support machine haunted his every waking moment, a perfect symphony of the anguish he couldn’t escape. Thankfully, Kafka had heard about his vice captain’s condition and visited that night, offering to take over Soshiro’s watch in case you woke up. Soshiro was extremely reluctant at first, but he knew that you and Hibino were close; he also trusted the kind hearted man enough to know he’d be there for you in case something happened. With strong hesitation, Soshiro left your sight for the first time in 96 hours, heading to the shower. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t wash away the feelings of guilt he harbored over your injuries.

If only I was faster, stronger… I could’ve been there sooner. Stopped the kaiju from ever sinking its disgusting teeth into you. What kind of vice captain am I? What kind of… person am I? How could I ever expect them to love me back if I can’t succeed in my one job of protecting them?

He let his tears fall freely, mixing in with the water from the shower head.

Day 7 was the point where Soshiro was just… there. He barely felt anything anymore, whether it was exhaustion, anguish, or anything else. He sat next to you like normal, gazing at your chest as it sank and rose with shallow breaths, but his eyes were glazed over in a manner reminiscent of a man without hope. The doctors didn’t have an estimated time for you to wake up. With injuries as extensive as yours, there was no telling when your body would be ready to start running on its own again. Soshiro didn’t know how to process that news; he liked seeing tangible results, and the fact that you had been hooked up to all these damn machines for so long and nothing had changed? It was pure torture to him. He found himself inching closer to you, if that were even possible, and he took hold of your hand with the softest of touches.

“I miss ya, y/n,” he whispered, bringing your hand to his lips. He was careful to not disrupt the IV as he laid a gentle kiss on your cold skin, savoring the sensation of doing what had wanted to do since he first met you all those years ago.

“Remember the promise we made to each other when we were young and dumb? Now we’re old and dumb,” he chuckled humorlessly, “and you still have to keep up your end of the bargain. You have to survive. I can’t lose you.”

He took in a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t lose you because I’m in love with you.”

It was like the world was playing a cruel joke on him—he finally garnered the courage to admit he had fallen in love, but the object of his affections wasn’t able to hear it. He let his head hang in misery as he kept your hand close to his face, eventually placing it against his cheek. He closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that you would wake up. If you died… he wouldn’t know how to move on from such a devastating blow. He knew this macabre scenario had a high probability of happening in this career field you two chose, but he always had faith in his and your abilities to stay alive. To say that faith had been shaken was the understatement of the century.

“Y/n, please. I can’t do this alone. I need ya back with me. You gotta keep fighting.”

Soshiro went to place your hand back on the bed when he swore he felt your fingers move against his own. His eyes widened in surprise as his heart started slamming against his rib cage. Was that real or just his imagination?

It happened again.

And your eyes opened.

He slammed on the call button, informing the nurses of your awakening before turning his attention back to you.

“So-soshiro,” you tried to say, but your throat couldn’t form any words.

“Shh, don’t say anything, darling, I’m right here. Always have been, always will be.”

A grin swirled with anxiety and relief was present on his lips as he looked at you.

After a few hours of tests, doctors checking up on you, and small moments to collect your thoughts, you were finally able to form coherent sentences.

“You sat here the whole time? Now I feel bad,” you said, a small frown gracing your features.

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t want you to be alone, that’s all,” Soshiro told you, nervously scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you… happen to hear anything I was saying before you woke up?”

“What, like how we’re old and dumb and that you’re in love with me?” you said, trying your best not to laugh at his shocked expression.

“Huh? You actually did hear me? I thought that only happened in movies!” he whined, his cheeks tinged with red.

“No reason to be embarrassed, Soshiro. I didn’t know how to tell you but I’m in love with you, too. I have been for a very long time.”

Soshiro was looking upon you like you had descended directly from the heavens, his eyes gleaming with unbridled joy as his fingertips danced over your arm, tracing shapes in an intimate, comforting manner.

“I‘ve been so worried about ya, sweetheart, but now that you’re back with me, it’s like I can breathe again.”

You relished in the calm quiet of the room, basking in Soshiro’s loving presence. He was exactly the driving force behind you willing your body to wake up. You could never leave him to walk this world alone.

“I also felt you kissing my hand,” you said after a long bout of silence. “That was very sweet of you.”

“Guess all I had to do was give ya true love’s kiss to wake up?” he joked, his little fangs peeking out of his lazy grin.

“I’m looking forward to my real kiss when I get out of the hospital,” you replied, attempting to wink at him.

He leaned his face over yours, his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. “If you want, I can give you a preview of it right now.”

You felt your pulse quicken and apparently so did the heart rate monitor you were hooked up to; the machine started beeping, alerting that your numbers were abnormal.

Soshiro kissed your forehead before sitting down again, smirking. “Do I make ya nervous?”

Now it was your turn to blush. “Watch it Hoshina, or I’ll have you admitted into the bed next to me.”

Soshiro burst out in his trademark laugh, grabbing at his stomach and wiping away the tears forming in his eyes. You could be given all the medicine known to man but nothing could make you feel better than the promise of being loved by the easily amused violet haired man who will never leave your side.

[ceilidhtransing]

Baffled by the people who say things like “back when it was Biden v Trump, I was going to vote third party, since Biden had no chance of winning” - like, do you not kinda realise that huge numbers of people deciding to vote third party “because it's a given that Biden will lose” is partly why he (probably) would have lost?

Elections aren't pre-decided! The results depend on what you (and millions of other people) do! If your feeling is something like “ugh the Democrat is going to lose so I'll just stay home / vote third party”, that is a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Democrat isn't just “going to lose regardless” no matter what anyone does; you are actively creating, in your own tiny way, the conditions under which the Democrat loses.

We see the same thing here in the UK. “There's no way the Conservatives will ever lose this seat” so the left splits its vote eighteen ways and oops the Conservative candidate wins with like thirty-nine percent of the vote.

It feels like some people subconsciously think of an election as something that just Happens independent of them, and that their vote isn't something that creates the result, but rather something that indicates to what extent they agree with the result. And I get it; in an election with a nine-figure number of votes it must be hard to feel like your individual vote makes much of a difference, to see a tangible connection between your vote and the outcome. But seriously: election results don't just Happen as some kind of force of nature. They depend entirely on the votes people choose to cast. And if your thought is “well I'm just me”, there are millions of “just me”s in the electorate. In fact, the electorate is nothing but a whole load of “just me”s.

So much of politics relies not on convincing people of your ideas, but on convincing them that the candidate they prefer either Has It In The Bag, so they don't need to turn up and vote, or Has No Chance, so they either shouldn't bother voting or should throw away their vote on some third-party candidate who - simply by the way the system is set up mathematically - genuinely never stood a chance in hell of winning anyway. (This is not a “you should vote third party” post, because this post acknowledges the reality that the US presidency is going to go to one of only two people, regardless of how anyone wishes the system worked.)

“Why should I vote for candidate A? They're never going to beat candidate B anyway!” cry ten thousand progressive voters, meanwhile horrible conservative candidate B wins by a margin of nine thousand and something. Attitudes create outcomes. Votes create outcomes.

Nothing is decided yet. The result is not predetermined. Your vote is part of what makes the result - and the outcome is going to be either Harris or Trump. And I know it's a cliche, but truly the only poll that matters is the one on election day. Please don't fall victim to defeatist self-fulfilling prophecies that only serve to help create the outcome you never wanted in the first place.

[astrowarr]

“How d’you care so little?” Joel fumes, eyes ablaze as he paces around the shattered glass and splintered wood of his car. It's pretty well decimated, and he's been growling and frothing about it in Gem's ear for an hour now. 

She prods testily at the soft, upturned earth carefully covering their pitfall. “It's not that I don't care,” she huffs, jumping back when the dirt crumbles a little under the toe of her boot. She glances up at Joel, who is practically shaking with rage. He can't keep his eyes off the dumb car. “You know, you really could've fixed it by now.”

Beat of silence. Then, pouting and everything, he grumbles feebly, “Shut up, Gem.” 

There's no heat behind it. If anything, her words seemed to have knocked the wind from his sails of war; he's slumped against the car now, arms crossed as he glares to the side dramatically. God, he sure does put on a show, she thinks with an overwhelming wave of affection. 

It's not that Gem doesn't care. But she can't get this feeling from the four mangrove walls of her stupid barn. She can't even get it from winning. So they can burn down everything she owns, take every last life she has to spare. In the end, none of that is tangible. None of that is what matters. This is a game, and games are meant to be played. That’s what counts for her. Why should she take issue if the universe works as it was so lovingly intended to? 

All she wants to leave behind is a trail of blood and ruin as she puts up a fight. She wants to leave her mark on this world and all the people it holds. She wants to make it hurt, once she's allowed to. She wants to play the game well, exactly how she was made to play it. She cares about that. 

Gem cares, too, about the love she dredges up along the way. She thinks of her hands set to the backdrop of a blood-caked cloak, of long brown hair curling over her fingers as they dig in tight. She thinks of the sharp edge of her sword pressed against pale skin, and the thud of knees hitting the ground. All of that meant something. It still does, she believes, in certain ways. 

“I care,” she says, feeling oddly self-conscious. Maybe it's because she knows Joel now: he can't stop caring. It explodes from every pore in his body, an inescapable curse. It's been his undoing, or so she's heard; he's easy to anger, but if you ask her, he's mostly just… easy to love.

It’s this fact that has her saying quietly, “Just… I gotta pick and choose, you know?”

She's not like Joel. There's only so much room in Gem's chest, and it's permanently occupied with a bleeding, open wound. It takes up a lot of her as she skirts around it, giving its raw, frayed edges a wide berth. Joel has an infected hole in his heart too, but his preferred method of dealing with it is tearing it wider with his bare hands.

“Yeah,” Joel drawls absently, scratching his cheek. “Never been quite good at that, I reckon.”

Gem gets that. It must be hard, holding everything so tight that it rips you apart. The thought of losing that much agency has a venomous, stinging feeling crawling down the center of her back. But… 

“You're doing it right now,” she points out, gesturing vaguely at his poor car. “You could've gone on a rampage, if you wanted.”

He scoffs. “Trust me, I wanted."

“You didn't though.”

Joel blinks. “Guess I didn't.” The answer is simple, but leaden with something that has branches so complex, it nearly consumes his words entirely. Gem can't name the something; she lacks the history she'd need to do so. Even so, his face is remarkably… light? That's a word for it. Maybe he's finally cut the infection from his own wound.

She hums in lieu of response, turning her gaze back to the trap. Whatever is draped over Joel's mind, she hopes it doesn't render him too docile. The game stops for nothing, and it deserves to be played to its fullest, Gem thinks, no matter what's left standing come judgement day. 

[goldfades]

Devin Booker angst… maybe some commitment/trust angst because of past ex cheating fallout. Good ending but deffff some angst 🫠

Another one… birthday planning for Devin. Simple for a simple man.

im gonna do the angsty one just cause i love me some good angst :) ALSO THIS IS ACTUALLY SO ANGSTY but has a happy ending!!! so be warned!!

There were things Devin never talked about.

Not because he couldn’t—but because he wouldn’t.

He had learned, a long time ago, that some things were easier left unsaid. That silence was its own kind of armor, that keeping certain thoughts locked away meant they couldn’t be used against you.

And for the most part, it worked.

Until you.

Until this.

Lately, it felt like something was slipping through the cracks. Like the space between you was stretching wider and wider, pulling taut, waiting to snap.

You felt it. He knew you did.

It was in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The way your fingers hesitated before reaching for him, like you weren’t sure if he’d let you in or pull away.

The way you kept asking—softly, cautiously—if everything was okay.

And the way he kept saying yes, even when it wasn’t.

Because the truth was, Devin didn’t know how to talk about it.

Didn’t know how to put into words the way trust felt like something fragile in his hands, like something that could be taken from him just as easily as it had been given.

Didn’t know how to explain that every time you went out without him, every time your phone buzzed late at night, every time he saw you laugh a little too freely at something another man said—his mind went there.

Not because he thought you would hurt him.

But because someone else already had.

And the worst part?

He hated himself for it.

For doubting. For overthinking. For feeling like he was ruining something good before it could even turn bad.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it down, to pretend like it wasn’t eating at him—the feeling stayed.

And you?

You were waiting.

For him to say something.

For him to let you in.

For him to decide whether this was something worth fighting for, or something he was too afraid to hold.

The thing about trust was that it didn’t just exist. It wasn’t something you could hold in your hands, something tangible and solid, something you could tuck away and know it would stay right where you left it.

No—trust was something you had to build. Something you had to choose, over and over again.

And Devin wasn’t sure if he knew how.

Not after what happened before. Not after the late-night lies, the gut feeling he ignored for too long, the hollow apologies that didn’t mean a damn thing. Not after the way he found out, after the way he swore he wouldn’t let it happen again.

And now?

Now he was here. With you. And every time he felt himself settling in, every time he felt that quiet, terrifying kind of peace that came with loving someone the way he loved you—he felt the fear creep in, too.

Because what if he was stupid again?

What if he let himself believe in something real, only to have it slip through his fingers?

What if—

“Dev,” your voice was soft, hesitant, pulling him out of his head.

He hadn’t even realized how quiet he had gotten, how long he had been sitting there, staring at nothing while you watched him from across the room.

He blinked, forcing himself to look at you.

You were standing near the kitchen, arms crossed over your chest, the kind of tension in your shoulders that made it clear you felt it too.

The shift.

The distance.

The space that had been growing between you for weeks now.

You chewed on your bottom lip before exhaling, taking a step closer. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

His jaw tightened. “Nothing’s going on.”

Your eyes flickered with frustration. “Don’t do that.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Do what?”

“Shut down on me,” you said, voice quieter now. “Act like I can’t see when something’s wrong.”

Devin leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a slow breath. “It’s not that easy.”

Your brows furrowed. “What’s not?”

He hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee. He wanted to tell you. He did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, he shook his head, letting out a humorless chuckle. “Forget it.”

You were quiet for a beat. Then—

“Do you still trust me?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

Your voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t angry. Just... tired.

Tired of the guessing. Tired of waiting for him to let you in.

His throat felt tight. “It’s not about that.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

Devin ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. He could feel how badly you wanted the truth. But how was he supposed to say it? How was he supposed to admit that he did trust you, but his mind kept fighting him on it? That no matter how much he knew you weren’t the same, that you would never do that to him, his brain still found ways to convince him otherwise?

That it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the parts of himself he hadn’t figured out how to fix yet?

So instead, he said nothing.

And that silence was louder than anything else.

You inhaled sharply, blinking hard like you were trying to keep something at bay, before nodding once. “Okay.”

He frowned, the word settling uneasily in his chest. “What does that mean?”

You let out a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “It means I can’t keep doing this.”

His stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing between you two. “Walking on eggshells. Waiting for the next time you decide to pull away. Feeling like I have to prove something that I haven’t even done.”

Guilt spread through his chest, slow and suffocating. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“I know.” You swallowed, shaking your head slightly. “But that’s what’s happening.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Because you weren’t wrong.

You let out a slow breath, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “I love you, Devin.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

“And I’ve been patient,” you continued, voice softer now. “I’ve given you space, I’ve let you take your time, I’ve let you deal with whatever’s in your head the way you needed to.”

You met his gaze, eyes searching his like you were trying to find him, to reach whatever part of him had been locked away all this time.

“But at some point, you have to decide if you trust me enough to let me in.”

The words hit him square in the chest.

Because you were right.

He knew you were right.

And yet—

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You exhaled slowly, nodding, like you had already known the answer before he said it out loud.

And that was the worst part.

Because the way you nodded, the way your eyes softened just slightly—it wasn’t relief. It wasn’t the kind of understanding that meant things would be okay.

It was acceptance.

Like you were realizing, maybe for the first time, that loving him might not be enough.

The silence between you stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally, you turned toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna go to bed.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say the words he should have said.

And as he listened to the sound of your footsteps fading down the hall, the weight of everything he hadn’t said pressed down on his chest, heavier than ever.

Because the thing about trust?

It didn’t just exist.

And if you weren’t careful, if you let it slip away too many times—

You might wake up one day and realize you lost it before you ever had the chance to hold it.

Devin didn’t sleep that night.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor. He could hear the quiet rustle of sheets from the other room, the space between you feeling impossibly wide even though you were just on the other side of the wall.

This wasn’t like your usual arguments—the ones that ended with you stealing his hoodie and curling into his chest like it never happened. This felt different. More final. Like you had already made up your mind about something he wasn’t ready to face yet.

And maybe it was selfish—maybe it was stupid—but he didn’t want to lose you.

Didn’t want to watch you walk away just because he couldn’t figure out how to fix the parts of himself that someone else had broken.

So, at some point in the early hours of the morning, when the world was still quiet and the weight of everything felt too heavy to carry on his own—he got up.

The floor was cold beneath his feet as he made his way toward the bedroom, hesitating just outside the door. It was cracked open, just enough for him to see the rise and fall of your shoulders beneath the blanket.

For a second, he thought about turning around. Thought about waiting until morning, or pretending like this conversation never happened at all.

But he knew that wouldn’t work anymore.

So, instead, he stepped inside, slow and cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

He stood by the bed for a moment, watching the way your breathing stayed even, your body curled just slightly away from him. He wondered if you were still awake. If you had been waiting for him to come to you, or if you had already started to let go.

The thought made his chest ache.

Quietly, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against the sheets. “You up?”

You didn’t say anything at first, but then—

“Yeah.”

Your voice was hoarse, like you had been holding something in for too long.

Devin swallowed hard. He wasn’t good at this part. At saying the things that mattered.

But he was trying.

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

A beat of silence. Then, you let out a slow breath, shifting slightly so you could look at him. “I don’t want to lose you either, Dev.”

His jaw tensed, his fingers twitching against the blanket. “Then why does it feel like I’m pushing you away?”

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “Because you are.”

He exhaled, pressing his palms against his face for a moment before dragging them down. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s still happening.”

Devin stayed quiet, staring down at the blanket between you. He wasn’t used to feeling this vulnerable. Wasn’t used to letting his thoughts spill out before he had the chance to shove them back down.

But if there was anyone he could say this to—it was you.

So, after a long pause, he finally admitted, “I don’t know how to let go of it.”

You furrowed your brows. “Let go of what?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to yours before dropping again. “The past.”

It was the first time he had actually said it. The first time he had admitted, out loud, that everything he was struggling with had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the shit that came before.

The betrayal. The late-night fights. The way he found out through someone else instead of hearing it from her.

The way it had made him question everything—including himself.

You were quiet for a long moment, like you were waiting to see if he would say more. When he didn’t, you sighed, shifting so you were sitting up against the headboard.

“I’m not her, Devin.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” you asked, voice softer now. “Because it feels like I’m paying for someone else’s mistakes.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” you countered gently. “I love you. And I would never—never—do that to you.”

He let your words settle, rolling them over in his mind, trying to let them sink in deeper than the fear that had taken root there.

But old wounds had a way of staying open, even when you thought they were healed.

“I just—” He shook his head, struggling for the right words. “I don’t know how to trust that.”

You blinked, looking down at your hands for a moment before nodding slowly. “Then let me show you.”

His brows pulled together. “How?”

You reached out then, tentative but firm, your fingers brushing against his wrist. “By letting me in,” you said simply. “By letting me love you without you waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Devin stared at you, his throat tight, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Because that was the real issue, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t afraid of being lied to.

He was afraid of believing in something good and watching it fall apart anyway.

But he was starting to realize—he had two choices.

He could keep pushing you away, keep letting the past dictate the way he held onto the present.

Or he could choose you.

Choose to believe in what you had.

Choose to trust that this time, it was real.

So, he made a decision.

Slowly, hesitantly, he shifted toward you, resting his forehead against yours, his fingers curling around your wrist. “I’m trying,” he murmured.

You exhaled, your free hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I need.”

For the first time in weeks, Devin felt like he could breathe.

He wasn’t perfect. He had his shit, and there would be days where the doubt crept in, where the past threatened to pull him under.

But he wasn’t alone.

And that?

That was enough.

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER EIGHT

08 : PASTRIES

CHPT. SUM. : Alpahard comes for a visit and you help the Belbys run their shop while Damocles focuses on the wolfsbane potion. Everything appears to be going as planned.

LENGTH : 9.7k

TAGS : OG Walburga is a scheming bitch ; Orion is an absent and neglectful father ; Alphard is a good uncle who loves his nephews ; Reader just girl bossing it ; Ruth and Damocles are couple goals ; Reggie finally being happy and very baby

CONTENT WARNING : talks of divorce

A/N : I'm posting this now to give it a week before I post the 9th chapter on February 1st -- you'll have to excuse me if I'm a little late on that update though because I'm currently out of commission from the most horrible cold/flu I've ever had (╥﹏╥) -- please send your thoughts and prayers because I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep the last two days and I swear this impromptu post is also a part of the delirium I'm experiencing

← PREV. 07 : INVESTIGATIONS | SERIES M.LIST

14th September 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Walburga throws a fit, trapped in the abyss of your mind. She’s furious, seething from your menacing intrusions upon her life and secrets. It was frustrating and annoying beyond belief! The intricate web she had just begun to create was unravelling before her very eyes, and she could do nothing but watch! She had meant to secure a different future with her forming web; impervious to the imminent cycle of life she had witnessed that fateful day months ago. She had made one fatal mistake in all of her meticulous planning and preparation, labouring over an ancient ritual that would guarantee full obedience from her two boys. And, rather than force her mind and ideals over the thoughts and actions of her two sons before their fates began to set permanently, she was being made to fall under the thoughts and actions of another individual, you.

Being forced to watch you take over her shoes has been Walburga’s own personal hell. It’s far more painful knowing that she has no say over what you do. She’s limited to only watching, watching and agonising over her perfect plans being torn to shreds. The love and kindness you were showing her sons was unbecoming, going completely against her values on the way a mother should parent. It’s clear that you know nothing about how to raise two young boys born into the most ancient and noble house.

Walburga’s resentment grows and grows by the day. As a prisoner forced to share her identity and existence with someone who goes against her beliefs, it is unbelievably torturous. She screams ‘NO!’ and ‘STOP!’ at every offending action you take, all of which seem to be the exact opposite of her true self. Openly showing affection? Her sons will only grow clingy and burdensome. Being open to conversations? Growing boys should only speak when spoken to and not dare question the things being told to them for their own good. Cooking without magic? (Cooking at all!) There’s a house elf to fulfil that role. Thinking about your foreign behaviour has anger quickly bubbling up from her stomach. You’re so foolish!

But there was hope…

After every major fainting spell Walburga has induced, your unconscious body has left your thoughts and mind completely silent and open to her reclaim. Dwelling in the dark depths when all is silent, Walburga can feel a ticklish sensation from afar. And it only grows ever palpable after every major blackout. A wicked smirk touches her lips as she reaches forward and feels the wisps of connection between the floating space she was suspended in and the tangibility of the physical world.

One powerful, familiar thought moves her fingers a centimetre. It was small but a big step forward. The solid material she registers at the edges of her nerves -–the feeling of bedsheets atop a solid mattress— was alien in its distance and bizarre for its unfamiliar yet known sensation. It was like returning to something and your brain had yet to recognise the perception as one that was formally commonplace.

However, just as Walburga was wrapping her mind around that singular, grounding feeling, it was suddenly ripped away. Once again, she was surrounded by an empty coldness, suspended in an unfeeling space. Despite the frustration that quickly mounted inside her, it was accompanied by a resolve that plastered itself solidly in her chest, a determination to bide her time and remain patient. She will wreck terror and havoc when times are right and after she’s deteriorated your hold, she’ll regain full control once more.

It will only be a matter of time…

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake up to a familiar scene and sigh sadly. The ringing in your head is a powerful one, an annoyance that makes the sun rays falling through the gaps of the curtains feel like a knife to your eyes. Reaching for your wand, a silent swish fills the gaps, shutting away the sun and reducing the sting in your eyes to something you can easily blink away. The curtains act like a filter for the light outside, partially bringing a soft, green radiance into the room.

At the sight of your youngest curled up against you once again, you lean down and affectionately kiss his crown, “I’m sorry, little love,” although you kept your voice to a quiet whisper, it’s enough to raise Regulus from the warm abyss of slumber. Your little prince sits up and rubs his eyes as you admire his adorable image.

“Good morning, my darling,” you comb his hair back from his tired eyes and lean close with a lowered, soft voice; an intimate moment between mother and son, “did I worry you again?” Regulus nods silently and launches himself into your arms as you apologise over and over.

The night before, Kreacher had been open about another blackout you’d experienced. And, although Regulus was grateful, he was anxious all night long. It never fails to make his heart jump to his throat. He remembers your still—far too still—body laying in bed, in a room entirely separate from his father’s. You look at peace but it wasn’t a comfort; you didn’t appear to simply be asleep, rather, you looked more deathly… he dreads to even think back on such thoughts. He’s only comforted by the sound of your steady heartbeat and soft breaths so he wastes no time in reaching for his blanket and sleeping beside you, close enough to hear the rhythm of your heart and the melody of your breathing.

“A-are you feeling sick?” that wasn’t the real question he wanted to ask, you can see the truth in his pleading, sweet eyes. Are you afflicted by some sort of incurable disease that cannot be stopped?

Regulus closes his eyes to savour the kiss you press into his forehead, “I’m perfectly healthy, my little love. Please don’t worry too much,” you pull away to cup his face tenderly in your hands and thumb over the softness of his cheeks.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” you nuzzle his nose with your own and the tense, fretful atmosphere is washed away by your shared giggles.

Kreacher soon appears with a tray of breakfast and another phial of magenta liquid. You eye the offending potion for a hard second but before you can groan, Kreacher is already lecturing you.

“Mistress must drink! Must must must!” he insists with beseeching eyes, urging the phial into your hands.

“Let me, at least, have some breakfast first, Kreacher,” you try to set aside the phial and reach for the breakfast tray instead while Regulus suppresses a laugh at the scene. He couldn’t believe his mother felt the same way about healing potions as wizarding children and newly appointed witches and wizards did. It was amusing to see a reflection of childishness in his mother, who had always been so cold and unfeeling.

“No!” Kreacher pulls the breakfast tray away from you, insistent on having you drink the potion before any food, “Potion first, Mistress!”

“FILTHY ELF! DISOBEYING COMMANDS! I TAUGHT HIM BETTER THAN THIS– LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY SERVANT!” Walburga’s shriek makes you wince, and Kreacher takes it as the sign to draw back and apologise for his loudness while Regulus balances comforting you and the spiralling house elf.

“Kreacher is deeply sorry, Mistress…” Kreacher suppresses his guilty thoughts in favour of his mistress’ well-being. Going into another one of his many anxious episodes won’t be helpful to you. “Please drink,” he cups his hands around your own to fold over the phial once more. His large, watery eyes, silently plead for you and lift in relief when you finally agree and down its disgusting contents.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” you smile at the elf who finally sets the breakfast tray on your lap above the covers.

“Mistress is w-w-welcome…” he stretches out the syllables of the unfamiliar word, appearing unsure over its usage but his tense shoulders immediately sag in relief as soon as he sees yours and Regulus’ kind smiles. You had been urging him to use the word for quite some time and are happy to see that he was finally confident enough to begin trying it. Hopefully, after this first try, he’ll be more confident in using it in the future. Sending you a thankful smile, Kreacher handles the empty phial and disappears after wishing you and his young master Regulus a good morning.

“Kreacher looks happy,” Regulus comments absentmindedly before taking a bite of toast. Once again, the two of you are sharing breakfast in bed and you lovingly wipe away stray crumbs from the corners of his smiling lips, “I like him even more when he’s like this!”

Melting from his sweet words and the brightness in his eyes, you nod in agreement, “Me too,”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Finally out of bed and roaming the house, you notice Orion’s missing jacket from the hallway coat rack and call for Kreacher.

“Master Orion asked for his healing potion, Mistress,” Kreacher shuffles his feet and wrings the hem of his shabby clothing between his hands. It appears that he too is uncomfortable with Orion’s reappearance, although, you suppose your husband had suffered long enough. Calculating the time in your head, you resist the urge to sigh sadly. Three days. The poor fool. You hoped he would have lasted longer than that but you suppose it was fun to see him suffer while it lasted. It was karma working its best under the hand of a spiteful wife.

“I see…” you patiently search for the house elf’s eyes before asking the important question, ”Did he say ‘please’?”

After a pause, Kreacher finally nods, “Eventually, yes, Mistress,” Kreacher looks unsure, probably remembering the tense exchange he had with the patriarch, however, it’s soon swept away by your smile and gentle pat against his bald and wrinkled head.

“Well done, Kreacher,” the house elf’s ears wiggle in glee and you see a shy smile creeping up from under his long nose.

18th September 1971 | Muggle London

“You’re excited,” you giggle at the sight of your youngest practically skipping along beside you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Uncle Alphard. Sirius and I always love it when he comes over,” you smile at his response, happy to know that there was an adult figure he and Sirius felt safe around; Walburga and Orion were definitely not a safe place for themdespite being their parents. “I’m happy you two aren’t fighting anymore,” although Regulus beams up at you, you couldn’t muster an equally bright smile in return. What did that mean? You were positive that Alphard only got into a serious fight with Walburga when he supported Sirius running away at 16. Perhaps this was a lead-up to that?

“Me too, dear…” For the moment, you keep your questions to yourself. The books and movies kept the relationship between the Black family rather vague so you’ll pick up the clues along the way. For now, it’s better to focus on your darling son and the precious memories you’ll make despite the modest outing to the French bakery. “What do you think we should have for afternoon tea with your uncle? Hm? I’m thinking of English breakfast,”

“That sounds great, mother!”

“And for snacks? What would you like to have on the menu?”

“Butter scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam,”

“Of course, a classic. Anything else?”

“Chouquettes, Macarons, Eclairs, Madeleines, Mille Feuille, Profiteroles!” all French baked goods.

“Goodness,” you exaggerate your reaction and smile at the light giggles it draws from Regulus, “All of our teeth will be falling out by the end. How about we include some finger sandwiches too? We can buy fresh bread and assemble them at home,”

“No crusts?” Regulus asks without hesitation and your heart warms; you love knowing he feels safe and secure enough with you to speak freely.

“It’s the only time crusts are not allowed,” you wink and silently awe at how his beaming smile seems to get even wider. Many depictions of Regulus made him a stoic and cold character but seeing his bright disposition and childish mannerisms was a delight. You prefer him like this. And you want to keep him this way forever, such a motherly sentiment. All you have to do is make sure he doesn't feel forced to abide by the toxic pureblood family rules and beliefs. Instead, you will gently nurture his interests, gently guide him whenever he feels lost and make sure he always feels supported. And you will do the same for Sirius.

Happy and content, the two of you walk into a lovely French bakery with high spirits. The warm atmosphere and welcoming fragrance of freshly baked goods leave you both enraptured and salivating at the mouth – it was hard to resist not getting a bit of everything. Together, you pick out the best-looking pastries to box up before selecting a loaf to be pre-cut and packaged for your convenience. The bakery staff were very helpful and were more than happy to oblige with every request. They also lovingly cooed over Regulus, who partially hid behind your long skirt, though this only seemed to make them all the more awed by him. His softly spoken gratitude was what had pushed them over the edge, and you could only laugh as they offered an extra macaron for him. Regulus was a very sweet boy and looked very much like a prince, so you didn’t blame them for their swooning.

“They liked me, Mother,” Regulus shyly addresses as you make your way home. He holds the wrapped-up, pre-cut loaf under one arm as his other holds onto your spare. As a gentleman, he insisted on carrying both the boxed pastries and loaf but you argued against it, insisting on wanting to hold his hand; the equally shared burden was your compromise. You think it was the best option, really — the best of both worlds.

“As they should, my baby has all the irresistible charms,” your open praise makes him shy into the folds of your skirt once more and you suppress an adoring coo.

“You really think so, Mother?”

“I know so, little love. I’m confident in this for your brother too,” you fake an exasperated sigh, “I’m going to have my hands full in the future. You two are going to be such heartbreakers, I’ll have girls constantly knocking on my door with tears in their eyes,”

Regulus giggles as he looks up from your waist, eyes sparkling from your playful antics, “I won’t do that to you Mother, I promise,”

“But it’s not about intention, you see,” you eye him with a kind smile, “when someone falls in love, they fall in love, there’s no saying ‘no’ to it. And with two very handsome, exceptional sons, well…” you let his thoughts silently complete the rest of your sentence and resist reacting to the adorable pout that forms on his lips.

“I’m very sorry, in advance, Mother,” his sincerity draws out a laugh but you’re filled with pride, regardless. Honesty is a great trait to have.

“That’s very sweet of you, thank you, darling,”

In anticipation of Alphard’s arrival, you and Regulus help Kreacher make finger sandwiches and brew the tea. The closer the time ticks to two in the afternoon, you ask Regulus to help you prep the tiered dish rack while Kreacher dresses the teapot with a tea cosy. By the time Alphard arrives via floo network, the reception room is already well prepared, clean and proudly displaying a delicious tea spread.

“Uncle Alphard!” Regulus cheers and launches himself at the square-jawed man who steps out of the green blaze, exiting your fireplace. He is smartly dressed in a black three-piece suit and polished oxford shoes. His hair is gelled back in a flattering style of frame for his handsome face — straight nose, shapely lips, piercing eyes and level brows. It makes you wonder if he was dressed in his work attire or not. Tea should be a comfortable occasion, especially when hosted by family, for family. What did he even work as?... You hardly know anything about the man, so you have to keep yourself alert to any potential hiccups you may accidentally let slip. You’re supposed to be his elder sister, after all, you should know more about him than his name.

“Good afternoon, Regulus,” Alphard grins at his nephew after visibly shaking off his shock. Never before had he seen his youngest nephew so high-spirited. Their greetings were also usually much more formal than this, distant and dispassionate. This type of behaviour was strongly discouraged by his sister, so the sudden change was rather suspicious. Alphard, however, wanted to believe in Regulus’ sincerity for the sake of such a sweet boy. He instinctively looks around for Sirius but remembers all too quickly that the eleven-year-old was in Hogwarts for his first year, hence the primary topic of his arrival.

“Welcome, younger brother,” you smile warmly at him, ignoring the look of surprise that he doesn’t attempt to cover up. At least he manages to dip his head in a hesitant nod of acknowledgement, “Let's head to the reception then shall we? Orion won’t be joining us, I’m afraid,” you don’t see it but Alphard releases a muted sigh of relief, easily veiling his real emotions by smiling warmly at Regulus, who walks close beside him.

All furniture that occupies the reception room stylistically matches one another. They’re all made of dark walnut wood, embellished with elegant silver accents and dark green leather. The central table has a dark leather sofa on one side and two grandfather chairs with swirling arms on the other. There’s a decorative fireplace on one side of the room with a drab oil painting hanging above the mantle and the only light source is from the open window, occupying the far right wall upon entering.

“Can I sit next to Uncle, Mother?” Regulus politely asks, not wanting to separate from his uncle but also not wanting to make you feel excluded.

“You can sit wherever you wish, little love,” you smile softly, sitting in an armchair and watching as Regulus eagerly pulls Alphard to sit on the sofa with him. Your youngest is already chatting his uncle’s ear off about the snacks featured on the tiered dish rack. This then led him to talk about your morning visit to the bakery, where he had charmed the staff to offer an extra macaron.

They ‘really liked him’ and now his ‘mother is very worried’, why? Because he’ll ‘become a heartbreaker one day’. Alphard listened intently, still shocked but eager to listen to his nephew who he had never seen so bright and secure. Every few seconds, however, Alphard would look towards you for signs of any rising anger or frustration, compounding into an explosive outburst. He was familiar with that. He was familiar with your disapproval. However, there wasn’t a single trace of any negative emotion on your countenance. Rather, your eyes were full of affection and warmth, directed at Regulus while sipping your tea, silently listening to their exchange. Never before had he seen his eldest sister look so… content.

Pausing for breath, Regulus finally remembers the occasion and flushes adorably. His face is much rounder, healthier looking, Alphard notices and is shocked when you allow him to have a small plate to pile on his share of the delicious selection of goodies on the tiered dish. The majority of which were rather sweet to taste. He didn’t know his sister to be one who encouraged the regular consumption of sugar because you would only allow it for special occasions such as Yule and birthdays. Not wanting to startle his nephew, however, Alphard bites his tongue and distracts his racing thoughts by pouring his tea.

“Milk and sugar?” Alphard asks, bewildered at the options freely offered on the coffee table. You had long forbidden milk and sugar to be part of afternoon tea after finding how his tastes had affected your two sons’ preferences.

“Of course,” you voice as if he had been crazy to question you, “everyone is free to make their tea however they wish,”

Alphard follows Regulus’ lead and freely makes his tea… just the way he likes it. With lots of sugar and lots of milk. If you were going to test him, he was going to test you right back and readily anticipate your outward, shrieking protests. However, there were no shrill screeches or ear-splitting lectures over how muted, milky and sugary he liked to have his tea. Rather, Alphard, heard you giggle. His older sister. Giggling? The world must be coming to a terrifying end! Slack-jawed he looks up and stares wide-eyed at your cheerful smile.

“I see you and Regulus have similar preferences in tea,” Alphard shares a sheepish look with his nephew, “How refreshing. It makes me wonder how good it must taste for the both of you to enjoy tea the way you do,” another giggle.

Regulus happily offers his cup, “You can try some of mine if you want, Mother,” Smiling at his nephew’s kindness, Alphard is even more awed by your drastic change in behaviour.

“That’s very sweet of you, little love, thank you. But, how’s about I finish my cup first and I’ll see about having a sip of yours if you have any left?”

“Alright!”

The happy atmosphere wasn’t something Alphard was used to, especially not from his older sister. However, he was grateful for his nephew’s happy disposition. His sister’s strict education and harsh manner of child-rearing left plenty of room for worry but, no matter what seems to have changed, provided that his nephews stay happy and safe, Alphard would happily keep his many questions to himself. Perhaps this was maternal instincts finally taking over. He dare not interrupt by drawing attention to it.

When there’s a lull in the conversation and everyone takes a sip of their tea or a bite of their selected treat, you begin to investigate the relationship between the original Walburga and Alphard. You weren’t impervious to Alphard’s shocked expressions in your periphery; admittedly, it was admirable of him not to make a scene out of his staggering surprise at your ‘odd’ behaviour. It’s fair for him to believe you’re still his original, bigoted sister. You can only speculate that he wasn’t drawing attention for Regulus’ sake and you admire him for that.

“Alphard,” he hums in acknowledgement, setting down his cup and reaching for a madeleine, “how is your work?” your question makes him visibly freeze up but the moment he realises Regulus is watching, he smoothly eases back into normal, less robotic motions.

“It’s been well,” you can tell he wants to leave it at that, satisfied to leave the topic there. However, you were not and kept silent, quietly pushing him into answering further, “...the office has been operating normally. My client is dealing with a relatively common case of discrimination based on pregnancy at the workplace,” he’s a solicitor then. And practising mostly in employment law, it seems. “And before you say anything about women needing to better plan their pregnancies and how a woman needs to be at home with her husband rather than working, I want to remind you of the company,” his voice is firm and he’s plainly referring to Regulus being present, therefore dubbing the subject matter sensitive. However, his insinuations on the original Walburga’s dogmatist beliefs make you visibly disgusted and it pulls on his interest. Never had he seen his sister look so abhorrent to the views he knew she supported.

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort. I appreciate that you’re doing good work for the people who need it—”

“Even for a half Veela?”

“Everyone deserves to be fairly represented in a court of law, dear brother. And please don’t interrupt me again, Regulus should find quality, male influence in his uncle, please demonstrate the appropriate, good manners for him,” Alphard is surprised by your sharp eyes and firm demand. You had always been demanding but never to this degree, never to such a reasonable degree, and never without raising your voice. Yet, your voice has remained level, only adjusting for firmness.

How odd… Alphard doesn’t know whether to laugh mockingly at your hypocrisy or dare to feel hope for the positive change he’s beginning to see in his sister.

“...I apologise,” Alphard nods to you before turning to Regulus, “I didn’t set a good example Reg, I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay Uncle,” Regulus beams up at him, happy to be referred to by the affectionate nickname his uncle hadn’t been able to call him in many months.

“Why not ‘Reggie’?”

“I’m sorry?” Alphard looks genuinely perplexed by the change in behaviour. You had always strongly reprimanded him for daring to call your sons by any affectionate nicknames as you wanted your boys to stay faithful to their full birth name — it was a source of pride, after all. To be named after the stars and be in the most ancient and noble house, their names were sacred and it was a mockery to shorten despite it being done with affection. But now you were supporting it?

“‘Reggie’ is a cuter nickname,”

“Reg is good— cute enough, it’s short and sweet,”

“But Reggie is cuter than Reg,”

“Both are cute,”

“...Reggie is cuter, though,”

“Let’s agree to disagree. I will keep calling him Reg and you call him Reggie,” the boy in question was a healthy shade of red now. For a lighthearted argument to centre around him like this wasn’t what he anticipated happening but he was happy to see his mother and uncle getting along harmoniously. Not once have they raised their voices or forced the other to leave the room in a huff. This was nice… Sirius would have really liked this. Maybe Regulus should send another letter, even if his brother has yet to reply to his previous one.

“What nickname do you call Sirius?” you ask, voice soft and eager to continue the topic of your sons. This was another new side Alphard was seeing to you, his usually cold and unfeeling sister had never been one to perpetuate gossip surrounding her sons, and yet, now you were so eager to— and on a topic that is so innocuous and unproductive. But it was a good change, one that he’s sure will be a good influence on his beloved nephews.

“Siri,”

“That’s perfect,” you smile into the lip of your teacup and sip, “we can agree on that front,” Alphard actually manages to chuckle and nod along. He had prepared himself for a harsh and loud argument, not this but he dare not complain; this was a very pleasant surprise. He even dares to feel confident in re-addressing a long taboo topic.

“...You feel I do good work as an employment lawyer?” he begins, hesitant, his hands beginning to shake. The suddenly nervous man opts to set his cup down and wipe the sweat from his hands along his trouser-covered thighs.

“Of course,” you wonder where the conversation is going.

“And what of my extracurriculars too?” he avoids your eyes and your mind flashes with a memory of a young Alphard nervously standing before his elder sister, his small hands curled into fists on his knee-length shorts. This man is your younger brother now. However, you can’t help but think that Walburga cared deeply for him despite their strained relationship, judging from the fond memory that had flashed behind your blinking eyelids. In the depths of your mind, you imagine she still likens him to his much younger, toddler self, an endearing but common trait in an older sister.

“Extracurriculars?”

“My voluntary work with the less fortunate, typically with other magical beings,”

You frown when you finally realise what had caused the strain between brother and sister. Walburga had belittled and strongly protested against a man who only did good. A man of justice. This was the man who favoured Sirius in the original timeline because they shared the same sense of justice and the need to rebel against their bigoted family.

“I’m sorry Alphard,” you look into his eyes with such sincerity that Alphard feels as though he could cry. He had grown up admiring his sister but the instant he had begun to think for himself and see the unfairness of her skewed views, he swears he had felt his first ever heartbreak. His sister, who he had loved and admired so much, who he thought of as an amazing person was not who he thought she was and the revelation was earth-shattering. It broke his heart all the more when he saw his younger brother Cygnus follow in her footsteps. “I’m sorry for all the past unsavoury comments I said to you about your profession, and on what you have chosen to do with your life and beliefs. I was wrong, the way I thought of the world was wrong. I’m truly sorry for who I was before. And I want to assure you that I am no longer that person. I think what you’re doing is truly wonderful and this world needs more people like you in it. My boys need a good uncle like you to help raise them with good values and sense for the world,”

Alphard looks at Regulus, eyes wide with shock, his mind reeling and needing something to ground him, to confirm that the shock he was feeling was reasonable, but to hope for the best and to trust in his sister’s words again was feeling too much at that moment. All he needed was Regulus’ reassuring smile, and that was exactly what his young nephew faced him with, as if to say ‘It’s alright uncle, you can rest assured now,’.

“Why….” Alphard slowly turns his attention back to you, “why did you change your mind?”

You smile to yourself, “For my sons, of course. They deserve the world, the least I can do is be a good mother to them,

“You’re the best mother in the world!” Regulus protests as your eyes humbly close.

“Let’s not lie to ourselves and completely forget what has happened. I have hurt many people with the way I used to act, for believing in the things I used to believe. What’s worse is that I have hurt those most dear to me and those who I should have taken better care of… I’m very sorry Alphard, I don’t think I’ll be able to express how truly apologetic I am. It wasn’t right of me to hurt you that way,”

Blinking back tears, Alphard musters a crooked smile, his voice slightly shaky but his heart light and chest warm, “Apology accepted, dear sister,”

“You said you wanted to talk about something important, little brother?” you wanted to move on from the topic, but Alphard no longer knew if he had the right to express his worry. After witnessing your change in demeanour first-hand, the weight on his shoulders was finally lifted, and his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

“...after the sorting ceremony, I was worried about Sirius and Regulus – they are my nephews, after all. I wasn’t confident in their safe treatment at home,” Regulus looks to his uncle with an appreciative smile, earning an affectionate ruffle of his hair.

Smiling softly, you take his implicit criticism with grace. It wasn’t even your doing but you move forward with it anyway, “thank you for worrying about them but, as I said, I am a changed woman,”

Alphard smiles into his teacup and hums in contentment, “I can see that… I’m glad – you’re also no longer against my profession and my extracurriculars. The moment you accepted my request to come over for tea, I was somewhat relieved but getting to see your change myself was even more of a relief,”

“I’m sorry again, for the past. I don’t know what on earth was the matter with me,” your slight jab at the original Walburga has the witch throwing a muted tantrum in the back of your mind. It’s quite hard to resist smiling wickedly at how easy it is to rile her up.

“No matter…the past is in the past,” Regulus nods and readily agrees.

“I’m really happy Sirius got into Gryffindor. In his letters, he says how happy and at home he feels there,” Regulus’ eyes shine with such pride, it was easy to smile with him. Alphard is comforted by the thought of his eldest nephew having a good start away from home and, atop that, being supported by his mother and brother. He holds no hope for Orion however, many of those in the family have heard of his inappropriate behaviour at Hogwarts. It was unbecoming from the patriarch of the most ancient and noble house. That was why many assumed why he had not made any public appearances at the Wizengamot for a few days, using sickness as an excuse in his letters to the office.

“Which Hogwarts house would you like to join, Reg?” Alphard asks, curious. Judging from your displays of changed temperament and child-rearing, he assumes and hopes his youngest nephew no longer admires the idea of going to Slytherin as he’s known his sister and Orion to have ceaselessly enforced onto the two.

Growing shy, Regulus looks to his lap and picks at his fingernails nervously, “I don’t know… as long as I’m happy and feel at home, that’s all that matters, right, Mother?” Regulus looks to you for assurance and smiles when you nod with fondness in your eyes. A slight tension leaves Regulus’ small shoulders immediately and he settles back into the sofa with a silent sigh of repose, Alphard following closely behind his nephew. What a relief.

The interactions and conversations with you have been quite a shock but in the most pleasant sense. Alphard no longer felt his fingers tensing at the thought of writing a letter to his eldest nephew. They had already exchanged some letters and Alphard was concerned that the assurance within Sirius’ written words was nothing but something to cover up the tensions at home from his sorting ceremony. What a relief to know that it was all true. Sirius did feel happy, he did feel supported and he did miss home. If Alphard’s own mother acted the way you did, with soft affection, fond eyes and a warm touch, he would miss home too.

Light conversation and the peaceful atmosphere continued until Regulus had to do his scheduled piano practice. Regulus politely excused himself while Alphard stared in wide-eyed confusion and awe as another miracle played out before him: you showing open affection for your son by kissing his forehead in front of company before he promptly left for his piano. A silence draws out as you wait for the distant sounds of piano playing to continue your conversation. This time, however, you aim to finally put your central plan into action, one that you were finally seeing the answers to when Alphard revealed his profession.

“What do you specialise in as a solicitor again?” you begin.

“Employment law, sometimes corporate and civil law too,” Alphard states nonchalantly, closely examining your face, his heart beating faster at the implications of your lack of a strong reaction. He supported the change in you but you can tell that he has yet to fully believe in the dream world that was playing out before him.

At the sudden look of worry on your features, Alphard leans forward with concern, “What’s wrong?"

Sighing heavily, you set down your teacup and lean back, "Do you know anyone working in Family law?”

“Naturally…” he answers, his silence carrying a question as he stares at you with a raised brow.

“I want a marital separation from Orion… and I want to take the kids – it’s not safe for them here with him around,”

Alphard nods and immediately begins to hatch a plan. It was a natural mode of work he had refined throughout his years as a solicitor, “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave…and I think I may know of someone who you can talk to. They’re a half-blood specialising in family law, who actively pushes for similar laws being passed for muggles to be transitioned into the wizarding world,”

That sounded like the perfect lawyer for you, “I would really appreciate that Al, thank you,” you say the nickname without thinking and are ready to rush out an apology but stop in surprise when you see the warm smile on Alphard’s face.

“You haven’t called me Al in years… you must really want to leave your husband,” he teases, trying to distract from his choked-up voice and tear-filled eyes. You laugh airily and nod as he joins, the happy atmosphere contagious between you. This was the type of relationship Alphard had always wanted with his sister. It was a shame that it only came about now when you’re actively experiencing rough times at home with Orion.

Before leaving, Alphard goes to Regulus, momentarily interrupting his piano practice to say goodbye. His youngest nephew insists on escorting him to the fireplace with you to properly wave him off and he doesn’t protest. That was the first time Regulus had ever seen his mother and uncle wave goodbye happily, sharing a warm smile and promising to see each other again soon.

This would definitely be worth writing another letter to Sirius.

6th October 1971 | Belby’s Potions and Ingredients

“Thank you again for helping out my husband and me,” Ruth smiles softly at you, setting aside her embroidery momentarily, not wanting to draw too much attention to her weak, shaking hands.

“It’s not a problem at all,” you look over to where Regulus’ legs were sticking out from where he sat examining some bottled potions, unable to help your smile as you and Ruth sat behind the counter together, “I’m only sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m afraid I can’t trust Regulus to be home alone even with his tutor Peony as a deterrent,” Ruth’s brows furrow at the implication of your words and reaches for your hand as a silent comfort. It isn’t the right time to pry into your home life, Regulus was such a happy child and she knows it’s all because of you; you’re doing your best to protect him as a mother should and that was good enough to you it seemed. In the meantime, she’s satisfied with offering a quiet consolation.

“You’re doing more than enough,” the two of you share a small, knowing smile and you thank the gods for Ruth’s kind and gentle disposition. It’s been rather lonely despite you having the best sons to look after. You’ve often found yourself aching for a friendship and you’re confident you’ve found one in Ruth.

“Thank you, Ruth,”The shop bell rings as a customer strolls in and greets you at the counter, “Good afternoon, do you happen to have any dried nettles?” you greet the man kindly and readily offer your help.

“You can find them in the second aisle down and can have your pick between whole leaves or the powdered sort,” you helpfully offer your guidance while Ruth returns to her embroidery.

The man thinks to himself for a moment, “Which would be more effective for umm…curing boils?” he looks rather bashful at the confession but you provide no judgment. Thinking for a moment and giving Damocles’ simplified shop notes a look through, you finally give the anxious man his answer.

“Both are equally effective. Only the crushed nettles mean for a quicker brewing time as they will turn the potion green much quicker,” the man nods along to your suggestions, eyes slightly shifty, probably eager to brew his boil curing potion at home, “Or you can purchase the potion itself, and save yourself the trouble,” a relieved laugh escapes the man.

“I’ll go for that then!”

“You’ll find the potion on the back wall, it should be blue,” he nods eagerly and thanks you before rushing to the back wall of the shop.

“Goodness, you’re a natural potions shopkeeper,” Ruth giggles beside you, her eyes tired but full of life.

“Why thank you, madam,” you bow at the waist exaggeratedly and grin, “I’ve actually been reading up on some potion books so that I can be of some help for Damocles,” Ruth tucks her chin in and bashfully avoids your eyes.

“It’s so very kind of you to help someone like me,”

“None of that,” you tut and hold her hand in the same comforting way she had held yours mere moments ago, “You are not allowed to refer to yourself in such a way, you hear?” Ruth is hesitant but nods anyway. You guess it’s her attempt at not causing a fuss but you’ll accept it.

The man returns with the boil curing potion at hand and the purchase is done smoothly. You have to hand it to the glamour you placed on yourself; without it, you’re sure many customers would leave without so much as taking more than two steps in the door — you wouldn’t have been any help to the Belbys at all. Wanting to protect Regulus’ identity as well, you’ve also fixed him with a glamour too and ensured you still look like mother and son.

“I see that you’re looking rather well despite it being only one day after the full moon,” you comment, brightening Ruth’s expression with a smile.

“Damocles is incredible!” her eyes sparkle as she talks proudly of her husband’s achievements, “The recent changes he’s made to the potion have made it so that I don’t feel as anxious during my time under so I don’t feel as mentally exhausted atop being physically drained. I think he said something about a stone. A wishing stone?”

You hum and nod in understanding, “the moonstone then,” she confirms with a soft gasp of remembrance, “That’s wonderful news, Damocles must be really happy,”

“Yes, but he is not yet satisfied…” she huffs and scowls, however, her delicate features don’t make the emotion appear quite as menacing on her face; she makes it look rather sweet actually, “I swear that man adores being sleep deprived and overworked. It’s worrying…”

“Maybe that’s his real aim,” you wink at her perplexed appearance, “I’m sure it’s healing to the soul for a man to experience his beautiful wife’s sincere worries for his well being,”

Ruth blushes a deep red and looks away, but you still manage to see the smile playing on her lips, “oh you!” The two of you giggle together as Regulus comes bounding over with a grin on his face, holding up a small sprig of dried lavender that’s tied together at the stems with a rough string.

“Mother, this smells lovely, you should smell it too,” he holds up the lavender and watches eagerly as you lean on the counter to smell it.

“You’re right, it smells very soothing,”

“I want our house to smell like it,”

“Oh? That’s easily done,” you turn to Ruth with a smile, “would it be okay to purchase your entire stock?”

Ruth’s jaw drops, “You want our entire stock? B-But that’s so costly!” if Ruth’s jaw could have dropped any lower, it would have dropped to the floor when you merely shrugged your shoulders. As if buying an entire stock of one ingredient didn’t put a dent on your finances.

“We have a rather big house and Reggie wants our whole house to smell like lavender, so we need everything you have,”

Regulus smiles as you both turn to him, “It really is a very nice smell,” Ruth can’t say no to you both and smiles gratefully. She knows your hidden motive. You were already helping the couple so much but you couldn’t just stop there, you also had to purchase from them too.

“May I, at least, offer a family friend discount?” Ruth barters and watches as you turn to Regulus to ask for his opinion.

“Should we accept, Reggie?” you tilt your head thoughtfully, “Should we accept paying less for this hard-working couple’s labour?” Regulus shakes his head ‘no’.

“That wouldn’t be fair Mother, nor polite,”

“Spoken like a true gentleman,” Regulus beams up at you and Ruth awes at the young boy’s innocence, “How is my son so well mannered?” it was supposed to be a teasing remark but Regulus, accustomed to your teasing now, is quick to reciprocate with his own.

“It's because I have you, Mother!”

“Oh!” you heat up at the cheeks, “I think I’ve taught you some bad habits, Reggie,” Regulus doesn’t deny the statement and laughs with Ruth at your flustered expression.

Once Damocles finally decides to take a break from brewing in the back room and analysing his previous notes, he sits beside Ruth and leans his head against her shoulder. But not before softly kissing her cheek. It was a timely break as no customers came to purchase anything and there was a quiet lull in the shop’s activities. Wanting to give the couple some privacy, you take the time to go on a small mission with Regulus, similar to the bakery run you did for his uncle Alphard. This time, however, those baked goodies will be for Ruth and Damocles. They both deserve some good tea and snacks. You try not to take too long and opt for only a small collection of pastries, some sweet and some savoury as you don’t know their preferences.

“I hear you’re purchasing our entire stock of lavender without our prestigious family-friend discount,” Damocles presses as soon as you and Regulus return, avoiding the temptation of the pastries you had brought back.

“The lavender smells really nice,” Regulus explains, “and I thought it would be good for the house to smell like it,”

“Precisely, Damocles,” you grin when you see the potioneer’s eyes soften at your youngest’s beaming smile. “I only want to fulfil my Reggie’s wishes. And I also agree that the lavender smells lovely,”

“A-at least let us offer the discounted price,“ he’s almost pleading.

“Nonsense,” you huff and cross your arms with slightly narrowed eyes, though not too threatening, “are you saying I can’t afford to pay full price?”

“O-of course not, Lady—”

“Then I’m paying full price and that's final.”

Damocles falls back into the chair you had once occupied as Ruth comfortingly rubs his shoulder, “I told you it was no use arguing, dear,”

“I suppose not…” Damocles looks at you with searching eyes before huffing a laugh and shaking his head. “Alright then, since you’re so insistent,”

“Wonderful! Now, you two need to eat, I’ll brew some tea in the back. Do you like French Earl Grey?” you ask, moving to the backdoor as Damocles lifts Regulus onto the counter.

“We don’t have french earl grey?”

“I bought you some while I was out,” the couple shake their heads in disbelief once more before Regulus pulls away their attention by running through the collection of goodies you’d both purchased. The French early grey you had brewed was a new taste to the couple, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one.

“Is that rose?” Ruth asks with wondrous eyes as Damocles smiles beside her, lovingly admiring her sweet expression.

“Yes, french early grey adds rose petals to the blend. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Ruth beams and takes another long, savouring sip while Damocles leans over and whispers that it’s one of her favourite essences to have in anything palatable.

“And she loves Turkish delight,”

You can tell that Damocles didn’t want to take a break for too long, his eyes often drifting to his backroom door and his fingers twitching uneasily on his lap. If it weren’t for Ruth, you don’t think he would have allowed himself to finish his tea or his pastry. But thanks to his loving wife, he was willing to reach for a second and third pastry. The entire time, Damocles was drawn all the more to her, often checking her likeness for the pastries she wanted to try in the small spread, even offering her several bites of his own. He also worried often for her health and well being, always being the first to jump in making her feel more comfortable, either by fetching a blanket to keep her fragile frame warm or pillows to keep her posture upright. They’re truly a match made in heaven, you’ve never seen a more compatible pair. And you’re happy Regulus was a witness to it all. Seeing their close bond and equally loving dynamic would help enforce in his mind what healthy relationships look like.

“When you finish your break and before you return to brewing, may I have a word in private with you, Damocles?” you ask, partway through your pleasant tea break.

“Of course,”

As you step aside with Damocles, he’s already launching into an oration of gratitude. There’s clear appreciation in his eyes and stance as well as his words. “I’ve been able to get a hold of ingredients I couldn’t even dream of working with. I can’t even begin to express how life-changing your help is to both me and Ruth, thank you. I actually have some hope that I can manage to pull this off,” he laughs to himself humbly, in disbelief of his own words.

“I have full faith in you, Damocles. I know you can do it, the boundless love you have for your wife will ensure that you succeed,” he blushes slightly at your words but doesn’t deny anything.

“I haven’t been able to send you the updated reports yet, would you like to take the duplicate notes from my lab?”

“I’d appreciate that but I have something I want to talk to you about first,” Damocles nods, reminded of your earlier request and the reasoning behind it, “I just wanted to ask what you plan on doing after you’re successful with the potion,”

His voice goes quiet but his smile is beaming, “You really have that much faith in me?”

“Yes, I do,” your voice is stern as the potioneer’s eyes grow slightly distant, looking over your shoulder where Ruth is happily chatting with Regulus, who remains seated atop the counter still in his glamours, “You’re the only other person who’s believed in me so strongly other than my wife– not even my own family…”

You pat his shoulder comfortingly, “You’re an incredible potioneer and you adore your wife, I know you’ll go through the ends of the earth for her alone, you can make this potion work for her,”

Damocles nods with a grateful smile and finally answers your earlier question, “In all honesty, I haven’t given it much thought… the natural direction I’d go with the potion would be to present my findings to the ministry so that it may be mass-produced and given to werewolves in need of it,”

You’re shaking your head in disagreement before he could even finish his thoughts, “I strongly argue against that,” your words strike confusion in the potioneer. He’s sure his findings would prove helpful to many werewolves and you can see the belief in his eyes but do your best to convince him otherwise. It’s important that he knows where you stand in all this so that you bring him to the same level and see eye to eye on the matter.

“Do you know about the werewolf code of conduct?”

“Yes, of course,”

“It requires registering as a werewolf to the ministry and vowing to never bite any innocents and locking yourself away during every transformation,” you begin to explain, gauging where his knowledge stands.

“I know that,”

“And do you know anyone who happily registered as a werewolf to the ministry?” Damocles can’t answer confidently, rather, he stays silent. “Did Ruth register? Would you like her to?”

“…N-no…” Damocles hated that he couldn’t trust in the ministry but they‘ve proven nothing when it comes to the protection and fair treatment of other magical creatures, especially werewolves.

“I know the plan I want to carry out will only further perpetuate the stigma against werewolves and lycanthropy but the ministry has already proven that they cannot be trusted or relied upon in the matters of lycanthropes. I am, at least, confident in providing some help, do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” his voice doesn’t waver and you smile.

“You’ll be sacrificing a great reward, I’m afraid,”

“How so?”

“Surely discovering a treatment for lycanthropy will grant you an Order of Merlin as a reward…”

“I don’t care, so long as my wife is safe and happy and as long as we can actually help people like her, I’m willing to follow your plan,” as before, his voice doesn’t waver and you’re confident in his words. He’s a good man.

“Then it shall be!” you share a firm handshake. If only Harry had met an adult as capable and reliable as Damocles… you’re sure he wouldn’t require such dependence in the future, however, not in the future you’ll be creating, at least. And you’ll make sure of the same for his parents and all their friends —- all characters you love and wish only the best for. And it’ll all start with your two beautiful sons.

9th October 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Tucked away in your home office, you look over the notes you’ve made on your current plans, avoiding the pages you’ve filled with notes on the secret parlour only for the Black family ladies’ use. You know it’s something you’ll need to confront very soon, in the meantime, however, you were perfectly occupied by current projects you were hard at work on.

Damocles sent you the report he duplicated from his most recent findings and Ruth’s improved condition following the full moon. Not only was he a loving and dedicated man with a passion for potion making, but he was also brilliant in his report writing. He kept his notes concise and easy to read by providing clear categories of the specific things he wanted to track. From your side of the research, reading up on potions from the Black family library, you had written him a letter back with suggestions on how to make the potion more potent. One such suggestion was his use of the Mandragora, Mandrakes. Rather than mandrake leaves, you encouraged him to use the body of a mandrake instead. It’s a little pricier than just the leaves, but it was nothing you couldn’t afford. The dragon blood was something you were having trouble with, however. It wasn’t cheap, and, having to look ahead at the wolfsbane potion’s mass production, dragon’s blood would be an annoying ingredient to include financially. So you promised to look for alternatives that might be able to give the same effect. You were even willing to look into ‘muggle’ books for a potential alternative.

After securing Damocles’ opinion following the future success of his wolfsbane potion and having some back and forth with Alphard on the family lawyer, he had been easing into setting up a meeting with you; you’ve started looking at properties all over the UK. You have a good idea of what you want to look for. However, the primary, most important criteria for these properties to have were that they don’t belong to the Black family. And so, you neglect the wizarding properties completely and look into muggle properties instead. The price wouldn’t matter, although you wanted to secure a separate line of income first so that Orion remains unsuspecting of your efforts to escape him; you don’t want any additional tensions happening at home, especially with Regulus still here. As soon as Regulus begins to attend Hogwarts, however, you’ll finally put things into action. Until then, you have a little under a year, which you hope will be good enough.

A squeaky pop shifts the air to your right, and Kreacher appears with a tray of tea and biscuits, “Mistress’ tea is ready,” he presents with a smile, wordlessly making the arrangement float up and make a home for itself atop an unoccupied portion of your desk. Smiling at the house elf, you nod in thanks and express your gratitude. Wanting to appease you further, he gestures to his big ears and informs you of an owl that sounds to be arriving very soon. With a nod and a soft word of gratitude, you walk to your window and open it up in anticipation of the delivery.

Sirius’ owl was the first to arrive and you figure it’s a response to one of Regulus’ many letters. Seeing your eldest son’s familiar handwriting addressing the letter to his little brother makes you smile, and urges you to write him one soon as well. Thanking the sweet barn owl, you offer her a perch and kindly ask Kreacher to fetch it some feed as a reward. The second owl that arrives is much smaller and carries a package as well as a letter. The parcel is only small and its wrappings are a buff brown, held together with some twine. The letter is addressed to you and you have a pretty good idea of what it may be.

You give the letter a quick read-through and smile with a nod before opening the small package to reveal a golden band. Its inner face is engraved with runes, and it easily fits onto your pointer finger. Before returning to your desk, you give the small owl a bowl of feed as a reward, too. Seated back at your desk, you pour yourself some tea and take a generous drink with the ring still on your pointer finger.

“Mmmm~” you hum in satisfaction, “tastes like strawberries,” It’s been a few weeks and those two have already made such amazing progress. You expect nothing less from the same two people who were able to enchant Sirius’ protection pin. Unfortunately, you weren’t able to rope in the goblins to craft this ring. It’s only a simple design because it’s the prototype but you plan on making a more decorative line of these to sell. For now, you have yet to test it against an actual potion but you dread to think about waiting for another blackout to do so. With a thoughtful hum, you return to your office and place the letter at the centre of your desk, planning to write a response later on. For now, you’ll deliver Sirius’ letter to Regulus —you’re sure he and Peony won’t mind the interruption and that he’ll be happy to receive Sirius’ response.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 09 : REPUTATION →

A/N : I'm so sorry, my darlings, for taking so long to update this series (ó﹏ò。) I know I promised monthly updates but with Christmas and then New Year straight after, I was pretty occupied (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) Nevertheless, I hope you lovelies enjoyed this chapter!ヾ(。✪ω✪。)ｼ I promise there will be more of Sirius in the next chapter since we hardly had any of our baby in this one 

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Qatar GP

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

Walking into the paddock for the Qatar Grand Prix, I felt the weight of a thousand eyes on me, even if it was just my imagination. My head was low, shielded by the brim of a hat, and a hoodie was pulled tight over my head in an attempt to shrink away from the world. Every step I took felt heavier than the last, like the whispers and judgment from the outside world were tangible, dragging me down.

The media had gotten hold of the story—every last excruciating detail. Henry’s disgusting actions were now public knowledge, and while most had rallied behind me, voicing their outrage and condemning him, there were still those whose whispers cut deeper than any headline ever could.

“She’s just playing the victim.”

“Do you really believe her? She’s probably exaggerating for attention.”

“She’s just trying to distract from her mediocre driving.”

The comments stung, even if I pretended they didn’t. No matter how much support I had, those voices, those narrow-minded, sexist narratives, always seemed to drown everything else out. And the thought that someone, anyone, could think I had “masterminded” something so painful made my stomach churn with anger and grief.

I kept my head down as I walked past the reporters stationed at the paddock entrance. A few tried to call out to me, their voices echoing, each question laced with urgency or faux sympathy. I ignored them all. My team had advised me to keep my focus, to not let the outside noise get to me, but that was easier said than done.

Inside, the paddock felt no better. There were eyes on me everywhere, drivers, engineers, even staff I’d only met a handful of times. Most looked at me with concern or a sort of helpless pity, their sympathy almost suffocating. A few, though, wore skepticism on their faces—a look I’d grown used to seeing from certain people who underestimated me for reasons that had nothing to do with talent.

I clutched the straps of my backpack tighter, trying to steady my breathing as I made my way to my team’s hospitality. The familiar green and yellow of Aston Martin felt like a beacon, but even there, I couldn’t quite escape the anxiety that clawed at my chest.

Fernando had taken it upon himself to stick close to me ever since the chaos had unfolded. He wasn’t smothering or overbearing—he understood that I was processing everything in my own way. We’d talked briefly, and he’d made it clear that he was there if I needed him, no questions asked, no judgment given. His presence offered a quiet sense of comfort, a stabilizing force amidst the storm that had become my life.

As we moved through the paddock, he kept a subtle but protective distance, always within arm’s reach. I appreciated it more than I could put into words. He didn’t make a show of it, didn’t draw attention to the way he lingered near me, but I noticed. He was watching over me, quietly shielding me from the stares and whispers that followed me everywhere now.

He’d also noticed the way I scanned my surroundings incessantly, my eyes darting from face to face, corner to corner, like I was expecting someone to jump out at me. It wasn’t intentional—it was instinctual. The trauma of everything I’d been through had left its mark, and no matter how hard I tried to act normal, the hyper-awareness lingered.

Every unfamiliar face set me on edge, every sudden movement in my peripheral vision made my breath catch. Fernando didn’t say anything about it, but I caught the furrow in his brow every now and then, the flicker of concern in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“Relax, amiga,” he said softly as we walked toward the garage. His voice was low, calm, like he was trying not to startle me. “You’re safe here.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. The logical part of me knew I was safe, but my body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The fear, the tension, it was all still there, coiled tight in my chest.

The McLaren boys, Lando and Oscar, had become a constant presence in my life ever since everything unraveled. They didn’t hover or overwhelm me, but their concern was palpable. I could see it in the way their eyes lingered on me just a bit too long, the way their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes when they thought I wasn’t looking.

They seemed to have made an unspoken pact between themselves: whenever they were near me, I was their priority. Only then, it seemed, did they relax, their tension easing when they were sure I was within arm’s reach. It was like being in my vicinity offered them some peace of mind, even if it didn’t always do the same for me.

Between media duties, they found me in one of the quieter corners of the paddock. I’d been trying to blend into the background, keeping my head down and my focus on getting through the day, but they always managed to track me down. Today was no different.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lando teased, flopping down into the chair across from me. He grinned, but his eyes searched mine carefully, scanning for any sign that I wasn’t okay. “You’re not hiding from us, are you?”

Oscar leaned against the nearby wall, his arms crossed in his usual laid-back manner. “You look like you could use a distraction,” he said, his tone light but full of genuine care.

I shrugged, offering a weak smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to us,” Lando replied with a wink. “We’re very perceptive.”

They started chatting about anything and everything—Formula 1 gossip, their latest ridiculous banter on the grid, and even the most absurd “what if” scenarios they could think of. Lando suggested opening a karaoke bar as a side hustle, while Oscar deadpanned that he’d rather open a library.

Their antics were just enough to pull me out of my own head, if only for a little while. I found myself laughing softly at their banter, the corners of my mouth curving up despite the weight I’d been carrying. They didn’t push me to talk about what had happened, and I was grateful for that. Instead, they filled the silence with lighthearted chatter, doing everything they could to keep my mind away from the darker corners of my thoughts.

Every so often, one of them would sneak a concerned glance my way, but they never pressed. They just stayed there, a grounding presence, reminding me without words that I wasn’t alone in this. And in those moments, even if I couldn’t quite shake the trauma, I felt a little less heavy.

Max and Lewis had quietly slipped into an almost father-like role, their concern manifesting in ways that were both endearing and slightly overwhelming. It wasn’t something I had expected from them—two drivers who were fiercely competitive on track and yet so united in their determination to look after me off it.

Max, ever practical and blunt, would show up with an array of snacks that ranged from healthy options to guilty pleasures. “You’re not skipping meals, are you?” he’d ask, though it sounded more like a warning than a question. He’d sit there, arms crossed, watching me like a hawk until I finished whatever he brought. No excuses were acceptable.

Lewis, on the other hand, had a softer approach. He’d appear with a smoothie or a carefully prepared plate of food, his tone warm but firm. “I know it’s hard, but your body needs fuel to keep going,” he’d say, placing the meal in front of me and waiting until he saw me take the first bite. Sometimes, he’d even eat alongside me, his calm presence encouraging me to do the same.

They took turns checking in, almost like they’d coordinated a schedule. If one wasn’t around, the other would be, and they never let me brush them off. Hydration, too, became part of their mission. Bottles of water or electrolyte drinks would mysteriously appear next to me, and they wouldn’t leave until they saw me finish at least one.

At first, it was a bit suffocating. I wasn’t used to this level of attention, and their insistence made me feel exposed. But as the days went on, I realized it wasn’t about pity—it was about care. Max and Lewis weren’t hovering because they doubted me; they were there because they genuinely wanted to make sure I was okay, even in the smallest ways.

“I’m fine, really,” I tried to tell Max one day as he handed me a container of pasta he’d brought from Red Bull’s hospitality.

“Maybe,” he replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “But you’ll be better after you eat this.”

Lewis wasn’t any easier to shake off. “I get it,” he said gently as I stared at the salad he’d placed in front of me, my appetite nonexistent. “But you’re stronger than you think. One bite at a time, yeah?”

It was in those moments, with their unwavering presence and quiet insistence, that I began to feel a flicker of something close to safety. They weren’t trying to fix me or rush my healing—they were just there, making sure I didn’t fall apart completely. And for that, I couldn’t thank them enough.

Liam was always nearby, his protective instincts kicking in without hesitation. As my childhood friend, he understood me in ways that most people didn’t, and it showed in the way he silently watched over me. But this time, his actions felt more deliberate, as if he was following a guide.

That guide, I soon realized, was Hannah. Though she couldn’t be at the Qatar GP, she had been texting Liam constantly, giving him advice on how to support me. It wasn’t just about being there physically—it was about understanding the subtle cues I gave off and knowing how to respond without overwhelming me.

“She says you don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to,” Liam said one afternoon as we sat in the Aston Martin hospitality. His voice was soft but firm, a reflection of Hannah’s influence. “But she also said distractions help. So, I brought this.” He held up his phone, already queued to play a stupidly funny video we used to laugh at together back in the day.

I smiled faintly, appreciating the effort. “Thanks, Liam,” I murmured, leaning back in my chair.

“Anything for you, mate,” he replied, his usual joking tone slightly subdued but still present. “Besides, Hannah’ll kill me if I don’t do this right. She’s flying out for Abu Dhabi, by the way. Said something about needing to check in on her dear friend.”

The mention of Hannah brought a pang of both relief and emotion. She had always been a constant source of strength, and knowing she was making the effort to be there for me, even under the guise of a casual visit, meant more than I could express.

Liam picked up on my silence and nudged my shoulder gently. “She’s got a point, you know. You don’t have to do this alone. And even if you try, you’ve got me, her, and apparently half the grid now,” he joked, his grin softening the seriousness of his words.

I chuckled despite myself. “I’m lucky to have you guys.”

“Damn right you are,” he said, his smile widening. “Now, eat your food before Max or Lewis show up and give me a lecture about letting you skip meals.”

It was a small moment of levity, but it was exactly what I needed. Liam’s presence, his calm understanding, and the promise of Hannah joining us soon helped ground me.

Of course none of this had been an on track only privilege. Most of us had been put in the same hotel for this GP, so each of them and even others from the grid had come to check on me in my hotel room every now and then. 

After finishing the sprint qualifying and securing P7, I couldn't help but let disappointment settle in. The session had been average at best, and though I tried to shake it off, the frustration lingered. Changing quickly into my hoodie and sweats, I avoided staying around the paddock longer than necessary, the noise and energy of it all making my thoughts louder rather than quieter.

I needed something—someone—to ground me again. And the first person who came to mind was Franco. He’d become my go-to since everything had gone down, his calming presence offering a sense of peace I hadn’t been able to find elsewhere. He never pushed for answers, never tried to fix me—he just was, and it helped more than he probably realized.

Walking through the paddock, I kept my head down, my hat pulled low as I weaved through the crowd. A few people called my name, but I waved them off with a quick smile, determined to find Franco. It wasn’t hard to locate him; he was sitting outside the Williams5 motorhome, scrolling through his phone with his signature laid-back demeanor.

“Franco,” I called out softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

He looked up immediately, his expression shifting from neutral to concerned in seconds. “Hey, you okay?” he asked, standing and moving toward me without hesitation.

I nodded, though it probably wasn’t convincing. “Yeah, I just... I wanted to ask if you were free tonight. For another sleepover, like last time.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded without missing a beat. “Of course. Same setup? Snacks, movies, and bad jokes?”

“Exactly,” I said, feeling some of the tension in my chest ease at his easy acceptance. “I just need a distraction.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You don’t even have to explain. I’ll bring the snacks this time. You just focus on chilling out.”

I couldn’t help but smile, grateful for his effort to keep things light. “Thanks, Franco. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he said, his tone earnest. “Go ahead to your room; I’ll meet you there in a bit.”

With a small nod, I turned to leave, already feeling a bit lighter knowing he’d be there. It wasn’t much, but having someone like Franco—someone who made me feel safe without even trying—was enough to keep me going. And tonight, I’d let myself enjoy the comfort of his presence, even if just for a little while.

The evening unfolded like a quiet reprieve from the whirlwind of the paddock. Franco arrived at my room just as the sun dipped below the horizon, the golden glow of the sky giving way to the soft, ambient lights of the city. His arms were laden with snacks—chips, candy, and even a small container of fruit because, as he put it, “We need some balance, right?” I couldn’t help but laugh, letting him in and feeling my mood lighten almost instantly.

After setting up a small makeshift dining area on the floor with a blanket, we dug into the room service I had ordered earlier. Burgers, fries, and milkshakes—comfort food at its finest. We ate and talked about everything and nothing: the awkward fan interactions Franco had earlier that day, my thoughts on the upcoming race, and our shared love for old-school video games.

Once the food was gone and the snacks had been opened, we moved to the TV, hooking up a console Franco had insisted on bringing. “You can’t call it a sleepover without games,” he’d said, grinning as he powered it on. We spent the next hour or so battling it out in Mario Kart. Despite his smug confidence, I managed to beat him twice, much to his dramatic dismay.

“You’ve been practicing,” he accused, leaning back against the couch with mock suspicion.

I smirked, grabbing another chip. “Or maybe you’re just losing your touch, Colapinto.”

He gasped, clutching his chest as if I’d just mortally wounded him. “Low blow, but I’ll let it slide... for now.”

Eventually, the competitive energy mellowed, and we found ourselves scrolling through movie options. “Something light,” I requested. “I don’t think I can handle anything heavy tonight.”

Franco nodded, settling on a classic animated film—one we’d both watched countless times as kids. The familiar soundtrack filled the room as we got comfortable. I curled up in the corner of the couch, pulling the blanket over my legs, while Franco stretched out next to me, his arm resting along the back of the couch.

Halfway through the movie, I felt myself inching closer to him. Whether it was the warmth he radiated or the way his presence made me feel safe, I wasn’t sure. He didn’t comment when I shifted, tucking myself against his side. Instead, he adjusted, wrapping his arm around me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, his thumb brushing small, soothing circles against the fabric of my hoodie.

“Better?” he asked softly, glancing down at me.

I nodded, my cheek resting against his chest. “Yeah. Thanks, Franco.”

“Anytime,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting.

The movie played on, but my focus drifted. The rhythm of Franco’s breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the gentle way he held me all lulled me into a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in days. My eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, and before I knew it, sleep claimed me.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the hotel room curtains, casting a warm glow over the mess of blankets on the couch. I stirred slightly, blinking sleepily, and realized Franco was still next to me, his arm loosely draped over my side. His face was peaceful, his features softened in sleep, and for a moment, I just watched him. The world outside the room felt far away—like it didn’t exist.

As if sensing my gaze, Franco shifted, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked a few times, looking adorably groggy before his lips curved into a small, sleepy smile. “Morning,” he murmured, voice raspy.

“Morning,” I replied, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked, adjusting so he was leaning back slightly against the armrest, his arm still lightly resting near my shoulder.

“Better than I have in a while,” I admitted. “Thanks to you.”

He grinned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Guess I’m not the worst company after all.”

I chuckled, nudging his side lightly. “Far from it.”

There was a beat of quiet as we just sat there, the room filled with the comforting stillness of a morning unhurried. His gaze softened as he looked at me, and I felt my cheeks warm under the intensity of it. “You know,” he started, his tone quieter now, “I’m really glad you invited me last night. I mean, I know things have been... hard, but I hope you know you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

His words settled in my chest, warm and grounding. “I know,” I whispered. “You’ve been amazing, Franco. Really.”

He shrugged, his cheeks tinting slightly pink. “Just doing what a good friend does.”

There it was again—that word. Friend. But the way he said it, the way he looked at me, it felt heavier, like it carried something more. I didn’t press it, though. Instead, I reached over and gave his hand a small squeeze. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

We eventually got up, Franco stretching dramatically while I headed to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time I returned, he had already set up a small breakfast spread with the leftover snacks and some fruit he’d picked up from the hotel’s dining area. “Not much, but it’ll hold us over until we get to the paddock,” he said with a sheepish grin.

“It’s perfect,” I assured him, sitting down to join him.

As we ate, the conversation flowed easily—banter about the upcoming race, memories from past seasons, and a few jokes at each other’s expense. Every now and then, our hands would brush while reaching for something, and I’d feel that little flutter in my chest again, the one I was trying so hard not to dwell on.

Franco stayed true to his word, sticking around until the last possible minute before we both had to leave for the paddock. He’d brought a small duffel bag with him, so he quickly changed into his team gear in the bathroom while I finished getting ready. When he emerged, all dressed up in his Williams polo, I couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “You just clean up well.”

He chuckled, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “And here I thought I looked good all the time.”

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed my own things, and we headed out together. The walk to the car was quiet but comfortable, and as we arrived at the entrance to the paddock, I felt a pang of reluctance. The day was about to begin, and soon we’d be swept up in the chaos of it all, pulled in different directions.

Franco turned to me, his expression soft. “You gonna be okay today?” he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

“I think so,” I replied honestly. “But I might need another sleepover soon.”

His grin was immediate. “Anytime. Just say the word.”

With that, he gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading toward the Williams side of the paddock. I watched him go for a moment, my heart feeling a little lighter despite everything. There was something about him—something steady and sure—that made me believe I really wasn’t alone anymore. And for now, that was enough.

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Day twenty one: Genies!Kalim and Jamil deceiving their darling

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/n: This idea seemed to be living rent-free in my head for a few months now, so ofc I had to write. I actually wanted to write more about it but decided against; all the fics on the halloween had to be easy to write and faster. Writing 30 fics in the span of two weeks was certainly something but tbh i was stress writing lol. Either way, I'm rambling now, good read, darlings!

The lamp felt heavier in your hands than it should have. Its ornate metalwork was intricate, with delicate filigree and worn engravings that hinted at centuries of history, a history long lost - now preserved as a legend.

The lamp gift from a friend, they had laughed when they handed it to you, suggesting the possibility of a genie inside. It was, of course, just a joke — something fun, a relic from a forgotten time. But as you sat alone in your quiet room, you couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't true.

Turning it over, you traced the smooth surface of the metal. The dim light of the room glinted off its curves.

“What’s the harm?” you muttered to yourself, half-smiling at the absurdity of it all. "Nothing will happen."

And yet, curiosity urged you on. You gently rubbed the side of the lamp, not expecting anything beyond perhaps the sound of metal against your skin.

At first, nothing.

You giggled, setting the lamp down on the table beside your bed. Wishing for something like that work was futile; you had to make your future happen with your own hands.

Yet, one could hope.

As you turned around to open another birthday gift, a faint warmth spread through your body, like a blanketbeing wrapped around you so gently and softly. The lamp vibrated slightly, a low hum echoing from its core. You froze, eyes wide as thin wisps of golden smoke curled from the spout, swirling and expanding until the room was filled with it.

You blinked, heart pounding as two figures emerged from the mist.

One stood tall and composed, his dark hair framing a serious face, sharp eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His clothes were regal but foreign, a blend of deep colors and shimmering gold that seemed almost alive.

Beside him was another figure, smaller and brighter, with an infectious smile that lit up the space around him. His pale hair glowed under the lamplight, his eyes full of excitement and warmth, and he was holding the lamp on both his hands.

Both of them stood before you, impossibly real and tangible. If you reached out, you knew you could feel them there.

The taller one regarded you with mild interest. “I see… a new master,” he said smoothly, his voice soft and rich, like velvet. “I am Jamil and this beside me is Kalim. We're pleased to meet you.”

Kalim beamed at you. “Wow! It’s been forever since someone summoned us. You must be really lucky!” His enthusiasm was infectious, but you remained frozen, trying to process what was happening.

Was the legend real? They would grant you three wishes right here and now? Do you have any wishes? You can't think straight.

Jamil’s gaze didn’t waver. Soon enough, the famous words left his mouth as he almost purred the syllables. “You rubbed the lamp, which means you’re entitled to three wishes.”

You stared at them both, still struggling to wrap your mind around the situation. “Wait, what… this is real?” you stammered.

Kalim laughed for a long time, the sound light and cheerful. There were little tears forming on his eyes, but he wiped them. “We're as real as you are, habibi! You summoned us, so we’re here to grant your wishes!” He leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Go on, ask for anything.”

Your heart raced as you tried to gather your thoughts. Wishes… real wishes. The possibilities swirled in your mind, but the disbelief kept you from speaking right away or remembering what you truly wanted.

The two genies stood patiently, Jamil’s eyes narrowing slightly as he waited, while Kalim watched with a wide, eager smile.

Tentatively, you spoke. “I wish for… I wish to have plenty of money.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth than the room shifted around you. You gasped as money started to appeared out of nowhere, everything felt too much like a fever dream, but this also meant you could finally treat yourself to some nice things, as you wouldn't struggle anymore.

Kalim danced around, his laughter filling the air. “Look at it! Isn’t it amazing?” he exclaimed, summoning a flower of thin air and handing it to you with a grin. “You can have anything you want.”

Jamil’s gaze never left you. He didn’t smile, but there was something satisfied in his eyes, as though your first wish had confirmed something for him.

“One wish down,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Two more to go.”

“What happens after I make all three wishes?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You held the flower in your hand, feeling its soft petals brush against your skin. But deep inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling of something lurking just beneath the surface. There was something too perfect about it all, too controlled.

Too much like a dream.

Kalim’s smile faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered. “You’ll be happy! That’s what matters, right?” He twirled around, his carefree nature pulling at you like a warm summer breeze. “We’ll make sure of it!”

Jamil, however, met your question with a deeper, knowing gaze. “All you need to worry about is the next wish,” he said, his voice almost hypnotic. “Whatever your heart desires.”

The unease in your chest grew. You looked down at the flower in your hand, feeling the weight of their stares on you. Could you trust them? The money spilled on your floor wasn’t what you had imagined. It felt… artificial, like it existed solely to please you, the perfect amount to pay your bills and live comfortably, it seems.

“I wish for…” You hesitated, trying to find something more meaningful. “I wish to see the most breathtaking sunset, something that can’t be replicated.”

The sunset felt eternal, like time itself had stopped for you to watch. You stood in awe, the sight so beautiful it was almost painful. Yet, even as you admired it, you could feel the weight of Jamil’s eyes on you.

This time, Kalim’s expression brightened, as though he had been waiting for something grand like this. “Oh, I can do that!” he exclaimed, raising his arms toward the sky.

The sun lowered on the horizon, its light turning the garden into a canvas of fiery oranges and soft purples. The colors spilled across the sky, streaking it with brilliance that took your breath away.

“Your last wish,” he prompted, stepping closer. “Choose wisely.”

You took a deep breath, the air thick with magic and the overwhelming pressure of their presence. “What if… I don’t want to make a third wish yet?”

Kalim’s smile didn’t waver, but there was an edge to it now. “But don’t you want more? You can have anything!”

Jamil’s eyes darkened, his voice a quiet whisper. “You can’t stop now."

The air around you shifted, growing heavier as the two genies loomed closer. The carefree atmosphere that Kalim had created melted away, revealing something darker, more insistent.

Before you could speak, Jamil raised a hand, his expression cold and determined. “We’ll make it for you.”

Kalim’s grin grew wider, but it no longer felt warm. It was possessive, unsettling. The golden mist from the lamp began to rise again, swirling around you. “We’ll make sure you’re with us forever, litte master.” Kalim said cheerfully, his voice sounding almost detached from reality.

You tried to step back, but the smoke wrapped around you like tendrils, pulling you closer to the lamp. “Wait— what are you doing?” Panic surged through you as you struggled to break free, but their magic was too strong, too consuming.

"Master, we've been watching you." Jamil’s voice echoed in your ears as the smoke tightened its grip, dragging you toward the lamp’s spout. “You’re ours now. You can't escape.”

The last thing you saw was Kalim’s glowing smile and Jamil’s cold, satisfied gaze before everything went dark, the world collapsing into the endless void of the lamp.

And there, in the heart of the lamp, you realized with a sinking dread that you were never meant to leave.

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ Whispers and Wonders - Geto Suguru

warning: idk what or why or if it makes sense. hurt/slight comfort(?) word count: 0.7k

The silence felt ever-consuming, engulfing, pitiable.

The blood on his hands was fresh, his regret presentably amiable, your horror - expected.

-

“How long will you be gone?” you’d muttered as an after-thought fingers braiding through his hair - a hobby, barely conscious.

“Might be a couple of days?”

“Oh…okay,”

Last thing you spoke, last thing he heard from you - a hundred million left unsaid.

-

There on, you wondered often, why you didn’t bother - and you wondered further, why didn’t he open up? 

You talked and talked and talked, to yourself - he was gone, it was done, you couldn’t get yourself to blame yourself, it felt too much, and when this happened - you did, for a sliver of a second, understand him.

You couldn’t blame yourself and blaming the rest felt tiring.

-

There on, Suguru wondered seldom, he thought of you less, less of your voice, lesser still that smile and least of all, the hurt you’d caused - for it felt overbearing after a point, defending you in his head, it felt against every fibre of his body to find love for you. He was unable to let you go, his mind was forceful, heart?

Another wonder in itself.

-

“Suguru Geto murdered an entire village.”

The words felt haunting, for a second you’d almost laughed at the absurdity - surely there had been a mistake - suguru?

A when would slip you lips absentmindedly, later when you stared at the ceiling of your empty room, Suguru’s side warmed by your presence, you’d wonder again if that was the same sort of empty you’d offered Suguru.

A why would slip Satoru’s lips, you’d shrug - how did it matter running through your mind momentarily, and you’d wonder as the blanket sized you up, it felt so hot and yet - so so cold, your entire body lay. And as you rubbed your feet in a desperate attempt to warm yourself you’d wonder if this detached state you’d lead yourself and suguru to had been a cause.

You’d fall asleep then, wondering further if warming yourself in the blanket had somehow had you more invested instead.

-

“Join me,” suguru had approached Satoru so far, Nanami and Shoko, all in vain - he didn’t bother with you, he knew the answer.

He did however approach you regardless, with a proposition different entirely.

100 villagers - 2 girls and a bloodied man, not physically, but you saw it in every breath.

“Hello,” you greeted then as normal—acknowledging the girls as easily as you acknowledged Suguru’s wide eyes, almost more homely than the relation had felt in its later stages.

but the truth was bare - you’d never broken up - Suguru came back.

“You took longer than a couple of days,” you mumbled, eyes dazed as you cooked tea for him, warmed milk for the girls.

Days? It had been 5 months, 13 days and 21 hours since you’d last met.

“I’m sorry,” you could hear the shaky throat - the lick of his lips, “i got caught up,”

After that, it was silence again - he didn’t ask you for nothing, you didn’t offer anything. 

No i love yous, no i missed yous.

The silence was soft, the girls sat in front of you one by one, suguru sat beside you - the blood on his hands was fresh still, in memory, your regret tangible, it didn’t matter, he was home. 

“Will you be gone again?” you finally whispered as an after thought, fingers braiding through the little brunette’s hair, “i will come back,” he whispered back, his head coming to rest on your shoulder - it felt needed, the embrace.

The ceiling of your wall seemed smaller now, the blanket wouldn’t be needed either.

“In a couple of days?"

“Just ask me to stay this time,”

You nodded, he grasped the hem of your shirt, he felt small now, younger, child-like, you’d realised quickly, the toll those 6 months had taken on him.

“please.”

All of this work is original and entirely my own please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

[xetlynn]

an artists muse- a viktor fic.

eleven.

[ten] [eleven] [twelve]

faithful to its nature, its power never diminished.

Arms wrap around you sweetly, you lean into it. Wanting nothing more but to stay in the moment. “you’re so pretty.” And you look over to see Viktor. You smile, going in to place a kiss on his lips. It was perfect. The room was dark, only dimly lit by the laptop screen that played…

That played um… What is it playing? You pull away from the kiss, to look over at the device that was beginning to look weird. “What the-” “[Name]?” You look back over to Viktor who was now replaced by Powder. Your best friend. You furrow your eyebrows, slightly in disgust. You blink a few times.

“What?” You rasp and you hear Powder laugh, her arm rested on your waist as the two of you lay together on your bed watching a show. “Dude, you passed out.” She announces. “We’ve only watched one episode.” She tells you and you scrunch your face. Trying to register what was happening. “Sorry.” 

She raises a brow at you. “Have a nightmare or something?” Powder sits up, her arm going back to her own side. You frown momentarily at the loss of her warmth. “No, I- it was stupid.” You shrug your shoulders, sitting up as well. Staring down at your fingers as your face grows flustered. “Tell me about it.” 

You think back to the short, painfully short dream. “It was about Viktor. For the hundredth time.” You sigh, annoyed with your own brain. Creating such imagery in your own head that you now have to think about when you’re conscious. “Mm, not surprised.” Powder huffs out a laugh, leaning into you as she also pauses the show. “Thanks.” You scoff, sliding off the bed to stretch out your limbs. 

“No problem, but seriously I have a question.” Your best friend follows suit, jumping on the ground. Surely to give you guys another complaint by the people underneath you. “What?” You ask, heading over to your desk, plopping down on the rolly chair.

“Do you love him or something?” The question catches you off guard and your eyes almost pop out of your own head. “Love?” You repeat.

“Yeah, if I’m wrong you can tell me but I only ask because this is like a heartbreak [Name]. I’ve never seen you this… disheveled over any break ups you’ve had.” Powder explains her reasoning. 

And thinking back to it, she’s right. With your past relationships, that was official, you’ve never really given it another thought when it ended. It was over and yeah you were sad for a little bit but this is different.

Your chest ached with the mention of Viktor. In most dreams there he existed, holding and loving you, and each time you pleaded it was real when you wake up. Only to be left with the harsh reality that you ruined that chance of being tangible.

You beat yourself up every second you're alone. 

“I don’t know. It had only been two-three weeks of getting to know one another. I feel love is a strong word for that.” You tell her truthfully. “Did you love him when he was your online friend?” She inquires and your eyes travel over to your phone. “I had love for him. He was a close friend but can you fall in love with someone you technically never met?” You question, it was something you asked yourself quite a lot. Did you love Ma? Could you fall for someone you never saw face to face. Was that possible? And if it was, is it pathetic? 

“I think so, I mean you know who he is now. Is the feeling the same for both?” 

“Why are you interrogating me?” You ignore the last sentence, now feeling on edge on how deep this was getting. “Just curious.” She hums. “I don’t know the answer.” And truthfully you didn’t. 

Love? You don’t even know if you’ve ever truly loved someone. As time passed you believed you weren’t capable of loving someone more than a friend. With your exes it never felt right. In those relationships you were honestly miserable. No motivation, putting on a mask, and not being true to yourself. 

You couldn’t enjoy your interests. Your art is forgotten about.

With Ma… or Viktor. Both. That never happened. If anything you were more motivated.

In high school you stayed up until ungodly hours, painting, sketching out sculptures based on the sound of Ma’s voice. The colors you saw, the feelings you felt all put into your art. 

Specifically the crowd paintings you created. Crowds of people. Crowds of familiar faces but not the one you wanted to see. A face that you hadn’t gotten the chance to meet blurred out but facing you in each painting. Only one figure that stood there, staring back at you. No features attainable to recognize.

And you hated it. You wanted to know who it was.

“Wonderful ideas, wonderful models. I don’t think I’ve had such intelligent and creative students as I do this year. Take this time to inspect others' projects and mingle with one another.” Your biology professor tells the class, everyone of you standing up to his directions. 

Viktor and you stick together, unintentionally throughout the room. No words said between either of you.

You admire your fellow classmates' work, clicking through the slides on each laptop. Reading thoroughly through their slides. Silently gushing at the way they decorated their boards. Viktor observes you the entire time. 

The words of his friends stick in his mind. You don’t entirely seem upset? But if they had seen it themselves, surely they’re not lying to him. His eyes scanned your face closely. A hardened gaze, his jaw clenching subconsciously.

Did he want to see you upset? Why would he want that? To know you’re hurting just as much as he is? Would he wish that pain on someone he lo- he respects? 

No, he wouldn’t.

You look back at him with a polite smile. “Right?” His eyebrows furrow, confused. “What?” He asks hesitantly, his cheeks fell warm as he is put on the spot by you. You snicker. “I said, their work is so organized, maybe the two of you would hit it off.” You repeat, your breath now caught in your throat. Wondering if that was too friendly too soon. He glances over to the people’s work. 

It had no color, monotonous and tidy. Is that what you think of him? Bland, tasteless and… boring? 

His head bows down, a ghost of a nod. “Sure.” He dryly replies, unfortunately feeding into your worries. “Did I say something wrong?” You quietly inquire as you guys head to the next board. A clique of students pushing past you. 

“No?” He averts your eye contact. Was he actually upset that you think of him like that? 

“Oh.” You puff out your cheeks, not knowing what else to say.

The voices of others cover the awkward beats of silence between the two of you.

“Am I that mundane to you?” He was almost inaudible when he asked the sudden question. You cock your head to the side. Your mouth opens to answer but he lets out a scoff shaking his head.

“Don’t answer that.” He walks ahead of you. 

Mundane? Why would he think that? You pointed out the person’s tidiness because of how put together Viktor is. You admired that.

He preferred things a certain way, his room showed that. He still had a personality outside of that. His energy drew you in. The way he held himself, the enigmatic essence but also the familiarity you felt.

And now you know the familiarity was Ma. They were the same person.

Ma used to tell you about the moon and constellations for hours. He enjoyed star gazing. He enjoyed reading and learning about living beings. Their struggles. But also their potential to be more than who they were raised to be. 

He was far from mundane. Viktor was more than who he thought himself to be. In your eyes he was far better than perfect. There wasn’t a word for how you perceived him. Because every word seemed minimal in comparison to what you felt.  

“You found your muse?” You hear your professor behind you. You glare down at your paper then up to them. “What? No, look at this.” You express, lifting up the sketch and shaking it dramatically. “I am. It seems you found it.” They place a gentle hand upon your shoulder. 

You drew a crowd. Just like your millions upon millions of paintings posted on your instagram. How is a crowd of people your muse? Your eyebrows knit together and you look up to Dr. Shoola once more. “This is just a random sketch?” You say in more of a question. You were confused. You drew this often, but it’s not your muse. 

“You’re a silly one, [Name].” They pat your shoulder, moving onto Ekko’s sketch in front of you. Your eyes land back at the sheet of paper. Found your muse? Where?

You observed your own drawing. What are you not seeing?

This is short, I did it on purpose because twelve and thirteen are going to be longer. :) And honestly I do have a concussion and this took me hours. I probably shouldn't have been on my laptop the way I was but I had to post thisssss.

Two more chapters left.

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