kiransfanficstronghold

Latest Posts by kiransfanficstronghold

Been thinking about this eel and wanted to explore his character some.

-- Floyd realizing he likes you/falling in love with you --

Not proofread because it's late.

I was going to add two more but I'm tired and wanted to put something out.

Trying to decide if I'm going to put out more new stuff or circle back around to older stuff.

I.

Floyd is used to things being in black and white. No nuances. It's like survival of the fittest--you live or you die. You're living in one of the harshest environments and his brain is constantly circling back to HOW? It baffles him because you have no claws, your teeth aren't designed for raw catching, and he hasn't met a lander alive that could run fast enough to catch their food unless it was near death.

So HOW are you doing this with no magic?

Under the sea if you couldn't provide for yourself, you made yourself useful. If you worked for his family, that meant serving as muscle or as an informant. You looked better for getting information out of people than you did squeezing them.

Well, not the way he and Jade squeezed people, anyways. You squeezed them with kindness.

Yeah, he'd heard rumors that you were doing odd little jobs like the Savanaclaw runt. Mostly making little lunches and snacks. Sometimes you'd do a 'dorm night dinner' where you went over to another dorm and cooked!

Azul had been begging you to cook for the Lounge, to do a limited-time meal deal, but you could make more money cooking for the dorms. It was funny to see the Octomer practically foaming at the mouth as he tried to calculate earnings versus an enticing deal to get said earnings.

As long as they're not doing anything else, Floyd's relaxed eyes sharpened as his brows knotted together in a suggestion of annoyance. But why did he care, right? The law of the ocean, of the mers, was doing what you needed to do, right?

Why did it bug him so much? He knew you weren't doing anything else but why did the idea that you would--or could--make him want to take someone down in a death spiral?

The spaces between his fingers began to itch as the webbing threatened to emerge.

You shuffle your way into History of Magic wearing something that Crowley slapped together; it doesn't fit you as well as it could but Trein is the last one to make an issue of it. Floyd's gold eye twinkles with interest as he spots the cup in your hand. He likes to think the tea he smells is from Jade since you work at the Lounge with them but it could also be from Kalim or Goldfishy.

The fact that you can have tea, a small luxury in this foreign world, impresses him.

Yes, you do quite well, don't you?

"Hey Floyd," you sit down with a sleepy smile, setting out your meager supplies before holding the cup happily in both hands.

Ah. That's how.

Your smile makes him squirmy and he wonders if that's what his prey feels like before they meet his pharyngeal jaws.

---

II.

He only gets into fights because he's bored. Usually. Every now and then he and Jade will be called down to the Coral to help their father with a 'business venture'; that's an exception. The only other exception is when Azul sends them on a 'last call' visit.

Except for the occasions where he and Jade defended Azul himself, of course. That was way back in their childhood when he and Jade would terrorize the absolute shit out of those hateful mer-brats! Memories of pulling their scales off without getting caught or biting chunks out of their pretty tailfins when trying to go after smaller fish bring a smile to his lips.

Today he found a fourth reason he didn't expect: you.

He wasn't surprised to see Savanaclaw harassing you, not totally. These beastmen were at the mercy of their instincts and traits, too. Mainly stupidity, but having creature influence didn't always help things.

Just like he couldn't help himself from striking when it was convenient. When he was sure he couldn't lose. Moray eels were consumed with cowardice unless conditions were favorable and on land all fights were in his favor. The beastmen were strong, sure, and physically fit but there was a difference between being built for power and built for speed.

Jade may have taken to his land legs first but Floyd was still nimbler than people gave him credit for. The long legs were deceptive, he knew. It also helped that he spent a lifetime in the Coral where the sea sculpted muscle and got him used to dealing with a resistance that didn't exist on land.

"Kinda dumb to mess with the hand that feeds ya, huh?"

Leona would have their ASSES if he knew they were corning you and trying to bully you. Maybe cop a feel? Floyd swung his fist forward the second one of them turned their head to acknowledge him and it was one.

It was a blur but he was used to that. The Coral had obscuring kelp beds, bursts of water carrying all kinds of debris, and seafloor sediment that provided nice cover when needed.

All you needed were teeth and claws. And the scent of blood.

One of them was bound to get a good lick in. He'd be disappointed if they didn't, honestly. The one who tried to grab his earring would know he did something wrong tomorrow; at least two of his fingers were broken. Broken fingers don't matter to an unconscious guy, though.

"I didn't need your help!" you're glaring up at him. Floyd can't help but laugh. He blinks blood out of his eye. Somewhere near his eyebrow there's a wound throbbing.

"'Course ya did, shrimpy!" Floyd leans towards you, genuine smile showcasing pointy teeth.

"No, I didn't! They were starting to back off!" you hiss, pointing up at him.

"And now they're all the way off." Floyd shrugged, poking one with his foot.

"I'm telling Jade," you scoff. You both know Azul won't let him into the Lounge like this. Floyd detests the infirmary and had to be dragged there when he fell ill with his first stomach bug (Jade and Azul thought he was dying). The nurse gets on his case and the area smells too clean and chemical-y for his liking.

He flops down, waiting patiently and highly amused as you rummage through your thrift shop bag for medical supplies. You'd learned to start carrying stuff on you between Grim's overzealous fire-casting and Riddle's overblot. Floyd hums contentedly as you blot his face, nose wrinkling reflexively when he smells the alcohol wipe. You dab ointment on the wound above his eyebrow, scoffing and pulling his chin out of the crook of your elbow. Floyd snorts, pressing his cheek against your arm.

You smack a band-aid over the wound and he clicks his teeth as you glide your finger over the tender part. "You're such a good shrimpy, taking care of your moray," Floyd teases you, yelping when you pinch his cheek before starting off for the Lounge.

He lets you get a good distance ahead before launching off the ground. "Floyd?! Floyd, no! Stop! Don't do it!" you made the mistake of turning your head to look at him as the grass crunched under his shoes, breaking out into a run.

You shouldn't dart off in front of a predator. That activates the hunting instinct.

His laugh echoes as he catches you effortlessly, scooping you up and throwing you into the air like a toy. "Don't worry shrimpy, I got ya!" Floyd laughs, tossing you again.

---

III.

You're hard to find on your days off and that's really annoying to him. Sometimes Vil whisks you away for a spa day, sometimes you're holed up with that blue-burning recluse playing video games. Floyd has turned up empty-handed more often than not, which is impressive considering he's a hunter by nature.

The prey is illusive. And kind of offending him since you're dating but you're not here right now. He'd come find you if it wasn't that time of the month where they were stuck in their true forms, waiting restlessly for the latest delivery of the transformation potion.

No one knows how it happened, really, not even him. Most mers trade trinkets or hunt for their partners but he didn't do any of that. Not officially. He'd cook you something the second you stepped into the Lounge and comb the waters around Sage's for interesting stuff to give you but you didn't acknowledge those courting attempts so they didn't happen. You thought the way he opened and closed his mouth was just a sign of boredom and never did it back.

So yeah, it took forever for you guys to be a thing by mer standards.

You guys were dating by lander standards, though. Little things like you keeping him awake in class and him walking you to the next. He'd buy you something to put in your hair and you'd wear it the next day. When Azul found out you were the only one who could tie his bowtie without him complaining or undoing it, it was his favorite part of getting ready for a shift. If Crowley wasn't so stingy with the phone he gave you, Floyd would be blowing it up.

He continued his lazy laps in the Octavinelle pool, clicking his teeth and sighing sadly. A moray really shouldn't be without their shrimpy. It was cruel.

As if he'd summoned you, you showed up with a float. It meant you wouldn't be swimming with him today but Floyd could live with that. "Don't even think about it!" you warn, hearing the water pitter behind you as he breaks the surface. Floyd has yanked you in more than once on your 'float' days, blaming it on his predator nature. Leaning down to look through the awkward tent of your arm, one foot splayed across the float and trying to draw it close as you wiggled onto it, you met Floyd's mischievous gaze.

The fins at the side of his head flutter, your boyfriend ducking down until his heterchromatic eyes just touch the water. He pulls strong arms slowly and dramatically from the water, setting them softly on the deck as he flexes the muscles of his hands and lets the light play on his claws. "Think about what?" Floyd can barely get the question out, laughing already. His pupils thin as you successfully push off on the float, sending yourself across the water.

Just like that, he's gone. You peer over the top of your float to keep an eye on the lazy, winding shadow. He moves faster than that, you've seen it! What is he--

"Delightful to see you!" Jade pops up at your back and you yelp, losing your grip on the top of your float. If not for Floyd being on the other side and slinging his corded arms over you, you'd be in the water. He laughs at your near-heart attack and the little scrunch in your nose as water flings all over you. "Sam hasn't gotten our order in, I take it?"

"No," you glare at Jade. "He hasn't."

The calmer twin smiles in his usual unbothered way. You've learned to see the sadistic delight in it now. "I'll let Azul know. We'll be working on things below if you need us. Thanks for keeping my dearest brother company." Jade makes his way down and doesn't miss the chance to flick more water on you with the last bit of tailfin. You hiss, rolling over into Floyd's waiting lips.

"Shrimpy!" he sings, genuine delight slipping into a low purr as he peppers kisses up the side of your face and heaves his slick body onto your float. He's unexpectedly soft due to the weird 'hydration' coat they make. It doesn't dull the prominence of his scales and the feel of scale and slick against your skin makes your spine tingle.

He's either going to drown you or shred your float. You're bobbing in and out of the water, head thrust up to try and keep something dry. Floyd knew your prey instincts would kick in and make you flail; he's practically purring at the fact you've wrapped your arms and legs around him. He throws himself back, arms behind his head.

You relax when you realize he's become your personal float. A float that's very happy with himself. You've ridden on his back before but lying on his chest was new; even with your arms around him it still amazed you how strong his back was. Especially his shoulders.

"Happy?" you lay your cheek on him, eyes drifting along the swirls of blue and teal that surround the whitish-gray of his chest.

"Happy!" Floyd hums.

Blot!reader Ending -> Under Aegis, Under Love

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental stare or unable to handle darker themes.

The mirror towers over you—monolithic and unyielding, like a figure carved from judgement itself. Its polished surface gleams, reflecting nothing, yet daring you to move forward. It feels like standing at the edge of something monumental—like a test, a trial, a threshold you cannot cross without losing something you'll never get back.

mini warning: This is very long and features every character.

Your breath trembles as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to anchor yourself in the chaos of your thoughts. A futile gesture. The air hangs thick with anticipation, the silence ringing like a warning in your ears.

This is the moment. Now is the moment.

Your fingers drift to the ring—the one that once pulsed with heat and promise, always humming like a heart pressed against your own. But now... it sits cold against your skin. Silent. Still. Like it has already forfeit.

And yet...

You lift your eyes, scanning the crowd that's gathered like ghosts at the edge of a dream. Faces blur and blend, but you search desperately—until you see him.

He's pushing through them. Desperate. Determined. Shoving his way forward with all the urgency in the world written into the furrow of his brow. Then—there he is. Breathless, shoving himself onto the stage, eyes locked onto yours, hand outstretched toward you like a flower seeking sunlight.

He's not reaching out in pity. He's reaching with resolve.

Time bends around the gesture. Seconds stretch thin and fragile like glass as your eyes meet his. In the stage light, he's illuminated just barely—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and brimming with something fierce and quiet and raw.

You're leaving. He knows it.

And yet... he still reaches.

Maybe it's for one last embrace. Maybe it's a confession he thought he could keep buried, something he'd planned to carry to the grave. He tells himself you wouldn't want to go through there seeming so alone up there, that you'd need one more sliver of comfort before you go. But maybe it's not for your sake at all—maybe this outstretched hand is a plea. Not a demand, but a question. A hope.

Stay. Stay with me. Stay here. Please.

Then—your name. Soft, trembling, real.

And in that moment, the world sharpens. The pieces click. like a puzzle finally snapping together. You belong here. Not because someone told you to. Not because of a prophecy or fate or magic.

Because he says your name like it means something. Like you mean something.

Your foot pivots. Your bag hits the floor. You run.

The air stings your lungs, and the tears blur your sight, but you keep running. One step. Another. And then you're crashing into him—into arms that catch you like they were meant to. Like they've been waiting.

The warmth of his embrace isn't perfect—it's new. Like a home freshly moved into, walls echoing with possibilities, rooms waiting to be filled. There's uncertainty, yes. But it's the good kind. The kind that says: you'll grow into this. You'll make it yours.

And in his arms, for the first time, you believe it.

You don't know what's ahead—but you know what you've chosen.

You've chosen this. You've chosen him. You've chosen to stay.

Riddle

When Riddle first heard about the Blot—from Trey's steady voice and Ace's nervous, stumbling explanation—it felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted. Internally, he spiraled. The thought that you—someone who had helped him when he was at his worst, when he had nothing but rules to shield him from the world—were now under suspicion? It felt like betrayal from the universe itself. You'd been a rare constant, a soothing presence he came to seek when his certainty wavered. You challenged him kindly, helped him grow. He had come to rely on your quiet wisdom when his own rigid beliefs began to fray.

He let himself wallow—for a short time. He knew better than to indulge despair too long, especially when he'd once admired Ramshackle's persistence. So, like he'd seen you and the others do a hundred times, he picked himself up. He cracked open every book, every law journal, every dusty volume of magical regulation he could get his hands on. And with each page, the weight of it sank deeper into his chest: the rules he'd once lived and breathed, the very framework of order he had dedicated himself to... they didn't fit this situation. They didn't protect you. They labeled you.

An anomaly. A threat. A danger.

By those definitions, you should be contained—locked away for the safety of the world. But that wasn't right. Not for you. Not when the danger they feared wasn't the truth of who you were. Fortunately, the information hadn't yet spread to anyone outside a close circle, and even more luckily, the heir of STYX himself didn't want you caged either.

Still, the helplessness ate away at him. Riddle Rosehearts was not a boy who accepted powerlessness easily. He almost let it win this time—almost—until he saw you on that stage, on the verge of disappearing. And something snapped. The next thing he knew, he was breaking through the crowd, climbing onto the platform, reaching for you with a hand that demanded you stay—not from duty, but from something deeper, something human.

And you reached back.

That moment never quite left him.

After graduation, Riddle realized his prodigious memory and methodical mind weren't suited for a medical path like his mother envisioned. Instead, he went into law. The process wasn't quick or easy, but he flourished, carving a name for himself as a high-ranking legal figure. He made policy his battlefield, red tape his opponent. Every form, every clause, every outdated loophole—he conquered them. And all of it, all of it, was for one purpose: to make you official. To ensure that this world acknowledged your existence, your right to stay, your right to belong.

It became his proudest accomplishment.

You and Riddle stayed close, though never loudly. Your bond was quiet—built on mutual respect, long talks over tea, and the subtle, comforting kind of companionship that grows over time. The kind that doesn't need grand declarations to feel permanent.

And the world kept turning, this time without dragging you behind. Time slowed down just enough to let you breathe—to let you be.

Riddle found solace in simpler things. He started tending to a small greenhouse. Roses, naturally. You'd often join him in silence, handing him tools before he even asked. He would glance at you as if remembering something distant and dear, and then excuse himself with the same careful grace he always carried.

Today, though, he returns with a faint blush dusting his cheeks and a book tucked awkwardly in one hand. His gaze flickers everywhere but your face, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck—nervous, uncharacteristically so.

The book is familiar. The title is the same one you'd spoken about so often in passing—something from your world, a story you'd half-remembered and clung to like a comfort blanket. In your quieter moments, you'd shared it with him, filling in plot points and character arcs as best you could. Riddle had listened, soaking up every word.

Unbeknownst to you, he'd written to an author, relayed everything you'd told him, and commissioned the story to recreated from scratch—just for you.

"It... won't be the same," he says softly, almost apologetically. "But it's close. I hope you like it."

The way your face lights up is answer enough. He watches you with a calm that replaces his nerves, shoulder squaring just slightly in pride. He's grown taller now—his presence more grounded, more mature. It suits him.

"You've done so well," he says, voice gentle. "You've survived this world. Made a place for yourself in it. I hope..." He hesitated for just a moment, then forges ahead, "I hope you'll continue to let me be part of your life. Even now that your troubles are resolved. Even if you don't need me anymore."

But deep down, he hopes you want him there. Because he wants to stay.

Trey

Trey had been one of the first to find out. One of the first few unfortunate enough to witness the moment you crumpled under the crushing weight of the truth—like the world itself had pressed down too hard, and your bones might give way. He hadn't known what to say, hadn't had grand magic or a thousand solutions like others might. But he stayed. He held you up as best he could.

He knew his place. Not a genius, not a powerhouse, not the heir of anything legendary. Just Trey Clover—quiet, kind, steady.

But he promised himself—promised you—that he'd be your anchor. Your safe place. A post to lean on whenever you needed it.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, he'd already prepared your favorite breakfast. Everything cooked with intention, plated carefully, and carried to you with a silent kind of resilience. He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer empty platitudes. Just sat beside you, letting his presence speak.

There was a quiet sorrow behind Trey's eyes after that—something he never spoke aloud. Something he kept hidden so it wouldn't add to the weight already resting on your shoulders. Instead, he acted. Discreetly, delicately, he passed your story along to those who could help. Only to the trusted. Only to those who cared. He knew he couldn't save you himself—but maybe, just maybe, someone else could.

Then came the day of your farewell. The day you stood on that stage, prepared to leave. Your eyes scanned the crowd, searching—and they landed on him. That was all it took. Something inside him broke loose, something urgent and new. He pushed forward, cutting through the crowd with more fire than he'd ever shown. He didn't think. He reached.

And when you dropped everything—when you turned back and ran into his arms—it felt like winning something precious. Like holding onto a miracle.

That night, you were invited to Heartslabyul as an official member. Ramshackle was too empty now, too far from the people who mattered. Trey had made sure your room was nearby—close enough that if you ever needed him, he'd hear. He sat with you at the long dining table for hours, huddled under a warm-toned light, helping sketch out the logistics of a life in this world.

A student ID was the easiest part. The rest? Not so much. A legal identity, housing, a bank account. You were both still students, limited on what you could do. But Trey didn't falter. He opened a secondary bank account under his name for you and promised—without hesitation—that you'd always have a place with the Clover family. His family.

Seven years passed, and when it was finally time to secure your citizenship, Trey was there. With the help of more powerful friends, the process moved forward. He wasn't the one with the grand solutions. But he was the one who had never left. The one who gave you warmth, and safety, and something real to hold onto.

You moved into the second floor of the Patisserie Clover, living above the bustling bakery that had become your shared world. You insisted on working there—contributing your share, learning the rhythm of the kitchen, growing into the space as much as you'd grown into the life Trey helped you build.

Your bond with him settled into something like a hot drink held between cold hands—simple, comforting, deeply intimate in a quiet way. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you needed to. There was peace in the closeness, in knowing he'd always be there for a baking session, an unspoken conversation, or just a shared silence.

Whenever you called it a baking date, his younger siblings would giggle and squeal behind the counter, earning quick shushes from Trey as he herded them away, red-faced and muttering something about "manners."

He sends you handwritten recipes now—folded neatly and slid under your door or left by your workstation. His neat handwriting often breaks into loopy cursive where he scribbles suggestions in the margins:

"Try a pinch more cinnamon." "Less lemon, more parsley." "Bake 12 minutes longer—trust me."

It's more than instruction—it's care. His quiet way of making sure you're still eating. Still baking. Still holding onto something soft. Something safe.

On days off, when you drop by the Clover family home outside bakery hours, he answers the door with his signature crooked smile. Like he'd been waiting. He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles, warm and grounding.

And when his family peeks in and coos and teases—"Ooh, someone's in looove!"—Trey turns scarlet and clears his throat, gently steering you inside with an embarrassed cough.

But he never lets go of your hand.

Cater

Cater's reaction hit hard—but not in the way most would expect. He didn't cry, didn't get angry. Instead, he dialed himself up to eleven. Talked a little louder, laughed a little brighter, smiled a little wider. Like if he projected enough good vibes into the world he could shield you from the weight threatening to crush you.

Triple that energy, and you'd get close to how he acted when he found out what was happening to you.

He took you everywhere—cafes, shops, pop-ups, art exhibits. Dragged you from photo op to photo op, insisted on treating you every single time, and probably set fire to his savings in the process. To Cater, you weren't just on borrowed time. You were already gone. And knowing that—that he'd lost you before he'd ever had the chance to really know you—shattered something inside him.

You were one of his first friends here—his first real friend. Someone bothering to really know him. "Snack Buddies," remember? That was the time you first met—first really got to meet.

But when the news broke, and it hit him all at once: you never confided in him. Never told him. Never asked for help.

Why?

He didn't ask, but the question haunted him.

So, Cater did what he could. He made happy memories like he was racing a timer, crossing off an invisible checklist of moments he had to have with you before it was too late. Because whether the Blot consumed you or you found a way home—it would mean losing you.

And when the latter became real—when there was a chance you might leave—he fell apart all over again. You'd think he'd cling tighter, text more, demand more time. But instead, Cater pulled away completely. Cold turkey.

The day of your departure, he didn't even show his face. Not at first. He stood back, hidden by the crowd, heart pounding in his chest and shame thick in his throat. He thought he'd blown it. But when you hesitated, when your eyes flickered to search the crowd—he was already moving. Pushing forward, desperate and unfiltered.

And when you chose him—when you ran to him of all people—something in him healed. The way his face lit up, that pure, uncontainable joy, was the kind of thing people wrote poems about. He looked like he could live off that feeling forever.

After that, you stayed close... he disappeared.

The messages slowed. The calls stopped. You assumed he'd moved on, gotten busy, grown up. What you didn't know was that Cater wanted to reach out. He nearly did—countless times. But every time he picked up the phone, he froze. Because he couldn't bear to be the version of himself you didn't deserve.

He missed you like hell. But he was wrestling with something messy, something dark. And until he figured out how to manage it, he refused to drag you down with him. He already regretted not being there when it mattered most.

Still, he never stopped working behind the scenes.

Even before you were granted residency, Cater had started crafting a campaign for you—carefully disguised, of course. Through curated content, subtle storytelling, and aesthetic posts that humanized your experience, he made people care. He built connections, charmed influencers, schmoozed with political heirs and even flirted with the partners of people in power—all to tip the scales in your favor.

He made your story real. Something worth fighting for.

And somehow... It worked.

The years passed. The two of you drifted, save for the occasional text that barely scratched the surface—quick check-ins, never deep dives. Cater tried college, flitted between majors like outfits. None of them fit. In the end, he dropped out and doubled down on what he was good at.

He built a name as a wellness and lifestyle influencer—one of the biggest. His content was vibrant, authentic, magnetic. He started planning high-end events, known for their dreamy aesthetics and viral appeal. He'd found his groove—and finally, finally—when he felt steady enough to be in your orbit again, he showed up.

Bouquet in hand. Grin just a little too wide.

"Uh... are the flowers too much? Kinda tacky, right?" he laughed, hiding them behind his back like a teenager confessing a crush.

Then he apologized. For disappearing. For the silence. For not being there when it counted. And when you forgave him—when you told him it was okay—his smile lit up like the first day of spring.

And just like that, it was as if no time had passed.

He still flirted. Still pulled you into wild adventures like, "This escape room is trending so hard right now—we HAVE to try it!" But there was something different now. A deeper warmth behind his words. A gravity in his presence. He wasn't just performing anymore—he'd grown. Grounded himself. Found joy that was real.

It became obvious: you'd never left his heart.

His content reflected it, too. Guides for people starting over. Credit-building tips, community resources, affordable and good quality brands for lifestyle and personal style as well. Things you'd once said you wished you had. His videos were comforting, encouraging, and personal. As if he were still speaking to just you.

And maybe when he recorded them, he was.

He always found a way to include you in his world. If there was a party, you were the first invite. If he planned an event, your name was on the list.

And when the burnout hit him like a truck, he didn't pretend anymore, he showed up at your door with bags under his eyes and a crooked smile.

"I had a breakdown. Can I borrow your couch and emotional availability?" he asked, lighthearted as always—but the look in his eyes was raw, real. Something unfiltered and unborrowed.

You ended up curled together on the couch, watching some barely-relevant movie. Conversation flowed instead. About the past. The pain. The healing. And slowly, like puzzle pieces slipping into place, it felt like something was being mended.

On a shopping trip to the mall, he handed you cash and told you to grab a drink from the booth while he "ran off for something real quick."

You returned, drink in hand. He reappeared, overly dramatic, snatching it with a flourish of his hand. A ring gleamed on his finger. A chic, silver star. It suited him perfectly.

You arched a brow. "What's the sudden accessorizing?"

Cater grinned and gently took your own, lifting it beside his and your own ring—the Blot ring—caught the light, thrumming gently and operating as your heart.

"Now we match," he said, voice bright. "Yours has lore. Mine has vibes."

Then, a pause. A slow quirk of his lips. "Unless... you'd rather we get real matching rings? Y'know—like, a wedding set?"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then nodded, before your brain could catch up.

Cater beamed. Not his usual picture-perfect grin, but something softer. Almost disbelieving. The tips of his ears flushed scarlet and he immediately turned, tugging you toward the next shop.

Still grinning. Still buzzing.

And still holding your hand.

He never let go.

Ace

Ace was already moving the second he caught it—that flicker of hesitation, that silent don't make me go on your face. He shoved through the crowd with all of the subtlety of a brick to the window in the dead of night, determined and reckless in a way only he could pull off without getting arrested.

For all the times he'd dragged you into trouble, teased you until you swore vengeance, and laughed through the consequences, Ace had always, always had your back when it counted after the contract. Maybe he wasn't great with words, and maybe he'd never say it out loud, but he'd owned his mistakes in the only way he knew how—through stubborn loyalty and relentless action.

He was on stage before anyone could stop him, face flushed from the sprint, chest heaving with breath, and scarlet eyes wide with something raw. It wasn't you who ran to him—no. He decided. Decided that you weren't going anywhere. Not somewhere he couldn't follow and pester you like an annoying cat. Not when he'd finally figured out what you meant to him—late. He knows.

He grabbed your bag, yanking you back from the mirror along with it like it was about to swallow you whole, like it had teeth. His arms wrapped around you tight—too tight—and he buried his face in your shoulder like Floyd might, but with an edge of trembling desperation that betrayed just how scared he was.

"You're... not leaving," he mumbled, muffled into your shirt, like he could will it into reality. "You don't wanna. I saw it; that look. So don't. Just... stay. We'll hit up that diner we all like, I'll even pay." His voice cracked, rushed and anxious, like he'd lose his courage if he slowed down.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, the cocky front cracking as uncertainty leaked in. Maybe he'd read you wrong. Maybe he'd just made everything worse. But then—you crumpled against him like paper, a slow, small hum of agreement slipping out.

Relief hit Ace so hard he laughed—short, breathless like a dam breaking.

That night, he sat across from you at the diner, chewing his burger with a single-minded intensity like it personally offended him. He didn't say much. Just... plotted. Quietly. Eyes sharp, teeth grinding as he thought too hard for someone who claimed to avoid responsibility like the plague.

After that, he clung to you—not obviously, not in a way he'd ever admit—but subtly. Always there. Always dragging you into some dumb new scheme or surprise lunch plan or whatever excuse he could make to be around. At one point, he even suggested kicking out one of his roommates so you could move in with him and Deuce.

Riddle, of course, shot the idea down before Ace could even finish the sentence.

But Ace didn't stop there. He couldn't deal with paperwork, but he could scream at it. He hounded ethics professors, annoyed every bureaucrat who couldn't block the amount of numbers he had, bribed old alumni, and guilt-tripped anyone he could. He dug through every NRC connection he had, shaking people down for favors like a mob boss in red sneakers.

While others worked through the official channels, Ace worked in the shadows. He got you fake IDs, documents, licenses—things you definitely shouldn't have right now. And he never told you how. Never would. Just smirked when you asked and said, "You're welcome."

Years passed.

Seven of them, to be exact.

And Ace? Still Ace. Still a chaotic menace with a smart mouth and endless energy. But he never forgot how close he came to losing you. Not once. Not twice. And maybe that's why he showed up at your place so often—like it was his second home. Never official. But there was always something of his lying around: a hoodie slung over a chair, phone charger left on your couch, a pack of gum in his favorite flavor.

He always left a reason to come back.

You weren't sure what Ace actually did for a living. Sometimes he was in town. Other times, not. He'd pop up on TV out of nowhere, or facetime you from some iconic monument halfway across the world, acting like the time difference didn't exist.

He's a freelance agent of chaos. Sometimes you see him as a popular magician, sometimes he's up there for a random acting role he somehow got into, he'll be a chaperone for high-profile events, and other times he'll show up to locations and begin working until they eventually hire and pay him.

No one knows how exactly he makes money. He's never broke, though.

Some nights, you'd find him on your couch at 1AM, half-asleep with a pause game on the screen. He'd wave his phone lazily at you with a dopey smile. "I ordered food," he'd mumble.

When the food arrived, he'd sit across from you with his chin propped in his hands, batting his lashes like a brat expecting tribute. "Soooo~? What's the verdict? You miss me? Gimme a compliment. Tell me your day. C'mon, gimme the goods."

You'd roll your eyes. But you'd talk.

And as the night settled, the conversation turned quiet. His gaze would shift, eyes drawn to the ring on your finger. The ring. The one that kept you alive.

His teasing would fade, expression softening.

"Still won't come off, huh?" he'd murmur, gently brushing it with a fingertip. "Guess that means we're stuck with you."

Then—classic Ace—he'd flash a grin. "Hope you're listening when we hangout, Blotty-Boy. I'm the favorite. I win."

On one outing—a "Market Date," as he proudly dubbed it—Ace held your hand through the crowd. Too casual to be romantic. But he didn't let go until you were home. And his cheeks were definitely a little red.

As you gathered his things after he'd crashed at your place, he lingered in your doorway like a lost cat. He watched you with this lazy, unfocused gaze, then grinned, cocking his head.

"We're not a thing yet, right?" He said it casually, self assured and cocky as if the idea was gross.

You squinted. "Yet?"

Ace laughed, too loud, too quick. "Cool! Cool cool cool. Just checkin'. Y'know how it, uh... be."

It made absolutely no sense.

You were just about to call him out on it—maybe hit him with a pillow—when he turned too fast, stubbed his toe on your furniture, and limped dramatically into your kitchen like a man escaping his own feelings.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

Deuce

Deuce found out through Ace.

And he didn't think he'd ever forget the look on his best friend's face when he came back that day—shaken, hollow, eyes wide with the kind of pain Deuce hadn't seen on him since ever. All of Ace's usual snark had evaporated, replaced with stunned silence and a tightness in his jaw that made Deuce's stomach turn.

That was when he knew something was seriously wrong.

The moment Deuce learned the truth—what had really happened to you—it all came crashing down. Every dumb joke he'd ever made, every offhand comment, every time he'd laughed without knowing what you might've been carrying behind that tired smile.

Had I hurt you? Have you ever left feeling worse after hanging out with me? Did I ever really see you?

He wanted to see you right away. He needed to. But guilt froze him. So instead, he stewed in his own misery, locked in his room for a few days replayed every memory like a crime scene.

He called his mom. Asked for advice with a tight throat and told her everything. He spoke to upperclassmen, to teachers, to anyone he could ask without giving too much away—keeping your privacy close to his chest.

The night before he visited you, Deuce rehearsed what he wanted to say again and again, pacing in the dark and muttering under his breath until Ace hurled a pillow at him from across the room.

"Shut up and sleep, man. You sound like a broken record. It'll be... fine." Ace didn't sound too convinced either.

When Deuce finally got the nerve to reach out, the first thing he did was apologize. And he meant every word.

He apologized for every comment, every moment of ignorance, every time you might have walked away from him feeling a little more alone. He apologized for not noticing sooner, for not being someone you felt you could come to, for hesitating when he should've come running.

And when things settled down—when the world stopped spinning and the mirror wasn't looming over everything—Deuce did what he always swore he would.

He tried to be your hero.

He even said it, a little too proudly, puffing his chest out with a goofy grin.

Ace snorted in the background, pointing and laughing about how lame that was, which only made Deuce turn bright pink and swat him away.

After graduating, Deuce dove headfirst into his dream of joining the elite magical enforcement division. The training was brutal, but he worked harder than anyone, landing part-time gigs with local authorities during college. Math class? Forget it. But law enforcement? He was a natural.

Since holding a legal and well-paying job wasn't exactly possible for someone who didn't officially exist, his mom offered you a place in her home. She insisted it was nothing, that you'd be helping her more than she was helping you.

And while Deuce was climbing the ranks, he was also... quietly working on something else.

He never told you. Didn't want you feeling guilty. But in between classes and protocols, Deuce spent any free time at the registry office, the records bureau, making connections with people in the system who knew how to make the impossible possible.

He asked the right questions. Found the best agents, shortest wait times, safest routes. It took him four years ever since graduation from NRC. Four years of people telling him no.

But he did it.

One afternoon, Deuce came home with a stack of paper in hand and a grin so bright it almost hurt to look at. He held the binder like it was made of gold and gently passed it to you.

Inside: documents. IDs. Certificates. A name that matches yours. A history that said you belonged.

He didn't say how hard it had been. Didn't say how many nights he stayed up calling in favors or redoing paperwork because one date was wrong. He just smiled like it was nothing.

When you had enough to move out, he made sure your new place was in a safe neighborhood. Somewhere quiet. Monitored by himself or coworkers he trusted.

And still, Deuce didn't stray far.

He visited weekly. Brought groceries. Checked your locks. Fixed the squeaky cabinet door that you kept forgetting to mention. He taught himself random handyman skills just so you wouldn't need to spend money on things he could do himself.

If anything broke, Deuce was your first call. Always.

Every now and then, while you were at work, you'd come home to find a new vase of flowers on your counter. No note. No explanation. But you knew—remembered what Dilla always says:

"If you care about someone, you give them flowers. Everyone likes flowers.

Holidays at the Spade home became tradition. Dilla hosted with her usual warmth, but you noticed the way her eyes lingered when she watched you and Deuce. How she'd lean in to whisper to her friends with that little smirk of hers, clearly plotting.

She knew.

She knew from the first time Deuce called home to tell her all about his first week and his new friends, and it was solidified when he called crying, asking for advice, scared out of his mind because he thought he'd lose you. She knew then that you were someone irreplaceable to her son.

So there were always plenty games with opportunities for you two to get closer.

One evening, long after you'd move out, you heard footsteps outside your door. Familiar pacing. Muted mumbling—rehearsals. Then a knock.

When you opened the door, Deuce was there with a shy smile and an arm full of groceries—a familiar, soothing sight.

When your face lit up and you invited him in, the script he'd rehearsed was lost immediately.

He stood there for a second, watching you sort groceries away like he'd forgotten how to speak.

"I like this," he said softly. "This life—with you in it. Let's keep doing this. Forever."

It didn't take long before he realized how that sounded—way too much like a proposal—his eyes went wide and he panicked.

"I—uh—bathroom. Sorry—hold on—!"

He turned to escape, bumping into a chair and heading in the direction of your bathroom. But he wasn't thinking straight, instead locking himself in the closet.

Instead of exiting and facing you again, Deuce resigned himself into pretending the closet was certainly the bathroom and remained in there for two minutes.

Leona

Anger. That's all Leona felt when you finally told him—everything.

All the secrets, all the pain, all the betrayals you had carried in silence. It hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted to yell, to demand why you hadn't told him sooner. Weren't you two close? He thought you were. He believed you were.

But then he saw your face.

The anger cracked and faltered. That look—defeated, hopeless, like your future barely extended beyond the next breath—it froze him. Words that had been bubbling up, heated and venomous, died before they could leave his tongue. He bit them back, knowing they weren't true. Knowing they'd only cause more damage.

And when the fury ebbed, guilt settled in like a riptide. Cold, unrelenting. It dragged him under the weight of forgotten moments—dismissive words, avoided emotions, a wall built to protect himself that might've been the thing that pushed you away.

Leona couldn't face it. Couldn't face you.

For a while, he pretended none of it had happened. That you didn't exist. That the crack in his carefully constructed world hadn't appeared.

He swung between silence and frustration, indifference and sudden closeness. His moods flipped so frequently you didn't know what version of him would walk through the door—a soft, quiet shadow of the Leona you knew, or the usual irritable beast barely holding himself together.

Just like everything else in his life—complicated, heavy, always out of reach.

He tried once. Just once. In his own quiet, cryptic way, he suggested that if things ever blew over—if you ever decided to stay—the Sunset Savanna would welcome you. He would welcome you.

But you hadn't answered right away.

Leona understood rationally, but emotionally it still stung. So he shut down again, folding himself back into his cold walls and endless naps. Sleeping more than ever, even though rest never came easy.

And when sleep did come, it was cruel.

His dreams were filled with scenes of you that felt painfully real—buying an extra snack, setting it aside for you and waiting like luring out a mouse. Waiting. Always waiting. But you never showed up. In those dreams, you were already gone.

Those had jolted him awake in a cold sweat.

And for once, he was grateful for the nightmare. Because it reminded him of the date. The time. You were leaving—today. In just thirty minutes.

Leona had never moved faster in his life.

He shoved through the crowd, all elegance and composure stripped away by desperation. Gone was the lazy prince. In his place: a man running out of time.

"Get down here!" he shouted, voice ragged, rough. He didn't care who heard. Didn't care how pathetic or needy he looked. For once, pride didn't matter—not it it meant losing you.

And this time—this time—it wasn't too late.

He'd been wrong to think it was another situation he couldn't fix. That this was just another thing predetermined to slip through his fingers.

But you weren't gone. You were right there. And when you crumpled into his arms, he caught you with the exhaustion of someone who hadn't truly slept in weeks.

"Don't ever do that again." he breathed, the words muffled against your neck.

Leona pulled strings afterwards.

Royal ones. Powerful ones.

The kind of favors that made officials fall silent the moment his name was spoken. Falena, stunned to see his brother clinging so tightly to anything—anyone—intervened, and whatever red tape existed was cleared overnight.

Time passed. The chaos dulled. But something lingered—something unspoken, fragile. Like walking barefoot on glass, or breathing air laced with hidden blades.

Leona never said it out loud. Never called it what it was. But he was yours. Entirely yours.

As he once hinted—half promise, half plea—the Sunset Savanna welcomed you with open arms. Your new home was suspiciously affordable and entirely issue-free. Too good to be true.

And then you learned why.

It had already been paid for, courtesy of one very bratty lion who refused to acknowledge it. You never got bills. No letters. Nothing.

You might've protested more if the man funding your lifestyle didn't already spend most of his time in your house.

"It's closer to work," he'd grumble.

It wasn't. His commute from his own home was a mere three minutes longer.

You grew close in that quiet, unspoken way. Words left unsaid, but already heard. He didn't admit how much your presence soothed him, but you could tell in the way he made space for you—space no one else had ever been invited to.

It wasn't a romance. Not exactly. But sometimes, it felt like one.

Mornings were shared silently—Leona already awake, running a hand through wild hair as he set out two breakfasts. You ate without fanfare, peaceful. You fixed his collar before he left, catching the way his ears drooped, the softened gleam in his eyes.

After graduation, Leona had become a royal advisor—a strategist and a diplomat. He hated politics, but he was good at it.

Knowing how intense his work had become, you tried to give him space. Tried not to hover, to let him breathe.

You didn't notice the tiny pout he wore every time you passed him in the royal halls with nothing but a nod. Or how his tail lashed behind him, smacking his poor assistant in irritation.

To counter this, said assistant had taken to buying an extra drink on coffee runs—one you liked—and placing it silently on his desk.

Leona would scoff. Grumble. Swat her away but thank her nonetheless.

But he didn't move the cup. He left it out like bait for a certain mouse he wanted to catch. Waiting. Hoping.

The game of cat and mouse grew exhausting and this cat hated waiting. Hated this distance between you two that was so small. But not small enough.

Leona had learned to go after what he wanted. And maybe—just maybe—you were something attainable as well.

One day, he followed you down the hallway in heavy silence. A full minute of nothing but soft footsteps. Then—he reached out. Tugged your sleeve gently, like a cat testing its luck. Leona's ears were pinned back, eyes narrowed with impatience.

"I'm tired of this," he muttered, almost a growl, but he wouldn't meet your eyes. "Come home tonight—my home. I... have something for you. Probably. Just—come over."

And before you could say anything, before the words could register—he spun on his heel and stormed off, fast enough to hide the flush blooming across his cheeks and back of the neck.

Ruggie

Ruggie knew the moment he saw it—the moment that thing spoke to you in the woods, and you snapped.

You attacked him. And still, he didn't leave.

Despite the pain, the fear in his bones, the shock of betrayal—he stayed. Like a loyal dog. Like someone trained, conditioned on your presence.

Because no one understood desperation better than Ruggie Bucchi. Not the kind that carves you hollow and turns your heart into a survival instinct.

He recognized the look in your eyes instantly: fear, heartbreak, guilt, and something far worse—desperation. It hit him like a punch, and it was the only reason he said nothing. He just got his wounds treated in silence. Quietly. Stoically.

Then he went to work.

He didn't think of himself as especially smart—his grades were average and his study habits were barely functional while juggling jobs. But when Ruggie wanted—needed—to learn something, he did. He'd scrape and claw until he knew every answer, every workaround. He became relentless.

The only problem was... there were no answers. No documented care of what had happened to you. No framework, no warning signs, nothing he could reference to make it make sense.

So he pivoted.

He focused on what he could control: the future.

So far, there was no news, no sign, no hope that you could return to your original world. Which meant one thing—you'd be staying. And Ruggie? Ruggie started planning around that.

When the truth came out—when the word spread what you were, what you had done—he wasn't surprised. By the time it reached his ears, he only offered a tired little smile and a nod.

Of course.

He'd seen that look before. In Leona's eyes. In every overblot victim he'd witnessed. That flicker of chaos right before everything fell apart. It was a solemn kind of acceptance. He couldn't fight the Blot. But he could help you rebuild from it.

When the dust settled, Ruggie threw himself into helping you find your footing again. He didn't know why he was so sure, but deep down, he believed you'd stay—even if a way home was found. He called it a hunch, but it felt more like a gut-deep certainty.

So, when the day of the decision came, he was there. In the crowd. Watching you with his heart pounding in his throat.

And when your eyes locked with his—when you moved toward him—he didn't wait to be sure. He ran. Even if he'd already convinced himself of your choice, he still ran. Just in case. Just to know.

You reached for him first.

There was a guilt in your voice when you spoke, a sorrow that clung to you like god. You apologized again and again for what happened. For attacking him when all he'd done was poke holes in your story. For unraveling you without realizing it.

He flinched at the little contact, old instincts flaring, but the fear didn't stick. Not when he looked at you and saw past it. Past the Blot. Past the trauma. To you—the real you. The one that had been alone and afraid in this world for far too long. The person he'd grown to care for in a dozen tiny, ordinary moments during long, exhausting shifts.

And then Ruggie did when Ruggie does best—he handled it.

He forged documents.

Because, let's be honest, legal bureaucracy is expensive and stupid and he did not have time or money for all that noise.

He learned some tricks. Picked up a few skills. Bent some rules so cleanly is was almost elegant. And suddenly—poof!—you were a legal citizen. Kinda. As long as nobody looked too closely.

He walked you through it like it was just another shady alley in a bad neighborhood. He knew which hands to shake, which landlords didn't ask questions, who to bribe and who to befriend.

He vouched for you. Put his own name on the line. Built an entire paper life for you before the real system caught up.

Ruggie wasn't a noble. He wasn't a high-tier mage. But he knew people. And more importantly, he knew you needed time to heal. That something like this didn't leave people stronger right away. Sometimes, it left them broken and brittle, and in need of someone who could carry the weight for a while.

So he did.

Years passed.

Careers were chosen. Dreams followed.

Ruggie could've chased big money is he wanted to—gods knew he dreamed of it. But something else tugged at him: his talent with kids, his way with the overlooked, the struggling.

He became a teacher.

An elementary school in the slums took him in. It was barely standing, underfunded, falling apart—but Ruggie didn't let it stay that way. He harassed Leona into helping, twisted the right arms, and used the legal finesse he'd gained from helping you to secure grants. A few years later, the school had a new building and shiny new resources.

He had a real paycheck. A real roof. And best of all, a sense of peace.

In seven years, what had happened between you faded into something like a joke. A painful one, sometimes—but one told with a fond smile.

Though you do occasionally catch him glaring at the Blot ring.

In the staff lounge, you're rinsing mugs. Yours and Ruggie's match—oddly shaped with messy lettering and hand-painted patterns that don't quite line up. It was made by one of the kids and he guards it like a treasure. You once joked he'd kill a man if it chipped. He didn't deny it.

Ruggie leans back in his chair, eyes shut.

"We should go camping again," he says suddenly. "Remember that weird leaf we ate?"

You groan. "Why was your first instinct to eat it instead of, I don't know, using your phone to identify it? I was sick all weekend. I ruined the trip."

The scrape of his chair was the only warning you got before he's behind you, arms draped lazily over your shoulders, chin resting atop your head.

"I think it was a great trip," he murmurs, voice quiet, warm. "You clung to me in the tent all night for warmth."

You swat him away, shoving the mug into his hand, rolling your eyes.

This is why the kids think you're dating. It's their favorite drama—watching their teacher and teacher's aide act like a romcom.

The way he fixes your collar without a word. The way you pluck stray glitter from his hair during craft time. The way your paper flower offerings and beaded friendship bracelets feel like something more.

One rainy afternoon, Ruggie walks you home. The sidewalk is slick and shining, streetlights haloed in mist.

He's carrying a tiny umbrella—barely wide enough for both of you. Drops run off the edges and soak his shoulder, but he doesn't mind.

He looks down at your hands, gaze catching on two rings. One is that cursed Blot ring—the symbol of everything you survived. The other is different.

It's a flower ring. Handmade. Crooked and childlike, gifted during recess by Ruggie himself with the pomp of a knight bestowing a crowd and a fleet of little girls gushing around you both.

And you're still wearing it. On your right ring finger.

His tail twitches, mouth lifting slightly. Maybe... maybe in due time it'll be real.

Jack

Finding out his friend had died last winter certainly wasn't on Jack's summer checklist. But grief never cared about timing, did it? While others distanced themselves to nurse wounds in silence, Jack didn't flinch. He stayed close—stubbornly loyal, solid as ever. Not one whisper of disrespect passed around you without his glare silencing it. Not a single look was cast without him standing between it and you like a guard dog with bristling fur.

You had earned his respect long ago in a way that no one else had. You didn't just endure it—you persisted. Wounded and changed, maybe, but never shattered. And in Jack's eyes, you had never looked stronger than you did in those moments when it would've made perfect sense to crumble, yet you stood your ground. That kind of resilience was rare. Sacred, even.

He never smothered. He was simply there—near enough that you could always find him, but never so close that you couldn't breathe. A presence, not a pressure.

Of course, Jack was grieving, too. Quietly, deeply. But it wasn't about him right now. He didn't know exactly what you were feeling—couldn't tell if it was fear, rage, sorrow. That uncertainty ate at him. Jack hated not understanding, not knowing how to help. That was the hardest part.

Still, when the offer came for you to return to your own world, He was... happy for you. Genuinely. It opened his eyes to how harsh this world had been for you and the others. Maybe leaving was the right thing. Maybe it was finally time. You deserved rest. You'd done so well already.

He watched everyone else depart, one after another. Tall and still, waving them off with a quiet pride. He told himself he'd do the same for you.

But when it was your turn, and you paused—scanning the crowd, eyes flicking like a compass searching for true north—Jack's tail betrayed him. A hopeful little wag. He hadn't expected that.

And when your eyes found him—when you actually sought him out—he stepped forward before he could think, a big, goofy grin on his face. You weren't alone. Not then. Not ever.

You stayed.

Jack couldn't make your paperwork disappear or navigate bureaucracy, but he could do the next best thing—stand beside you through all of it. He helped you build a home with his own hands, sourced furniture, knocked on doors, introduced you to people who mattered. He accompanied you to every inspection and official visit, never letting you face a room full of strangers alone.

You and Jack built a life not on grand declarations, but quiet consistency. His was a love spoken on footfalls—always at your side, always keeping pace. You went on walks when time allowed, and he always seemed to have a gap in his schedule that just so happened to match yours.

He never let you fall behind. Not on the path, not life.

You worried, once, that maybe you were slowing him down too. That your pace wasn't fast enough for someone like him. But Jack only shook his head, quiet and patient. "It's not slowing down," he'd said. "It's making sure we walk together."

And as soothing as his soft words were, you had a feeling that it didn't apply to occasional walks along a familiar path—but in life as well.

And when you told him you wanted to grow more independent—that you wanted to learn how to stand on your own—he respected that. He stepped back. But not too far. Never too far. He'd always be waiting nearby, just in case you stumbled. Just in case he needed to help you up and hold you.

You had a feeling he still felt guilty for never noticing before—like he was trying to pay you back in some way.

At local festivals in the Shaftlands, Jack positioned himself between you and the busy street, between you and a crowd of strangers. It was muscle memory now—part of how he existed. But when your hand gently closed around his, grounding him, reminding him to live in the moment and stop regretting the past, he'd pause. He'd smile. The tension would ease and Jack's tail would wag subtly.

"What should we do?" he's ask, dipping his head to hear you above the din, voice low and earnest.

The two of you were opposites, yet perfectly in sync—two halves of a rhythm that kept the other steady. A sense of calm always lingered between you two and you felt you belonged.

One day, he handed you a small wooden wolf. Carved with care. A little uneven, maybe, but unmistakably made with intention.

"For protection," Jack said, scratching the back of his neck. "Not like you'd need it. But still. Even lone wolves need their pack."

He knew you weren't weak. You never had been. But worry wasn't about weakness—it was about love.

And Jack? He had once overlooked you. You would never let that happen again.

(literally shaking. I had to write the wolf line. sobbing actually)

Azul

Azul had heard it from Jade. The calmer twin—at least in appearance—offered him a tight-lipped smiles that barely held together at the corners. His eyes, however, betrayed him, darting anywhere but toward Azul's. Whatever words were spoken next blurred into a haze. Azul couldn't recall them—couldn't even remember leaving that conversation. All he knew was that when his mind finally clawed its way back into focus, his face was already wet with tears.

Pain sharpened behind his eyes like needles, and his skull throbbed with each heartbeat.

The crash of waves against jagged stone startled him into awareness. The ocean. Of course.

He hadn't stepped into the surf—hadn't dared. He merely sat in the sand, just at the edge of its reach, shoes long discarded, trousers dampened. The night sky stretched out above him, ink-dark and choked with clouds, swallowing every star. No constellations to guide him. No wishes to whisper to the heavens. Only the rhythmic, indifferent roar of the tide.

Azul stared into the void, not searching for answers—he doubted there were any—but quietly, desperately, hoping the sea might shoulder the burden of his questions and carry them away.

This was beyond him.

Could he write a contract to contain the Blot? That much was plausible. He had bested worse in ink and clause. But you—you were the complication. The Blot sustained you now. It kept your warm smile, your pulse steady, your eyes alight with something he couldn't name. And the thought of crafting a deal that might unravel you in the process?

He refused to imagine it.

No negotiation, no clever clause, no legally binding trick could free you without cost. The laws he'd mastered faltered before a power still cloaked in mystery. And when he asked—softly, hopefully—if you could simply end the pact, your expression fractures. You hesitated. Something unspoken flickered in your eyes, some silent truth you were unwilling or unable to voice.

And Azul realized, with a sick twist in his gut, that maybe—maybe—in all their neglect and abuse, you'd grown attached. Found comfort in a creature born from despair. Let it wrap itself around your loneliness until it felt like home.

The thought hollowed him out.

He understood then, or thought he did. Of course you'd want to leave—of course you'd want to be rid of all this. Of him. What had he ever done for you, really, other than hurt you in the ways that counted?

And yet... you stayed.

Why?

Azul's first question was sharp and brittle, whispered into the wind: Why me? Why choose him—why remain by his side?

Was it vengeance? A long, slow plan to make him feel the way you once did?

And yet, even with that fear twisting through him, he still held you like you might dissolve into seafoam in his arms—fingers trembling, glasses askew, breath shuddering as if holding you together took everything he had.

He asked the question again and again, each time more uncertain, more raw. His gaze lingered on you, half-afraid to see the answer in your face. He was always a breath away from fleeing—from you, from himself. But instead, he clung, desperate and undignified.

Like an octopus, he thought grimly. How fitting.

For the first nights after your decision to stay, the twins kept an eye on you—discreet but constant. You slept in Azul's bed, tucked beneath crisp sheets while he took the floor with the tweels, pretending not to hear Floyd's complaints.

When you began to fret about life beyond graduation—where you would go, who you would become—Azul responded with vague platitudes and averted eyes.

"You're quite resourceful," he murmured, the words stiff on his tongue. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

But Azul was already working. Quietly, obsessively.

The moment he graduated from NRC, he made you his focus. While the world thought he was expanding the Mostro Lounge and climbing the business ladder, he was also building something invisible: you.

He forged a flawless identity for you—legal, untraceable, foolproof. Crafted through intricate contracts, bureaucratic slight-of-hand, and only a modest amount of moral compromise. You were now a citizen under a clause so obscure not even the authorities fully understood it. Neither did you.

Mostro Lounge became just another cog in a much larger machine. Azul's empire expanded rapidly, subtly. He invested, acquired, and monopolized until his name was threaded through industries beyond hospitality. He climbed to circles no one expected him to reach.

And in seven years time, he still flushed whenever your hand brushed his.

He flirted with deniability, wrapped his longing in professionalism and paperwork. He summoned you to meetings about nothing, claimed he "required your input" on decisions he already made. He wanted to see you. That was all.

You, in turn, baffled and impressed him. Your boldness, your ingenuity, your endless refusal to be impressed by him. It drew him in, over and over.

You had become his assistant, on paper. A transactional arrangement, he insisted. "Good business," he said with a straight face. "You're a long-term investment."

And then you'd hit him on the back of the head and call him out for skipping meals. You dragged him away from his desk when he forgot to sleep. You brought him fried chicken and threatened to force-feed him if he didn't eat.

One day, he called you to his office under the pretense of reviewing documents.

He looked every bit the businessman—sharp suit, confident smile, pen in hand as he passed you a crisp three-page document.

"Contract of Mutual Existence," you read flatly, eyes narrowing as you scanned it. You'd gotten food at catching hidden clauses and double meanings. Too good, he often joked. Half irritated.

Azul leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "No fine print this time."

You looked up slowly, raising the paper with a quirked brow. "Azul. This reads like a very elaborate, legally-sound marriage contract."

He smiled. His entire face on fire. "Does it? How peculiar," he said, voice a touch too high. It was the third one this month.

When Azul returned to the sea to inspect his underwater ventures, you stayed near your home along the shoreline. Each time he missed you, and business didn't anchor him too tightly, he sent bottles. Glass vessels sealed with wax, each holding a neatly penned letter in his distinct hand. Always unsigned. Always thoughtful.

On the surface, they were about schedules, logistics, occasional reminders.

But between the lines?

He missed you.

One day, you responded—not with the business points, but to the emotion laced beneath them. You answered with warmth, humor, vulnerability.

The next bottle came the following foggy morning.

It scolded you for "ignoring the primary intent" of his last message. But the writing was rushed—the loops in his letters too wide, his i's undotted. You knew he'd scribbled it in a fluster.

"If you truly wished to speak about such trivial things," he wrote at the end, "I suppose I'll indulge you."

An invitation. A plea. A hope he still wasn't ready to name.

Jade

Look at you—so stubborn, so resilient, refusing to wilt no matter the odds. It was something Jade found truly admirable, even if he'd never say so directly. You headstrong nature could amuse him endlessly, or at time, vex him just enough when you made it difficult for him to get what he wanted.

When you needed to vanish, Jade was the one who made it happen. And when the time came, he was also the one who helped you reemerge. With a few murmured words and a thousand carefully calculated steps, he blurred your records, filed false trials, and spun a whole new identity out of the air, all with that pleasant, unreadable smile. He knew exactly what officials to approach. He whispered your name in all the with ears, leaned in with that dangerous charm, and let people come to the conclusions he wanted without having to utter a single direct threat.

He had even offered—so casually—to forge an identity for you "purely for archival balance." You had declined. He made one anyway, tucking it away where only he could reach it, just in case.

You still don't know how he pulled it off, where all those slippery ties and unseen connections stemmed from. Every time you asked, Jade only offered his usual signature: a hand pressed lightly against his chest, a polite tilt of his head, and a slow, feline smile.

"I'm truly wounded that you underestimate my importance in this world," he'd purr, with all the fake hurt of cat caught stealing cream.

And you, as always, would retort without missing a beat: "You won't even tell me what your importance is."

You didn't know much about Jade. Not really. Even after seven years, he remained a mystery wrapped in silk and half-smiles. When you pressed for more, his teasing gleam softened into something almost tender—and then he would simply steer the conversation away.

The truth is, Jade would love to tell you everything. He truly would. But Jade leech is not the type to give his entire hand to anyone, not even you—not yet. Choosing someone, letting someone in deeply enough to hold real power over him—that was a rather frightening though. Even for him.

Maybe he couldn't have you at his side just yet. But he was preparing. Working, planning, weaving something intricate beneath the surface. He never asked for a promise, a confirmation that you could stay—because he already had it.

You had chosen when you crashed into him that day, your "final day," clinging to him with desperate hands like he might slip away if you let go.

And for once, Jade hadn't slipped free. No sly remarks, no deflections. Just the honest, bewildering joy of being chosen.

You never told him the truth—that all his whispered half-truths, his careful gestures, his subtle manipulations hadn't swayed you—not really. It was the simple fact that he had tried—the image of Jade Leech, one of the most composed students of NRC, looking genuinely stricken at the thought of losing you—that had cracked something open inside.

Jade remains a mystery even now, but his fondness has becomes familiar, a quiet undercurrent in your life. Each month, without fail, he checks in—with tea, with oddly specifics gifts, with little slices of wisdom tucked between the ordinary. He's become a constant, like the tides or the moon.

Jade exists somewhere between affection and curiosity, treating your presence as something sacred—and slightly dangerous. He remembered everything: how you take your tea, which flowers make you sneeze, which stories from your home leave you aching.

And despite all his smooth composure, there are cracks you've glimpsed.

When you saved up for months to buy him new shoes for his eighteenth birthday—after spilling soda on his old ones—you witnessed something rare. His face barely moved, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but his entire face flushed deep crimson.

He's never worn those shoes. Of course not.

You hadn't known then, but gifting shoes to a merfolk was no small gesture—it was a quiet plea, a proposal to leave the sea behind and stay. And though Jade would have gladly accepted, he is a calculating creature. If he was going to live on land with you, he would do it on his terms—with power, influence, luxury. He's still preparing, so he implores you to wait.

You don't get to see him often. Jade vanishes overseas, pursuing business ventures he refuses to explain. No matter how tightly you try to hold him, he always slips away.

But he never forgets you.

Polished envelopes arrive from around the world, each neatly penned with his sharp, deliberate handwriting. Inside are small polaroids of curious places, buttons collected from foreign markets, dried flowers pressed between color-coordinated paint swatches. Every letter is an art piece—so carefully crafted, so unmistakably Jade—and each one ends with something that reminded him of you.

No matter where he goes, Jade always finds his way back to your seaside home.

Usually during storms, you've noticed.

He arrives soaked with rain and salt spray, peeling off his damp coat without ceremony, wandering into your kitchen as if he's never left. He keeps his favorite things here—his rare teas, his terrariums, his little trinkets too precious to lose to the tides—and of course you. He walks the halls like a man belonging to the space as surely as the wind and the sea.

"This house," Jade says one night, voice soft and low, "feels like you."

While he showers in the room unofficially reserved for him, you find yourself putting away his belongings, moving through familiar motions. Among his things, you discover a dried flower poking out from a well-loved leather journal—the same kind you once offhandedly complimented—pressed neatly between the pages of his notes. It's dated the day you chose to stay.

There are more notes alongside it: meticulous recollections of your favorite things, plans for the future, some crossed out, some left gleaming and untouched, waiting to bloom.

Jade will never forget the hollow pit of fear he felt the summer of his second year, when he learned you died. When he saw the loneliness you tried so hard to hide.

The memory of your face that day—the way your mask cracked—is seared into him.

And Jade swore, with all the weight of his scheming heart, that he would never let you look that way again.

Floyd

You're cruel, smiling at him that way—charming and bright, like fireworks blooming behind his ribs—and it just makes Floyd all the more glad he climbed through the roof of the Mirror Chamber when he saw you hesitate, saw you scanning the crowd for him once, twice, even pausing to gesture helplessly at Jade.

He could never forget the feeling of it—sprinting forward, scooping you right off your feet, and just running—until the mirror was a distant memory and the only thing around was quiet grass and open sky. He only stopped when he was sure you were safe, setting you down so gently it hurt, then flopping backward into the grass with a breathless grunt.

Floyd laid there, silent for a long moment, staring up at the stars with a wide, slack grin—like he was thanking each and every one he'd ever wished on. Finally, he turned to you, lazy and loose, his downturned eyes gleaming almost too bright.

"You were gonna stay, yeah?" he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

And when you nodded, he laughed—breathy, cracked—and dropped his arm over his eyes like he could hide the way his whole body shook with it. "Good. That's good..." His voice splintered halfway though, raw and genuine. "I'm so happy."

The day he got the news from Jade, something nasty and cold twisted inside him. His usual grin had slipped, just for a second—a flash of raw panic—before he pasted it back together with something jagged and mean.

Underneath it all, he was terrified that day.

Somewhere deep down, Floyd had decided it would be easier to shove you away before fate could rip you out of his hands. Because if you died... he wouldn't just cry—he'd shatter. He'd wreck everything he touched, sobbing and screaming until he puked, until he couldn't tell which way was up anymore. Part of him wanted to grab you right then and there, crush you against his chest and never let go. But another, meaner part whispered maybe it would be kinder to let you go first—before he had to to watch you disappear.

That night, Floyd clung to you like a barnacle, breathing frantic, half-laughing, half-sobbing apologies into the fabric of your shirt once all the adrenaline had faded. Promising you outings, stupid gifts, anything he could think of if it meant you'd really stay. His heart thundered against you like he thought you might evaporate if he loosened his grip even a little.

And as the years passed, Floyd stayed Floyd—only sharper. His boyish features grew leaner, more cunning. That devil-may-care smirk getting more dangerous with time.

You never found out exactly what Floyd said to the officials handling your case. But you caught the little things—the way he tucked a strand of teal and black behind his ear, the way his grin sharpened, the way his eyes, usually so lazy, narrowed in lethal amusement.

He whispered something sweetly, too sweet—and though the words floated like a joke, the promise beneath them was real. It wasn't a threat—it was a confession. A crime not committed yet, but promised all the same.

Whatever Floyd tangled himself up in after that, it paid. Well. Enough that he could buy you anything without blinking, still trying to make good on that desperate promise he made when he was younger: to keep you here, with him.

Sometimes, a call would come through—he'd answer it with a casual, sing-song, "Yo, what's up?" but you'd see how his whole body stiffened, how his gaze sharpened and darted to you. If you were close enough, he'd make sure the person on the other end knew: "Shrimpy's with me." His tone just dark enough to be a warning.

Whatever came next was in code you weren't meant to understand.

Then he'd be gone—sometimes days, sometimes longer.

You never pressed. Whatever Floyd's gotten himself into, he kept you shielded from it. He could play the fool all he wanted—but you weren't blind. Floyd was sharp. Too sharp.

Yet no matter how far he drifted, no matter how long he was gone, he always found his way back. melting into your arms the second you opened the door, whining about "boring meetings" and "stupid people" while you plopped a juice box in his hand and made him sit down.

Dangerous or not, Floyd still threw on that ridiculous pink frilly apron you got him as a joke, still danced around the kitchen beside you, tossing food into pots while you caught up like nothing had changed at all.

And sometimes—when he thought you weren't looking—he'd watch you. Like you hung every star in the sky just for him.

One night, lying on the roof of an abandoned building he'd found, Floyd pointed at the stars and named them lazily—Hubert, Spaghetti, Dum-dum. And then, softer, more serious, he'd tell you the real names and lore around the stars.

"That one's you," he said once, deadpan and refusing to elaborate.

Later that night, after he passed out on your couch—arms and legs draped across you like a lazy octopus—you searched it up, curious.

And sure enough, he'd bought you a star. Named it after you.

The description was simple: "The Way Home"

The brightest star available, always visible directly above the surface of the ocean by his house. If he swam up and followed it, it would lead him straight back to you.

Right back home.

Kalim

Kalim lay beside you in the small cabin that night, eyes burning, cheeks streaked with tears. His gaze was faraway, lost, staring quietly as you slept. You barely moved—your breathing so shallow it was almost impossible to hear—and your skin was cold where he gently grazed it. That scared him most of all.

He understood what had happened. He was smart enough to piece it together.

And that was the worst part.

Kalim understood. But he also didn't.

He couldn't understand how he, of all people, could've let you slip through the cracks. How he could have left you so neglected, so alone. Yet when he tried to recall certain memories of you from that winter... there was only a haze.

Without thinking, Kalim shifted closer—not too close, not in any way that could frighten or hurt you. Just enough to try and share his warmth, to lend you some of the fire inside him. He cradled you carefully, like a storm-torn flower he could somehow nurse back to life. In his heart, he made a quiet promise: he'd plant you somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere you could bloom again, untouched by harm.

All you had to do was say the word. Ask for help—and he'd give you everything he had.

You might've expected him to spiral. And he did, in a way. Kalim cried himself hoarse most nights, and what little sleep he caught was fitful and shallow. But whenever you were awake, whenever you were near, he smiled brighter than ever—like he could will his happiness into you, like his laughter could heal the pieces too broken to reach on his own.

The night you chose Kalim over returning home, he could hardly believe it. He asked again and again if you were sure—if you really wanted him. Even through the lens of his cheerfulness, Kalim had eyes. He had ears. He knew there were so many others better suited, steadier, stronger.

And still, you stayed.

When you insisted—when you smiled and said you'd rather stay here, with him—Kalim made it home and cried until he was sick. but they were tears of disbelief, of wonder. Because somehow, against all odds, you picked him.

That night, a deep, steady guilt sank into him. If you were staying because of him, then your future was his responsibility now too.

Much to Jamil's quiet astonishment, Kalim changed. The parties still came, but Kalim started slipping away from them early—or abstaining altogether. He buried himself in studies, preparing for the future he wanted to built. You weren't a pet. You weren't a trophy. You were a person. Someone he loved. Someone who trusted him.

When he finally came of age, Kalim moved fast. Through his family's endless wealth and influence, he arranged for your housing, your paperwork, even set aside funds for education if you wanted to pursue it. NRC graduation already glimmered on your new record like a star. He threw a few grand parties—not for himself, but for you—to settle you into his world, to make it clear that you were someone treasured. Not to be trifled with.

It was dangerous, he knew. Flaunting the things he loved most. but Kalim would rather face that danger head-on than let you slip into neglect again.

He grew up fast after that. Head of the Al-Asim family, he became a force in foreign affairs, trade, philanthropy. His name carried real weight now. But no matter how many lavish homes he owned, no matter where he went, Kalim's feet always led him back to you.

The night you gave him a spare key, he clutched it like it was spun sugar, not gold. "You can always hide here," you said. "Even if I'm not home." You welcomed him without expectation. Without conditions. That quiet acceptance made his heart soar in a way nothing else could.

And so he came. Tired, worn from travel, arms full of souvenirs or letters or rare fruits. Straight to your doorstep. Straight to you.

He never mentioned it aloud, but in the desert heat, your cooler body was the sweetest comfort. He'd just smile and pull you into a hug, drinking in your calmness.

He never stopped checking in. Never stopped texting—morning, night, tracking time zones like a second language just so he could reach you at the right moments. His letters, messy with stickers and doodles, stacked up neatly somewhere safe in your living room. He kept sending them, even if he'd leave a country before you could reply. It didn't matter. What mattered was that you knew he was thinking of you. Always.

Every year, on the anniversary of the night you chose to stay, Kalim threw a festival in your honor. Everything crafted to your tastes—the food, the colors, the music. Even as an adult, when you asked him if it was intentional, Kalim would look away, cheeks pink, and beam at you with that boyish, desperate kind of hope:

"Did I get it right? Do you like it?"

And when you told him it was perfect—how thoughtful it was—he'd shine so bright it hurt to look at him.

Later, when the crowds disappeared and the last of the music faded into memory, you would find yourselves dancing at twilight. No cameras, no guests. Just you, and Kalim. His hands hovered close to your waist but never touched. Not until you gave him explicit permission.

As open as Kalim was with his feelings, he'd wait. As long as it took. Until you chose him back, just as surely as you'd chosen to stay.

Jamil

Jamil resigned himself to being your anchor the night you chose to stay—when you flipped that invisible coin in your head and turned toward him instead.

He couldn't understand it. Couldn't rationalize it. And really, there wasn't a good reason.

He told you as much, voice clipped, heart hammering against his ribs like a bird desperate to fly free as he tried to push you back where you "belonged":

"No—you're just being anxious. Go home. You—you belong there. Where it's safe. Where you're happy."

You didn't belong here. Not in this world that had already bled you dry once before.

It stung to say it, but Jamil would never admit that. Would never confess how you felt like a lighthouse in the storm—how your calmness, your steady, gentle warmth, always seemed to guide him back when the fog closed in.

Jamil Viper, who carried the world on his shoulders like a single mother working three jobs, had found you in something he'd never known how to name: a kind of clarity. A reminder of parts of life he thought he'd buried years ago.

And even thinking that made him feel stupid.

Jamil hadn't been a king when you met him—he hadn't even offered the basic hospitality you deserved. Even when he did start to notice you, he was too much of a coward to treat you the way you deserved to be treated.

Jamil Viper was emotionally unavailable. No one knew that better than he did.

Reluctantly, he accepted your choice as fact. But not out of the love you might have hoped for. To him, it was another burden—another responsibility laid on his already breaking back. He didn't—couldn't—understand that you hadn't chosen him to carry you. You had chosen him to walk beside you.

But Jamil only knew how to carry. It was what he'd been trained for.

Years passed. He remained at Kalim's side, even as the boy grew into a more capable, more aware man. Still, he insisted on handling what he always had.

Just so you could have a place—any place—in this world, Kalim agreed to fold you into their work while your documents processed. An aide, like Jamil, but lighter. Less burdened.

Quietly, behind the scenes, Jamil carved paths for you. He taught you how to navigate the minefields of politics and power, coached you through delicate negotiations. Late nights spent bent over books and documents felt familiar—like those days back at NRC.

He stayed close. But careful. Always one step away. Never intruding. Never letting anyone else get too close. You'd seen it—how fiercely he defended you when people talked.

And yet, slowly, the distance between you grew, The quiet, domestic moments you used to share—the late-night chats, the casual mornings—faded away like smoke.

He wasn't blind. He caught every flicker of hurt that crossed your face when he pulled away.

You made him feel alive, yes. But he'd made a mistake. A devastating one he realized too late. He hadn't just made room for you in his life—he'd made you a part of the machinery he longed to escape.

You had become a tie to the Al-Asim household. And cutting that cord meant cutting you away too.

So he left. One day. Without a word.

He finally got permission, and he took it.

Jamil's room was left barren. His presence, which had once settled in the corners of your life like a quiet, comforting hum, was simply...gone.

No lingering scent of coffee and his shampoo or cologne.

No easy mornings, exchanging lazy conversation over sunbeams and sleepy smiles. No shared glances that caught the light and held it just a second too long.

It was like a street at night without drivers. All the lights still there, but no one left to see them.

The first night alone in his tiny new apartment, Jamil tried to savor it—the peace of solitude he'd craved for so long. And at first, it was soothing.

Until midnight came.

He wandered outside, some half-formed instinct steering him toward where you should have been—and when you weren't there, the absence hit him like a blow.

The loneliness he had fought for now felt hollow.

Jamil didn't sleep that night.

Instead, he remembered. Remembered the day he first saw you fall apart. How he had ignored the sharp pain in his chest. Pretended it wasn't real.

He hadn't been able to untangle you then. All he could do was try to smooth the edges of the knot. To make your days a little softer after all the ones that had broken you.

It wasn't duty. It wasn't obligation.

It was care.

It was a love, quiet and clumsy and too late to name.

Two days later, he broke. He didn't have to be at work for another three hours.

But he couldn't sit still. Couldn't endure one more morning without you.

The air was warm as he drove, windows down, heart pounding. And maybe—maybe—if he took the turns slow and missed the potholes, he'd catch a glimpse of you. A ghost still waiting in the passenger seat.

He found you, somehow. And before he could think better of it, the words were out:

"Those morning felt like a religion," he blurted. Voice raw, unguarded. His posture was slightly hunched, like he desperately wanted to curl into himself. "And I don't think you knew. But that's my fault for not telling you."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, trying to process this vulnerability never seen before.

Jamil swallowed hard. His voice, usually so measured, cracked slightly as he spoke again:

"I'm sorry—about a lot. For getting you tangled up in my old position. For leaving without a word."

Those storm-grey eyes, always so guarded, softened. Genuine. Regretful.

A look you thought you might never see from him.

"I need you," he said, low and hoarse. "Selfishly—but that's the man I am."

His hand curled into a fist at his side. "Don't let me walk out of your life again."

A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost too sad to be called one.

"Hit me next time I try. Pull my hair if I try to walk out—because clearly I'm not thinking straight."

Vil

It had been shocking—almost incomprehensible—to learn that someone like you, someone who shone so effortlessly, could have ever gone unnoticed. You lit up the environment around in the smallest, most invisible ways: a faint warmth in a cold room, a softening of the air when you smiled, a kind of presence that smoothed the world around you without even trying.

And yet, you had died before he ever met you. Both in spirit—and once, horrifyingly, in body.

The thought of it stung more than Vil cared to admit. What had you been like before that? Back in your own world, before the weight of it all? Were you brighter then? Happier? Did you laugh more, shine more openly, without that delicate hesitation in your eyes?

He would never know. And maybe it didn't matter anyway.

You were here now—lovely still, even though you were damaged. Beautiful not in spite of your hurt, but because of them.

When you first explained the truth to him, voice shaking, eyes darting like a wounded animal expecting to be punished, Vil had remained cold, still as a marble statue. Not cold toward you, no—but he had retreated inward, retreading deep into his mind where he could turn over every memory, every subtle expression he'd seen on your face and missed the meaning of until now.

The idea that you had suffered alone—that you had broken quietly while the world looked away—was something he couldn't tolerate. Wouldn't tolerate.

The next morning, he came to wake you himself, gently brushing your hair from your face. You blinked blearily up at him, and the instant you noticed the dark marks under his eyes, guilt flared bright and ugly across your features, rearing its head and biting down hard.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression tightening with something closer to anger.

"No," Vil said firmly, the syllable slicing through the guilt before it could gnaw down to marrow. "We are not doing that. From this day forward, you're not going to live like you're waiting to break again. I don't care what the universe thinks it has in store."

His voice was stern—uncompromising—but there was a heat behind it, a furious kind of encouragement that only someone like Vil could offer.

It was clear in his tone: you had no choice. You are going to get better.

It was moments like these when Vil's tenacity blazed through, unrelenting and bright, like a floodlight tearing apart the fog. Not cruelty. Rescue.

When news eventually reached him that the Mirror had found a way back home for Ramshackle—and for you—Vil had paused. The thought of you leaving, returning to a life he'd never gotten the chance to see, made a low ache settle in his chest. He thought about the memories you had built here, the things he still wanted to show you, the futures he had half-imagined where you remained close by.

But Vil was not selfish. Or at least—he tried not to be.

So he smiled, and dressed you and the Yuus in their finest, styling every detail to perfection to send you back in a blaze of glory. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary when they brushed your cheek, and his violet eyes softened with a rare, unguarded tenderness.

"What do you think you'll do first when you get home?" he asks quietly, more curious than anything else. He realized belatedly, that he had never once asked about your world, about what it was like beyond the glimpses you had let slip. And now that he might lose you, he regretted it. Regretted all the things he hadn't thought to say, or ask, or do.

It was true what they said: You never truly appreciate what you have until it's about to be gone.

But when you threw yourself at him instead—launching yourself into his arms rather than the portal home—Vil's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, lips parting wordlessly as he tried to process what had just happened.

Then he laughed, the sound light, melodic, and disbelieving, pulling you closer into a tight embrace.

"I worked so hard on you," he teased, his voice breaking slightly with the intensity of the moment, "only for you to ruin my grand sendoff." He pulled back just enough to study you, really study you. "But you made the right choice. You're my responsibility now. And I won't let you regret it."

Of course, responsibility meant more than just affection. It meant practicalities: endless paperwork, infuriating bureaucracy, finding a legal way to anchor you to this world. It was tedious, but Vil's influence—and a considerable amount of money—swept aside most obstacles.

You had the best lawyers money could buy. The best support system anyone could dream of.

His home was always open to you. Always.

Meanwhile, Vil's acting career could only soar. Higher and higher, until sometimes you wondered if he had already disappeared into sky you would never be able to reach.

You were still the same nobody from another world. Someone who had once hidden behind an old, battered Ghost Camera.

But something fierce burned inside you—a refusal to be left behind. And it turned out, the Ghost Camera had been more valuable than you ever realized.

Your photographs, capturing the raw, breathtaking moments no one else could see, caught fire. And Vil, true to his word, promoted your work without hesitation, praising you where it mattered—where it would be seen. Not because you were his friend, but because he supports genuine quality.

You climbed steadily. Not as fast as him, maybe. But you were climbing. And that was enough.

Vil stayed close. not possessively, never with a chain—but intentionally, with a presence so steady it wrapped around you like sunlight. He let you shine or hide as you pleased, never once pushing or pulling.

And even years later, there was a softness to the way he said your name when no one was listening. A way he called you like your name was something rare and precious that he trusted to keep safe.

Second place didn't feel so terrible anymore. Not when you looked at him like he were the entire world.

The café was bustling that afternoon, light pouring in through tall windows, golden and clear as you finished your last picture of the day. You handed him the camera, letting him pick the shots he wanted to post to his socials.

"You've done well today," Vil said smoothly, a playful purr curling in his throat. "Eat your treat. I'll be paying, of course."

You smiled and focused on your food while Vil flipped expertly through the photos. His brows furrowed for a moment.

Not a single photo of yourself?

Really now, that wouldn't do.

His gaze flicked up, and without a word, he raised the camera, subtly, carefully. Someone like you deserved to be photographed too. Vil was no professional photographer, but he knew angles, light, and presence better than anyone.

The afternoon sun caught you just right, haloing you in a soft, dreamlike glow. In the frame, you looked distant and unreachable, like a star that had drifted just close enough to touch—but only for him.

He nearly preened at the sight. And you didn't even realize.

He selected his chosen photos, downloading them to his phone—including the candid shot he had taken of you without hesitation.

Vil's gaze flicked back to you, a small, private smile tugging at his lips. Gentle and fond.

"No wonder I adore you," he murmured, almost too low for you to hear.

You're perfect.

Rook

Rook understood the shape of your silence—the shame that curled around your throat like smoke, the fear that coiled in your gut each time your eyes met his and remembered that he knew. That others knew. Facing him like pushing a boulder uphill with trembling hands, only to have it roll back again and again, leaving the taste of bile and old blood in your mouth. A Sisyphean struggle.

So he came to you, wordless and calm, finding you when you were alone and unguarded, gently taking your hand and leading you into the woods. His smile was soft, certain, and unwavering—the kind that told you he had no intention of letting go. He said the trees listened, and though you didn't understand what he meant, you played along. You picked a tree that felt right beneath your fingertips, scrawled your heart onto a slip of paper, and tucked it into a crevice like a secret.

You forgot about it. Days passed.

Until a lonely walk brought you back, and there it was—a new note waiting.

You had expected florid prose, something dramatic and honeyed. But Rook, for all his flair, is a romantic—not a fool. He understands when silence is sacred, when pain should not be gilded. His words were precise, gentle. Not overwrought. Just enough. Just what you needed.

So began your quiet ritual. The tree became your confessional, your pen-pal, your anchor. You poured your heard into those folded messages—some raw and trembling, others dark enough to frighten yourself—and still, when you looked into Rook's eyes the next day, there was no sign of knowledge. No flicker of pity. Just him. The same warmth, the same light.

And that, more than anything, gave you the courage to keep going. his care didn't chase you. It waited—constant, open-armed, patient. And when the day came that you ran into him, truly ran to him, his expression cracked open with surprise, then melted into something reverent and unguarded. As if you were stardust falling into his palms and he couldn't quite believe he'd caught you.

He removed his gloves with trembling fingers, cupped your cheek like it was a petal, and simply breathed. You were real. You were here. There was something in his gaze that echoes the Blot's worship—something sacred, if mortal. Something that tethered you.

After graduation, Rook vanished like mist in the morning. You didn't know then how he worked behind the scenes—clearing the legal brush that tangled your life, speaking to shadows, acquired impossible approvals. You had your suspicions, of course. nothing about Rook was ordinary. And yet, you never questioned it too deeply.

Because even in his absence, he was present.

When your thoughts turned to static and your bones refused to move, a ball chimed, soft and familiar. A note would be waiting, always written in that elegant hand, always scented faintly like something you couldn't name but always recognized. A constant hum of care that said:

"You seem stressed, mon étoile. I've run you a bath. I'll be home soon. Do not miss me too much."

It was strange how seamlessly this had become normal. He always knew what you needed before you did. You still struggled, still stumbled through the world like it was too sharp in places, but somehow, Rook softened it.

He was always just beyond the corner of your eye—smiling, watching, waiting. Never possessive. Just present. You, the greatest mystery he never wished to solve. The muse he chose to love without condition. With you, he was both fox and flame—elegant, wild, profoundly gentle.

He didn't visit so much as arrive—like a poem made flesh. With letters, with gifts, with whispers in the form of pressed flowers and wine-dark ink. He never once said mine. He didn't need to. Every gesture said: I see you. I choose you.

You once lingered over his words. "Home", he'd called this place. You hadn't thought about it much before—but yes. It had started to feel like home. Warmer when he was near—softer. The air itself seemed kinder.

You didn't know where he lived. You weren't sure anyone knew.

His skill was noticing things—finding people, truths, hidden threads—made him legendary in private investigation circles. A ghost with green eyes and a fox's grin. But he was always on the move. So perhaps... this was his home. With you.

And then, one day, he returned.

Arms open. As always. Bearing gifts and that smile that never lost its sincerity. He asked for nothing. Hoped for everything. And each moment with him felt like stepping into a world he wrote just for you.

You wandered the flittering chaos of a night carnival, stars flaring above—but he told you plainly: you outshone them all. He kissed your knuckled like they were spun from silk, eyes glinting with mischief, but also with a yearning he rarely gave voice to.

He'd never tasted cotton candy from your lips. But you could see he wanted to.

Still, he let you set the pace, accepted your subtleties with grace—even if it never quite suited him. The stack of love letters tucked in your drawer proved that well enough.

You laughed, softly, and it bloomed like a song in the dark. His pride shone in the curve of his smile, in the reverence in his gaze.

"Why exactly do you love me?" you asked.

A dangerous question. But not for Rook.

His eyes widened, lips parted. And for once, he didn't speak immediately. Didn't have a script. He breathed out your name like a prayer.

"Mon étoile..." he began, voice caught in his throat. Then smiled, defeated in the best way. "You are you. I can think of no finer reason. Though... ask me again in an hour, and I will give you poetry worthy of your name."

And that sincerity—unguarded and soft—was perhaps what you cherished most.

That night, Rook left quietly, but his hand lingered in yours, unwilling to part. And when you turned the pages of your book later, a letter slipped free, unsigned but unmistakably his.

You recognize the handwriting as surely as your own heartbeat. The same pen that once whispered back to you through a tree, when you could barely speak to anyone.

I dwell within your quiet heart— a haven cloaked in tender dark, where silence hums a lullaby and every beat becomes my spark.

This rhythm, soft as angel wings, resounds beneath my resting cheek. It sings me into gentle sleep— the only song I ever seek.

No morning sun, no moonlit skies, can find me where your pulse resides. But I don't mourn the world outside; I bloom beneath your touch, confined.

A worshipper behind the veil, who tastes your kindness through the bars— sweet offerings of sugar-spun devotion passed from hand to heart.

So ask me if I wish for light— when I have you, my sacred night.

Epel

Epel was about five seconds away from throwing hands with the Blot itself.

If he could've punched that cursed ring off your finger, he would've tried— consequences be damned.

Seeing Rook and Vil, two of the strongest he knew, return to the dorm looking pale and shaken told him everything he needed. Their posture was off. Their eyes didn't sparkle like they usually did. Vil's smile—always poised, sharp—faltered at the corners. And Rook? Rook couldn't properly meet his gaze.

Epel wasn't dumb. He wasn't blind. He'd seen the little tells in you—how your fingers would tremble slightly when you thought no one was watching, how your gaze lingered on the ring with something between longing and dread. He noticed it all. But this... this confirmed it.

And three days later... he was finally told the full truth.

That night, the dorm felt like a cage. Epel slipped out without a word, wandering aimlessly though the fog-drenched paths of NRC. Curfew didn't matter. Not when his chest was full of a rage that felt too loud to scream and too big for his body to contain.

It wasn't fair.

You weren't supposed to suffer like this. To be forced into silence, into survival. The thought of you leaving—choosing to leave—sent a sharp ache through his stomach. His nose scrunched up, expression twisted in pain.

Were you unhappy? No—of course you were. That was a dumb question.

Still, weren't you happy with him? With the rest of them?

So when you made your decision—when you chose to stay—Epel lit up like a firework display at a sledding festival. Politeness and composure went out the window in a flash. He ran to you, nearly tackled you in a hug that squeezed the air from your lungs. The warmth was overwhelming, and for a second you almost mistook him for Floyd.

"I knew you'd stay!" he cried, practically bouncing. "Yer tougher than damn Leona—easy!"

Vil didn't scold him. Not this time. That kind of joy deserved to live unbothered.

Classes resumed. Time moved forward. Things returned to almost normal at NRC—except now Epel stuck closer to your side, a little more protective, a little more vocal. Somehow even more attentive, if that was possible.

Graduation came faster than anyone expected, and with it came offers. Professors, alumni, and even some upperclassmen offered you places to go—options, safety nets. But Epel, with a smug little grin and too much confidence for his own good, would always nudge you and remind you:

"You ran straight to me the moment you decided to stay. So obviously... I'm your top pick."

It was cocky. It was so Epel.

And truthfully, you couldn't argue with it. Not when the idea of living anywhere else felt wrong in your chest.

Harveston welcomed you like spring after a long, bitter winter. No IDs or government paperwork were needed here. Epel's grandma and the rest of the town didn't ask any questions—they just smiled, nodded, and made sure your plate was full and you pulled your weight.

And Epel? He wasted no time getting you on your feet. He threw his whole heart into helping you build an entire life. He petitioned the village council, called in every favor he was owed, even stood up in meetings to vouch for you with a strong voice and defiant eyes.

He got you a job. A real one. And he made sure you did the rest. No pity. No whispered stories. Just small-town rhythms and the kind of grounding only hard work and community could offer.

You found yourself pulled into festivals and harvest parties, into baking competitions and long days of hauling crates and setting up stalls. Epel introduced you to everyone as "just another buddy." That mattered more than you realized. He never made you feel like a project or too much of a big deal. Just a person.

He helped by being normal.

Back in Harveston, Epel's proper posture and polished NRC habits fell away like snow in the sun. His accent thickened. His energy sharpened into something rowdier, freer. He was still charming, still thoughtful, still absurdly pretty—but now with mud on his boots and a mischief in his grin.

Still, he'd hold onto little gestures—gentle mannerisms he'd picked up from Pomefiore and held close as something useful—just to impress you. He'd never admit it, but the way he folded napkins or picked wildflowers and arranged them artfully when he thought no one saw said more than his stubborn mouth ever would.

One evening, the two of you leaned shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the town bustle beneath a sunset that stained the sky gold.

"Took guts to stay," Epel said softly, nudging you with a grin that had grown to feel like home these days. "Glad you did, tough-guy."

Seven years passed like a slow-drifting breeze.

You became thick as thieves. Partners in rural mischief and a quiet loyalty. He never asked you to change. Never needed you to be "better". You were enough—just as you were. And, to his absolute delight, Epel finally got that growth spurt he always wanted. The wiry boy you'd known filled out with the kind of sturdy muscle expected of a farmhand, yet somehow he still carried the delicate features of a pretty-boy idol. The contrast suited him in the oddest ways.

Harveston's pave was unhurried. It gave you space to grow without pressure, to heal without deadline.

Epel threw himself into potion work in his spare time. He was close—so close—to creating something that would bolster the strength of apple trees against cold snaps. His notes, written in neat but winding scrawl, were packed with half-jokes and long tangents. He mailed drafts often, addressed to Vil and Professor Crewel, and passed them to you for delivery. The envelopes always smelled like crushed grass, cinnamon, and drying herbs.

At your favorite local bar, you'd sit tucked away in the back booth, trading stories and lazy grins. You didn't need alcohol—just music and each other. But when someone whispered too loudly about your "strange" past or how you just appeared one day, Epel would always try—try—to keep calm.

Sometimes he succeeded.

Other times, well... he didn't.

Dragging him out by the collar had become a semi-regular occurrence. He always apologized—eventually—while fiddling with his hair and muttering colorful phrases that didn't exist outside of Harveston's backwoods vernacular.

Seasons changed. Festivals came and went. Apple treats became a staple of your life—sweet, tart, and always different and new. Pies, ciders, jams, sugared slices, meats. On the quietest nights, when the stars glimmered and the air was soft, Epel would sit beside you carving an apple with practiced hands, cutting each piece into a tiny heart before handing it to you without a word.

Then came the blueprints.

One evening, after helping out around the Felmier farm, Epel's grandma shoved him out the door with encouragement and a paper roll clutched in his hand. He trudged through the orchard toward you, dragging his feet and taking the long way around, muttering under his breath like the apples were eavesdropping.

His usual boldness was nowhere to be found when he finally reached you. Instead, he scratched his cheek, looking anywhere but your face.

"I, uh..." He thrust the papers at you awkwardly. "I asked a buddy to draw these up."

You unrolled them—blueprints. A small cottage. Cozy. Thoughtful.

"I was thinkin'... I'd start buildin'. A place for m'self." His voice dropped, eyes flickered to yours for only a moment before darting away. The accent was stronger, coupled with the quiet murmur and lack of enunciation. "You'd... you'd have a room. If y'want."

You could've teased him. You could've said something snarky. But looking at him—red-faced, fidgeting, heart to obviously in his throat—you just smiled.

The sun was setting behind him. The orchard glowed.

Home never looked so real.

Idia

Idia Shroud understood the impossibility of your situation better than anyone. He knew that twisted, self-sacrificing logic that chained you to this secret. This quiet pact of pain you carried like a second skin. The very knowledge people claimed he was blessed with—that brilliance, the foresight—was now a blade carving home open and stitching him back together, over and over again.

You were alive. But at what cost? And for how long?

Those questions seemed to haunt him. Worse, he already knew the answers—and they made him feel like he was complicit in your suffering. He hated it. Hated himself for it.

For weeks, he did nothing. Just spiraled.

He locked himself in his dorm, blinds drawn tight, lights dimmed, games unopened. He let despair wash over him like static—draining, numbing, constant. but eventually that despair twisted into something else. Sadness hardened into anger. Anger turned into resolve.

He gritted his teeth and contacted STYX.

The message went through with the press of a trembling finger—but then came the panic. His thumb hovered over the keyboard again and again before he sent a second message. This time directly to his parents:

Whatever happens from here on... I'm handling it. No one touches this but me.

And to his surprise, they agreed. Clearance was granted. Full authority. Every decision about you—from oversight to operations—was his.

It didn't feel like power. It felt like a countdown ticking too fast.

Idia's normally dull gaze grew sharp, conflicted, alive with a rare focus. The kind of look he only wore when a raid boss was almost down and his last few HP bars were flashing red.

He didn't let himself hope—not really—but he moved like someone who needed you to live.

The day of your escape came, and Idia didn't show his hand. No dramatic confrontations. No sweeping interventions. Just a short, awkward message pinged to your phone.

congrats ig. try not 2 trip on the way out lol

You stared at the screen, frowning. Was he... mad at you? Was this some kind of guilt trip?

You scanned the crowd more than once that day, hoping—maybe irrationally—to spot his wild blue flames, his guarded eyes. Nothing.

But he was there.

Hiding in plain sight. Hood drawn over his head, posture hunched. Face a ghost in the crowd. Only Ortho knew where to look.

He had plans inside plans. Reinforcements layered in encrypted code and ciphers. STYX agents disguised as students. Ortho monitoring vital signs and heat maps from the perimeter. Hidden failsafes stacked in sequence like dominoes. If something went wrong—when it went wrong—he was ready to respond.

Or so he thought.

The noise. The chaos. The too-bright lights and the electric buzz of the crowd—it all pressed in on him. His thoughts fractured, splintering into static. his fingers trembled in his sleeves. The air felt too thin. His skin, too tight.

The corners of his vision darkened, creeping inward like greedy vines. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, fast and frantic. His legs locked. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.

Not now. Please. Not now—

And then—impact.

You slammed into him at full speed, and the two of you crashed to the ground. The world lurched. Wind knocked clean from both your lungs. It was messy, disorienting—too real.

Idia's eyes widened as his vision cleared, and there you were.

You.

His mind blanked.

All the blueprints, all the backup files, all the emotional scaffolding he'd built came crashing down at once. The only thing left standing was the image of you—panting, real, wide-eyed and stunned.

"Wh—why—" he gasped, voice thin and confused.

You were here. Right now. Right now.

And just like that, the panic slipped away. His heartbeat didn't slow, but it changed. No longer frantic with fear—now thundering with relief so raw it left him dizzy.

The following days, Idia vanished. Physically, at least. No one saw him around campus.

But he texted you. Daily. Sometimes more. Memes, links, dumb jokes, weird cat videos from ten years ago. The messages were his way of saying I'm here. Are you still here too?

Oddly, his status stayed offline. No game log-ins. No streams. no records of activity.

Suspicious.

And two days later,t he truth surfaced.

Idia had taken his final exams early and graduated. Quietly. Efficiently. He didn't make a big deal out of it—except when he stopped by Ramshackle.

He showed up at your door with a keycard in one hand and Ortho floating behind him with a cheerful wave.

"S-so... Ramshackle's, like... super old. Totally haunted. And, uh, my room has heating—and AC." His words stumbled over themselves, faster and faster. "A-and Ortho's here to keep you company. Y'know. In case. Not 'cause I think you're gonna, like, pass out or anything."

You tilted your head, raised an eyebrow.

Idia's eyes darted. His confidence cracked—just for a second—before he blurted, in a single breath:

"Iknowyou'llmissme—so I guess you can have Ortho and my old room. Hehe. Yeah."

Silence.

Your deadpan stare could've knocked down a wall.

"...Right. Bye!" he squeaked, spinning on his heel and slamming your front door on himself.

In the time between that chaotic day and your graduation, Ortho became something like your personal tutor. Not in schoolwork—but in preparation for STYX.

"You'll be going there after graduation," he said plainly, in that chipper robotic voice that somehow still managed to carry warmth, concern, and certainty all at once.

"Big Brother's working hard for you so you have to be ready too!"

And so began an intense, borderline bizarre curriculum: learning STYX protocol, containment procedures, theoretical Blot behavior modules, ethics review formats. He quizzed you on security phrases between bites of lunch, made you practice biometric door access like it was a game, even drilled you on how to politely but firmly argue policies. You weren't sure if it was love, duty, or some strange combination of both—but Ortho made sure you knew: Idia was building something big behind the scenes. And you were part of it.

By the time Idia settled into his high-clearance fancy adult job, he'd already done what no one else could:

He made you make sense.

In records. In science. In theory and paperwork and metaphysical law. You were classified, officially, as a Blot-linked Anomaly—Level O. Top-tier clearance. Highest level containment and observation, but with protections no prior entity like you had ever been granted.

Idia rewrote the rules for you.

You were granted legal personhood—under obscure arcane-metaphysical statutes. Governmental immunity—within STYX's jurisdiction. And—because he knew what the alternative would be—you were granted residential placement inside the STYX institute itself.

An anomaly with a keycard. A legal paradox with a bed and medical insurance.

You were, in every sense, an ethical nightmare. And Idia—grinning like a gremlin in a suit—made it work anyway.

He waltzed into hearing and mock-trials with that smug tone and too-fast speech, flicking holographic tabs as he essentially mansplained bureaucracy to the government, sounding like a tech-support rep possessed by a dungeon master.

And he won.

Your official role was complicated—half test subject, half guest researcher. You studied Blot phenomena from the inside. Gave insight that no textbook or simulation could replicate. You understood it—and the institute couldn't argue with results.

You can still remember the induction day vividly.

A sterile white room. High ceiling and the hums of electricity in the walls. The air too clean. A long table with thick binders, STYX officials seated like a tribunal. Your name wasn't called—it was announced. Like a warning.

You walked in, tense and unsure, shadowed by handlers. You expected cuffs. Isolation. Observation behind glass.

Instead, you saw him.

Idia stood at the head of the room. No tablet in hand. No hoodie or clunky headset to hide behind. His posture was straighter now, if still awkward. His hair, slightly longer. His expression, sharper. His aura, commanding.

You worried he'd changed.

"This," he said without hesitation, "is the Progenitor Blot Host. Level O. Under my division. Effective immediately."

The silence that followed felt seismic.

You didn't miss the way some of the officers stiffened. Nor the way Idia's voice didn't waver once.

It was the first time you realized—he couldn't afford to slack off here. Not where you were involved. Not when your safety, freedom, and continued existence balance on the strength of his authority.

He had to be better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter.

Idia's eyes flickered to you just once—barely a second—and yet you could read the entire message in the twitch of his brow and the faint upward pull at the corner of his mouth:

Do I look cool?

He knows your biometric data by heart now. He tracks your vitals during every high-risk scan, every trial, every exposure text. And even though he's technically not supposed to show favoritism, he always meets your gaze when the lights come back on, murmuring under his breath—

"...Still breathing? Cool."

The institute didn't exactly welcome your presence with open arms.

You weren't recruited. You weren't "normal." And to them, you were still a marionette—a vessel tainted by the Blot. A walking threat. Something to be monitored, not included.

They never said it outright. But it showed. In the small things. One afternoon, while trying to access the digital archives to cross-reference a phenomenon you'd encountered in a recent simulation, the system denied you.

[ACCESS REVOKED. GUESS PERMISSIONS INVALID.]

Strange. You had clearance yesterday.

You didn't even have time to message Idia.

Thirty-eight minutes later, the lab doors hissed open and he strode in—expression dark, eyes narrowed. No greeting. No preamble. He moved straight tot he console, leaned over your shoulder, and typed with rapid precision.

"Override protocol," he muttered, his keystrokes laced with irritation. "Guest-Class E00-Prime. Reactivate."

A chime sounded.

[ACCESS RESTORED.]

Idia didn't look at you—just glared at the screen, muttering under his breath, "If they're gonna treat you like a lab rat, you might as well be a clever one." You didn't take the jab personally. It wasn't really aimed at you anyway.

You watched him walk out, coat swishing, muttering obscenities too clinically online for a translator to parse.

It happened during a routine trial—a recalibration of your resistance threshold under Blot saturation. You were halfway through putting your gloves back on when one of the technicians muttered to his colleague:

"That Blot puppet's biometrics are unusually unstable today."

As if you weren't standing there. As if you weren't a person at all. Just another specimen in a cage.

You froze for half a beat, fingers twitching. Then, too quickly you tugged the gloves on, trying to conceal what the man had noticed: The inky traces that danced over your thumb from that one injury years back and that ring that won't come off. A reminder. A curse. Or maybe just proof.

The room didn't explode. No shouting followed.

But it did go quiet.

Idia was still seated at the monitoring terminal, stylus in hand. He paused, exhaled slowly through his nose, and ran a hand through his hair—more a frustrated rake of fingers than any attempt to smooth it down. His expression soured into something drained and sharp. Jaw clenched. Eyes flat and furious.

"That 'puppet'," he said, in a voice low and calm—too calm, "has already rewritten half of your department's outdated, incomplete containment methods."

There was no room for rebuttal. No space for apology.

Then, just as simply, he turned back to his work, leaving the silence behind like a closed door.

Later that evening, there was a knock to grab your attention while you worked—barely audible. When you peered up, Idia was already halfway turned to leave. He handed you a stack of updated documents and a single sticky note attached to the top.

You expected a memo. Instructions. Maybe a passive-aggressive bullet point about test protocol.

Instead, you found a doodle.

Two cats, unmistakably drawn in his familiar style—one drawn with a mop of wild blue flaming fur, the other looked just like you. Both in STYX uniforms. Both holding hands.

You snorted softly, heart catching in your throat. The paper joined the growing collection pinned to your board—quiet testaments to moments only you got to see from him.

These days, Idia didn't look scared anymore—not in the way he used to. The haunted, awkward flinches had been replaced with a different kind of heaviness: exhaustion carved into his shoulder, irritation etched into the tight line of his lips.

He was an important man now. A prodigy in a system that neither wanted nor understood someone like him. His methods were too fast, too efficient, too different. He streamlined procedures they thought sacred. Challenged traditions written before he was born. And worst of all, he had you—not just as a specimen, but as a researcher.

They hated that.

But he didn't back down. Not once. Especially not when it came to you.

Idia always found time for you.

You were one of the few people who had ever cracked through the wall of silence and sarcasm he wore like armor. You hadn't waited for permission. You'd barged into his orbit and stayed until he adjusted to your gravitational pull.

One afternoon, after a long and particularly grating workday, you returned to your workspace to find a neatly packed container waiting for you.

Inside: pomegranate seeds. Clean, pristine. Like a container with tiny, glistening rubies. No note. But there didn't need to be one.

Your gaze drifted to where he stood—across the lab, scanning something on his tablet, posture a little too stiff to be casual. His gloves hung from his pocket. And even from a distance, you could see the faint red tint staining the tips of his fingers.

He'd peeled them himself. Cleaned them. Prepared them.

For you.

That night, you returned the favor.

Not in the same way—he wasn't much for raw fruit. But sweets? That was a different story. So you wrestled with recipe after recipe until you finally got it right: pomegranate gummies. Shaped like little cubes and dusted in sour sugar, something you're sure he would like.

At nearly midnight, your tablet buzzed.

Idia: rec room. 15 minutes. prepare to get destroyed loser

When you arrived, he was already there—lounging on the couch, console flickering in front of him. The sharp-edged leader of STYX had vanished, replaced by the man you knew. Hoodie slouched. Hair down. Eyes darting from you, to the gift, then immediately back down to the screen as if it's suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

His hair blushes a deep pink red the moment you sit with him and he wishes he could rip it all out to avoid detection of his feelings.

"...Thanks," he mumbles, just loud enough to hear.

You don't say anything. Don't have to.

STYX is sterile. Cold. Precise. Unforgiving.

But Idia isn't. Not with you.

He watches your tests from behind the observation window. Always. Every time.

When it's over, he taps the glass once with too fingers. A signal. Not protocol. Not habit.

Just him.

Still here? Still real?

You tap back.

Still me.

And that's all you need.

Malleus

Malleus had never felt powerless—not truly. Not until you.

He had magic vast enough to summon tempests, wisdom steeped in years beyond you, and bloodline ties to ancient, unknowable power. Yet none of it could undo what was happening to you. He exhausted every archive, every relic, every whisper of long-forgotten magic in search of something—anything—that might save you. Fix you. Keep you.

And what terrified him most wasn't the pain. Nor the heartbreak. Not even the guilt over your shared loneliness that, somehow, he had failed to notice sooner.

It was the love.

A love that burned through him like molten metal, unrelenting and cruel in its beauty. It stripped away his reason, fanned the storms inside his chest, and left him wrecked and raging beneath the calm exterior of a prince. If sorrow were a sea, Malleus had sunk to its deepest trench. If longing were a storm, he was its eye.

And when the sky opened up that night, raining knives and screaming thunder, the world mirrored the grief he could no longer contain.

He nearly missed your sendoff.

No one had told him the exact date. Or perhaps they had, and he simply refused to believe it could come so soon. But the moment he realized, he arrived in a fury, tearing through the crowd with a desperation unbecoming of a future king. On stage, his eyes found you instantly, like a flower might seek the sun, and he reached for you without shame.

You had become too important. Too beloved. it was irresponsible to leave now.

When you stumbled into his arms, he clutched you as if you might disappear with the next breath. His fingers trembled, but his hold never faltered. You were sugar glass, his most treasured thing, and he cradled you with all the reverence of an old god holding a dying star.

"I would give you every scale on my body," he whispered into your shoulder, voice thick, "if it meant you could stay—even just a few days longer."

And Malleus meant it.

In the years that followed, he moved swiftly. He offered you sanctuary in Briar Valley—not merely a place to hide, but a protected status backed by law and rite. He stood before the Council not with a request, but a declaration: you were not a denizen of Briar Valley, protected under ancient pact and fae magic.

You became both marked and protected, woven into the very wards of the kingdom. No officials dared challenge it.

On the day your name was officially inscribed into Briar Valley's record, Malleus arrived bearing a gift: a black obsidian lantern, its enchanted flame flickering but never faltering. He placed it on your table with quiet care before sitting beside you, hands folded, nearly vibrating with unspoken affection.

His smile was soft, reverent. There was no ambiguity in his love—it bled into everything he did. His words were poetry laced with old magic, and his gaze held the depth of centuries. You were his heart's anchor, and though he never asked for your love in return, he offered his own endlessly, unconditionally, whenever you needed it.

But Malleus knew time was cruel.

Your lifespan was a flicker compared to his eternity. And that awareness haunted him. Every moment he had with you was faintly shadowed by the truth that he would one day wake to a world without you.

So he made your time here radiant.

He was a king—a busy one. Yet he still found ways to slip from endless meetings just to see you. Just to breathe in the same space you shared and simply gaze upon you in early morning light.

One evening, you were summoned to the palace. The night air was cool and the moonlight kissed Malleus's features in silver and shadow. He offered you his hand without a word, and when you took it, he stood taller, prouder.

He guided you through the royal gardens—transformed entirely. Every flower, every stem, every vine had been carefully curated to reflect your favorites. The entire garden had bent to your presence.

"The flowers bloom longer now," Malleus said, voice gentle. "The garden is happy."

The garden was happy, yes. But so was the man gazing at you like you were a divine gift.

At the center of the garden stood a singular tree, regal and solitary, adorned with faerie-crafted jewelry. Bracelets spiraled around its limbs, enchanted to expand as the tree grew. Its crown glittered with delicate charms holding precious stones, catching the moonlight in bursts of color.

At its base, a plaque bore your name.

Beneath it, in Malleus' own hand, read:

"Preserved beyond time. Indelible."

He asked you to dance. There was no music, but the stars sand and the wind swayed gently, as if the universe itself honored your steps. His hand never left yours.

"Even eternity," he spoke lowly, "would feel brief with you beside me, child of man."

His romantic declarations no longer startled you, but they still stirred something deep in your chest. Green eyes softened, lips parted—he seemed on the cusp of saying something more, but hesitated. That, in itself, was unusual.

Malleus never hesitated.

That night, you found a gift on your windowsill. Scales—small, iridescent, humming softly with magic. They shimmered in hues of violet and emerald under the moonlight.

A sacred offering. A silent confession.

You didn't respond right away. Not because you didn't feel—but because the enormity of it left you breathless. How does one answer a dragon's heart?

Malleus noticed your silence and it clung to him like a shadow.

He showed up at your door a few weeks later, soaked through the rain, his cloak clinging to him like wilted wings. He looked utterly undone—drenched, tired, and heart-wrecked.

You barely had time to question him before he collapsed onto your couch—onto you. Head bowed, and shoulders trembling from something far deeper than weather.

"If I were to offer you my name—my truest name—would you carry it?" he asked quietly, voice cracking beneath the weight of what he couldn't bear to speak aloud. For an all-powerful king, he had never felt more uneasy. "Even knowing it would bind me to you? Do you feel unwelcome here? Do you not feel the same?"

His words were soft. Not with accusation, but aching uncertainty.

"Do you fear, my child of man, that they do not want you here? I want you here. And I have never wanted lightly. Had you gone that day... the stars themselves might have mourned and I would have died."

And you understood. He was no just offering his love. He was offering everything His name. His kingdom. His future.

His eternity.

Silver

Silver didn't say much. Not at first. And certainly not about what had happened.

He never spoke of your pain directly, never commented on your desperation, never dared to label what had taken root inside you. His agony was quieter, than yours—muted and distant, like thunder on the horizon. But it was there. You could see it in his eyes, shadowed and heavy, in the way his jaw would tighten before softening again, in the way he stood just a little too still when you weren't looking.

What was loud in Silver's presence—so loud it rand like a bell—was his support.

"Surviving is the more important thing," he told you one night, gently but firmly, as if reciting a truth he'd clung to himself. "And look at you; you're alive. Isn't that all that matters?"

There was no judgement in his voice, no distance in his tone. He didn't flinch from the truth of what you'd done or what you'd become. He knew, in the quiet, accepting way that only someone who has suffered understands, that certain things happen not because you choose them, but because they are inevitable.

His only offering was himself. His presence. Steady and unwavering.

There wasn't much else he could give. Fight the Blot? No—he wasn't that powerful. But he could hold you when your hands trembled. He could stand beside you when your voice broke. He could catch you when the world became too much.

And in that moment—when you found yourself collapsing into his arms, tired down to your bones—that was all you ever needed.

When the possibility of returning home first surfaced—then gradually solidified into certainty—Silver stayed close. He helped you pack without hesitation. Every item you chose was folded with care, placed precisely, handled as if it were made of delicate glass. The silence between you two was stretched thin with things left unsaid, woven with unspoken fears and lingering regrets.

He was close. So painfully close.

And yet... he felt distant, like hew as already grieving your absence.

And yet the day you stumbled into him—unprompted—he held you with quiet strength, a gentle hand patting your back. He assumed it was goodbye. Assumed you just needed one final embrace, one last anchor before you set off.

His smile was warm. Resigned. Steady. "Don't keep them waiting," he whispered.

But you didn't let go.

You melted into him, held on tighter, and something shifted in the way his arms wrapped around you. Slower. Firmer. Silver understood then—perhaps not in words, but in feeling—that he had become your home. Not a destination. Not a temporary harbor. But the place you chose to return to.

In that moment, Silver made a silent vow; he would always be near, He would never stray far enough that you could be hurt without him there to catch you.

He never made a spectacle of his care. When the process of legitimizing your existence in this world began, he walked every step with you, uncomplaining. Malleus may have done most of the work—pulling strings, drafting rites—but Silver was the one by your side during the mundane, tender moments. The ones that mattered.

He sat beside you as you struggled to read unfamiliar words of Briar Valley, tracing the text in the golden pool of lamplight with a gloved finger. His voice low, patient. Repeating phrases slowly until they made sense. He never rushed you. Never sighed. Never made you feel small for needing help.

He made you feel safe. He became your constant.

Silver never asked for more. Never pushed you to define what was growing quietly between you. But he never stepped away, either. He remained—a still, gentle force. Loyal. Steadfast. His love lived in the spaces between your words, in the pauses between breaths.

You're not sure when the closeness became intimacy. When the shared silence turned into shared peace. When his casual gestured became something you looked forward to. Longed for.

He's still not a man of many words. But he doesn't need them.

Every week, a fresh bouquet appeared on your doorstep. Morning dew still clung to the petals like tiny jewels, as if the flowers had just been picked. You never saw who left them, but you knew. You always knew.

Your suspicions were confirmed one afternoon when Silver walked with you between his shifts. As you passed a small flower shop, a fae woman called out playfully, "Is this the one you keep buying bouquets for, boy?"

He didn't respond. Pretended he hadn't heard but the way the back of his neck and the tips of his ears flushed deep red was more than enough answer.

On the nights when he didn't make it all the way home—when duty drained him and he wandered, half-asleep, to your doorstep—you sighed affectionately and dragged him inside without complaint. The neighbors didn't think twice. They'd seen it before, and to them, it had become a charming routine.

When he stirred in your arms, halfway through being hauled onto the couch, your name slipped from his lips in a voice so quiet it might've been a dream.

Murmured like a vow. Like a secret only the stars were meant to hear.

Your birthday—a day you had chosen, separate from the old world and its heavy memories—was a small affair. Quiet. Warm. You caught him watching you more than once that night, his eyes lingering, curious and uncertain. He didn't give you his gift until after the celebration, when the crickets sang and the fireflies blinked like stars.

It was a worn leather journal. Soft at the edges. Clearly cherished.

Inside, the pages were filled—front to back—with entries from the past seven years. Dreams—many including you. He'd begun writing in this journal the night he first heard your nightmare. The night he heard you whisper an apology in your sleep for things that were never your fault.

"You've had too many bad dreams," Silver said, handing the journal to you like it was something sacred. "I wanted to... give you my good ones."

And it was then you realized: he had loved you, quietly, but deeply, for a long time.

Silver spent his rare free moments teaching you the stars. On evenings when you waited by his post just to walk home together, he could point out constellations—explaining which moved, which were still, and which had already died long ago.

"That one," he said once, pointing to a lone, resolute star shining proud, "is the one I wished on when I hoped you'd stay."

His voice grew quiet.

"And you did. Maybe I owe it now."

You two existed like a pair of lanterns in a vast, moonlight field—close but not touching, illuminating each other with warmth and presence. His guard post was always stations where you spent your time. He always found an excuse to walk you home when it rained, never commenting on how he always happened to be nearby.

One morning, as you walked together, he brushed a stray petal from your hair. His hand lingered, fingertips brushing your temple.

"You look warmer," he murmured, soft as breath. "These days... you glow. So bright."

He leaned in, just slightly—drawn without realizing it. The air between you sparked with a hush. But the moment shattered when he blinked, stumbled, back, and muttered something about "suspicious movement" in a nearby alleyway.

You watched him go, flustered and stiff, as birds chirped a teasing song above—one he pointedly ignored.

As if making his mind while trying to cool off, he said, without meeting your gaze:

"I... I don't need anything back. Just let me keep walking beside you. I'll walk with you for as long as you'll let me. Until you're ready to stop."

Sebek

Sebek had the loudest reaction to your news—louder than anyone else by far. His disbelief came crashing down like thunder, his voice rising in sharp denial, as if sheer volume could undo what happened. But the real noise—the most piercing grief—wasn't in his voice.

It was in the silence that followed.

His guilt didn't howl or scream. It lingered in the haunted look he gave you when you weren't watching, in how he stood too stiffly beside you like he was guarding a grave. He carried his shame in the awkward shuffle of his boots, in the way he reached out but never touched, in how his proud shoulders hunched ever so slightly when you turned away.

And yet—Sebek had also been your loudest support.

At first, he disguised it behind duty. "Lord Malleus must be protected at all costs," he'd declare, voice clipped, "and your condition may pose a risk. Thus, I shall observe you... closely. At all times."

That "risk" became his excuse to accompany you everywhere—whether it was to the market, the edge of the woods, or even just across the courtyard. He trailed behind like a knight on silent vigil, casting glares at wayward squirrels and pedestrians alike. And when you crossed the street, Sebek would seize your hand in his own, rigid with purpose, ready to throw himself between you and traffic like the cars were enemies to be slain.

He even developed a personal vendetta against mosquitoes. Mosquitoes. The first time one attempted to land on your arm, he swatted it midair with such force you nearly yelped. "How dare this insect attempt to drain the life from my ward?!" he'd shouted, whipping his head back and forth searching for any others.

You blinked. My ward?

He froze—then went scarlet. The words had tumbled out too fast, too honest. Still, he didn't take them back.

It became something of a pattern after that.

When you both graduated and Malleus, in his benevolence, granted you full citizenship, Sebek stood a step behind you—straight-backed, proud, silent—and you felt him tremble slightly. Loud as ever, brash as always, Sebek had never been the easiest person to befriend. But his gentleness with you, the devotion that softened his edges without dulling his fire, made it clear you were necessary in his life.

Time softened him in other ways, too. He remained booming, dramatic, occasionally unbearable—but his loudness took on a different tone. Where once it had been frantic, desperate to prove himself, now it carried reverence. His voice no longer echoed with insecurity—it rang with sincerity.

He still blushed furiously when praised. Still stumbled over his own feet in emotional moments. But he showed up. Every holiday. Every errand. Every moment when you didn't know you needed someone—but he did. He always did.

His loyalty had transformed from a burning flame to a hearthfire: constant, warm, dependable. He spoke of you the way he once spoke of Malleus—awestruck, fiercely protective, and with a respect that went bone-deep. If anyone dared speak ill of you, they were swiftly silenced, not by fury, but by conviction. And when you were quiet, unsure, aching from things you didn't have words for—Sebek was already there. You never needed to ask.

The day you chose to stay in Briar Valley, to remain in this world, to remain with him—Sebek took it personally. Like an oath fulfilled. Like you had knighted him. He raged on your behalf when others questioned your place here, as if your mere existence wasn't enough proof of your right to belong. And then, without ceremony or fanfare, he simply started teaching you everything NRC hadn't.

He became your guide to fae etiquette, to customs and laws and subtle rules that could mean the difference between safety and insult. He scribbled notes in the language you understood painstakingly, often with a few dramatic flourishes in the margins. And over shared dinners—recipes he'd learned from Lilia and, somehow, improved upon greatly—he quizzed you gently. When you studied on the couch, he'd lean over your shoulder to track your progress, unaware of his posture slouched slightly when he relaxed beside you.

You teased him for it, and somehow, the teasing turned into posture lessons, then dancing. "Faerie cultural education!" he insisted, face burning. But his hands were gentle on your waist, his movements careful, and the moment lingered like perfume longer than either of you meant it to.

His affections were not subtle—Sebek never could be subtle—but they were real. His sword, the one he trained with daily, bore your name etched into the hilt in small, reverent letters. Beneath it, a single word: Oath.

In winter—your least favorite season, the one that had once taken your life—he arrives wrapped in snow and worry, cloaking you in his own furs before walking you home. Even if you insisted you were fine, he never let you go alone. The fear of history repeating kept his jaw tight and steps sharp.

In spring and summer, the guilt changed forms. Your garden is mysteriously weeded. Your tools repaired. Orchids show up on your doorstep with no signature.

He is your guardian in every way but name.

One night, Sebek arrives outside your door with breathless urgency, hair mussed, eyes bright with something like panic. "I had a dream—" he starts, then falters. Instead of finishing the sentence, he draws his blade with a shaky hand and holds it out—not in threat, but offering.

"I—I..." he starts again, then stiffens his spine, meeting your gaze with something proud and tremulous all at once. "I will protect you... until my last breath. If—if you'll allow me."

In his voice is a tremor of fear, of hope. In his stance is a vow. And in your heart, you already know the answer.

You've always felt his promise. In every small act. Every loud reaction. Every silent service he renders without thanks.

But now, he says it.

And you don't need to say anything back.

Because, for once, Sebek has finally said enough.

Blot

Is this truly how it ends? With me loving your shadow—faithfully, hopelessly— while knowing the sun would set long before it could ever rise for me. What was I thinking? That perhaps—just perhaps—you might turn your gaze to me one day and say I love you too?

How foolish of me. How impossibly naïve.

Now I dwell here where I belong—in the shadows, in this cavernous ache of silence and sin— and I watch you. My sun. My star. Spinning in the arms of a man who adores you in the daylight, who calls you beloved with lips I envy, yet whose love could never—will never— equal even the faintest flicker of the fire I've burned for you.

And still... You chose him.

And though it cleaves through me like glass dragged slow across skin, though it churns my stomach and steals the breath from my lungs, I cannot hate you.

I will not.

Because your choices, your desires, your joys— they will always matter more than my own. This is my vow, quiet and aching: You first. Always.

Still, I writhe. I grieve. I seethe in this agony that never abates.

What good was a second chance, if it meant losing you all over again?

Yet I endure it, swallowing the pain as one might swallow a needle— deliberately, through salt and blood. Because maybe I never earned the love you once gave me. The same way I never earned this pain. The same way the clouds keep moving even when the wind has gone still. When no one feels it anymore.

Do you remember the wind?

Down by our oak, when the time moved slow and syrup-thick, like a music box winding down. When you still loved me. And the breeze carried the scent of promises we didn't know how to keep.

Does your heart ache now as mine does, when the air tastes sweet, like the memory of your love pressed into my skin?

I am no rising star, beloved. I never was. You may find—perhaps you already have—that I've never been remarkable at anything at all. Even if I stood in a crowd of mannequins with wings stretched wide and divine light pouring from my bones, you would now see me. Not really.

I see everything. And yet I've never been seen.

Not unless I create. Not unless I carve something unforgettable. A masterpiece. A ruin.

So I write tragedies. I stage them across kingdoms and courts, in places where gods might look down and pity me. Crafting disasters so vivid they cannot be ignored.

Screaming, without voice: I am here. Look at me please. I matter.

But masterpieces fade. The world forgets even beauty, given time.

Still... I like to think you were my best story. That we were. My finest chapter. You, with your mortal simplicity and your unburdened wisdom— you understood me more than I understood myself.

And in this second life, you understood the way a soul splinters when it has nowhere to turn. Not to life. Not to death.

Reality stretched thin around us, a mirror reflecting only distance, endlessly. And I saw you once, waking slowly— eyes clenched shut, clinging to the fading warmth of a dream you dared not believe in. Curling in on yourself. as if your own embrace might shield you from the cruelty of waking.

Now, I see you stir beneath morning light, his hand gently covering my ring. And you smile.

Gods, your smile.

It makes my heart stutter with joy... and twist in horror. Because I didn't cause it.

So I flee. Never far. Never gone. Just enough to quiet the scream in my chest.

I return to the broken places— to the temples long forgotten, where stone angles weep dust. And I wonder... if I'd done better, if I'd been better, would you have loved me then?

Someone once dreamt of building these sanctuaries. A craftsman who likely rushed home to tell his mother he was chosen to craft a house for the divine. He woke early, passed his hammer to his son when he grew weak. Did he know the temple would crumble?

Would it have stopped him?

So I ask: If I had known you'd never love me, would I still have tried so hard?

These days, I accept your silence like sacrament. Nights pass cold. You do not seek me. But I am not bitter. I can't be.

If it brings you happiness, I will hold it steady, even if it crushes me. I will carry your heart in my chest if that is what it takes. If ever you call. If ever you need what I still offer, I will come—bare, unguarded, unholy and reverent.

Because we are the sun and moon. I will give you all the light I have just so you can shine brighter. Even if your eyes are always on him. On the earth.

But hear me, if only once— if you can feel this trembling ache of mine: A thousand hands may lift you skyward, but only two will catch you when you fall.

Mine. Always mine.

And I will hold you. Piece you together again and again until you remember how to breathe.

You won't find me in the sunlight. Not beside the flowers he buys you. But sometimes, when the dishes are clean and a little note waits for you in his handwriting—

It will be in his hand. Forged by mine.

He loves you, truly. But never like I do.

And sometimes... that isn't enough to take his place.

I only ever wanted to prove that I belonged there. At your side. From the very start.

In your heart, there is a statue. The Faceless Lover. It is heavy—denser than gold, darker than grief. It holds your sorrows, your shame, your guilt, and your sins, so that you can remain pure.

But no matter how hard you try to look, its face remains hidden. Blurred. Frightened.

It fears being seen again. Fears being known. Fears being unloved.

But if—just once—you reached out, gently, like you used to, and traced its face with trembling fingers...

You'd find it smiling back at you. Still waiting. Still loving you.

Always.

[ENDING -> Reach For Him]

Play again?

Sure.

This ending was sort of actually a bonus because the main twst cast were background characters in this story but I did want to demonstrate to you all that I am capable of writing them all as well.

I hope I didn't get any of your favorites wrong and most of this is just my opinion guess on their lives in the future as well as their love languages.

I also wanted to prove I can write romance... I just like writing heartbreaking angsty yearning instead smh

Lilia and Ortho were not included because it felt off to write something for a while and an old man.

Some character's parts were longer than others simply because I wrote it the first few times and it didn't seem right so I took a break and brainstormed some ideas but when I wrote it out it was longer than usual. I apologize for that. There is no favoritism. Honestly I don't even like the twst guys. The Blot is my favorite and it isn't even a canon character :|

I hope parts don't seem too repetitive. I did use a format pre-written to keep me on track but I tried to make each character's route unique.

Idia's part is especially long because his character honestly fits the best for this story. Again, not a favorite, but with his close relation to blot, he's more fun to write in this.

Blot!reader pt. 8

Part 8 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The days blurred together, spinning like a carousel that had lost its rhythm—too fast, too bright, too sweet in all the wrong ways. It was beautiful, almost nostalgically so, but nauseating. As if time had decided to move forward with a cruel sort of cheer, indifferent to the heaviness you carried with each step.

After that night, no one asked questions.

Perhaps they didn't know how. Perhaps they feared the answers. Or maybe, deep down, they understood that no explanation offered could make any of it easier to bear. No truth would be gentle enough to soothe the ache or clean enough to satisfy curiosity.

The Blot, once a constant presence—whispering in corners of your mind, teasing you, luring and lamenting in equal measure—had gone quiet. It had curled into some hidden recess of your mind and fallen silent. No more murmurs. No more laughter. Not even sorrow.

Just stillness.

And in that silence, the days continued. Time didn't heal so much as it dulled. The pain didn't vanish, but its edges softened, becoming something you could carry without crumbling.

Word of your circumstances had reached others too. Rook, ever the optimist, had suggested involving more minds might help—perhaps a collective pursuit would bring clarity, or even a solution. But all it did was wrap you in an uncomfortable awareness. You weren't a mystery to solve. You were a burden to be managed.

A melancholy settled over campus like mist, creeping into everything and everyone. Even the most powerful students, the most composed individuals, wore subtle changes in their expressions. It was like ripples in still water—small, but undeniable. You noticed them. And worse, you knew you had caused them.

Ruggie caught your eye in passing once. His ears drooped, not out of fear this time, but something gentler. Understanding, maybe. He shifted his weight like he might walk toward you—might say something—but in the end, he turned away. He didn't blame you. He knew what happened was terrifying. But he also knew you were terrified too. Still, things weren't the same, and that subtle drift between you stung sharper than outright blame ever could.

Then there was Riddle.

He said nothing. But you caught him watching you in the reflection of your teacup—eyes focused not on your face, but on the quiet tension in your hands, the way you rubbed the edge of the porcelain like it might fray under your touch. Your tea had gone cold long ago, but you remained seated, fingers tracing delicate swirls as if hoping to anchor yourself in something familiar.

In a quiet, grand gesture of hope—or maybe desperation—Heartslabyul's signature rose guardian had been unearthed. The flowers replanted, replaced with blooms of your choosing. Riddle hadn't mentioned it aloud. He didn't need to. Somewhere beneath his rules and routines, he hoped you'd still be around when the first buds opened. As if time itself could become a clock, counting down not to an end—but to a beginning.

One late night, as you lay motionless in bed, half-present and barely breathing through the static of your own thoughts, a soft ping from your phone flickered through the silence. The shadows in your room flickered, signaling that the Blot had also been startled by the sound. Idia had sent you a message—long, rambling, awkward, and painfully sincere. He apologized for the last tense interaction, for the things he'd said and the things he hadn't. Attached were coordinates.

Curiosity, or maybe something gentler than that, stirred in your chest as you followed them in-game.

What waited for you was a massive, underground bunker built block by block with obsessive care—stocked with everything you liked and needed, every silly item you'd once casually mentioned, every rare collectible he knew you adored, and even every animal—tamable and untamable—neatly confined in entity-friendly spaces as well. It was a digital sanctuary, crafted with shaking hands and a quiet breaking heart. He didn't say he missed you. He didn't have to. The base was the confession.

Idia: I just want you to keep going. Even if it's not for me.

His last message read, surprisingly written with perfect grammar.

Meanwhile, outside your actual window, Malleus continued his nightly rituals. The gentle tap of wind or the faint glimmer of magic was all that marked his passing. The gifts he left behind were unique and otherworldly—small fae tokens: a branch from his favorite tree, a stone somehow carved into an intricate small gargoyle, a piece of glass shaped like a tear that never fell. Each one left in hope, in helplessness, in longing. He was trying to help. Trying to understand. But even the great faerie prince could not comprehend the wound inside you, only mourn that he couldn't soothe it.

Silver never said much. His silences were eloquent and graceful. He continued his quiet patrols past Ramshackle, watching from a respectful distance. He'd always been a guardian of dreams and peace—but he couldn't guard you from yourself. Or the Blot. So instead, he left small flowers woven into crowns and rings on your doorstep when he could, humble blooms from his walks. But they were always wilted by morning. As if even nature understood the fragility of his offering.

You never mentioned the state you often found them in, not wanting to see the boy wilt himself.

The Yuus were gentler now, but more intense in their presence. Always hovering, always nearby. They didn't speak of the truth—but it haunted the spaces between your conversations. The weight of your confession clung to them like a second skin. They smiled at you as if afraid the wrong word might shatter the air around you.

You hated the way they all looked at you—as if you were glass set on the edge of a high shelf. As if breathing too hard might tip you over.

But the truth?

Nothing had changed.

Not really.

Somewhere deep down, you had already made your choice—long before any of them noticed the fracture. It sat inside you like a quiet star: constant, cold, inevitable. You didn't know when the moment would come, only that you'd know it when it did.

And for all their efforts—sweet, sincere, achingly kind—you couldn't be saved in the way they hoped. But overtime it became painfully clear how difficult that goal truly was.

And it wasn't their fault.

It only made the guilt worse.

Like a debt you wished they'd stop trying to repay.

Because the person they were fighting to save—the one who had held them all together—was slipping quietly out of reach. And no one, not even you, knew if they could come back.

The news spread like fire on dry grass—swift, bright, and impossible to ignore.

A way home had been found.

Reactions rippled across campus in a tangled mess of emotions: elation, sorrow, disbelief, anxiety, longing. Some students whispered with hope in their voices; others stared blankly at the walls, caught in a strange limbo of what-ifs and memories. And through it all, one truth remained: you had changed them.

The way people looked at you—the way they felt about you—had shifted. No longer were you just a strange newcomer from another world. Somewhere along the line, you'd become theirs. A friend, a rival, a confidant, a source of chaos and comfort.

And now you were all leaving.

Headmage Crowley called a formal meeting, though even he lacked his usual flair. He stood a little straighter than usual, voice more solemn than usual. The mirror home was open, stable. The stars had aligned in a rare cosmic arrangement. The gate thrummed with raw energy—ready to bring you back where it all began.

Your world. Or... was it?

Because deep inside you, a whisper lingered. Faint. Familiar. The Blot's story. The idea that this—this—was your real world. That your soul had bloomed here once before. Perhaps that's why the ocean reached for you on calm days, why the wind danced with you when you in lonely moments, why the snow and sun kissed you with reverence instead of indifference.

The world here didn't just accept you. It welcomed you. Embraced you. And so did the people within it.

And as the final day drew nearer, fleeting moments played in your mind like petals caught in a breeze:

Deuce had leaned over during class, whispering urgently as if trying to catch time by the tail. His teal eyes shimmered with quiet urgency, like deep ponds stirred with emotion. "You should text me if you go," he said, lips tugged into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "All of us. Even if it's like... cross-dimensional." It wasn't meant to sway your choice, just a promise: you are loved here.

Leona dropped his thoughts at lunch like they didn't weigh as much as they clearly did. He sat across from you, lazily pushing a tray your way. "Ordered too much." he muttered—though you both knew he didn't. As you ate, his gaze lingered, not on your face, but on the simple fact that you were still here. Still present. Still real. "You're stronger than you think. Even without all that Blot junk." The lion gave a soft scoff, one ear flicking. "You'd fit in at the Sunset Savanna. People respect lions there. And you have the strength of a Lion." You knew what he meant: There was a place waiting for you.

And Kalim? He couldn't sit still. Ever since the news broke, he'd been rushing around like a whirlwind of joy and dread, putting together elaborate gift boxes for each of you. Trinkets, silks, spices, ornate keepsakes—things that would make jaws drop back in your world. He said it was so you'd never forget him. And oddly enough, Jamil never once protested. He simply helped. Quietly. Carefully. Like he, too, wanted to give you something that could never be repaid.

The hour before your departure arrived too quickly, yet dragged with unbearable weight.

Within the quiet hush of the Mirror Chamber, everything was illuminated by an eerie softness—like the world itself knew this was a moment it should handle delicately. The usual chatter had fallen to a hush. The air was heavy with unsaid things.

Trey approaches first, carrying bags loaded with care. You could tell he'd packed them himself. Neatly arranged inside were tarts—your favorites—alongside sweets he'd made over the years. Some were crumbling a little from being hastily prepared. Others were packed carefully in tins or paper to preserve their shape. Between them, he'd slipped in small, handwritten notes. Jokes. Memories. Reminders. Pieces of a life he can't follow.

"For the road," he said, voice rough and cracked, like he hadn't spoken all morning. Not quite the easygoing Trey you remembered. As Yuuken reached in to quietly take one of the signature sweets, there was a shared understanding—this was the last taste of Heartslabyul you would have. The last sweetness made for you.

The Mirror Chamber had filled with those closest to you, all huddled in a makeshift half-circle, as though any moment now they'd try to block the mirror with their bodies. A final attempt to keep you here.

Confessions clung to the walls like mold. Unspoken apologies floated like dust in the morning light. It felt like being at the edge of something vast—something you couldn't see beyond, but could feel.

Vil approached you next. Always composed, always immaculate, his heels clicked quietly against the floorboards as he came to fix your collar. His fingers moved with precision, but his touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

"You've always made an impression," he said, eyes narrowing though the edges of his expression faltered, "Now make an even better one when you go back. Hold your head high. Don't cry in front of that portal." His voice lowered, the gentleness slipping out against his will. "You deserve to leave with dignity. After everything, you deserve it."

You stood surrounded by uncharacteristic warmth, by familiarity, by those you'd once hated, distrusted, or even feared—only to later realize their cruelty wasn't personal. They'd simply been broken in their own ways, the reality around all of you unknowingly manipulated by something beyond comprehension. And still, you had come to matter to them.

The mirror at the center of the room pulsed gently, casting an otherworldly green glow that flickered across their faces—across your face. The kind of glow that seemed to hum with power, with promise.

Beyond that glass: a world you had once called home. You could almost hear it—distant sounds, the hush of a subway station, the hum of the bus, rain against a window, a fan left on all year. You could smell it, too—concrete warmed by the sun, your favorite food spot down the street, old paper and familiar detergent.

It called to you like a siren, and inside, something shifted.

The Blot was silent now. Dormant. Patient. Maybe it hoped to return with you. Maybe it simply waited to see what you'd choose.

Because that's what this moment truly was: a choice.

You, standing between two lives. Two worlds. Two versions of yourself. Whole, but scattered. Loved, but always longing.

The mirror ripples.

And somewhere behind you, someone whispered—maybe it was Azul, perhaps Jamil—"Are you really going to leave?"

With Lilia's assistance, Grim carefully raised the old ghost camera to capture you all in a final, treasured moment. For once, the lens faces the Ramshackle Prefects and not their subjects; A final keepsake for those you're leaving behind.

You swallow down a lump in your throat as you watch the Yuus all leave one-by-one, your feet now rooted to the ground.

Your decision, chosen long ago, came into play now.

Break the contract.

Remain with the Blot.

Reach for him.

Go home.

Thank you all so much for following me on this journey through my second posted story since I was a kid.

I hope I wrote this well and many doubts still linger about it. Some parts I'm proud of, others I'm a little hesitant to admire.

Reading your comments and asks always made my day better and writing this gave me something to do. I apologize if the endings seemed shitty. The fanfic writer curse really got me while I was trying to write the endings and they're written pretty far apart from everything.

I hope I can keep improving on on writing, maybe I'll post another long fic like this but I'll likely do requests for smaller things if anyone would like.

All these endings took me a whole month. This part began on April 17th and it's now May 17th. I hope the long wait has been worth this for you all.

Again, thank you.

I've been thinking about writing my own original story if anybody would be interested. Though everything is rough in drafts.

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e @roseinbloom02 @mandalay7y @s0up-good @the-unhinged-raccoon @cecil-the-crybaby @mr-crawlings-wife @ironsaladwitch @kiki-kuku @annexblogs @linaaeatsfamilies @pokedragon7 @dondonrulerofall @heavy-blanket-enjoyer @bluewolfangel01 @m1lly69 @yesthisisrookhunt @sarraisme @blueberriesblueberri @gracegarnet @kttgwsh @yapper-and-dapper @kashasenpai

Blot!reader Ending -> Whilom and Gone

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental stare or unable to handle darker themes.

A commotion stirs. It begins like thunder in the chest of the crowd, a crack of sound that startles and rolls, desperate hands reaching through bodies like roots seeking water in drought-stricken soil.

Someone is calling your name. Your real name.

Not the title you wore like a shroud. Not the nickname that softened your edges.

Your name.

The voice is frays—hoarse, raw with need. It claws through the noise, a tattered plea thrown into the wind as if desperation alone could stretch far enough to hold you back.

"Please—!" It breaks in the air. A sound meant to tether you, but you're already untethering.

And beside you, the Blot is still.

So still it could be a statue, if not for the shimmer of hope trembling beneath its ribs—tangled tight and thin like a string pulled to its last length. It does not speak. It does not beg. But its silence is louder than any cry.

Maybe you'll cradle it. Maybe you'll turn, take its hand, and flee the way lovers do in myth—gods and ghosts disappearing into the fog.

But you don't. Your gaze is cold—resolute. Winter-steeled.

This is the revenge you swore when you made the pact— The poison laced into your vow. The hurt you promised to deliver as penance for the ache they'd carved into your soul like a name into bark.

They wore you like sacred threat, stitched into their bones, carried you like a talisman. But they never saw the fraying. The single knot at your heart that, when pulled, unraveled the whole tapestry.

You part your lips to speak—to scorch them with words meant to blister. To scar. A final dagger honed in your ribcage for this moment alone.

But instead... You smile. And then you laugh.

It spills from your chest—thick, golden, like honey boiling in a broken jar. Sticky with truth. The most beautiful sound you've ever made—and it isn't for him.

It's for you.

In that moment—between your breath and your burning— They understand.

They understand everything.

The missed chances, the paper-cut apologies never sent, the sins they swore were harmless.

They realize how easy it had been to pretend you'd be around forever.

And now their mouths are full of words they'll never say. Too late. Too full of rot. Too small for the wound.

You watch despair bloom behind their eyes—a crack in glass, delicate and terminal. Your own eyes are distant now. Indifferent. Like a ghost staring out from behind a mirror.

Then, quietly, You turn. And you leave.

Let them sort through the ashes. Let them pick up pieces they never knew they broke. Let them wade through the guilt like a tide they thought they could outswim.

They won't change until you're gone.

Isn't that funny?

He'll pace past his own reflection now; unable to meet the eyes of the person that drove you away.

Back and forth like a metronome wound too tightly, hands busy with a sweater you left behind, folding shirts meant for a person who no longer exists. He replays the old song you used to hum—not quite right, off-key, like a spell recited by someone who doesn't believe in magic anymore.

He buys your favorite drink. Leaves it on the table. Forgets it's there until it rots. He'll search your scent in aisles of perfumeries and candles and find nothing close enough. He'll try to replace it and gag on the synthetic.

He didn't suffer for what he did. But he'll suffer now.

He'll rot from the inside you, choked on every memory left behind. A ghost haunting the life he thought you'd stay in.

And as for you— Your feet know the way before your heart does. Over uneven pavement and broken sidewalk cracks, past the tagged street sign you once pointed out with a laugh. Through shortcuts you forgot had names. Through alleys that only mattered now that they are yours again.

You look insane. Laughing in odd, foreign clothes. Wind-swept and half-feral. A missing person returned to earth, shedding fantasy like old skin.

But for once— You're not a chosen one. You're not cursed or divine. You're not a puzzle to be solved or a prophecy to fulfill.

You are someone whose coffee order is remembered by name. Someone whose favorite flower grows near the mailbox. The boy in the hall knows your favorite color. The girl at the bus stop knows your music taste.

No grand magic. No haunted past. Just faint recognition. Just warmth.

It's enough.

You return home. To the endless hum of a cheap fan, tot he familiarity of old blankets, to warm hands that grip you tight enough to shake. They don't let go—afraid you'll vanish again.

You cry over breakfast. You laugh into leftovers. You fall asleep under the weight of soft, human love—the kind that doesn't demand you perform for it.

Your home smells like that one candle you have and the smell of detergent that you can only notice when you're gone.

A thin, red scar remains on your left ring finger—an echo of a promise, a ghost of a bond once forged in blood. An artifact that once held you upright, that once puppeted your limbs like a marionette of grief. It no longer works here. It doesn't belong.

The Blot once told you the world rights itself. A broken piece returns damaged, yes—but still returns.

And here?

Here, you are whole. Your world cradles your fragile soul and repairs its shattered bones.

Your lungs no longer ache with rigor. Your heart doesn't rattle like an empty cage. You are not a ruin. You are not a corpse.

You are alive.

Let them mourn. Let them remember. Let them scream your name into the sky, scratch it into stone, weave it into stories they'll never finish. Let him wear your voice like a wound. Let your smile haunt every place you touched.

But you—

You won't remember them.

Somewhere, far from your warmth, in a school rotting beneath its golden reputation, your last laugh echoes through empty halls—an unending, unanswered whisper.

Your portrait hangs in the halls of Night Raven College—not as a saint, not as a sinner. As a question. A sigh. A shadow.

Your name is face is drawn in the corner of old textbooks, your name carved under a desk .

And in the stillest hour of the night, he hears you in the quiet— Not a scream. Not a laugh.

A sob.

He hears grief he'd been deaf to before.

And you?

You're wrapped in warm sheets, safe in a world that forgot your sins and never expected your sacrifice.

You're somebody.

Even when no one's watching. Even when you're alone.

[ENDING -> Go Home]

Go back?

Okay.

Reckless Road Trips

𝖆/𝖓: since I did first years, why not write something with second and third years [coming soon] too? no romance once more btw

𝖙𝖜: none, usual nrc chaos

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: second years x reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1144

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

The van swayed gently down the sun-soaked highway, packed with eight eccentric second-years and you crammed somewhere in the backseat between Jade and Floyd. It was meant to be a "relaxing getaway," something Azul had insisted would be good for your health and interpersonal development. You weren’t sure if being in a vehicle with this much raw chaos counted as relaxing.

Floyd’s legs were draped across both yours and Jade’s laps, a foot tapping idly to a playlist Kalim had made—an energetic mix of party music, pop, and oddly enough, frog sounds. Riddle had already protested twice. "We are not listening to amphibian mating calls!"

“Are we theeeeere yet~?” Floyd groaned dramatically.

“That’s the fifth time,” you muttered.

“Sixth,” Jade corrected pleasantly.

“Stop keeping track!” Azul called from the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. “If anyone else asks that question, I’m cancelling the shaved ice.”

A beat.

“Are we there yet?” Kalim asked cheerfully.

Azul visibly died inside.

When you finally reached the beach, it was like a switch flipped. Everyone exploded out of the van, hauling towels and umbrellas like it was a timed race. Ruggie took off toward the water, yelling, “Last one in buys lunch!” before leaping straight into the waves.

You hung back a moment, stretching out sore limbs before grabbing a beach ball from the trunk.

“Hey Floyd,” you called, tossing it toward him. “Game?”

“Ooh~ Shrimpy wants to play?” Floyd’s grin spread wide. “Let’s see how long you last!”

The game started off easy. Light volleys, lots of laughter. You had just gotten into a nice rhythm when Floyd’s competitive instincts took over. His next spike sent the ball screaming across the sand.

“NO—!” you shouted.

Too late.

It slammed right into the back of Riddle’s head.

His ice cream went flying.

There was a moment of dead silence.

Floyd whistled innocently. “Oops~”

Riddle turned around, the picture of quiet rage. “FLOYD LEECH.”

Even the seagulls went quiet.

You doubled over laughing. Ruggie cackled from the shore. Kalim gasped, “Oh no! Riddle, I’ll buy you another!” while Jade said calmly, “You had to know that was going to happen.”

Later, you knelt near the tide line, carefully constructing a sandcastle with Kalim’s help. Jade occasionally offered eerie suggestions—“Add a trench for dramatic flair. Perhaps some bones?”—while you shaped towers with seashell windows. It was kind of nice, getting lost in the simple rhythm of sculpting.

But you had built it too close to the shore.

You realized it the second the wave came barreling in.

“No no no no—!”

Your castle crumbled in one powerful surge of water, reduced to a slurry of wet sand and disappointment.

“Nature is a harsh mistress,” Jamil said from a beach chair, sipping coconut water.

You glared. “I worked hard on that!”

He raised an eyebrow. “So does the tide.”

Azul walked over, shielding his eyes. “Everyone ready to head to the cabin?”

“Already?” you asked.

He gestured to a very grumpy Riddle, now coated in sand and scowling. “I think we’ve reached the ‘cut our losses’ part of the day.”

You expected a log cabin. Maybe something rustic with questionable plumbing.

What you got instead was luxury.

The glamping site Azul had booked looked like a forest resort—glass windows, warm wood paneling, a fire pit outside, and a kitchen that looked straight out of a magazine.

“...You rented this?” Riddle asked skeptically.

Azul adjusted his glasses. “I negotiated. Extensively.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruggie said, flopping onto one of the beanbags. “Bet it still cost more than all my groceries for a month.”

There was one small hiccup.

Only six bedrooms.

Which meant one room had to be shared.

“We’ll take it,” Jade offered calmly. “We already share a dorm room. The bunk bed arrangement won’t be awkward.”

Floyd threw an arm around his brother. “Jade snores like a kelpie! It’s like sleeping next to a drowning walrus.”

Jade smiled serenely. “At least I don’t talk in my sleep. ‘Mmm shrimp, don’t leave~’.”

You ended up paired with Kalim, who had somehow brought his own disco ball. He plugged it into the ceiling lamp, turned on music, and invited everyone to an impromptu dance party.

Jamil’s soul visibly left his body.

By the time the sun dipped below the trees, you were roasting marshmallows at the fire pit, wrapped in a borrowed hoodie, and nursing a cup of hot chocolate. Silver was already asleep beside you, Floyd was trying to toss popcorn into Riddle’s mouth (he missed, a lot), and Azul was casually checking stock charts on his tablet.

“This was... nice,” you said softly.

Azul didn’t look up. “I plan thoroughly.”

Ruggie raised a skewer. “To glamping!”

“To glamping!” the group echoed.

You thought that would be the end of it. But the next morning, Azul announced one final detour.

“There’s a secluded hot springs inn nearby. I already booked us a night.”

You blinked at him. “When did you do that?”

“Before the beach. I anticipated fatigue.”

“You mean this was the cooldown for the cooldown?” Riddle muttered.

Still, no one objected. The moment you arrived, any hesitation melted into the mountain mist. The inn was traditional and beautiful—wooden beams, soft lanterns, and the scent of mineral water drifting through the cool air.

“Only one spring?” Kalim asked.

“It’s mixed,” said the innkeeper with a smile. “It’s fully private tonight, so you have it all to yourselves.”

You shuffled toward the changing rooms with a towel clutched to your chest, cheeks already warm.

The outdoor bath was surreal. Steam rose into the night sky, stars twinkling above as warm water lapped gently at the stone edges. You slipped in with a sigh, letting your body melt.

“This is heaven,” you mumbled.

Until Floyd cannonballed in.

Water exploded over the edges.

Riddle screamed. Azul’s glasses fogged up. You got a face full of wave.

“FLOYD!”

“Hot soup time~!” Floyd sang, splashing around. “Mmm, shrimp stew!”

“Stop calling it that,” Jade muttered.

You sank lower in the water, shoulders shaking with laughter. Silver drifted in, practically asleep, and Kalim floated on his back, humming happily.

Ruggie was balancing rocks on your head.

Jamil was too tired to fight it.

You and Azul ended up side by side, staring up at the stars. He exhaled slowly, tension fading from his shoulders.

“You really went all out,” you said.

“I wanted something we’d remember.”

You bumped your knee lightly against his. “Mission accomplished.”

That night, after a second soak and way too many snacks, you curled up on a futon between Silver’s gentle snores and Kalim’s soft singing. Floyd had fallen asleep halfway through a horror story, and Riddle was still arguing with Jade about the proper way to wear a yukata.

You smiled.

Yeah. You could definitely get used to this.

credit to @enchanthings-a for divider

[Pretty Little Baby]

Synopsis: Grim thinks back on how he got to NRC with you next to him.

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort (?), Songfic: Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis

Notes: Spoilers for book 1 through 6. Doesn't go into specifics, but it does say who overblots. GN! Yuu! Reader

Pairing: Platonic! Grim x Reader

Grim doesn’t remember where he came from or much about anything from his past. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on, cause, frankly, it was rather uncomfortable and it made his stomach churn at the little he did remember. 

After all, who would like remembering being all alone, starving, and freezing?

Instead, Grim wants to find something to fill in that gaping void in his memory. And what better way to prove his worth than by being a great mage, and the best way to do that is going to Night Raven College, one of the most prestigious schools for mages! 

So he waits, patiently waiting for the day the black carriage picks him up. Though as days turned into weeks, he can’t help but feel antsy. Perhaps the carriage got lost on the way to him! No matter, Grim the Great can wait. 

Then the weeks turn into months and that bad feeling creeps into his body once more, and he doesn’t feel too good anymore. 

Pretty little baby Pretty little baby

But no matter! He wasn’t going to let that get him down, so he’ll just have to find a way to get to Night Raven College. 

It took a while to figure out how to get to the school. For starters, it was really far away and there was no mirror he could jump through. So he had to physically walk there. It was hard getting anywhere with his small legs, and he found himself getting tired a lot.

Sometimes he tried to ask for directions or for some food, but most people either ignored him or were scared of him. There were more times than not that he had to dig through the garbage or snag some treats when a vendor wasn’t looking to get some food in his belly.

Those days where people caught him in the act and chased after him were the most exhausting. 

It wasn’t too bad though. He could find an occasional car to hitch a ride on, and some days, he’d find some really good food lying about. The canned tuna he grabbed from that little shop in that small town was one of the best finds he had during his journey.

And though it took a very long time, he did find a ferry that took him to Isle of Sages. Slipping off of the ship, he could see the school in the far distance. Grim would never tell a soul about how vision grew watery at the sight. 

Pretty little baby, you say that maybe You'll be thinkin' of me, and try to love me Pretty little baby, I'm hoping that you do Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, yeah

It was rather easy to sneak onto campus, not that he had to sneak in! He was going to be a student after all. Now all he needed was a robe to blend in, and the rest should easily fall into lap. So off he went to find where all the new students were at. 

It was a massive school, and Grim did find himself turned around a few times. Eventually, he found himself in a room full of floating coffins and he knew he had hit the jackpot. Now, all he had to do was pry open one of those bad boys and he’ll be set!

Though he never anticipated meeting you. 

Right out of the gate, you were jumpy and wide-eyed. Almost as if you had no idea what was going on, but Grim didn’t have time for theatrics. Time was ticking and he needed to get the robes that adorned your body. 

Yet you didn’t give in so easily. Instead, you ran and ran until the headmaster, Crowley, caught the both of you and treated him like some random house cat that had gone astray. It was ridiculous and insulting to be treated as such, but the older man was quick to silence him before he had a chance to really lay into him.

Then the whole fiasco at the orientation ceremony happened. All he did was try to show that he deserved to be at that school, but it only ended up getting kicked out of the school and shooed away like some troublesome animal. His stomach started to hurt at this point, and the bad feeling felt worse the moment it started to rain.

So he ran back onto campus cause he wasn’t gonna give up so easily, you know! He’ll find shelter for the night and he’ll continue showing them that he deserves a spot in their classrooms. Just you wait!

You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours Tellin' all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you Ooh-ooh-ooh

Though that’s when Grim saw you again in that dingy building outside of the castle. You looked just as surprised as he felt, but he wasn’t going to admit it. You were just a magicless human anyways.

Yet you kept surprising him. You were actually helping him out. When the ghosts came, you told him where to send his spells. When Crowley showed up, you did the same thing again. You convinced the headmaster to let him stay. Granted as a janitor, but that was a work in progress! 

When that jerk of a redhead called the Great Grim a weasel, you were quick to scold him for his rude words—Weirdly, that had left a different feeling in his tummy.

But since meeting that kid, Ace, things spiraled. The Great Sevens statues were scorched, they got assigned to clean windows, Ace tried ditching and with the help of another freshman, Deuce, the chandelier in the cafeteria shattered, and they were on the verge of being expelled. 

By some miracle, Crowley promised them a chance if they found a magestone from the dwarfs’ mine. It seemed like an easy job, but the four of them were quick to find that it wasn’t.

There was a terrifying monster lingering behind, guarding the key thing that kept him at Night Raven College. The monster was big and scary, and it had Grim shivering as it loomed over his small body.

But again, you surprised him. You swept him up, ran out there, and somehow managed to get the two idiots to work together to defeat the monster. Maybe you really were a beast-tamer or whatever Crowley called you. 

Because of what you did, you somehow got all four of them to not get expelled. And most importantly, you managed to make yourself and him actual students enrolled at the school.

Perhaps, it wasn’t so bad to keep you around as a hench-human. 

Now is just the time, while both of us are young Puppy love must have its day Don't you know it's much more fun to love While the heart is young and gay?

You weren’t from this world. That’s what you told the three of them the next day, and it would explain the panic you had the first time Grim met you. He’s quick to push that thought to the back of his mind as his stomach churned at the memory.

You didn’t get a chance to adjust once you became a student. The both of you were thrown into classes right off the bat, and it was awful. As first-years, they don’t give you a lot of chances to use actual magic, not that you could, but it was still incredibly boring.

Despite that, you took everything in stride, even when he tried to run from classes, and soaked up all the new information like a sponge. You were checking out books in the library to learn more about Twisted Wonderland and read it in the little time you found.

Unfortunately, Ace wrapped the two of you in his problems again. Stealing a slice of a tart had landed him with a collar from the Heartslabyul housewarden, Riddle. So many things happened in such a short amount of time, but it ultimately ended up with Riddle overblotting.

That day was terrifying. Blot oozed everywhere like sickly black ink and clung onto the ground where the housewarden stood. His attacks were strong and harsh, nearly hitting Grim a few times. He was lucky you were there to warn him and guide him and everyone else. 

Because of you, they beat Riddle and he went back to normal. And as much as Grim wished it was the last of it, trouble seemed to follow the two of you like a shadow. 

Cause there was another overblot with Leona, the housewarden of Savanaclaw. 

Then, the next overblot was Azul, the housewarden of Octavinelle. 

One more overblot with Jamil, vice-housewarden of Scarabia.

Again. It was Vil, housewarden from Pomefiore.

Yet there you stood, helping everyone by telling them where to send their spells and calling out incoming attacks with each overblot. You never got angry and you didn’t shun anyone out after that. You treated every person you met with kindness, even those who overblotted or those that put you in harm's way. You never blamed them.

You never blamed him. 

You didn’t yell at Grim for signing a contract with Azul to get a good exam score. You didn’t shout when you had to give up Ramshackle to try to set him free. You didn’t scold him when he was exhausted from walking to the oasis and you had to silently scooped him into your arms, even when he was sure you were tired as well. You didn’t chase him away for scratching you after the events of the VDC.

Even after Idia from Ignihyde overblotted and you both went back to the privacy of the broken-down Ramshackle dorm, you didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, you bent down and wrapped your arms around his small body and sobbed. You kept saying things like, “I’m so happy to see you again!” and “I was so worried about you!”

Grim couldn’t help but wept right there with you. And he vowed to try not to make you worry anymore.

Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop Meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you

Among those hectic days, you sometimes talked about your home. Sometimes you talked about it at great lengths, telling memories of your previous life or about something that isn’t familiar in Twisted Wonderland. Other times, you sneak in a reference or a word that isn’t in the common language—That especially gets Ace, Deuce, and Epel trying to get you to teach them slang or jokes, most of which goes over Grim’s head.  

Though sometimes, you don’t bring up memories. You don’t bring up funny jokes in your world or neat little facts that could only exist in your world. No, you don’t even speak at these times.

Instead, your world comes out in little songs. The songs you sing vary in style. One moment you could be singing a pop song about partying, then the next a ballad about a loved one. There are few you come back to often as they were your favorites.

He doesn’t know if you notice it, but your voice easily carries out in the broken-down dorm. For example, he could be downstairs, playing with the ghosts and he could hear you singing upstairs as you clean up some of the abandoned rooms in case any guests decide to stay over. 

Funnily enough, there are other students that do take up some rooms. Mostly it is the first years, though other students from the other years come and go. Grim has seen Leona sneak in occasionally and Silver when he can’t quite make his way back to Diasomnia. The nights that the look-alike brothers decide to crash in the dorm for whatever reason makes his fur stand on edge the most though.

But he likes it most when it’s just you, him, and the ghosts. You don’t sing when there’s other people around.

Now is just the time, while both of us are young Puppy love must have its day Don't you know it's much more fun to love While the heart is young and gay?

Luckily, today was one of those days where there was no Ace, no Deuce, no housewarden, no vice-warden or any in between. It was just you, Grim, and the ghosts—And you were singing one of your favorite songs. 

Grim had just finished an assignment from Professor Trein and the smells from the kitchen were wafting up the stairs with your singing accompanying it. His stomach was already grumbling and he caught the scent of tuna in the air. Nearly drooling, Grim bounds out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Your singing grows louder, your voice bouncing with a cheery lilt. Grim can’t keep the smile off his chubby face as he peeks into the kitchen. The rice cooker has 10 minutes left on the rice, there’s shredded cabbage washed and draining in the sink, there’s a pot of hot soup simmering on the stove, and you have a jar of pickled veggies that are ready to be plated once the food is done. 

In the midst of it all was you, dressed in an apron that Trey gifted to you. You’re standing in front of the stove with a spatula in hand and looking down at a pan of sizzling oil with half-cooked tuna patties you promised to make for Grim. Your mouth moves to form the lyrics and you’re doing a little dance in your spot, never keeping your eyes off the pan. 

Not wanting to hide away anymore, Grim steps into the room and your eyes easily tear away from the stove to meet his gaze. There’s a bright smile adorning your face as you turn to face him while setting down the spatula. He jumps into your open arms and you hug him close to your chest, still singing sweetly.

There, you nuzzle into his furry cheeks, cooing, “Pretty little baby!”

Grim thinks this one is his favorite song too.

Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop Meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you Ooh-ooh-ooh

The food was delicious, and, though he ate a lot, you always made sure to make extras in case he wanted more tomorrow. Sometimes, you bring it with you so he could snack on it between classes. Ace says you spoil Grim too much, but you always disagree.

Still, now that it was late and his tummy was full, he was getting really sleepy. But he couldn’t sleep just yet because you always made him brush his teeth thoroughly while you were getting ready for bed. Even though he groans about how tired he was, he waited for you every night. 

Why? He realized he didn’t like sleeping without you since he was by himself at S.T.Y.X.

When you stepped out of the bathroom in pajamas and freshly brushed teeth, Grim was quick to usher you into bed. You only giggled in response, making sure to turn off the light before following him into your shared bed. You slipped underneath the cover, and, like every night, you pulled Grim in and curled him against your body.

“Goodnight, Grim,” You said softly, pressing a kiss against his forehead. With a small purr slipping out without him meaning to, Grim could feel the sleepiness seep into his mind. With your humming a soft lullaby in his ear, he can’t help but snuggle closer to you.

Compared to his quiet and sad life that he lived before…This life in Ramshackle was different. 

Better, he would say. 

Pretty little baby I said pretty little baby Oh, now, pretty little baby

Here, with your arms wrapped around his smaller body, Grim can feel the coldness slip away and turn into warmth.

Here, with your cooking filling his tummy with amazing and piping hot meals, Grim can feel his hunger fade away. 

Here, with you at his side, Grim can feel his loneliness disappear.

He can’t wait for tomorrow to come. 

Panic Attack Protocol

𝖆/𝖓: THIS IS PLATONICCCCC!! and also adore the friendship grim and the player has ㅠㅠ they're so sweet, OMG giving me cavities~

𝖙𝖜: panic attack, tickling

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: first years x reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 2360

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

It started with nothing.

Just another lunch period. Another tray of food, another corner table in the cafeteria. Grim sat across from you, happily scarfing down a plate of grilled tuna curry, humming off-key. The room was loud—like always—but not more than usual.

And then… it wasn’t usual anymore.

Someone’s laughter behind you spiked too sharp. A fork dropped. The clatter crashed through your ears like glass. You flinched.

“Hey,” Grim said, looking up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

Your chest had tightened suddenly. The air felt heavy—wrong. Your vision narrowed. The lights above buzzed louder than they ever had before. Every scrape of metal, every burst of laughter—it was like you could hear everything, all at once, and none of it made sense.

“Henchman?” Grim tried again. “You’re looking weird. Like, really weird.”

Your hand twitched. The fork slipped. The clink echoed like thunder. Your heart jumped.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

You stood up fast. Too fast. The cafeteria spun. The noise surged around you like waves crashing in. Your throat locked. Your eyes stung. You backed away, bumping into a chair, then stumbling behind one of the pillars near the vending corner. You crouched down, arms wrapping around your knees, trying to hold yourself together.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t screaming. But your body was breaking down like it didn’t know how to exist anymore.

Grim rushed over, skidding to a stop beside you. “Hey—hey! What’s wrong? What’s happening?! Say something!”

You couldn’t.

Your jaw was clenched. You were shaking. Your breath came in shallow gasps, too fast, not enough air.

Grim froze. “No, no, no—okay—okay, I’ll be right back! I’m getting help! Don’t move! Stay—uh—alive!”

And then he was gone.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there. Ten seconds? Ten minutes?

The cafeteria noise kept rising, falling, crashing against your ears. Your body felt like it wasn’t your own—like a cage you couldn’t escape.

And then—

"MOVE ASIDE! THEY’RE OVER HERE!"

A sharp voice cut through the storm. Someone stomped up—loud, commanding.

“Jack?” you thought.

Then—“There!” Another voice—Deuce, breathless. “Oh man—Prefect—!”

More footsteps. A low whirring. Someone yelling about “emergency student assistance.” All of it blurred. But somehow… safer.

“They’re not talking!” Grim’s voice shouted, panicked. “They’re just—shaking, and they can’t breathe, and I think they’re dying!”

“Grim,” Jack’s voice said firmly, “they’re having a panic attack.”

“What the hell’s a panic attack?!”

Jack crouched beside you, calm and solid. “It’s okay. I’ve seen this before. [Y/N], can you hear me? I’m gonna stay right here, okay?”

Your head twitched slightly. That was all you could manage.

“You’re not alone,” Jack said. “You’re safe. Focus on my voice. In… and out.”

“I—I don’t think they can,” Deuce said. “They’re—like, completely locked up.”

Ortho knelt, his voice soothing and steady. “Symptoms confirm acute panic. Recommendation: tactile reset via positive sensory override.”

“Huh?” Epel asked.

“Tickling,” Ortho said plainly.

Ace blinked. “Seriously? That’s the plan?!”

“It’ll force their brain to respond to sensation instead of panic. It’s unorthodox—but it works.”

“Tickle therapy?” Epel repeated, skeptical. “Man, Night Raven’s got weird first aid protocols.”

But Jack nodded. “Do it gently. Just enough to ground them.”

“Prefect?” Ace said carefully. “It’s just me. And I’m gonna do something dumb, but you’ll forgive me because I’m charming.”

And then—

Poke.

A jolt of surprise snapped through your ribs. Your body twitched.

“S-see?” Ace said. “Still with us.”

Another poke. A wiggling scribble. You hiccuped.

“Whuh—wha—stop—”

“Boom! There it is!” Deuce cried, relief washing through his voice.

Epel grinned. “Okay, I’m in,” and started lightly scribbling behind your knee.

“Nohoho—wait!” You gasped—but the sob got caught in a laugh.

Jack didn’t tickle you, just rested a steady hand against your back. “There you go. Focus on the sound of your laugh. Feel the pressure. You’re okay now.”

Even Sebek joined in, awkwardly jabbing at your shoulder. “IS THIS—HELPING?!”

“Sebek—gentler,” Deuce hissed.

You laughed—really laughed—through the tears and shakes. It felt ridiculous and strange and exactly what you needed.

Your lungs worked again. The noise dulled. The pressure inside you finally broke like a cracked dam.

You gasped. “I—I’m okay—s-stop—!”

Everyone backed off. Grim practically launched himself onto you.

“You scared me,” he said into your chest. “I thought you were dying!”

“I thought so too,” you whispered, still shaking a little. “I didn’t know what was happening.”

“You had a panic attack,” Jack said gently. “It can feel like everything’s falling apart. Especially the first time.”

“Do they always feel like that?”

“Sometimes. But you won’t go through it alone. Not now. Not ever.”

You looked at all of them—Ace still crouching with a mischievous grin, Deuce nervously wringing his hands, Epel offering you his soda, Ortho scanning you gently, Sebek standing like a bodyguard, and Jack calm and unshakable.

And Grim, curled up on your lap like a protective cat-dog thing.

“…Thanks,” you whispered. “All of you.”

Ace gave you a cheeky grin. “You can pay us back by never scaring us like that again.”

“No promises,” you mumbled, smiling weakly.

Ortho beamed. “Recovery: complete.”

The dorm was quiet now.

Ramshackle creaked with its usual nighttime groans—floorboards shifting, old pipes moaning—but after today, even the familiar noises felt distant. You lay in bed, not asleep, just… floating in a strange haze of exhaustion. Your limbs felt heavy. Your head was stuffed full of cotton and memories you couldn’t untangle.

The panic attack—your first panic attack (here in Twisted Wonderland at least)—still clung to your skin like static.

You didn’t know how to describe it. You didn’t even really know it was happening until it was over. It wasn’t like fear. It wasn’t like pain. It was worse, and stranger, and more complete. It had taken over everything.

And then… your friends.

And then… laughter.

Your chest ached remembering it. Not from fear—but from how fast everything had changed.

A soft creak of the floorboards. Then a hesitant voice: “...Hey. You still awake?”

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t need to.

Grim slowly padded into the room.

You could see the silhouette of his fur puffed up slightly—like he was trying to look brave and casual at the same time. He climbed up onto the bed with a grunt and plopped down next to your side.

Neither of you spoke at first.

“…So,” Grim said at last, his voice unusually quiet, “you, uh. Scared the fur off me today.”

You turned your head, just a little.

“Like, I know you’re dramatic sometimes,” he went on, trying to act annoyed, “but that was a whole new level. You didn’t even yell, you just froze. And then you started shaking and—and breathing all weird—” His tail lashed once, then stopped.

You let the silence settle again.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Grim said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I just—I ran. I didn’t wanna leave you, but I didn’t know what to do.”

You finally reached out and laid a hand gently on his head. His ears twitched.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, petting the fur. “You brought help. That saved me.”

Grim didn’t say anything.

“…I didn’t know what was happening either,” you admitted. “It felt like I couldn’t think. Or move. Or even exist right.”

“Yeah,” Grim mumbled. “I noticed.”

You gave a breathy laugh, small but real. Grim finally looked up at you, bright eyes wide.

“You feeling better now?” he asked. “Like, for real?”

You nodded, a little.

“I don’t feel great,” you said honestly. “But I don’t feel like I’m about to… fall apart again. So that’s something.”

Grim flopped onto your chest like a furry paperweight. “Good. ‘Cause if you pull that again, I’m gluing myself to your side and never leaving.”

“You already do that.”

“Yeah, well. Now I mean it medically.”

You smiled.

“…Hey,” Grim said after a moment. “Next time—if there is a next time—could you… I dunno… warn me? Like, toss a fork or something so I know you’re about to short-circuit?”

You shook your head with a tired chuckle. “I didn’t know it was coming. It just… happened.”

“Then I’m setting up a system.” He sat up with a serious look. “Like, a code word. Or a scream. Or a ‘Grim, I’m losing it’ signal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want a panic password?”

“Yeah! Something cool. Like… ‘Flameball!’ or ‘Tuna drop!’ or—”

You started laughing again. This time the tension in your chest actually eased.

Grim preened at your reaction. “There! See? I’m a genius.”

“Sure,” you said, wiping your eyes, “let’s go with ‘tuna drop.’”

“Perfect,” he purred, tail curling proudly. “That way, I’ll always know when you need me.”

You pulled him closer, arms curling around his soft little frame.

“I always need you,” you said into his fur.

Grim went still for a second. Then he nudged his forehead against your chin.

“…I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbled. “Not ever. Tuna drop or not.”

And somehow, that promise—so ridiculous, so Grim—meant more than anything.

You finally closed your eyes.

And this time, sleep found you.

The morning sunlight crept through the cracked windows of Ramshackle, warming the creaky wood floors and peeling wallpaper with soft gold.

You sat on the dusty couch in your oversized hoodie, a cup of tea balanced in your hands. Grim dozed next to you, curled into a sleepy loaf, occasionally twitching like he was dreaming of canned fish and chaos.

Your body still felt weird—like someone had unplugged you and then hastily plugged you back in. Your limbs worked. Your breath came easy. But the memory of yesterday hovered behind your eyes like fog.

The first panic attack.

The first time you'd ever unraveled in public. In front of your friends. In front of everyone.

And yet… it hadn’t ended in disaster. Somehow, all of them—Grim, Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho, even Sebek—had made it through that storm with you. And now it was morning.

And then someone knocked.

More like pounded.

You jumped a little, sloshing your tea. Grim blinked awake, startled. “Wha—who’s pounding on the fortress this early?!”

“I’ll get it,” you said quickly, setting the cup down.

When you opened the door—

Six voices spoke at once:

“PREFECT!!”

“YOU LIVE!”

“You’re vertical!”

“YOUR FACE HAS COLOR AGAIN!”

“Ortho says you’re at 83% stable and rising!”

“…I brought snacks.”

You stared at the first-years in a clump on your porch like an overeager boyband reunion. Epel waved a bag of sour gummies. Jack looked like he hadn’t slept until he’d confirmed your well-being. Sebek stood like a statue of dramatic loyalty. Ortho smiled serenely. Ace and Deuce just grinned like idiots.

“…What are you all doing here?”

“We came to check on you, duh,” said Ace, strolling inside without waiting for permission.

“Operation Emotional Stabilization,” Ortho announced. “Version 1.02.”

You blinked. “What happened to version 1.01?”

Epel shrugged. “It was mostly just ‘tickle them again,’ but Ortho said we needed better structure.”

“STRUCTURE AND DISCIPLINE BRING STRENGTH TO THE HEART!” Sebek declared, charging in after them. “WE WILL RESTORE YOUR VITALITY WITH MILITARY GRADE HONOR!!”

Deuce leaned in. “He’s been reading self-help books again.”

Grim yawned. “Ughhh, you’re all so loud. My henchman doesn’t need honor. They need quiet and snacks and naps and me.”

“I did bring snacks,” Epel repeated, tossing you the bag. “And Deuce brought—what is that?”

“Chamomile lavender stress tea,” Deuce said proudly, holding up a tin.

“…Deuce,” said Ace, “you hate tea.”

Deuce flushed. “I—I read it helps with nervous systems!”

Jack cleared his throat. “We’re all just… glad you’re okay. Panic attacks are no joke. I wanted to check in properly. In case you… needed anything.”

You looked at them. These six chaos gremlins who had carried you through a terrifying moment and now stood awkwardly in your haunted living room, pretending not to be worried.

Your heart swelled.

“I really appreciate you guys,” you said quietly. “Yesterday was… horrible. But you all helped more than I can say.”

“Please,” Ace said with a smirk, “if anyone was gonna save your brain with tickling, it was obviously gonna be me.”

“You poked them like a nervous crab,” Epel snorted. “I did the real work.”

Jack huffed. “It wasn’t about who did what. It was about grounding them—giving their brain a chance to stop spiraling.”

“You should’ve seen it,” Ortho added. “Your laugh response was statistically perfect.”

“…Thanks?”

“So!” Sebek barked, hands on hips. “WHAT SHALL BE OUR TRAINING FROM THIS POINT FORWARD?!”

You blinked. “Training?”

“TO GUARD AGAINST FUTURE COLLAPSES OF MENTAL FORTITUDE, I SHALL ENFORCE STRENGTH-BUILDING DRILLS OF THE MIND AND SPIRIT!”

Grim muttered, “Somebody please unplug the Sebekbot…”

Ace snapped his fingers. “Or, hear me out—we make Prefect carry a panic attack whistle. Like a little ‘peep peep’ that says ‘I’m spiraling, send help!’”

“I’m not whistling,” you said flatly.

“Then we do code words!” Deuce said. “Like, if you say ‘banana peel,’ we all know to form a cuddle circle.”

Epel nodded. “Or if you say ‘potato mode,’ we just wrap you in blankets and put on cartoons.”

“I AM NOT ENTIRELY SURE THIS IS MEDICAL SCIENCE,” Sebek said, but no one was listening.

Grim finally jumped on the table. “Okay, listen! My henchman is not a broken radio that needs backup beeping every time they freak out! They’re fine. Right?”

You looked at them—all of them—and smiled.

“I don’t know if I’m fine,” you said. “But I do know I’m not alone. And that… means a lot.”

For a second, even Sebek was quiet.

“…You’re not,” Jack said softly. “We’ve got your back. Every time.”

Ortho smiled. “And next time, we’ll initiate Version 1.03.”

“Oh no,” you laughed. “What’s in 1.03?”

“More blankets,” Ortho said proudly. “And karaoke therapy.”

Ace winced. “Sebek’s gonna scream-sing. We’re all doomed.”

“I HAVE IMPECCABLE RANGE.”

You laughed again—really laughed. It still felt a little raw, like the corners of a wound that was healing. But you weren’t hiding. You weren’t afraid. Not with them.

And not with Grim curled beside you, smugly triumphant.

credit to @thecutestgrotto for divider

Malleus, Romantic (but no established relationship), "Usually, I'm all by myself" (From Treehouse - Alex G)

"Usually, I'm all by myself" || Malleus Draconia

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Treehouse by Alex G

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 710

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Pre-Relationship, Pining

Malleus has always been alone.

He is powerful—one of the strongest beings in the world—but power does not keep the loneliness at bay. He has Lilia, Sebek, Silver, loyal in their own ways, but even they remind him, in their reverence, in their unwavering devotion, that he is above them. That he is a prince. That he has no equals.

It is lonely at the top.

But then, one night, he meets you outside Ramshackle, and his world changes.

You're standing beneath the broken lantern light, frowning up at the flickering bulb as if sheer determination could will it to stay on. The moment you notice him, your face brightens—not with fear, not with the stiff politeness he is so accustomed to, but with familiarity.

“Oh, hey, Tsunotaro!” you call, as if he is not a prince, as if he is not a creature that could level the ground beneath your feet with a single thought.

And just like that, his world shifts.

Even when you learn who he is—when the whispers of his title reach your ears—you do not change. You still call him Tsunotaro. You still take his hand and pull him along when you find something new, something interesting, something you want to share.

“Have you ever been to a festival?” you ask, and when he hesitates, you grin. “Then let’s go.”

“Do you know how to carve a pumpkin?”

“Have you ever tried finger painting? No magic, just your hands.”

His world, once so vast yet so unbearably small, expands with you in it.

You take him to places he has never thought to visit, show him things he has never looked at closely before. A stray cat napping in a sunbeam, the way the stars ripple in the lake at night, the warmth of a hand reaching for his without hesitation.

He has never known this kind of belonging.

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

He does not say it. Not yet. But when you pat the spot beside you, when you lean your head against his shoulder and sigh as if he has always belonged here—he thinks, maybe he does.

You once told Malleus about a place you go when the world becomes too much.

It wasn’t a secret, not exactly. But it was yours—your solace, your sanctuary. A space untouched by expectations or prying eyes. He never asked where it was. He never wanted to intrude.

So he does not look for it.

But one evening, as he wanders beyond the usual paths outside Ramshackle, he stumbles into a small clearing. Fireflies drift lazily between the branches, their glow flickering in the dim twilight. A fallen log sits nestled beneath an ancient tree, and upon it—you.

You are sitting with your legs tucked to your chest, gazing at the sky as if the stars are speaking just to you. There is something delicate about the moment, like stepping into a dream not meant to be disturbed.

Malleus realizes, with a start, that he has intruded.

His first instinct is to leave—to vanish into the night as silently as he arrived. But before he can turn away, you shift, catching sight of him in the dim glow.

Instead of surprise, instead of irritation, you smile.

“You found it,” you say, like it was always inevitable. Then, you pat the spot beside you. “Come sit.”

Malleus hesitates. This place is yours, your retreat, your shelter. But you are looking at him like you want him here.

Slowly, he moves to sit beside you.

The silence is comfortable. The sounds of the night weave between you—the whisper of the wind, the distant hoot of an owl, the rhythmic chorus of crickets. It is peaceful. It is warm.

He has always been alone.

Even in a castle filled with voices, even with Lilia’s watchful care, with Silver’s quiet respect, with Sebek’s relentless devotion—he has been alone. A prince with no equals. A king with no friends.

But here, in this place that belongs to you, where you let him stay—

He is just Malleus.

And Malleus loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

How Not to Court Your Crush: A Disaster in Six Acts - Malleus Draconia x reader

You're trying to court Malleus so why is he acting so weird? Malleus is trying to court you, so why are you acting so weird.

aka you try fae courtship and malleus tries human courtship, you both fail spectacularly.

Scene 1: The Offering of... Chaos?

You were determined. Absolutely, one hundred percent determined to win over Malleus Draconia’s heart the fae way. You’d done your research—well, half-researched. You might’ve skimmed some books. Okay, maybe you watched some video where a guy talked about it for 10 minutes. But still! You were ready to tackle fae courting, head-on.

Which is why you were standing in the middle of the campus courtyard holding a potted mandrake. Because, according to some source (you couldn’t quite remember which), gifting rare plants was a surefire way to court a fae prince.

Unfortunately, no one told you that the mandrake in question would scream like a banshee as soon as you yanked it out of the dirt.

"Behold!" You shouted, thrusting the potted terror toward Malleus, who had appeared in his usual fashion—stealthy and majestic, like a dragon perching on a mountain. "A rare gift for the noble Prince of Briar Valley!"

The mandrake, in all its wailing glory, let out a soul-piercing shriek. Nearby students flung themselves behind trees and bushes. Sebek fainted. Silver, as usual, napped through the chaos.

Malleus blinked at you. Once. Twice. His face was a mixture of confusion and slight amusement. "Are you... trying to summon something?"

You frowned. "Summon? No! This is for you!" You held the screaming mandrake higher, like an offering to some ancient god. "As a... token of my appreciation! You like plants, right?"

The mandrake let out a final, particularly blood-curdling scream before going silent, wilting slightly in the pot. Malleus blinked once. Twice. “I... do like plants, yes. But usually... not ones that wish to harm me.”

You grinned, proud of your extremely thoughtful choice. “Well, this one just has personality!”

Malleus cautiously took the pot from you, staring down at the now exhausted mandrake. “Thank you,” he said, sounding unsure if you were joking or being sincere. “I’ll... treasure it.”

Somewhere in the distance, Ace and Deuce exchanged pitying looks. “Man,” Ace muttered, “he doesn’t deserve this.”

Scene 2: The Worst Poem Ever Written

Malleus had been doing his own research—much more thorough than yours, of course. He’d read books. Lots of them. Mostly ancient tomes from his castle library that were centuries old. After all, human courting customs couldn’t have changed that much, right?

His plan was foolproof: Humans enjoyed poetry. Therefore, he would craft you the most beautiful, heart-stopping poem ever written, and your affection for him would blossom like the midnight roses of Briar Valley.

He found you sitting under a tree near the school, probably recovering from your last spectacular fae courting attempt (the less said about the mandrake incident, the better). Malleus approached with all the grace of a dark prince, his black cloak billowing in the wind, carrying a scroll in his hand.

"Dearest," he began, as you looked up from your phone. "I have composed a poem for you. An ode to your beauty and grace."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yes. Please, allow me." He unfurled the scroll dramatically.

You sat back, intrigued. This was either going to be a disaster or absolute gold. Either way, you were ready.

Malleus cleared his throat, then began to read with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor:

"Your hair, like the moss that grows on the oldest tombstones,

Your eyes, like the deepest, darkest, creepiest of wells,

Your voice, as soothing as the distant scream of a lost soul..."

You snorted. "What?"

"Your beauty is like the moon, that I can never reach, because it is in the sky... far away... and also made of rock." He paused, glancing at you hopefully. “Do you like it so far?”

You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh. "Um... It's... something. Keep going."

Malleus beamed. "There’s more!"

"Your hands, soft like the belly of a small woodland creature..." He continued, and you finally lost it, howling with laughter. “Is it not... moving?”

You waved your hands, barely able to breathe through your giggles. "Malleus! Are you... Are you serious?!"

“I thought humans liked dark poetry,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.

“Well, some do, but—” You stopped yourself, trying not to laugh. “No, wait, keep going. I want to hear more.”

Malleus, relieved, continued. “Your beauty is like the full moon—cold, distant, and surrounded by darkness.”

Somewhere behind a nearby tree, Lilia was biting his lip to stop from laughing, while Ace and Deuce shared looks of absolute pity for their friend and Malleus.

Ace shook his head. “Poor guy. He’s trying so hard.”

Scene 3: The... Ambush?

Since the plant-gifting thing didn’t go quite as planned, you decided that maybe a more public display of affection would be the ticket. According to something you half-remembered (and maybe misunderstood), fae really appreciated grand gestures of intent. So, naturally, you chose the school cafeteria at lunchtime as your stage.

As you climbed on top of a table, all eyes turned toward you. Malleus sat at a corner table, watching you with his usual calm, collected demeanor, but you could see the confusion in his eyes.

"Prince Malleus!" you shouted dramatically, lifting your arms in the air. “I declare before all of these witnesses that I shall offer this to you!”

The cafeteria fell into dead silence. Well, except for Lilia, who was quietly choking on his laughter in the background.

Malleus blinked, his expression unreadable. “You... what?”

"Yes! I offer you—" you pulled out the cabbage you’d swiped from the kitchen earlier—"this symbol of my devotion!"

Malleus stared at the cabbage in your hands. "Is that... a vegetable?"

“Yes! It’s a sign of fertility or... something.” You weren’t entirely sure, but it sounded right. “I picked it myself!”

Malleus blinked again, clearly trying to process this information. “I... appreciate the gesture."

Lilia butts in. "Beastie, I’m afraid cabbages aren’t typically used in fae courting rituals.”

You pouted, hopping off the table. “What? But I read that—"

“Perhaps... next time, try flowers?”

Behind you, Ace facepalmed. “Oh, man. They're hopeless.”

Scene 4: The Gift of... Dirt?

Malleus was now absolutely convinced that something was seriously wrong with you. You seemed... more chaotic than usual, and while he enjoyed your enthusiasm, he had no idea why you were suddenly thrusting vegetables at him.

In his effort to reciprocate (and maybe figure out what was going on), he decided to give you a gift of his own. A very special one. From his homeland.

After all, humans liked sentimental gifts, right?

That’s why, one morning, he approached you with a small velvet pouch in his hand, his face filled with sincerity. “Child of Man, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, curious. “What’s that?”

He handed you the pouch, and you opened it, only to find... dirt. Black, slightly glittery dirt.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the dirt. “Is this... dirt?”

“Yes,” Malleus said proudly. “From Briar Valley. It’s a very special soil, infused with the magic of my homeland.”

You blinked. “You got me dirt.”

“Very magical dirt,” he corrected, as if that made it better.

You bit back a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. “Um... thanks?”

Ace, watching from a distance, nudged Deuce. “Man, They're gonna end up with a garden at this rate.”

Scene 5: The Unnecessary Duel

Clearly, you had been doing something wrong, because your attempts at fae courtship had been met with nothing but polite confusion. But you were nothing if not determined. The next step in your (completely misguided) strategy? Prove your strength in battle. Duh.

You marched up to Malleus one afternoon, sword in hand, and pointed it at his chest. "Malleus Draconia! I challenge you to a duel!"

Malleus blinked at you, clearly baffled. “A duel? With... me?”

“Yes!” you declared, brandishing the sword with a flourish. “I shall prove myself worthy of your admiration through combat!”

Malleus tilted his head. “You... wish to fight me?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! To the death! Or until someone taps out. Whatever works.”

Malleus looked utterly bewildered but amused. “I... see. But are you sure this is necessary?”

"Absolutely. I need to show you my strength." You tried to strike a dramatic pose, but the sword was way heavier than it looked.

Lilia, perched nearby, was barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this is too good.”

Malleus raised his hand. “Perhaps another time. I would not want to harm you.”

You frowned. “Harm me? Pfft. I’m tougher than I look, dragon boy.”

Scene 6: The Romantic Walk—Through a Thunderstorm

Malleus had one last idea. Humans, he’d read, liked romantic walks. That was simple, right? No vegetables. No poetry. Just a quiet stroll. What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, he decided to take you for a walk through the forest on a day when the sky decided to unleash the full wrath of a thunderstorm. And because he was a fae, storms didn’t bother him.

You, on the other hand, were not a fan of being drenched to the bone.

The rain came down in sheets, lightning crackling overhead as you both trudged through the mud. You tried to keep your umbrella steady, but the wind whipped it inside out almost immediately.

“Malleus,” you called over the storm, shouting to be heard. “Why are we walking in this? Are you trying to drown me?”

Malleus, entirely unfazed by the downpour, turned to you, his face serious. “I thought a walk through nature would be a calming experience for you.”

You stared at him, your hair sticking to your face, clothes soaked through, and boots filled with mud. “Calming?! I’m about to be struck by lightning!”

He blinked, as if only now realizing the storm might be an issue for you. “Ah, I see. Humans are... more susceptible to storms. My apologies.”

“Ya think?” You huffed, clutching your now-ruined umbrella. “A ‘romantic stroll’ usually involves good weather.”

Malleus frowned, looking genuinely troubled. “I thought the power of the storm would inspire awe.”

“Yeah, it’s inspiring me to run back inside.” You sighed, shivering. “This is... sweet, I guess. But, uh, maybe next time we check the weather before planning any ‘romantic’ activities?”

As you struggled to wipe rain from your face, you caught a glimpse of Lilia again—he was standing under a tree, dry as could be, watching the scene unfold with glee. His mischievous grin practically radiated from the shadows.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” you shouted toward him, but Lilia just waved, clearly loving the chaos.

Malleus, still deep in thought about his failed attempt at human courtship, suddenly looked serious. “Perhaps a different form of human bonding is needed next time.”

Behind you, Ace and Deuce were trailing a safe distance away, both dripping wet but trying to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Man,” Ace muttered, shaking his head. “They're gonna give the poor guy a heart attack one day.”

Deuce nodded solemnly. “Or he’ll get us all killed.”

After days of mutual confusion and failed courtship rituals, you found yourself, once again, sitting with Malleus in one of the school’s many quiet courtyards.

“Y’know,” you began, squinting at him. “I feel like you’ve been acting weird lately.”

Malleus gave you a similar look. “I’ve been thinking the same about you.”

You blinked. “Wait, me? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Malleus said, his brow furrowed, “you’ve been offering me... odd gifts. Vegetables. Challenging me to duels. Declaring intentions in public spaces. It’s... unusual.”

You froze. “That’s... fae courtship. I’ve been trying to... y’know...”

Malleus’ eyes widened. “You’ve been attempting to court me?”

Your face flushed. “Well, yeah! I thought you were acting strange, so I figured you were waiting for someone to, I don’t know, woo you.”

Malleus’ confusion quickly shifted to amusement. “I’ve been trying to court you this whole time.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re what?!”

“I believed you were in distress, so I attempted human courting rituals. Clearly, they didn’t go as planned.”

You both stared at each other for a long moment, the realization of mutual failure sinking in. Then, unexpectedly, you burst out laughing, and Malleus, after a moment, chuckled too.

“Well,” you managed between laughs, “we really suck at this.”

“Indeed,” Malleus agreed, his eyes warm with amusement. “Perhaps next time, we should... communicate better.”

“Yeah,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “That might help.”

From a safe distance, Lilia watched, his face beaming with pride. “Ah, young love,” he sighed dramatically. “How wonderfully chaotic.”

Ace shook his head, utterly done with the entire situation. “They’re hopeless.”

Deuce nodded in agreement. “At least it’s finally over... right?”

They're so stupid (affectionate)

Masterlist

— "HIS COMPLETE DEVOTION" malleus draconia

SYNOPSIS: "Don't touch me! I have a lover!" - After accidentally getting hit in the head with a powerful spell, Malleus is left delirious and confused. You try to help him but he doesn't seem to recognize you.

Character/s: Malleus Draconia x GN! Reader

Tags: Fluff, Established relationship, Malleus is a loyal dragon, Reader is part of the gargoyle appreciation club, Mentions of nausea, He keeps a locket of you aww

A/N: This prompt/idea was requested by a friend!

WordCount: 800+ | 💌Masterlist | PART II HERE

Green lightning began to strike and forsake the grey sky. Every student on campus could hear the wind howling through the thick dripping rain, a sinking feeling of dread permanating through the atmosphere.

The aged concrete walls shook from a shrill scream, the anguished cry echoing out through the hundred chambers in the castle.

"YOUNG MASTER!" Sebek drove his fingers into his scalp, screaming as thick tears dribbled down his flushed face. From his reaction, you'd think he was the one who got hurt instead.

Lilia tutted and carefully inspected Malleus' head. The young prince was laying on the ground writhing in pain. Lillia pressed his thumb against the dragon's temple, examining the Fae's reaction.

Sebek and Silver surrounded the two, ensuring that no one could get past them. Malleus was in a vulnerable state right now, he had to be protected at all costs.

"The spell was quite powerful however it's not serious. Other than some temporary mental confusion, he should be fine." Lilia muttered, helping Malleus stand up. The young prince stumbled around for a bit, almost as if he was intoxicated.

"Malleus!" You threw the doors to the dorm open, running over to the group. It's only when you got closer did you notice your lover's spinning eyes, glazed over as he blinks at the blank concrete floors. Worried out of your mind, you rushed over to him.

"Tsunotarou! I heard what happened…are you okay?" The fae appeared a little puzzled. You stood before him and he fixed his gaze on you, confused and...disgusted?

With a hint of hesitance, you reached your hands up to cup his cheeks. Only to gasp when Malleus glowered and grasped onto your wrists, ripping your hands off of his face.

Silence fell over the room as he dropped his grip on your arms, allowing them to hang limply by your sides. Everyone gawked at Malleus as if he had just grown two heads.

Malleus? Malleus rejected your affection? The Malleus who waits outside your dorm an hour before classes just to walk you to school? The Malleus who once caused a week-long storm just because he couldn't sit next to you in class? Your Malleus?

You felt your heart sink. They say drunk words were sober thoughts. Did Malleus secretly despise you?

"Listen here-" Malleus snarled, his unfocused eyes flashing a luminous emerald green. The radiance and illumination hypnotizes you for a while. A kaleidoscope of green and blue swirling around the gems that were his eyes.

"No matter how alluring you look-you can't tempt me. I-" Malleus lurched forward, nearly falling over. You ran to catch him but he pushed you away, stepping back blindly. He raised a finger at you. "I-I already have a lover!"

"Yes-That's…me?" You blinked, confused out of your mind.

Malleus only scoffs at you, shakily taking a few steps towards the entrance. It was clear that his head still shook and ached from the spell's blow. Sebek was quick to stop him, holding Malleus steady. "Young Master! Where are you going?!"

"To my-my treasure. My darling prefect." Malleus slurred, leaning against Sebek for support. He continued his rambling. "It's Thursday- We have a club meeting."

"Tsuno-I mean-Malleus, today is Tuesday." You piped up, pressing a hand against his back. With shaky legs, he pushed Sebek off and turned to glare at you.

"Silence. It is not."

Lilia laughs hysterically, doubling over and grabbing onto his knees. Oh, this was comedy gold for him. Shaking his head at his father, Silver strode up to Malleus and placed his hand on the young prince's shoulder.

"Malleus, you're still delirious. Why don't you sit down."

Both Silver and Sebek started to guide the woozy fae onto the couch. You followed suit, taking a pillow and placing it under his head. He turned to face you, his head spinning, a loopy snarl and glare on his face.

"I...I already told you- I have a lover." He groans into his hands, nausea washing over him like waves.

The fae begins frantically rummaging through his pocket. He yanks out a little locket in the form of a heart, holding it up for you to look at. He hands it to you with an arrogant smirk on his face.

"See?"

"O-Oh?"Gently taking it into your hands, you flipped the metal cover over to see a picture of you inside.

It was a photo from your very first anniversary. You were wearing a flower crown made with roses Malleus grew himself, it was one of the many gifts he gave you that day.

Though only your head and neck could be seen in the picture since his coat had almost completely engulfed you. It was a chilly day and Malleus graciously lent you his coat after you had forgotten to wear one.

You stared at the photo fondly, shutting it close before handing the necklace back to the fae.

"Your partner must be lovely." You whisper softly and Malleus sighs, lolling his head back to stare at the ceiling lovingly.

"Oh. They are much more than that."

PART II | Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

HIS COMPLETE DEVOTION: THE AFTERMATH. malleus draconia

Synopsis: A week after the spell incident, Lilia tells Malleus about all the things he's done to you when he lost his memory. Horrified at his actions, Malleus locks himself away in his room to brood.

Character/s: Malleus Draconia x GN! Reader

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Crack-Fluff, Malleus is really dramatic, Intense love, Lilia drags Malleus' ass, Lilia turns into his true form, Malleus has gargoyle bedsheets lol, Flustered Malleus, Malleus kneels for u

A/N: Might have went a little bit overboard here loll, I just read a bunch of sagau zhongli fics and it inspired me eheg

WordCount: 800+ | 💌Masterlist | PART I HERE

Malleus Draconia was in love with you. There was no doubt regarding that.

Every bit of your affection, no matter how small or big makes Malleus melt. In the aftermath of your love, he has trouble keeping his heart still as it bounces and dances around his chest. His face blossoms a bright red and a wide silly smile remains on his face for hours, leaving his cheeks burning and strained.

The dragon fae always clung onto you, standing by your side like a devoted knight - so vigilant and attentive that it would put his own retainers to shame.

Though, why is it now that you find yourself eating lunch all alone, with your dragon nowhere to be found?

Well…after the incident last week, Malleus dared not to show his face to you.

Lilia had told him about everything that had transpired that day and oh, how he hated to hear about the sorrow of his cherished treasure. It trod on, tore at, and beat at his poor heart. Even more so once he found out he was the cause of your pain. Such an unpardonable act that Malleus, overcome with grief, shut himself in his room.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't visit him. Every time you entered the area around his room, a push of wind magic would always carry you away; it was gentle enough to never hurt you but firm enough to never let you get past.

After days of trying, you decided to simply give Malleus his space, hoping that he wasn't taking it too seriously…

Guilt.

Such a twisted, dreadful feeling which gnawed at his bones and mauled his conscience.

Malleus sits in his bedroom, glaring down at his feet. After locking himself up, the young prince refused to speak to anyone and only came out when it was time for class.

When he was in school, he avoided you like the plague; immediately teleporting away as soon as he caught sight of your figure.

It was safe to say that he wasn't taking the situation so lightly and after a week of his dramatics and Sebek's mourning, Lilia eventually had to step in.

"No!" Malleus growls, tugging his gargoyle themed blanket away from Lilia's grasp and burying his head underneath it.

Lilia sighs and yanks it away from him once more, glaring at Malleus with a stern look. "Do you plan on going about the entire month sulking like this?"

"Yes. Yes I do." Malleus huffs, a puff of fire floating into the air before dissolving into ash and smoke. He turns his back to his guardian and shuts his eyes tight. "Leave."

Silence falls over the room as the two stay still. Lilia squints his eyes, slowly rolling the sleeves to his shirt up. His hair grows, draping over his shoulders and cascading down his back. Malleus turns to glance at him, eyes ripping wide open as he recognises Lilia in his true form.

"I may be old but that doesn't mean I've grown brittle." Lilia rushes forward, tackling Malleus in a vice grip. The dragon writhes in his arms but Lilia's hold doesn't falter one bit. He carries the wriggling fae out the dorm, along a path Malleus was all too familiar with.

"Now, let's go to that darling treasure of yours."

Despite Malleus' protests, the bat fae dragged the poor withered dragon all the way to your dorm.

Once they arrived, Lilia made sure to switch back to the form that you were familiar with.

Unsure of what to do with himself, Malleus stood uncomfortably behind him as the bat fae rapidly knocked on the old rickety wooden door.

There you appeared, disheveled and drowsy with Grim hanging off your shoulder. For the first time in weeks, Malleus' eyes fell upon your figure, and his heart hammered heavily in his chest. Lilia pushed him towards you. "Go on Malleus, I believe you wished to tell them something."

You looked up at him in anticipation, a bright smile on your face. With a trembling sigh, Malleus strode forward.

"I-I'm sorry." He dropped to his knees and bowed deeply, his head striking the ground hard. His shoulders were locked and tensed in a straight line, posture stiff and rigid.

"Malleus!" You gasped, rushing forward. Despite your hasty attempts to urge him to stand, he remained anchored to the ground like stone.

The dragon fae grabbed onto your ankles, his forehead pressed against your feet. "My treasure, I a-am so sorry."

"Oh Malleus, love, you're being a bit too dramatic. It's okay." You shushed him, stooping down to take him into your arms.

Almost immediately, he melts into your embrace, curling up against your chest. His head lay against your shoulder, an arm draped over his eyes. Apologies flowing out of his mouth in an uncommon display of vulnerability.

Sighing, you cast a glance at Lilia who only shrugged as if to say 'Well, he's your problem now.'

"I'll make it up to you." He whispers, throat burning after his numerous confession of guilt. You smiled, burying your face into his hair. "I know, Tsunotarou, I know."

" Though I must say…" You trailed off, and Malleus peered up at you, his eyes wide with curiosity. "That locket you had of me was really lovely."

Malleus coughed, his cheeks turning slightly red. "I hadn't intended for you to ever see it."

"Khee hee~ Ah yes, the locket." Lilia sniggered, grinning impishly. "Prefect, did you know he had a box of true gold specifically custom made for it?"

"Lilia."

"He was so protective of it, always growling if someone dared to touch what was his."

"Lilia, please."

"There was even an enchanted silk pillow! He would always place the box atop it. I'm quite sure both the box and the pillow were embedded with a protection spell.

"I beg of you, stop."

Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

Taglist: @keedas , @spadecentral , @crypticbibliophile ⤷ (want to be added?)

Twisted Wonderland Dorm Leaders (ft. Ortho) go to Build-a-Bear with MC

The dorm leaders and Ortho (in his brother’s place) go to MC’s world and end up at Build-a-Bear workshop.

Suddenly MC’s peaceful day out turns into watching a bunch of over grown kids.

(I got the idea from this post. This is my first time writing a character gender neutral, so I apologize if there’s any mistakes and be sure to let me know so that I can corrected them.)

Keep reading

── AND THE POISON STAINS MY MOUTH

malleus draconia. mortality, humanity and grief.

Malleus will never know grief before you.

He thinks of grief as a concept made by humans, their time on this realm so fickle and small; a painting of his mother and father in the colours of Lilia's mourning garment, an absence of which he as a child struggled to understand. He grasps at the idea of it, cradles it in his tiny palms like a flickering firefly. The curious fae-child dreams of loss, but no sort of magic can conjure the ache of something he never had.

He cradles the firefly anyway, watches its light flicker and die out. When you call his name and he looks up to see you — youthful, vibrant, mortal — Malleus wonders if the same fate will befall upon you.

Malleus tries to borrow the grief from the part of him that will exist in decades time. Grasps at that dying light in a future he cannot imagine, a future without you. There is something morbid here, he understands— a fixation on the concept of grief, mourning, mortality. He will never understand it, he thinks. He tries anyway. But grief is a painting he cannot capture when you are still living and breathing beside him, your light candescent in the perpetual dullness that Malleus himself never realised his life was stuck in.

He cannot imagine it, this— this life without you. That one day he will look upon the stars and you are not somewhere in the same realm, looking up at the very same constellations. It is not a matter of refusing to acknowledge it, no— Malleus simply cannot fathom the very real possibility that one day he will be here and you will be gone.

Malleus wonders what Lilia sees when he looks at him with you, what makes his eyes soften and the mourning weigh less on his shoulder. As a growing child, Malleus had thought that Lilia's grief grew smaller as the centuries passed— he understands now that the scope of Lilia's life has only grown around it, no longer twin wounds in the gaping maw of his chest, but hands cradling the grief as Meleanor might have done to Malleus, had she lived long enough to see him hatch.

"They will die one day," Lilia told him once, hovering by Malleus's perch on the balcony as they watch you walk down the stone steps of Diasmonia. "You understand this, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Malleus had said, even when he did not. A life without you did not seem to be much of a life at all, only some far-away dream, one that Malleus finds himself not indifferent to, but certainly unaffected by— for now, at least.

"You will grieve them for the rest of your days."

"I know."

"Do you understand grief, my boy?"

Malleus is quiet. He looks to Lilia, this man that has raised him since he was but a hatchling, who had once loved his parents and grieved for the absence of them in his life that Malleus had never

"No," Malleus confesses.

"You will," Lilia says softly, his voice not unkind, but full of pity. He knows what it is to grieve, but he had lived centuries with Meleanor and Raverne— you will pass long before Malleus is a Fae fully-grown; your life is but a drop in the ocean of his. "By the Seven, my boy, you will."

"I Love You"

When the words "I love you" spill from the prefect's lips, how do the Housewardens react?

Part 2

TW: Kissing in Leona's part, mentions of insecurities (Fluff)

Part 1 (Separate): Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto

ᥫ᭡. Riddle Rosehearts ᥫ᭡.

Like the thorns on a rose bush, Riddle's words were piercing and harsh. A follower of rules and also a preacher. Even so, what rules could he apply to you? You who was from another world entirely, you who understood little of his world yet were so brave, and you who broke his rules but never angered him. He was so utterly confused. He wasn't sure what he felt, really, you were far from perfect- mother wouldn't approve . Still, he couldn' t deny how his cheeks flared up when you walked into the same room, how he'd slightly fumble his words, and especially how his warnings were much tamer when you broke a rule. It all had to mean something or maybe he was going crazy. How could he like you, even a little- but how could he not?

But he had priorities and you weren't supposed to be one of them, you weren't meant to be a worry, you weren't supposed to be anything. But he cared. So much so, he didn't mind when you broke his rules, it felt right. It was the opposite to all that he was taught, something was amiss. It felt like a fresh breath of air, akin to sunlight engulfing him in a warm embrace. He felt at peace when you were nearby, as if he needn't be so uptight. Maybe it was alright for a few rules to be broken, to enjoy what life had to offer, to allow himself to relax.

He really was grateful for your calming presence, reminiscent to a fresh cup of herbal tea- with a slight hint of cinnamon, subtly spicy. Just like you were, not quite sweet but not sour, maybe spicy was the right term? So earthy and full of life, different from his dull self. But with you near him, he didn't feel so dull even he could be fun- at least you enjoyed his presence, it was enough.

Despite that, you weren't fair- why did he feel so warm when you came close? What right did you have making his face go red, and not from anger? Who allowed you to be so ethereal?

It wasn't fair.

How you were so insufferably pretty, and the way you'd willingly spend time with such a hot-head like him, trying your best to follow the rules of his dorm. You'd try to accommodate yourself to him, you'd really do that for him? He could just melt in your arms. The way you didn't mind when he lectured you for your recklessness, not speaking up but simply eyeing him with wide eyes- how was he even supposed to speak? You'd study alongside him, let him tutor you and afterwords you'd always stay for a cup of tea. He got used to it- your company and your mannerisms. Different from him, yet truly appreciated.

It was another tutoring session when something unforseen took place. Your hand was raveled in your hair as you grumbled and groaned, you hadn't expected the study packets Riddle provided to be so difficult. You had a test in two-weeks, it was time you started practicing practical magic, lucky you having Riddle by your side.

It was a tough night full of nit-picking, you'd say he was mean but you could see how he was trying his best to be tame with his words- how they were harsh but not mean, truly, this was also a challenge for him.

Hours went by, the moon rose in the sky and you were a tired mess, at least Riddle's tutoring helped. You were just about to thank him when the words spilled out of your mouth, unknowingly. Sleepy eyes looked up at him while a soft smile played at your lips.

"I love you, you know?"

How cruel of you to simply doze of afterwards, would you not even listen to what he had to say? Maybe it was for the best, if you were awake he wouldn't be able to meet your gaze. After all, his face was even redder than before, butterflies in his stomach as he simply stood there- had he been dreaming? He hoped not, it would be sadistic of life to play such a joke. He only realized it wasn't a dream when your head touched his hand, you were asleep and comfortable- you felt safe around him, trusted him. It was endearing.

Nevertheless, it was improper for you to doze off all of a sudden. But, just for today, he'd allow you- 'rules are meant to be broken', was what you always said. This was his form of breaking a rule, such a rebel he was. His hand traveled to your face, cupping you cheek gently before he draped a blanket over you- red like roses and Riddle himself.

"I love you too.."

A whisper, he hoped you heard it. Maybe you did and maybe you didn't- he might say it once more, after you awake. Till then, just let him admire you who looked so serene.

ᥫ᭡. Leona Kingscholar ᥫ᭡.

You're really gonna keep trying, aren't ya herbivore? Always trying to push him to go to class, to set his life straight. Really, why do you even care? Every time he pushes you away, orders you to bring him a snack, tells you to remain his pillow. You do it. Why do you stay? No one else would- he's a prince, is that it? His wealth, his influence, the power he holds. Is that what you want a part of? Everyone else had, just to ditch him after.

If you do, he doesn't mind- just stay, please don't go.

He wouldn't admit it but he liked your presence, the way you constantly clung to him, tried to lend a hand to help him who was strong while you were so weak. He might just go to class now, and he does, much more than before. You're a motivation he works for, it brings a smile on your little face. He wants it to stay, he doesn't even know why.

What really affects him is when he realizes, that you stay not for his money, nor his power and influence. You just like him. You enjoy his company, him as a person, an individual. He's not 'the second prince of Sunset Savannah' to you. No, he's Leona Kingscholar to you- not a second option, not someone you'll leave any time soon, and someone you genuinely care for.

Fine then, if his herbivore stays for him- he'll work them. You are a motivation to him, with your sweet words and the time you willingly spend- he too will work for you and be your reason to remain in Twisted Wonderland.

Was it selfish of him to want you to stay, no matter the cost? Maybe, but he is a prince- some habits don't leave, especially not when he's found his reasoning to move forward. He'll change some of his ways for you, it's cute when your face lights up as you notice him heading to class.

He doesn't change every one of his ways though. Why would he, when those ways of his allow him to see your face? You being pulled by Ruggie and towards him to wake him up, and you do- soft nothings spill from your lips as your try to wake the lazy lion before you. Of course he's awake, it's clear he is when he pulls you beside him. His weight stops you from moving, it's a usual now.

"Just stay for a bit, yeah? I promise I'll go to next class after, so just stay with me."

You do, it's comforting but so confusing. It's not appropriate for you to have feelings for someone like him, a prince of another world- you might have to go back to your won, though, you don't really want tot leave when Leona's around. It feels as though you're doing something meant for 'more than friends', something wrong. None of you confront it. It's serene in this silence, his warmth, in his embrace. It's a mutual feeling of safety, a haven. Let it last while it does, he'll make sure it's forever.

"I love you."

And the words spill out of your mouth, no ones near, just him and you. One of his eyes open, a neutral look on his face- you're not sure what to make of it. You don't have to, he's just shocked, not that he'll admit it. He didn't expect his herbivore to be so bold, he likes it, he likes you- loves you too. A grin soon flashes on his face, sharp canines flashing before he pulls you closer. You know what he's insinuating, you abide. He has a hold on the back of your head, hand intertwined in your hair.

It's a surprisingly soft kiss, it makes you want to melt- this is his answer, his reciprocation to your declaration of love. He's too smug to say anything.

Then the both of remain, safe in each others embrace. Your legs are entangled and chest touching the other's, you both relax.

"Love you too herbivore."

It's fleeting words, so soft that you barely heard them and if you did, you're not sure it's reality. As you seem to doze off, there's one thing in your mind. Where else would you go other than his embrace? This was your home.

ᥫ᭡. Azul Ashengrotto ᥫ᭡.

A swindler in the flesh and a contract that binds one to the other. Azul wishes it were that easy, but it's not. The last thing he wishes for is your hatred, you're already wary of him. The interactions he does manage to secure, somehow quite frequently, always render you even more skeptical of him. So guarded and cautious, his reputation's not the best but he isn't a monster, so why are you always scurrying off? Just let him speak, please?

But fate has another plan in mind for you always seem to bump into the swindler that you seem to avoid so- match made in heaven? As if. You won't believe his sweet lies, you won't sign a contract with him- but that's not what it's about. He doesn't wish for a contract, just some of your time.

As your interactions with him increase, you're introduced to very many versions of Azul. Being a swindler was just one part of him, the one that made wary. Nonetheless, he wasn't a monster- quite sweet actually, once you spent the much needed time with him. Words were exchanged, and you were warming up to him, slowly but gradually. Placed on his palm is your trust for safekeeping, you hope he doesn't break it.

As time goes by, you realize the swindler isn't at all what he seems- he has his own walls guarding him, his own insecurities. It's not what you expected, yet it adds to his character- it makes him human, he has a heart. The parts he hides are what attracts you to him- he sees it as a moth to a flame, hiding his failures. Yet, you look at it as a bee to a flower, so dainty a bond but so sweet.

Days go by and you notice how shy he can be, the smallest things can fluster him who seemed so sly. It's endearing, really. Your walls slowly break down, revealing your true person while he allows you to see glimpses of his own self, slow but steady. You don't mind, you both can take your time- walk hand in hand towards trust.

It's another night in his office, spent with him working on contracts. He truly is a hard worker, ambitious too. You admire those qualities, maybe not all the work he does but him as an individual is what you like. You don't seem to notice how the three words roll off your tongue, hand tangled in his locks of gray, seemingly playing with his hair; until you do, in fact, realize.

"Azul, I love you.."

Ink is spilled everywhere, the black coating the table and contracts on it. The pitter patter of the liquid allows him time to realize what you really said.

Those words that spilled of your tongue- so sugary sweet, could it be true? No contract needed, no form of force just his presence alone would suffice? He was enough.

His hand clutched yours tightly, ocean eyes looking up at you from his seat, tears spill from his eyes. He was so vulnerable in that moment, you found his true self as he had found yours. It's a nod from you that shows him that it's not a joke but reality.

"I-I love you too.."

He fumbles the words out too, a faint blush coating his cheeks as he looks away and to the ground. A giggle escapes your lips as you plant a kiss on his cheek.

Maybe the swindler was swindled by your love, except there was no catch- just your love, all for him.

Note: If you enjoyed this, please interact with this post, my blog, and reblog! Any kind gestures are greatly appreciated! Thank you!

Note 2: Please reblog, even if you don't press like on the post. Reblogs help a ton more!

"I Love You"

When the words "I love you" spill from the prefect's lips, how do the Housewardens react?

Part 1

TW: Kissing in Malleus' part, forehead kisses, mentions of insecurities (Fluff)

Part 2 (Separate): Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

ᥫ᭡. Kalim Al-Asim ᥫ᭡.

Like the scorching sun in the Scalding Sands, Kalim's feelings for you burned deep within his heart. Why is it that he wants to spend time with you, but the moment he does, his heart seems to stop? Why is it that the word 'friend' bugs him when associated with you? Why is it that he wants to be selfish, to hog you for himself? His mind become's mush whenever you're near and his throat feels dry, he just feels so shy.

Kalim is everything but shy.

Expensive gifts, prized heirlooms, rare gemstones, and any luxury you could name- he'll give it all to you, so why do you reject? Anyone else would accept his gifts with open arms, encouraging him to give more. Wait, you aren't anyone, you're you. You don't take, you give. Despite the little you have in this new world, you who harbors no magic, gives him joy. You spend time with him, you care for him, and you don't take from him- he really wishes you would.

Take his riches and look back at him just one more time, he swears he'll hand you all the gold he can acquire. So please, please just look at him more.

You're caring, so much so that he could just melt in your arms. How lucky he feels when you look at him, but why? Jamil looks at him too, he doesn't feel as if mice are tickling him then. No, when you're around, all he can see is you. You who shines brighter than any gemstone his wealth could buy. You are not a prize to be won, he knows, but he wishes that the glitters of gold could woo you, make him your number one.

He feels so lost and it hurts, nights spent sobbing away.

Kalim, the name alone makes you smile. Someone who's kind despite all that he's faced, all the horrible people he's met- he still believes in the good of people. Some call it naivety, you call it 'a heart of gold'. Yes, he's sheltered, there's some things he's slow at, and he has flaws. Despite said flaws, he want to become better and you see him try every single day. You've seen how he makes everyone comfortable, always including anyone and everyone, how he's akin to a drop of sunshine. It's a rarity and you appreciate it greatly. Twisted Wonderland, it's new to you and things are difficult but when Kalim's there, things don't feel that difficult.

He doesn't look down upon you, he doesn't think you're weak despite having no magic, and he certainly never belittles you- others have and that hurt.

He's always up for some fun, but it always feels better when he can share the fun with you. Thus, flying carpet rides have become your nightly routine. There's a soft knock on your window every other night, a hand extended your way; calling you to live, be happy. You can't help but blush when the carpet takes off, his body huddles closer to yours and the moon seems tease you with how bright she is.

It's another night and he's come to pick you up to go see the Scarabia moon. You're sitting next to each other, the desert seemingly glowing underneath. The stars twinkle and you swear the breeze is cool on purpose, just so the both of you have no choice but to lean into each other. Hands intertwine, both of you looking the other way, cheeks red like cherries.

"I..I love you."

You fumble out on mistake, your breath hitching the moment you realize. His head whips towards you, garnet eyes appraising your blushing visage. A soft smile appears on his lips, his sun-kissed skin peachy with a blush of his own.

"I love you too."

He says eagerly, hands wrapping around you as he pulls you in. The moon looks bigger, the stars winking at you, and the scent of sandalwood engulfs you. A soft kiss is planted on your forehead, one that lingers. Like a pair of sea otters, you both hold the other's hand.

ᥫ᭡. Vil Schoenheit ᥫ᭡.

Center of attention, even the room's filled to the brim with pretty faces. Eye's the color of violets and a smile that's so striking, it could cut right through you. Just how a bright star commands everyone's admiration, Vil himself does exactly that. With beauty that's akin to a velvety rose, thorns sharp and drawing blood of the one who dares touch. He's not sure why he's so fond of you, really, it baffles him. Your constant babbling should bother him- your posture isn't perfect, you don't regularly use the products he recommends to you, and your diet could use improving.

He only recently realized the perfection of imperfection. That's what you are, like an abstract piece of art that can draw even the most elegant man's heart. Truly, you can take his breath and keep it, which is a difficult feat to accomplish. Yet, you seem to have done just that.

He doesn't like how drawn he is to you, the you who could improve so much. Nevertheless, he can't deny how his heart flutters when you ramble on and on, the words you spew seem like pearls to him. Undeniably, you've got his heart, and it bothers him.

Vil seems unreachable to you, as if he's a god and you're a follower. You can see him, but you can't touch. Everything about him is captivating- the way he moves, how he walks, how he talks, everything. You feel like a toad in front of him sometimes. Still, the reason your heart continues to flutter is not his beauty but how soft he can be. His words may be harsh, telling you to fix your posture or add a certain product to your skincare, but he means well. It used to irk you, how he pointed out your flaws, but he never touched an insecurity- it was never something you couldn't fix. Many times, he only tells you how to improve and that's in his nature. It started with you muttering curses under your breath, now all you do is give him a dopey smile as he flicks your forehead.

It's hard to love Vil, and you're sure that it's even harder to be loved by him. He's untouchable and you're not sure if he'll even spare you a glance. But, the nights you spend at his dorm, him tending to your skin as you blabber about your day. Or the few rarities when he opens up, speaking of his insecurities. It shows how human he is; how he too, can feel.

It's another night at his dorm, your skin's worsened as of late and Vil's ordered you to give him a visit. You sit at his vanity, the light's so bright that it could blind you, but what truly blinds you is Vil himself in all his glory. His dampened hair, the ends the color of wisteria, and the scent of patchouli just makes you want to melt right then and there. He strides over with a new product in his hand, carefully beginning to massage your face with it.

"I love you."

The words come out instantly, his hands stopping in motion as his violet eyes widen. A sheepish blush coats your face as you realize what you said. Your breath hitches, the fear of rejection drilling into your mind, and your heart drumming against your chest.

"That's quite bold of you, sweet potato.."

He lets out a small chuckle, eyes holding content. He leans closer before flicking you on the forehead gently.

"I love you too."

ᥫ᭡. Idia Shroud ᥫ᭡.

The buzz of video games, the stench on junk food, and an interest for oddities. Idia Shroud was a wallflower, yet you'd managed to befriend him, something he's truly grateful for- your presence. He liked you. You understood him, you never belittled him for what he enjoyed, in fact, you encouraged him to continue. No matter how good or bad you were at a game, you'd play alongside him. It didn't matter whether you enjoyed his rambles, you'd listen no matter what, before babbling on and on about something of your own interest. Nights like this, filled with games, reading manga, watching anime, and spending time with you- he never wanted these to end.

You were brave, so unlike him. You had no magic, still you managed to show courage, to fight against overblots. How he wished he was you, no, how he wished he was yours. The realization hit him like a truck in an isekai, quickly and out of nowhere. When he figured he liked you, he didn't let you anywhere near him for a week- opting to hide in his room and not leave. It took some convincing from Ortho and also the fact that you may dislike him if he ignored you, before he opened his doors for you once again. Nevertheless, he was skittish, averting his gaze from your face, and sitting on the other end of the couch when you visited. That worried you, you were sure you'd messed up big time and he became uneasy around you because of it. Thankfully everything became normal after two weeks, he was sure he wouldn't be able to recover.

The truth was, you liked him too. It was weird and something unforeseen, you both started out as friends- you'd visit his dorm, play games all night, munch on junk together, and then laugh at all the cringe characters in the current anime you both were binging on. Right now, you were experiencing that cheesy crush from a shoujo manga, and the feeling was messing with your brain.

The gloomy boy you pined for was everything but dreamy, somehow, that's what made him so charming to you. Hair an electric blue that flared up like flames, pale skin akin to porcelain, and eyes yellow like daffodils. His physicality was mesmerizing but there was so much more to his character too. He was passionate about what he enjoyed, jabbering on for hours about his interest, something that you didn't mind one bit. He was competitive, striking a triumphant grin whenever he'd win a game against you. He's prideful too, his creations making him an utter genius. At the same time, he held such emotion, a man who would never judge for he himself experienced the badmouthing of others.

There's just something about Idia, something that makes your cheeks flare up. You're not sure if he notices how his presence can make you skittish, how you become timid when he's near, and how divine he seems to you. He never notice how he makes you feel, how ironic that you become just like him when he's near.

Just like the usual, you're cooped up in his dorm alongside him. You've been binging an anime for the past few hours and the way he's so focused on the characters while you're so focused on him, it bothers you. He feels so close yet so far and the fact that you're having such thoughts about the whole situation, makes you feel stupid.

"I love you.."

You immediately pause at your own words, Idia pauses the show too. There's a long silence in the room and before you know it, Idia's moved far away from you. His hair's become an electric pink and his eyes are wide.

"W-w-w-what..!?"

He exclaims the words as if he's animated, the feeling of fluster surging throughout him. Were you playing a joke on him? This wasn't right, it couldn't be. His gaze averts the other way every time you look at him and he won't admit it, but he really hopes you're not joking.

"I love you, Idia."

You say again, softer this time and you yourself look the other way, peachy blush coating your face. You're cursing yourself for speaking up, palms sweaty and clammy. You feel dizzy and your breathing is erratic , the feeling's mutual. The room's silent again, no one says anything and the only sound either of you can hear is the buzz of the computer.

"I...I...I dove, no, love you too.."

He mutters out, fumbling his words while he does. You both look at each other, shy gaze. Your lips form a small smile, making Idia's hair flare an even brighter pink. His face is rosy and he'd rather not look at you but you're just so pretty that he can't help but look.

You're not sure how it things fell in place but he accepted your confession, and now you've somehow managed to cuddle up to him. He's stiff but that's fine, the mere fact that he's holding your hand tightly is enough to reassure you. That, and how smug he looks.

ᥫ᭡. Malleus Draconia ᥫ᭡.

Child of man, you truly are peculiar. Malleus Draconia, the name alone makes millions, if not billions, tremble to the bone. He holds such unrivaled power that the thought alone is fearsome- he is fearsome.

A monster, that's what many would call him, but you don't. No one dares approach him as carelessly as you do, a bumbling smile on your lips as you walk next to him without a care in the world. Do you truly not know what he's capable of? 'Tsunotaro', that's what you've named him- quite bold of you, not that he minds. Please continue to enlighten him about human practices, he's interested in every thing you have to say.

Loneliness is a disease that he's suffered from since his childhood. It's second nature to be alone with his own presence, silence a bandage that covers but doesn't heal his wounds. Yet, the way you come to him, invite him to all your little events, how you choose him. How can he be lonely when he has you?

You, who is so bright like a star coated in gold- is he even allowed to go near you? It feels as if you'll break in his hands, yet you seem so brave, putting yourself in danger with a smile. You've got his heart in your hands and it hurts that you don't realize.

'Friend' was a word he grew to love, knowing the special bond you shared. Nevertheless, it's the same word that has caused Diasomnia to have horrible whether for the past week- you're a friend to many but a lover to none. Be his, child of man, he's the only one worthy enough to call you his.

Since the day of his realization, Malleus follows you as a second shadow would. Now, no one with ill intentions would dare approach what he's already considered his. Truly, how precious you are. Giving him small shiny pebbles you find, trying to tuck daisies into his hair but being unable to reach his head, and the times you try to tease him as a joke, making the silliest of faces. Please tell him that he's the only one who has the honor of seeing you in such various forms. Dragons are hoarders, you know? And he wants nothing but to hoard you all for himself.

Spending time with your Tsunotaro is always fulfilling. His knowledge on gargoyles, the depth in which he speaks of them and how little he knows of human interactions. It all makes your heart flutter, eliciting a smile on your lips. It's not difficult to have feelings for someone such as him, it comes naturally. He seems so intimidating, dangerous even and it's not that he's not- he is, but there's so much more to him. He's curious, always listening to what you have to say. He's sweet, always handing you gifts whether small or unimaginably grand. And the manner in which he speaks, the elegance he holds, he's just as charming as any prince in a book- if not more.

When you began actually having feelings for him, all his words seemed to make your mind all fuzzy. Could he really not tell how his vocabulary affected you? 'My dear', 'my love', and all other forms of endearments had become a usual, so much so, that it felt right.

You went on walks with him, spotting gargoyles and chatting about them. Sometimes you drag him to picnics with and he happily follows, letting you braid his ebony hair. Still, not everything you shared seemed friend-like, and if it was, you didn't want it to be. The way his emerald eyes gazed over you, how his touch lingered so gently, and how his lips brushed agains your ear when he said he'll keep you safe. It couldn't mean nothing, you didn't want it to.

A walk in a meadow at nighttime, how strange, but also the daily for you. You walk alongside Malleus, skittish and timid- this isn't how you usually act. The moon's peeking out from under the clouds and casting a silver sheen on all that it lands on. Fireflies scurry around slowly, the cool night air making you feel at ease- but it's not enough.

Your face is flushed and you won't meet his gaze, he's not sure what he did wrong. His frame towers behind you as you seem to walk quicker, increasing your pace. Hurt, that's what he feels; did you start seeing him as a monster too?

You can't leave, please- he'll beg if he has to, give you all of what he has and can create. Promise you'll stay, and don't ever leave.

Then you pause, turning around as you take deliberate steps towards him. You look up, your smaller frame covered by his daunting shadow.

"I love you, Tsunotaro."

You say with a certain melancholy in your voice, as if you know he'll reject you and your love. How could he ever think of rejecting? He'd rather pierce his own heart and bleed to death than ever think of rejecting any of your words.

His viridescent eyes widen, the glow of them seeming intense. His hands holds you in place gently, he seems to be staring at you, looking you as if you're the most fragile piece of glass. The words don't spill out of his lips and you look more desolate by the second- he seemingly can't speak, he's not sure if this is but a dream.

"I love you too, child of man. So much that you wouldn't believe it."

His hands wrap you in a desperate embrace, almost as desperate as the words he'd just managed to choke out. It was as if you would wither away if he let go, as if he was making sure you were not a dream.

Your own eyes widen, lips parting shock at his words. The night seems magical and his embrace is sincere. He pries away from you only to look at you more, all your expressions- please continue to show such faces to only him. Only he should see you like this, with your face flushed red and eyes widened as you stare at him as though he's the only man in the world. His hands seem shaky, unlike who he usually is.

No, he seems so vulnerable and you seem to be his vulnerability.

Everything seems alright when you're there, he doesn't feel loneliness; far from it, actually. He doesn't feel like a monster when you love him, when your own arms loosely wrap around his neck as you pull him in for a soft kiss- no, monster's don't get such luxuries.

Note: If you enjoyed this, please interact with this post, my blog, and reblog! Any kind gestures are greatly appreciated! Thank you!

Note 2: Please reblog, even if you don't press like on the post. Reblogs help a ton more!

Note 3: I didn't expect the last part to get so much attention, thank you so much everyone. I greatly appreciate everyone's interactions with my posts! As of now, I'll be working on requests and maybe some other ideas! (I really hope this part 2 is good too)

Hello! I was wondering if you could do the Dormleaders' reactions to Yuu who, given that they're from another world, is immune to any and all magic spells.

Example: Riddle's 'Off With Your Head' doesn't make a collar on their neck, 'King's Roar' doesn't affect them at all, 'It's A Deal' doesn't take anything from Yuu and acts like any ordinary contract, etc.

However, this means any healing spells has no effect, forcing Yuu to heal on their own.

Thank you for reading this!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ magic immune reader

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

out of all the dorm leaders, Riddle would be the most annoyed

...not that 'Off With Your Head' would've done much, anyway

you have no magic to take away

but... it's the meaning!

it's symbolic!

even a plain old collar would be punishment enough

but he can't even do that!

hopefully, you're not the type to misbehave, so he won't have to worry about it

if you are...

...expect to spend a lot of your week trimming the hedges around Heartslabyul as punishment

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona doesn't even know until his overblot

...well...

until after his overblot

everyone keeps going on about how lucky you are

(personally, he doesn't see what's so great about being magic-repellent, but sure)

he's... glad you're okay

not that he'd ever admit that...

just don't let it get to your head, alright?

being immune to magic means both bad and good spells

and he's not going to be sanding you again anytime soon

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul is PISSSSSED lmao

all that work he's put into his latest business venture

and for what??

you're not even BOUND by his contracts!

he has a hard time saying goodbye to Ramshackle...

what a nice cafe it would have made...

but, still

there's got to be some way he can use this to his advantage

he's an adaptable man

and he's always looking for a new assistant

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim is only a little disappointed

first, you can't even cast a spell

now you can't have any cast on you?

you're missing out on all his great party tricks!!!

but... oh, well

he thinks of it as an adventure, or a fun challenge

magicless parties sound kinda cool, right?

and Jamil says it's probably for the better, and Kalim trusts his judgment

(...for now, at least, cough cough)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

not counting the... VDC incident, Vil doesn't care

unlike your annoying friends, he has no reason to curse you

and he can certainly think of many magicless punishments should you ever misbehave

so, no

not really something that crosses his mind

even when you're unwell (because, of course, he's the first to tend to you), he prefers using natural remedies before magical ones

to him, it's just another piece of the strange puzzle that is you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

honestly what is Idia going to do

open the gates of hell on you?

nah

even boring spells would be too much effort for a guy like him

he does find you kinda interesting, though

I mean, being immune to magic in this place is a total buff!

imagine a group of NPCs firing magic at you, and you're like, wham! whew! zoooom!

...in his own words, anyway

(it's not actually that cool)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Malleus...

where do I even start?

he's so reliant using magic that he can almost sense there's something different about you right away

one on hand, it's a good thing

he worries about you, you know? the students at this school can get... unruly

on the other hand, knowing that you won't respond to magical healing is... worrying

he tries not to think about it so much

his overblot is a different story, though

if he can't put you to sleep, what can he do? trap you at NRC with him forever?

actually... I take it back, he'd totally do that

hi!! could you pls do headcanons for the housewardens (+jamil) with a reader that stims? like if they get nervous or excited they do flappy hands! Gn reader, and the characters are crushing on reader but they’re not dating yet please! Thank you :>

:) of course! I stim so I get it LOL

summary: reader who stims! type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, jamil, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic for most, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu

Riddle already has a high "nonsense tolerance" when it comes to you

if you were anyone else, he would get overstimulated so fast

but, it's you

and he likes you

and he puts a lot more effort into making you comfortable around him than he would ever admit

so, by all means! fidget, stim, hum, he likes all of you

and if anyone else has a problem with it, they can go through him, first

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

if you can live with a little teasing, Leona can live with your stims

kidding

...kind of

he would never admit it to himself, but the way you get excited is kinda endearing to him

(major cuteness aggression)

so he just can't help teasing you a tiny bit for it

lovingly, of course

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul has an eye for detail and a love of figuring people out

and admiring observing you is one of his favorite pastimes!

he might need the information later

for... reasons.

he finds your mannerisms... interesting. your nervous ticks are so different from the other student's

then Floyd suggests you're obviously stimming; it just looks different "'cause you're on land and stuff,"

it makes sense (though he doesn't have to be so smug about it)

mystery solved

but Azul keeps staring at you, anyway. for... reasons.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

unsurprisingly, Kalim loves it

if he doesn't stim already, he might just start

it's a good way to let off some energy when he's overexcited, or calm him when he's nervous

(which happens more often than you'd think)

he would be baffled by the idea that people find it annoying

or weird, or childish

if he felt like someone was staring, or about to say something to you, he'd start stimming with you

power in numbers, right?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

surprisingly (or unsurprisingly?) Jamil doesn't really... care

at this point, he's dealt with everything

a nuclear bomb could go off and he probably wouldn't even react

that's a slow tuesday for him

it's only during the metaphorical nuclear fallout

(when he has that migraine he always gets)

that he'll ask you for quiet and space

and that's the very most he'll say about it

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil isn't ignorant

he's not going to punish you for something that you find helpful

...and Rook has his little quirks, too

besides, there's nothing you could do that he wouldn't find endearing

what he will do, however, is help you manage

to your comfort, of course

there's a drawer full of stim toys in the Pomefiore lounge probably

and if not, Rook probably has a doohickey or two that can keep your hands occupied during quiet/important/etc occasions

otherwise, you're free to do whatever

I'm gonna be so real tbh I see Pomefiore as a very disability-friendly dorm and I'll die on that hill

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia! the freak himself

(affectionate)

nah, he doesn't care

he probably has a ton of his own stims he's already super embarrassed about

so he's definitely not going to say anything to you

if anything, it makes him feel better about himself

it's cute when you do it

he starts 3D printing you toys he think you'll like, most that he designed himself

so, he does care, but... in a good way!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

LMAO okay. wait

between Lilia, Silver, and Sebek, there's no way Malleus would see stimming as anything but normal

Lilia probably starts crawling on the walls like a spider when he's excited

so hand-flapping is like aw... cute! :) to Malleus

he would, will, and has stared down anyone who makes a face or a nasty comment about it

so you can be sure that no one will ever say anything mean to you about it!

like, ever again

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Operation Lonely Lion

summary: the first year's misguided attempt to get the two loneliest people on campus together type of post: fic includes: leona (romantic) ace, deuce, jack, epel, and sebek (platonic) additional info: reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

You haven't smiled in days.

You were back in Ramshackle, snug under piles of blankets, warm by the fire, a mug of your favorite hot drink in hand, and you pouted. You moped. You sighed.

You were downright miserable.

"D'you think it's the cold?" Deuce asks, closing the front door delicately, as if the sound might disturb you.

Ace scoffs. "Don't be dense. They've been acting like this since Azul's overblot,"

"Then that's it?"

Ace sticks his hands in his pockets and the two start their long, snowy walk back to the mirror chamber.

"Three overblots in..." Deuce counts on his fingers. "...Four months takes a toll on you."

"You and I know the Prefect better than anyone, and I don't think that's what's causing... this," Ace says.

"Hey, you two!"

Ace and Deuce tense on instinct, taught and upright, shoulders back and stiff like soldiers. But it's only Jack, not their housewarden, jogging to keep up with them in the cold.

"What're you doing out here so late?" he pants, winded from the snow and the ten shopping bags he's carrying on each arm and in each hand.

Ace rolls his eyes, and Deuce replies. "Visiting the Prefect. They've been weird lately... What're all those?"

"Hm?" Jack glances at the bags on his arms, as if he'd forgotten they were there. "Meat."

"Meat?"

"Yeah. Leona's been grumpy all week, and it's stressing Ruggie out, so he's having me run for groceries,"

"In this weather?" Ace grumbles.

Jack ignores him. "You say the Prefect is weird? Are they sick? I could run back to Sam's for medicine,"

"No, not sick. Just..." Deuce says. "Moping around, lying on the floor, sighing all the time."

Jack's ears prick up. The wind howls, blowing bittercold snow over them. It's late in the day, but the three boys suddenly seem more awake than before.

"...Same thing with Leona. I mean, he's always kind of like that, but it's been worse ever since..."

Deuce's eyes widen. "...Ever since the Prefect moved out of his room and back to Ramshackle,"

The wind settles, and the snow with it. Ace sputters, shaking the white stuff off his shoulders.

"That's it? They miss each other?"

Jack scratches the back of his head. "I couldn't imagine living in Ramshackle all alone. No one for company but Grim and ghosts..."

An eerie silence. Ace scoffs. Deuce watches his boots as they crunch the compact snow underfoot. Jack awkwardly adjusts his bags of beef.

Finally, Ace sighs. "Are we all having the same stupid idea?"

First Objective: The Setup

"I hope you guys don't mind, but I brought someone,"

Jack's silhouette casts a shadow over the wobbly, three-legged table Deuce had dragged from the curb, which Ace is decorating with tea lights from their dorm.

"...Uh," Ace says. "Dude, there's no one there. If this is your weird way of saying you wanna take over decorating, you can just ask. I'm not exactly an expert."

"Eh?" Jack jolts. "Oh! I'm in the way."

Ace rolls his eyes as the tall beastman steps aside, leaving a smaller, less scary boy in his place.

"Howdy!" he chimes.

"This is Epel. He's in my class. He's real good with food."

Epel smiles. "Aw, shucks. I just know my way around a barbeque, 'thas all. And anything to get outta dinner with my dorm. Now, 'les see..."

Ace and Deuce step aside, letting Epel have a look at the mountain of meat behind them.

"...Yup," he nods. "I could whip up a good Harveston-style barbeque with this in no time- oh, I'll haveta get some apples from my dorm for the-"

"On it," Jack barks, tearing out of the building as if it were on fire.

Then it's just the three of them, though Epel is already mumbling about spices and marinades under his breath, holding the thawing meat as if it were made of gold.

Weird. Ace looks at Deuce. "Someone's gonna have to get Grim outta the way. The second he hears dinner, he'll come scratching at the door like he's been starved,"

"And Ruggie," Deuce mumbles. "We'll need something that will distract them both..."

Ace smirks. "Leave that to me,"

Second Objective: The Distraction

Ace whistles a merry tune as he slides a plate of doughnuts under a box propped up with a stick, the words "FREE" scribbled on the cardboard in black ink.

Third Objective: The Secret

The smell of spices and cinnamon makes the dim, dirty botanical gardens almost serene. Epel whistles while he works, slicing apples with a precision that's almost superhuman.

Deuce had awkwardly thrown a few empty sacks of seed together, making a tablecloth, and Ace had dragged a few folding chairs out of school storage (may Crewel have mercy on their souls).

Bunsen burners make for good cooking, and Epel was nearly done with the main course.

"...Now, how're we gonna convince those two to come out here?" Ace asks, dusting the last of the dirt off the chairs. "The Prefect'll be easy, but Leona..."

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE!"

Deuce jumps. Epel nearly drops his knife into the open flame. Ace groans. "Please, Sevens, not him,"

Sebek throws open the doors of the gardens, letting a gust of cold winter wind inside. "Ne'er-do-wells! Just as my knightly senses had suspected! State your purpose at once!"

Ace sighs. "Sebek-"

"I shall have your conspiracy turned over to the Headmage- breaking curfew, stealing supplies, and- c-cooking-? What are you making?"

"This? Apples baked in cinnamon, and-" Epel is hushed by a hissing Ace.

"Don't tell him anything. He's a narc,"

"YOUR INSULTS WON'T SAVE YOU FROM A SWIFT AND JUST PUNISHMENT!"

"S-Sebek, wait!" Deuce says. "This isn't what it looks like. We're just... we're trying to... we..."

Sebek's slitted eyes narrow at the meager setup. The broken table, the planter plates, the Bunsen burner barbeque...

"Hmph. I see," he says. The others tense, even the wind seems to wait and listen, and-

"You've arranged a romantic rendezvous for forbidden lovers! Worry not, your secret is safe with me!"

Ace and Deuce both give each other a look. Jack scratches the back of his head. Even Epel is confused.

"How'dya know all that?"

"Hm," Sebek smirks, crossing his arms. "Any fool with eyes and an intimate knowledge of the Briar Valley court rules from six hundred years ago could deduce as much. I was just reading of this sort of affair between a count and a kitchen maid, in which-"

"Alright, alright! Just promise not to tell," Ace sighs.

"As I said, your secret is safe with me. Now, how may I be of service?"

Fourth Objective: The Invitations

"We're going to need a good excuse," Deuce says, pacing. "The Prefect will be easy. But Leona-"

"-Will question every damn thing until 'ya give him a straight answer," Epel sighs. "He's like that at Spelldrive practice, too."

Sebek finishes lighting the last of the tealights, an unexpectedly delicate task for him, and thinks.

"I will retrieve the Prefect. I elect Jack Howl to retrieve Kingscholar- the disrespectful human- as a member of his dorm,"

Jack scratches the back of his neck, glancing awkwardly at the glass ceiling. "I dunno, it's not like he'd treat me any different than the rest of you, but... eh... wait, I've got it. I know what'll get him here for sure! Let's go,"

Sebek is swifter, bursting into Ramshackle with the ardor of a battle cry.

"PREFECT, YOU MUST FOLLOW ME AT ONCE! YOUR DIREBEAST HAS BECOME STUCK INSIDE A FLASK IN THE BOTANICAL GARDENS!"

You pale. "Oh, no, not again!"

Jack walks to Savanaclaw, knocks before coming into Leona's room, and talks with feigned worry.

"Leona, come quick! Vil tripped on one of the sleeves of his dorm uniform like you always say he's going to, and he fell and-"

Leona shoots up straight in bed. "Where?"

"-In the botanical gardens, and-"

The Housewarden is already putting on his shoes, smiling like he just won something. "Face-first? In the dirt?"

"...Uh, sure, but- aren't you worried-"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, it's a real tragedy," he stands, making sure his phone camera is ready.

"Lead the way."

Fifth Objective: The Date

"We really didn't think this one through, huh?"

Ace grumbles, watching you and Leona walk towards the botanical garden from different directions. Deuce glances at him.

"No music, no entertainment, no warning, no-"

"Well, we got plenty 'a food, so quit your whining and help me plate these!" Epel shouts.

Ace and Deuce wince. "Man, he can be scary when he wants to,"

The glass doors of the gardens swing open, and Leona and you nearly walk right into each other. You stumble, almost into the dirt, but Leona catches you by the arm.

"Ah- Leona?"

"Herbivore?"

"Sssuuurpriiiise...." Ace says, forcing a weak smile.

You and Leona both look at him, then at the ugly table, then at Epel, still crouched over the burner on the floor.

And then...

"Heh. Haha, hahahaha!"

You both burst into laughter, losing your balance and tumbling into the grass and dirt. Ace and Deuce stand over you, waiting for you to breathe again.

"...It's not that funny," Ace mutters.

Leona stands first, and then pulls you to your feet like a proper gentleman. He dusts the dirt off his pants.

"You froshes are really something else. This is all for us?"

Deuce nods. "We thought-" but Ace slaps a hand over his mouth and smiles. "Just... go with it?"

...And you do.

For all of two hours preparation, the date is surprisingly fancy... in... its own way. The food is good, the seating is comfortable, and Sebek even recites his favorite poetry in place of music.

At least you're smiling again. That counts as a success for the first years.

And at the end of it, even Leona looks pleased.

"You kids don't know when to give up, I'll give you that," he grins. "But I'm still gonna kill all of you for this tomorrow."

They laugh awkwardly.

The End

After handing your unfinished food to the drooling first-years, you clear your throat.

"So, Grim's not... really stuck in a flask, is he? That was a lie to get me here?"

They shake their heads, and you sigh. "Can never be too sure... where is he, anyway?"

"Probably in a box outside," Ace says without thinking, and Epel smacks him upside the head.

"What?"

Deuce sighs. "See... the thing is, Ace had this thought..."

Your eyes widen as he explains, and you stand, going straight for the door. Leona and the first years follow.

"Come on!" Leona yells after you. "There's no way anyone would actually fall for such a stupid-"

You pull the aforementioned box off the ground, and Ruggie and Grim are curled up beneath it, both covered in icing, jam, and sugar, snoozing away.

You all sigh, and Leona smirks.

"Seems like someone had an even better time than us,"

may I please request Headcanon of the overblot gang + Adeuce when a reader that’s normally very sweet and shy goes absolutely apeshit and TEARS INTO some bully, absolutely roasting the hell out of them please? Thank you :3

of course anon!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ going apeshit!!!!

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, ace, deuce, leona, azul, jamil, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

being the magicless newcomer makes you a favorite target for some of Night Raven College's less kindly students.

your loved ones know this, too, so when a group of brutish first years approach, they're ready to defend you. except...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Riddle had seen them coming towards you and already had his hand on his magical pen

how stupid of them to pick on you in his presence

a week or two without their heads would serve them well

but before he can even step between you and the ruffians (very gallantly, I might add; he had it all planned out in his head),

you just...

...oh

even he blushes at the profanity you spew

he didn't even get to scold them

...then you turn back to him with that same sweet smile as if nothing had happened

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ace had actually been the first student to get an earful from you

once at the beginning of the year, and never again

now, he takes great pleasure in watching you verbally eviscerate the other students

it's a... guilty pleasure, we'll say

and Deuce knows not to intervene

he tried... once

after all, he's been in your place before

nothing's better than the feeling of putting some snob in his place

BUT OF COURSE, that's the old Deuce

...he just lets you go on because he knows he can't stop you

...not because he's enjoying it. obviously

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

and here Leona was, thinking you were some helpless little herbivore...

but can you blame him?

you're always so... cute

skipping around Savanaclaw, all happy to be helping out Ruggie and Jack after practice...

you were bound to run into trouble, looking like an easy meal

he almost feels... bad for you...

but before he can step in and tell the freshies to buzz off, you...

damn, you've got a mouth on you

you switch up real quick on them, and they scamper off to go lick their wounds

color him impressed...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul was on his way back to the dorm when he heard you shout

you sounded... upset

and as much as he would like to, he can't just walk by and let you get bullied

damn sympathy...

so, he follows the sound of your voice, ready to intervene... on...

...nothing

a group of embarrassed freshman run past him, scattering in the opposite direction

he steps around the corner

and there you are, perfectly fine, if not a little winded

...of course

and he didn't even get to be your hero... tch

"Always full of surprises, aren't you? Just don't give Floyd any of those new words to use,"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

it's none of his business... it's none of his business...

until it is his business

Jamil wouldn't have come running to your rescue like some prince

but he is in the middle of a civil conversation with you!

how insulting! honestly!

those freshmen must take him for some kind of witless fool

just this once, he'll teach them not to disrespect him...

of course, he doesn't even get a word in

he's never seen anyone so...

so...

...brutal

your insults are poignant, your tone sharp and dangerous, your usage of puns perfect...

you're like a work of art

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil has no problem with putting others in their place

and he has a particular dislike of the brutish, arrogant students at NRC

he can actually sense their unwashed presence in the hall before he sees them

one little snide comment and...

...oh...

oh, my

you verbally tear them to shreds, insulting everything from their shoes to their posture, their cowardice, even their own insults

...goodness

he's going to have to have a talk with you about your language later

but, for now...

...he's enjoying this little performance of yours

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia starts the most heated discourse over his faves and biases online, but this is different

this is real life

and the second he can feel a shift in the atmosphere, he's hiding behind you

you can handle it yourself, right? you've done it before!

honestly, he has no clue how you deal with the normies at this school

delusion, probably

he'd die if anyone talked to him the way they talk to...

...NEVER MIND!

you're using words he hasn't even heard in real life

even he is freaked out

you can get real scary when you want to, huh?

...maybe he'll just stick with you for now...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Malleus

he actually kinda sorta wanted to defend your honor...

he could be your fairytale prince!!! he could!!

it's the gentlemanly thing to do, anyway

and, better yet, he wouldn't even have to say anything! just one glare from him and the perpetrators would run screaming

...the one benefit to his reputation

but, of course,

you are not as innocent and weak as you seem

and he can't help but feel... impressed? with your ability to defend yourself

after this is all over, he'll have to joke that you should join his guard

need overblot boys with epel, and floyd with a reader that randomly lore drops as if they're an old dad like "yeah lol my old school had a shooting once....anyways *SNOREE*" and when asked they just agree and walk away and never elaborate whatsoever💀 if you feel uncomfortable feel free to delete or ignore‼️love ya pookie💥

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ a reader with a backstory

I got u 🫡🫡

summary: wacky reader lore type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jamil, vil, epel, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

you find new ways to raise Riddle's blood pressure every day

little guy is worried enough as it is

you've already got your school work, taking care of Ramshackle, taking care of Grim, taking care of all the other freshmen, taking care of-

well... you get it

the last thing he needs is to hear another one of your stories

"oh, yeah, that's like the time I got stabbed"

"????? WHAT??"

what's entertaining to you and ADeuce is mortifying to Riddle

if you're not careful you'll end up sleeping on the floor in his room

where he can keep a close eye on you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you're like Leona's little court jester

and he takes you with him everywhere

it's not easy to get a genuine laugh out of him, after all

besides, what's so bad about a little dark humor? it's not like you died or anything

he knows you're a resilient little thing

and you seem to love telling him about "that time you crawled into a drainage pipe", anyway

you make him laugh; he likes you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul indulges you

his white noise machine stopped working last month and you make for excellent background ambience

so, he lets you talk yourself in circles about your school work, your friends, Grim, Grim again

and then you drop the most HEINOUS bombshells in the middle

"blah blah blah Grim, blah blah Crowley, blah blah, that one time I got lost in the woods for a day, blah blah-"

he loses his train of thought every time

now, Floyd is the complete opposite

he will hyperfocus on the most mundane details

and ignore the bombshells

will give you an, "oh, that's cool" to your ghost story but will find you the pair of socks you mentioned liking three months ago

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jamil is just fascinated by you

you as a person, of course

but also the fact that you're still alive

one night, he's explaining the reason he makes all of Kalim's food and you're like

"oh, yeah, I get it. I got mold poisoning once and hallucinated for a week"

?????

then you go right back to asking him about the recipe

sitting on the counter, as happy as could be

"HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!!!"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil is used to this

he knows that look on your face

he will shush you with a finger to your lips before you even start

"don't tell me, I'm stressed enough as it is"

he's going to break out if you keep at it

he finds you quite... macabre

which is entertaining until he sees you going down a flight of stairs without holding onto the railing and remembers all those stories you'd told him

he's just... concerned for you, that's all

and he does NOT appreciate Epel for encouraging it

"tell us more about the time you fell down that hill into that pile of rocks, Prefect!"

:D

like a kid in a candy store

learning new Lore is like the highlight of his week

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"talk about having a high luck stat..."

Idia is more entertained than anything

he thought these kinds of things only happened in anime, but...

...there you are

it sounds like you experience more in a single month than he has in his whole life

and you know what?

GOOD

you can keep your freaky real-world experiences!

he'll just live vicariously through you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Malleus

he's been putting so much effort into learning and blending with human culture, and now here you are with your terrifying stories

you tell him in such earnest, too

you seem so... unbothered by it

perhaps humans are less fragile than he thought?

of course, he shouldn't have underestimated you in the first place :)!

then you come over for dinner one night

"hahah, yeah, last time I was at someone's house their grandma threw a lamp at my head and I got a concussion"

Silver and Sebek both go >_>

Lilia goes <_<

and then Malleus is there like, "ah, another fascinating tale :)"

the overblots (+ rook + lillia? if thats okay) reactions to you calling them your husband…………..

saw the words lilia and husband in the same ask and got so excited I blacked out

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ calling them your husband

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, jamil, vil, rook, idia, malleus, lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, established relationship

Riddle "we're not married" Rosehearts, everyone. and he says it so matter-of-factly too! like, of course, you know that. you were just trying to be sweet and romantic. he figures it out eventually, though (the realization hits him like a truck two hours later, and he apologizes with roses and a slice of tart. Ace makes fun of him for weeks)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona is so smug about it actually. unlike Riddle, he's socially aware enough to know that you don't mean it literally. he's like, "damn right I am" and will defo make you say it again. especially in front of the other housewardens. and his family, and random people on the street (he likes it)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I think Azul would try to actually marry you after that. he is reading way too much into it. I mean, you basically just said you love him and belong to each other in the most intimate and loving way and want to be together forever!!!! (he's already thinking about your wedding rings)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"your boyfriend 😑" THANKS JAMIL. it's not that he doesn't understand what you mean, it's just that he's having NONE of that. thinking about the future scares him he's just a realist!!! and then he fucks up and calls you his spouse without thinking one time... you never let him forget it

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil likes it. he's just sitting there all smug like "😌 yes that's me" definitely also calls you his spouse when you're alone. to him, it's just a symbol of your commitment and a promise of a loving future together. very cute very sweet 10/10

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Rook lights up like a kid on Christmas morning the first time you say it. it's just so!!!! he thinks about it for the rest of the week, and absolutely starts referring to you as his spouse. will sign all of his love notes with "your husband" from then on

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia is going THROUGH it. tells you you're being cringe while his face and hair are cherry red (which means he likes it!) definitely going to think about it while in bed staring at the ceiling for months. Ortho overhears and starts calling you his sibling-in-law :)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Malleus. MALLEUS. someone save this poor man. he's unwell. pacing around his room all night, trying to figure out what you meant by that. are you trying to tell him you want him to propose?? you want to marry him?? right now right this second-

you'll have to tell him you meant it as a term of endearment, which both relaxes and disappoints him (say it again, please please pl-)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Lilia doesn't really have a reaction. not on the surface, anyway. he just goes on with the conversation (he is fighting demons in his head rn). he decides he likes it, though, and he'll introduce you to everyone as his spouse from then on

BLOT BATTLEMENT (100 FOLLOWERS MILESTONE)

in which he suffers watching you fawn over his overblotted copy who seems to be in love with you.

SUMMARY: after an experiment gone wrong, an overblotted clone of one of the victims has re-emerged. luckily for everyone, it's reasonably powerless and will eventually disappear. unluckily for him, the clone seems to reflect his true feelings towards you.

PAIRINGS: overblot gang x reader (seperately)

WARNINGS: suggestive (for jamil, vil, and idia), slight possibility of drowning (azul), projection for ob!vil

NOTES: this is in celebration of hitting 100 followers! thank you so much for following my work, and for all the comments you have left behind! i will also be rewriting malleus's section once book 7 is complete! on another note, pls invade my inbox if you immediately see that reference from malleus's section, mwah!

"That's enough. If one of you barks one more time, I will have to show you what happens to unruly puppies that won't obey." Crewel sighs and pinched his nose, another hand gripping his baton in irritation. "Unfortunately, we cannot fix this in an hour. You bad doggies need to get along until this entire issue is resolved."

The professor clicked his tongue, shoving the two out of his office. "I have already contacted someone to get you both. Surely, the Prefect has survived both of you once and will be able to do it again. So stay put, and be good. Or else."

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Seeing his Overblotted self summons waves of shame and embarrassment for Riddle. It was not his best moment at all, and that inky copy is a reflection of his worst flaws and traits. You could imagine how rushed Riddle was to collar his copy in fear that it would hurt others again, especially you who had already dealt with it once.

"Don't make me repeat myself, I demand that I see my King of Hearts, this instant!" It's very much like babysitting a spoiled child, and it makes Riddle so wracked with embarrassment. He cannot control his copy as it stomps and yells outrageous demands to see you. Riddle was really on the verge of collaring it and dragging it back to Heartsyabul when you turned the corner.

OB!Riddle's smile is so wide that it could be mistaken as sinister. "My rose!" Inky blot is smeared all over your uniform as the fake runs towards you. Just as Riddle was about to whip out his wand to stop it, you relax and return the embrace, albeit with a confused expression. Riddle manages to explain very quickly whilst trying to pry off his copy, but you suggest that it is best to let it do what it wants.

What Riddle doesn't tell you is that his copy reflects his desires as well, claiming he is uncertain why it insists on being so affectionate with you. However, it seems to be quite the blessing when OB!Riddle marches to the Heartslabyul dorm to resume its position as Housewarden. In fact, the entire dorm thanks you profusely for being able to manage that little tyrant with a bat of your eyelashes and a gentle voice.

"Trappola, have you not learned your lesson!? Rule #186, you shall not eat hamburg steak on Tuesday! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD—" Tapping lightly on its shoulder, you attempt to placate the copy with a weak smile. "Riddle— I mean, Housewarden Riddle, Ace has not been able to eat all day and the steak was the only thing left in the cafeteria. He did not have much of a choice." Suddenly, the copy's face softened before relaxing back into its seat.

"My rose, I mustn't bend the rules. If I bent them for one, I would have to bend them for all." It scowls, only sinking further into its chair as you rub gentle circles around his forearm. The entire table stares at you with looks of gratitude and relief, all in agreement that you just saved everyone a tantrum's worth of stress. You hummed at the copy, nodding softly. "I know, dear. May I remind you that rules are there to ensure everyone is happy and safe? If Ace hadn't eaten his lunch, perhaps he might have gorged on the tarts instead."

"I suppose you are right, my King of Hearts."

Riddle seethes from the other side of the table, arms crossed and face on the verge of turning red. It was hard for him to decide whether he was merely jealous, or upset at his own copy rampaging around as if he were the real one in charge. He pauses for a moment as an epiphany comes to him.

Is this what it looks like whenever the Prefect is here to calm me down from my temper?

Even though OB!Riddle cannot use his magic, Riddle is extremely watchful of his copy. It is perhaps the ugliest side of him, and the last thing he wants is an Unbirthday Party ruined and spoiled by ink. They only had to put up with it for a day, and surely, Riddle has enough patience to ride out this episode.

He does have to watch and hold himself back as his copy acts so familiar with you. A hand at your lower back, perhaps an inky kiss on the cheek, and you being referred to as 'his rose'? It should have been me!

When his copy disappears, Riddle takes the time to pull you aside and admit the truth behind the blot's behavior. His jealousy seems to have pushed him into confessing, and he makes it clear that he would rather earn your feelings properly instead of coercing you for affection with potential tantrums.

"Forgive me, Prefect. I apologize for my copy's behavior. I have to tell you the truth— it was reflecting my innermost feelings. Prefect, I harbor these affections for you and I yearn to be more than friends. You do not have to tell me anything else at the moment. If you wish for time, I understand as well. Allow me to be curt, at least just this once. I like you more than a friend should, and I would hope to hear your response soon." (So polite!)

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

What a drag. Does he really need to help monitor his own Overblotted self? If you were able to survive it once, you should be able to handle that huge lion on your own. OB!Leona appears to be nothing but a grumpy lion who answers to no one, only being forcibly dragged around by his original self.

It changes when you show up. Suddenly, the copy springs to life in your presence and is completely disobeying the original.

You are taken by surprise when OB!Leona backs you onto a wall, a clawed hand lightly brushing against your cheek. "Herbivore," He breathed as his green eyes zoned in on you. "You should be more careful when you wander these halls alone." You couldn't help but gulp as he grins, fangs glinting against the sunlight. "You never know who might just be planning to eat you."

But when Leona takes notice of his Overblot's sharp nails cut into your skin, his attitude changes as well. The original takes initiative to pull you away and stand between you both. Perhaps you don't understand the way they bare teeth at one another, taking aggressive stances as if one or the other would jump and claw at their target. It sets the tone for a very tense environment as you attempt to drag them both to Savanaclaw.

It was best to keep both lion beastmen confined in his room. Considering that OB!Leona was focused on getting your attention, it wasn't hard to manage him. It was all that his overblotted self wanted; attention and absolute adoration. Leona, on the other hand, was more so bothered by the fact you smelled too much like ink in his own room.

"Tell me, do you look at anyone else like this?" Having been kicked out of his own bed, Leona could only stare blankly from his couch as his copy kept you trapped against its chest on the mattress. It only served to annoy him further when you seemed to reciprocate the attention it was giving you. "No, only you." The copy smirks, its tail entangled around one of your legs. "Then tell me, why? What do you adore about me?"

You hummed, sighing while your hand began to play with his mane-like hair. "You're brilliant. You're the most cunning lion that I know." Leona swears you were teasing him as you take a quick glance at him, smiling slightly. "And you're the only one that can protect me." With a mocking grin, the copy cups your cheek and returns your gaze to his own. "Tell me more, herbivore."

When the copy finally reverts back to ink, Leona can't help but find some relief in having the bed (and you) all to himself again. The first thing he does is drag you to the mattress and keep you trapped against his chest. You still smell of ink and lion, and it's his job to fix that.

"Go to bed, herbivore... Ha? I don't have to give you an explanation. You're a smart cookie, haven't you figured it out yet? ... Even with all the answers my blotted copy gave you, you're still not satisfied? Hmph, that's not my problem anymore. You're mine now, is that what you wanted to hear? ... Good. Now if that is all, let's go to sleep. You reek of ink..."

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

It had become priority to get Azul's overblotted self into the biggest Octanivelle tank, which also happened to be the most isolated one. While OB!Azul seemed to be temporarily human, he seemed more irate with each second spent on the surface. It only relaxes slightly when it spots you, but his grip on your arm never relents. "Prefect, please. I need the sea..." He's just so needy and in pain. You'd help him, would you?

Azul is absolutely livid. He doesn't want you to see his copy in such a pathetic state. He most certainly tried to get you to turn the other way and march straight home, but you had to hit him with, "Even if it's your overblotted self, I would still help you." It might have been just a small comment, but he takes it as if you would move mountains for him. You weren't making it transactional, and that's practically special treatment for him.

You thought that his overblotted self would settle once in that tank. The copy immediately sheds its human form in favor of his merform, much to Azul's embarrassment. The businessman ready to drag you out and leave that blotted mess to fend for itself when a tentacle had dragged you into the water. Suddenly, you're met with teary blue eyes just before you were submerged. "You didn't plan to leave me here alone, did you?"

And goodness, Azul is just torn between fuming and panicking as his copy drags you further and further down. To make things worse, you haven't even taken a breathing potion! That was more than enough to make the octomer shake off his anxieties and plunge down into the waters after you before you drowned.

"And then what? What exactly were you planning to do once you had the Prefect here?" Azul pinched the bridge of his nose as he crossed his arms, unable to even make eye contact with you. Clutching at the little potion bottle in your hands, you do your best to ignore the way that the copy's tentacles seem to latch onto every single limb of yours. Not to mention how they twitch and slowly coil against your skin, or the way that the copy buries itself into your neck with a whine while it ignores its original.

"Why? Why won't you give me an answer?" It murmurs, arms caging you into its chest. You can see Azul's jaw clench, but you cannot exactly tell if he's embarrassed by how pathetic his overblot can be or envious of how it got a chance to be so close. "I'll give you everything. You will never want for anything. All you have to do is say that you'll be mine." The copy grits its teeth as it tightens its grip on you, tearing a surprised gasp from your throat.

"Why won't you surrender to me?"

The moment that this entire fiasco ends, you never see Azul for another two weeks. Every time you go to the Mostro Lounge to see him, he's suddenly occupied with every single disaster known to man. It isn't until Floyd gets bored of the entire thing when you get the opportunity to be tossed into the tank again. It isn't until Azul jumps into the tank after you with another breathing potion to save you, again.

"Please don't speak of that incident, Prefect. I wish you never had to be witness to such a sorry display... W-What do you mean Floyd told you about that botched blot experiment?! ... Don't play with me, Prefect. You can't just say that you'll surrender to me, you'll hurt my poor heart! ... If you dare say it again, I am afraid that the contract can never be broken. Choose your next words wisely, Prefect. Not all agreements have to be in writing."

JAMIL VIPER

Of all the Overblots here, Jamil's was the most... unhinged one, surprisingly. It was also the nastiest, based on how it seemed to disregard everyone around him. Truly, it was the worst of Jamil's envy and wrath towards everyone around him for shaping him as a servant. No matter what Jamil did to snap some sense into his copy's head, it only served to tick it off even more.

When you came to assess the situation, however, you immediately got the sense that the Overblot will not be cooperative unless it gets what it wants.

"Master Jamil," Both copy and original froze, slowly turning their heads to you, who has knelt onto the floor with a small smile. "A frown does not suit such a handsome face. Is there anything I can do for you?" Jamil remains frozen, mentally screaming in his head while his Overblotted self smirks, sauntering towards you with desire swirling in his maddened gaze. "Rise, my diamond. You certainly may do a little favour for me..."

Thanks to Kalim and the coordination of the entire Scarabia dorm, everyone has tricked OB!Jamil into thinking it was the boss of the place (at least for a day, Kamil is super understanding of the situation!). At least someone expected the copy to see through this farce, but OB!Jamil's ego was so stroked by you and everyone around that it seemed to buy into the delusion.

Unlike Leona's copy which was super uninterested with anything that didn't concern you, Jamil's blotted self was extremely irritant with everyone else. Had it not been for you, Jamil would never be able to live down the embarrassment for having such an... unpleasant copy. So far, there have been no disasters while Jamil was occupied with keeping his copy at bay.

It's just that... Jamil has been watching from the sidelines as you are perched on his copy's lap, feeding it and attending to it's every beck and call!

Gripping his knee, Jamil's eyes narrowed onto your flushed gaze as your fingers combed through his copy's hair. If he had envied everything that Kalim ever wase, he certainly envied the abomination wearing his face as it rested its head on your lap. You didn't have to look at Jamil to know that he was seething, but it wasn't as if you could abandon the blotted copy either. It had only been a few hours since it had latched onto you, and this was not the best time to agitate it.

"It seems that I have not rewarded you." The copy sings. Its expression remains content, shuddering at the sensation of your fingers pulling gently at its scalp. "Do tell me what you desire most." Your breath hitched at the copy's purr. You do not react either as the fake Jamil sits up to caress your warm cheek. Biting onto your lower lip, you shook your head. "I desire nothing but to make you happy, master." You swear that you see Jamil's expression strain itself, and you already see how tight he grips his knee.

"Is that so?" You say nothing when the copy leans in closer to you, licking its lips with intent. You should be frightened, and most certainly be running away, but you don't. "You wish to make me happy, then? Is it me that you want?"

All the signs were there. That copy's hand was pressed against your lower back, the other hand was on your cheek, and his face was so so close—

Its lips are hot to the touch, and you melt immediately into his hands as he pushes and prods with his tongue. Against the candlelight, Jamil cannot tell if your cheeks were truly flushed red. He watches as your own hands crept up onto the copy's shoulders, pressing and digging nails into its shoulders until you have the strength to push yourself away for air.

You pant as your vision returns to you, meeting the copy's cruel smirk. It is looking down on you, and yet, you do not feel animosity towards it. You only feel disappointment once you recall it was only a fake.

"Or perhaps," A gasp is torn from your throat when the fake grabs your cheeks with a firm hand, forcing your gaze to fall upon a stunned, yet flushed Jamil. The copy smiles wickedly against your cheek, humming with absolute glee.

"Is it him that you want instead?"

You nod, and Jamil's heart skips a beat.

Yeah, no. Our boy Jamil ain't recovering from this. The moment that the blot disappears, you best expect that Jamil ain't letting you leave that room without an answer.

"I wouldn't act coy right now, Prefect. You may be clever, but I have no patience for your antics. Now, are you going to be honest with me? ... Why don't you tell me what you want, instead? What? But you were so honest with that fake only a few moments ago. Where have your words gone? ... You wish for me to force the truth out of you, then? ... As you wish, Prefect. I will give you everything you want."

VIL SCHOENHEIT

This was such an inconvenience for poor Vil, and he hates his copy to the same extent that Azul does. Just like Riddle, Vil feels a sense of shame when he looks at his doppelganger because it was a personification of his insecurities and selfishness. However, at least the copy was very calm and cooperative, perhaps even melancholy until it sees you.

Seeing Vil's Overblotted self again doesn't change the fact that the fake was still so beautiful. You are actually stunned into silence when you are brought before the two. Grim swears you have stopped functioning because being in the presence of two Vil's is too much for this world.

If you weren't watching yourself, you would've passed out the moment OB!Vil cupped your cheek with its inky hand and smiled down at you. "Ah, Prefect..." You gulped as it cooed at you, much to Vil's alarm. Its surely dangerous, but danger loves you so much and you can't pull away from it.

OB!Vil never lets you out of its sight after that. Wherever you went, the blot would follow. It seems to be fixated on being in your sights, which was not exactly a problem when you brought yourself to Vil's quarters where you would wait the entire thing out. It does concern you, however, just as the copy seems to grow more and more unhinged with each second that passes.

Vil is not exactly envious of how intimate the fake acts with you. Rather, he's extremely perplexed and observant of the way it pines for your attention and praise like a lovesick puppy. However, it isn't always so sweet. It isn't so sweet when the copy comes so close to scratching at your skin as it begs for your honesty. It certainly does not appreciate being lied to.

"Tell me, Prefect. Who is the fairest one of all?" It asks for the hundredth time.

Vil cannot exactly explain how he found himself watching his copy cage you into his own bed. It has straddled your hips, pinning your hands down onto the mattress without a care for the mess it makes. Ink drips and spills over his silk sheets, his pillows, you. Your neck has been smeared with ink, and so have your clothes. His copy is smiling with ink dripping from its lips and its hair, an obscure yet beautiful mockery of the original.

The original's breath hitches as your lips part into a breathy smile. You look like absolute art, and his fake looks like an absolute mess. "You, Vil. You're the fairest one of all." Vil shut his eyes at your quiet whisper, and he wishes that you stop bending yourself over for this pathetic imitation of him.

The copy snorted in dismissal, a sinister grin taking over its features. "Ha!" Even as it grips your wrists tighter, you know better than to believe that the copy would dare hurt you. Your heart pounds, however, as it leans in closely to your face with desperation on its breath. "Why do you say such, Prefect? Why do you say such when you feast your gaze on the ugliest part of me?" A choked breath stills the copy, its grin growing more crooked and maddened. Ink splashes against your cheek, and the copy pathetically takes a long finger to smear it away, only obscuring your features further.

"Are you trying to lie to me?" It croaked, maintaining that desperately smile.

Vil thinks you'll push it away. Vil thinks that you think of his copy so hideously, and so ugly. Vil thinks that you see him as ugly.

And you dispel all those cursed thoughts as your hand reaches out to cup the copy's cheek, dirtying your own hand in turn. "You've pushed yourself so hard, Vil. You've worked hard for everything you dreamed of." The copy's crazed expression remains, and more ink pours into you. Still, you return it with a gentle smile of your own. "Even when everyone complains, you're only pushing them because you care the most. Perhaps you act like the evil queen everyone makes you out to be, but that crown is yours by right."

Vil's heart stops. He still cannot bring himself to look at the sight. It's that cynical part of him that believe in your acting skills, that this was all a ruse to satiate his fake. The knife digs into his chest further as you hummed sweetly. "Your flaws are just as beautiful to me."

Only then does Vil bring himself to look at his copy. It is still smiling, eyes so wide as blotted tears fall upon your skin. You are covered in ink, covered in the ugliness that had consumed Vil, but you accept it all. You embrace the mess, just as you embrace the ugliness of Vil's heart. "Do you truly mean it, Prefect?" Its whisper shakes with hope, very much unlike the weariness and suspicion it held towards you the entire time.

Both you and the copy slowly glance at the real Vil whose eyes had widened at your softened gaze, filled with nothing but adoration. The heart in his chest ached, and he imagines that his entire body is melting into your hands. You are his weakness, after all.

"I mean every word, Vil."

When the situation died down, Vil takes the time to walk you back to Ramshackle Dorm. However, he makes a quick stop when the moon is set at the right spot, just to cast down light on your starstruck gaze.

"To think that the ugliest part of me revealed such feelings— you deserve an appropriate confession, at the very least. The affection that my fake expressed to you was no different to what I feel for you. I realize... that you meant more to me than you should have. I am not a benevolent prince, nor am I pure as the white snow. Still, I offer my heart for you to keep in a box. I only ask you to accept me, for all my beauty and ugliness... Ha, potato. My lovely potato, you're mine..."

IDIA SHROUD

Surprisingly, Idia got along the most with his Overblotted self. It wasn't as if he was driven by pride or competition— there was just some sort of acceptance when OB!Idia was first manifested. There wouldn't have been much issues.

At least, that was what he wanted to believe before OB!Idia set his eyes on you. It sent Idia into a choking fit when he saw OB!Idia approach you with such cool indifference, acting like one of those aloof protagonists from those dark otome games that he saw on a playthrough once. It's the way that OB!Idia leaned down towards your ear, muttering something about his boredom and suggesting to retreat to his dorm.

Idia took an hour to recover before sprinting to his dorm to ensure nothing has happened. All he found was you sitting on OB!Idia's thighs (it insisted!), and Idia swore that his copy was smirking at him.

OB!Idia was nothing to be concerned about. It wasn't as if it had the power to open up the Gate of the Underworld, which so happened to be far away. Other than the fact that the copy seems so... forward with you, Idia tried his hardest to ignore it.

"You look tense, Prefect." The copy smirked as it gently backed you against the wall. It places an arm right above your head, the figure leaning down at you. Behind the mask it wore, you can almost see it smirking down on you. "Don't I scare you?"

If this was the copy's attempt to intimidate you, ha! You got it covered! Idia is practically weak to any sort of romantic notion, it should surely send his overblot into a flustered fit! Boldly, you close in the gap slightly, crossing your arms around his neck and smiled at him. "Not at all, Idia." Much to your surprise, however, the copy takes its hand to cradle the back of your head, gently nudging your face closer until you barely a hair's worth away from kissing his mask.

"Are you sure about that?"

Suddenly a flare of red catches your attention as you glance to the side to see a fuming Idia who snuck over to your side. Wrapping a possessive arm around your middle, the original Idia glared at the fake and gritted his sharp teeth. "Listen here, bucko. You ain't getting more action than me, so buzz off!" He towers over you, hair threatening to burn orange if this fake continues to toy with you. "You wanna play, huh? Only one of us can have her, and you're nothing but a MagicMart knock-off!"

Cocking its head to the side, the copy snorted. It didn't seem to relent its hold it had on you. Instead, it leaned in towards Idia with a taunting stare. "Yeah? Why don't you ask the Prefect, hm? Seems like our little guest is enjoying all the attention." Both of them glance down at you, who seemed to be busy turning red to even give a proper response.

The blotted copy takes its hand to cup your cheek gently, but it was only a ruse as it forces you to look at Idia, eyes hazy with want. The way your breath shudders makes the original itch to steal you away from the copy.

"Don't you?"

Take that ending however you will. Idia does end up confessing to you once his copy is reduced to ink once more.

"Don't give me that look, Prefect. You totally loved seeing me get all riled up. And don't you dare deny you hated the idea of getting sandwiched by two of me... Please don't make me say it. I ain't good at the 'asking out' part, but I don't wanna skip over to straight up dating. Ugh, fine. I actually liked you for a really long time, and oh Great Seven, I just hope that I'm saying the right stuff to get onto your route. You're the only route that I wanna pursue."

MALLEUS DRACONIA (Book 7 is incomplete at the time of this posting)

Had it not been for the lack of potency in the blot, OB!Malleus would have been the end of NRC. Lilia was not a stranger to Malleus's ability to change the environment based on his mood. Even when this was a mere fake that they were dealing with, no one really wants to find out the consequences of upsetting the copy.

Malleus looks down on his Overblotted self. It was a flawed part of him, but nonetheless, a part of him that he was most disappointed by. The Fae Prince should know better than to act so wickedly, but the original understands. He tries to be as sympathetic as he can be for the copy, but it was only indifferent to what the original demanded of it.

Being the concerned friend that you were, you went to see them both despite all warnings from Sebek. Admittedly, Malleus would rather you be as far away from this poor imitation as possible. He does not want to see you hurt, let alone be at the mercy of his copy. Alas, it is too late now. The blotted copy will not allow you to leave.

Malleus hid his frustrations and anger underneath that collected demeanor. The only thing keeping him from doing anything rash was the fact that you were cradled against his chest. With a protective arm holding your waist, you were seated upon the fae's lap. The copy is forced to look up at him as he sat on his makeshift throne, and the fury behind its eyes is most evident, based on the way its hands grip your knees as if it were the only piece of you left.

Alas, it is only a stalemate now. With each tug that the copy made at your lower half, Malleus would simply pull you closer to him in turn. The fae hummed, glaring down at the copy who seems indifferent to intimidation. "Prefect, you may only say the word and this fake will be no more." He grunted, and you resist the urge to whimper as the copy's lips turned upwards into a smile. "If you wish for it, Prefect, I will disappear." It cooed, and the glint in its eyes reflecting the madness of blot.

Hesitantly, you shake your head and only feel Malleus's nails brush against your waist. "I don't want you to disappear." You whispered meekly, uncertain of what to think of the fake's lovestruck gaze. "Prefect, do you know what I can give you?" Even as the fake is forced down by the original, it still has the nerve to reach out and cup your cheek. "I can grant your dreams. I can make your fantasies a reality. I can give you everything."

Malleus lets out a breath of warning, leaning down to your ear as he narrowed his eyes at the fake with restraint. "Do not listen to this mockery, Prefect." His words are tinged with a hint of desperation, as if he had something to hide, something to shield you from. No matter how much he attempts to intimidate the fake, his blotted self presses on with a cruel smile.

"Prefect, all you have to do is love me, fear me, and do as I say. I will be your servant to will, to rule, to ruin." You are frozen as Malleus loses his temper, swinging out his staff to dispel the fake once and for all. Much to his dismay, his blotted self backs away just in time as its glowing green eyes lock onto yours once more.

"All you have to do is stay with me, forever."

The campus lets out a collective sigh of relief when the OB!Malleus disappears. However, suddenly, the entire campus is holding its breath again when Malleus doesn't immediately let you leave his room.

"Prefect, I beseech for your forgiveness. I fear that the fake has reflected my most selfish desires... You have nothing to fear, for I shall never withhold you against your will. How could I do such a thing when I am already so weak to your whims? ... Perhaps you do not have to stay forever to render me your servant. I pine for you, Prefect. My heart has already been yours long before I noticed. Please, grant me your forgiveness, Prefect, lest you cast me aside and I shall let my feelings fade with time."

Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

Getting Kidnapped was Not on the List! [Malleus x Reader]

Trigger warnings: Mentions of being eaten alive. Mentions of body pain/descriptions of shifting.

Not proofread.

The future king of Briar Valley isn't sure why he has such a feeling of impending doom, but it worries at him. He looks out the window of his room in Diasomnia as if he can see across the cobblestone and into town where you're supposed to be shopping right now. Malleus hums, green eyes narrowing as the book he's reading presses into his lower lip.

Yes, something is certainly amiss.

He feels tingly, like his very nerves are pricking and sparking at something. Malleus stands to his full height, putting the book down as he makes his way outside. There's nothing unusual in the sky, no ominous clouds, but he feels the shimmer of a glamour in the air.

It's faint, but he can sense it. Nowhere near the school, he'd gather. Wherever it is, he can't quite pinpoint it. He heads back inside to grab some snacks for the crows and ravens that call the trees around Diasomnia home. Hearing the familiar rattle of croutons, seeds, and nuts, a few of them perk up and call curiously. "Come, my friends!" Malleus encourages, sitting on the stone bench outside the dorm. They swarm, wings fluttering impatiently as he picks balanced handfuls and lays them at their feet. "Now that you're fed," Malleus leans down to them and speaks casually, like he's having tea with Sebek or Lilia, "would you mind doing a bit of scouting for me? There seems to be an active glamour and I'm curious. You would be rewarded handsomely, I assure you." They take off and he chuckles. Loyal familiars, birds. His grandmother adores them, too. Malleus brushes crumbs and bits from his pants, pushing off of the bench. All at once his chest seizes and Malleus startles.

It's enough to knock the air out of him. Is it...terror?

His phone rings in his pocket and he fishes for it, growling through the fluttering squeeze in his chest. "Hello?"

"Malleus! Help me, please!"

"Child of Man?! What's wrong?!" Malleus felt his fangs growing, threatening to cut his own tongue. The tremble in your voice, the fear, sent his stomach churning and boiling. He could feel the muscles in his back rippling as he lost his grip on his own glamour, the extra ligaments and bones needed for his wings threatening to tear his human shoulders as he staved off shifting from a biped to a quadruped.

"You dare call upon the future king?!" he heard a voice sneer with rage and disbelief. "Insolent, disgusting thing!"

"How dare you?!" Malleus roars, wincing as his jaw pops a little. His human mouth pales in comparison to the wide maw of his dragon form. Pearly teeth click against each other as they begin lose their human shape. "You shall not address my Child of Man in such a way!"

"My liege, please--"

"You call me liege but fail to state your name! That is TRUE insolence!" Malleus feels the claw on his thumb cut his cheek. He doesn't care. "To WHOM do I speak?"

"E-Elm Leafdance, sire."

The name is somewhat familiar. He vaguely recalls a miserly fae always moping about and telling old tales about horrible humans. Everyone in the castle could recite them word for word. Lilia was at odds with him, he recalled. At one point Elm had been accused of kidnapping Silver but Lilia never made a formal complaint before the court so it faded into obscurity.

"Unhand my Child of Man, Leafdance! If you have qualms with them, I shall be addressed in their stead. Come to me at once!"

"A most generous offer, young king," the fae is stuttering now, "but leaving would prove costly to, your, um...Child of Man..."

He can barely comprehend through the haze of rage. Malleus feels his chest burning to a nauseating degree, the green fire begging to be set free. Wisps of smoke slither from his lips. He snorts, expelling most of it. If Leafdance cannot leave you unattended, that means you're at the mercy of some kind of enchantment with sentience that he controls.

That sentience would diminish with distance and who knows how that would leave you? Clearly you're being restrained if it would prove 'costly'. The idea of you being in any peril ESPECIALLY from a fae has Malleus seething. His phone is barely holding on; Malleus can feel the fractured screen poking his cheek.

He turns sharply towards Diasomnia, half-floating as he jumps from ledge to crenel, climbing up a merlon to stare at the town in the distance. "Raise your sigil and I shall come to you." Malleus snaps the phone even though he tried to mash the 'end call' button. Putting his thumb through it just pressed everything inward and it crumpled like a can.

Malleus casts the broken phone aside, watching the sky out of the corner of his eye as he ascends the main tower of Diasomnia. It is one of the taller point on campus, only rivaled by NRC itself. He hunches, releasing his glamour.

His grand shadow looms over Diasomnia, wings stirring gusts as he launches off the stone. The stone crumbles a bit, his claws leaving scratches. Malleus doesn't remember the last time he flew in his true form but the wind cutting around his scales feels nice. A glittering leaf sparks in the distance and he bellows, pawing at the air as if that will help him rise faster.

Malleus catches an updraft, oblivious to Lilia ripping out of Diasomnia's storage room on a broom. The prince darts forward, his eyes hard and pupils slitted. His tail whips to and fro, top layer of scales raised and acting as a stabilizer.

He breaches the enchantment and lands in the clearing. Sadly, the thought to land ON Leafdance didn't cross his mind. The ground trembles beneath him, claws sinking into the soft grass. Malleus lowers his head to Leafdance not as a greeting, but to better see the cretin that dares harm his cherished Child of Man.

"S-Sire!" the chestnut-haired man squeaks, "H-How nice to see you!"

Malleus snorts in response, knocking the fae back. I cannot say the same, Malleus glares at the fae, green embers dancing at the back of his throat. Flecks of green sparkle in his teeth. Some dragon fae can talk in their true form but he cannot. Where is my Child of Man?

"On the subject of the human--" Leafdance begins.

His ferocious rage dims as he inhales your scent. Malleus relaxes a bit and it's like his vision clears, allowing him to see the clusters of trees and tangle of roots you're stuck in. It was a nasty gnarl, for certain. If Elm left, it would surely knot around you and you'd lose a limb (at the very least). Judging by the lone arm sticking out of the tangle, he'd guess you were being twisted and the weight of the branches would crush you.

Not something to be stuck in.

Release them, Malleus' stares at Elm, satisfied with the way the fae shakes while looking at the reflection in his large eye.

"But sire! Please come to your senses! Humans are--"

Malleus isn't sure what came over him in that moment. He was annoyed, yes, but even when in his dragon form he was rational. Composed. Regal. Fully cognizant.

And he's fully aware that he lunges forward, all teeth.

The terrified squawk is muffled in the wet cavern of his mouth, Malleus chomping on the feeble body. He feels the bones roll, flesh squishing against his teeth like pulp. I think I'd rather have Lilia's cooking, Malleus muses as he bobs his head to send the remains down his throat.

The twist of roots explode, no longer connected to their summoner. He's surprised to find you awake and alert. Perhaps Elm meant to keep you conscious and make you suffer. You're dazed and covered in tree bits.

Even in this form he finds you adorably tiny. He can't laugh in this form; it turns into a rumble of a coo. You flinch when the towering creature registers in your vision but something about the brilliant green of that eye, the way those massive paws--claws?--fold patiently in front of you, gives you pause.

"M-Malleus?" you've turned over onto your hands and knees. He rests his maw on his paws, blinking at you.

It is I, Child of Man, Malleus snorts gently. It blows your hair around and the sound he gives is akin to a purr. You sit back on your knees, stunned and staring up at him with thoughtful adoration.

Joy. Relief. Love, perchance?

He can tell it's weird for you to hear his voice but you recover quickly. The idea that his voice sooths you is more than enough for him.

"I didn't realize you could turn into an actual dragon. I just thought being a dragon fae meant you had horns and a tail!" you laughed, cheeks turning red as the embarrassment hit you.

We fae have many secrets, Malleus nudges you with his snout, careful not to shove you. He feels your tiny, warm hands brush his scales. Trace them.

Ooh it's divine! Malleus' tail beats the ground and he's careful to knock the trees away from the two of you. "Thank you for saving me," You kiss the side of his face and wonder if he feels it. His pupil dilates and you laugh as the side of a pink tongue comes out to lick you. "But you squished my groceries. I'll need to make another trip. Want to join me?"

"DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!" Lilia drops down from the broom, landing squarely between Malleus' horns. He grabs onto the closest one, feet slipping as Malleus furrows his forehead and starts to move. "Don't swing me, you heathen! I can't believe you FLEW OFF FROM THE SCHOOL!" Lilia shakes the broom, yelping as Malleus looks down and forces him to dangle.

My human was in trouble. What was I to do?

"Tell Crowley?!" Lilia lets go to float in front of Malleus, one hand on his hip. Malleus huffs in response, blowing the fae towards a tree. Had he not teleported, Lilia would be dealing with some serious back pain! He reappeared beside you, leaning on the broom.

I needed a solution, not another problem, Malleus shook his head.

"Why can't Malleus come to the store with me?" you interrupt the staring contest. Apparently Malleus could filter people out when it came to telepathy; he and Lilia were making faces at each other.

"Because he needs to digest what he ate before he reverts to his human form." Lilia sighed. Malleus certainly wasn't the first dragon to eat someone but the boy hadn't been properly educated about taking care of himself after doing so. He'd been taught basic etiquette about showing off his fangs and how to control his wings but eating things in his dragon form hadn't been on anyone's mind since he preferred to be in his human form.

He was a gentle soul, much like his father, and no one really saw him resorting to such things. Queen Maleanor, absolutely! Stories of Queen Maleficia tearing chunks out of annoying suitors certainly made the rounds but no one really saw that in Malleus until now.

"He'll have terrible indigestion if he doesn't." Lilia frowned. "Among other issues."

How long will it take? Malleus cocked his head at Lilia.

"At least an hour. Two to be on the safe side." Lilia sighed, shaking his head.

"Well, I still need groceries." you shrugged, getting off the ground. You'd just have to use whatever bags the store gave you. You're sure the ones under Malleus can't be saved.

Oh Child of Man, for whom my heart sings, might you pay tribute with a bit of ice cream?

"A kiss wasn't enough?" you teased.

"A kiss? Oh, Malleus, you cheeky thing!" Lilia laughs. His young charge may be in dragon form but even dragons can be embarrassed. It's mostly awkward shuffling, dismissive wing flaps, and avoidant eyes, but it's still hilarious.

I would like both, thank you, Malleus' tail starts to wag again. It wags harder when he takes Lilia by surprise and blows him through a cluster of trees like a dandelion seed.

"I'll see what I can do," you pat the side of his face before walking over to help Lilia up and head back to the store.

Blot!reader pt. 1

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

When they all arrived in Twisted Wonderland, the reactions varied wildly; Irritation, indifference, curiosity, empathy, pity, disgust, admiration. All directed towards them—The Yuus. Not you. You didn't even seem to exist.

You aren't important. At least not enough to be a protagonist in this story all seven of them are living in.

The realization that you're alone in this world seems to hit like ice cold water dumped over your head and the chill of it creeps into your heart, freezing your veins and arteries.

You arrived the same way they did: Another world, no magic, the black carriage ride that would've seemed like a lifetime opportunity. But you aren't like the Yuus. You can't muster the determination and resolve they have to push through this unfamiliar terrain without much of a reaction. In fact, you cannot even begin to understand why none of them are upset about this.

Why? You find yourself asking over and over again and the question echoes relentlessly in your mind. Why aren't they grieving everything they've lost? Because you can't seem to stop thinking about it—Everything you've ever amounted to is gone. All your relationships, achievements, successes and lessons. Everything you've built is gone like a dream. Erased in an instant.

Hundreds—no—thousands of eyes stare at all of you. You don't have time to think about how beautiful they are. You've been stripped bare and raw of everything that ever made you you. You've been killed without ever physically dying.

As you struggle to adjust into this unfamiliar world, you can't help but admire others you share Ramshackle with. They're strong and determined, truly remarkable individuals. Charismatic and brave, they seem like the type of fictional characters the fanbase would adore—praised for the grit and unyielding stubbornness they display valiantly. Even the other students of magic descent respect them.

Sometimes you lie awake in your room—rundown and shabby, but improving. Together you're slowly transforming the dorm into something livable, maybe even inviting. During moments like these you find deep appreciation within yourself for the other seven that arrived with you. In vulnerable moments like this, they aren't companions; they're a lifeline.

Then there's you—a playground rock next to shining gems on pedestals. They reassure you that you're important. But nobody outside these croaking walls seems to believe that. The frustration builds sometimes, a tight knot in your chest just twisting and turning, and inevitably only knotting more. Curled up on the creaky floor, clutching your hair while staring wide-eyed at a single spot as if that floorboard specifically caused all of this. Tears don't seem to come; instead, you sit there, taking deep, shuddering breaths, lost in a sea of thoughts that you're drowning in.

Why? Why are you treated like a Ramshackle ghost—or even less? You all share the same origin, the same story of loss and these faux "New beginnings", so what makes you so different, so unappealing that nobody seems to want to spare more time than polite? Is it because of the fear that grips your heart? Its clutch is tight and cold, holding you to this new world full of threats hidden behind the guise of beautiful and new magic you didn't have back home.

The mesmerizing people that wield such pretty magic can control bodies while leaving consciousness intact—or the opposite. The idea of someone with malicious intent having that power over you is a chilling nightmare. You cannot simply compete for your own safety.

The inhabitants of Twisted Wonderland are simply stronger. Not just the fae, mers, or beastpeople, but even the humans. Their bodies are resilient, able to shrug off low-level magic that would leave you bloody or bruised.

At times you wonder why exactly nobody seems to care enough to remember you and there are moments when you find yourself gazing in the mirror, only met with an unfamiliar face. The reflection you're met with isn't quite yours—it's something darker, something hollow. A shadow, endless and consuming, its eyes locking with yours with an unnerving intensity. That smile, twisted in ways that were once pretty, no longer feels like it belongs on your face.

It's almost as you though you're looking at an echo of yourself, a distorted version that somehow feels both foreign and familiar, comforting in its familiarity but unsettling in its wrongness.

You blink, and the reflection moves. Just a slight shift, a creeping inch closer to the glass, closer than where you stand in reality. Your heart leaps into your throat, panic surging through you as you back away, tearing yourself from the bathroom and your own gaze. You slam the door behind you, leaning against its cold, worn surface. But even as the chill presses against your skin, it does nothing to calm the racing of your heart. The sleep deprivation is wearing you thin, and the hallucinations are becoming harder to ignore, more frequent, more real.

Ace's eyes narrow as you attempt to make small talk in the Ramshackle kitchen. He's friends with all the Yuus and quite close with them all. Deuce lingers somewhere nearby and you can hear his footsteps clomping around as he chases Grim. A soundtrack you've grown familiar with over time.

"—so yeah. He totally shrugged us off. Said we weren't 'big kid' enough to know what was going on." Ace rants, throwing his arms up in exasperation before running a hand through shaggy locks, his scarlet eyes met your own briefly before he continued rambling about something that had happened today in physed. His words swirl around you, filled with the day's energy, yet never fully reaching.

You always liked when the Adeuce duo visited. They were really only here for the others and you knew it, of course. If you remain in your room when they visit, neither boy will seek you out. They only included you in their escapades when you're right there—an afterthought. It felt cruel, like an unspoken rule of polite indifference. Nobody hated you, you just weren't important.

Deuce poked his face into the room, offering a polite wave as he rummaged through the fridge for a snack before leaning against the counter as he watched you make lunch. His expression is thoughtful and only vaguely curious.

"You don't really do anything, do you?" The words slipped out like a quiet curiosity that cut deeper than he likely intended. It's not a jab, just a question. Maybe that makes it hurt more. You felt like a rarely regarded lamp in a corner, the bulb long burned out, the shade dusty and untouched, and a soft light no longer emit from it.

You awkwardly muster a smile and try to respond—to list a reason you're worth more attention than you receive, but your voice falters. Before you can say a word, Grim streaks across the table, scattering papers and bunching up the cheap cloth. One paw hits Ace in the face and Deuce barely manages to avoid a fall with the creature darting between his legs.

Both boys shoot up, laughter and curses ringing out through the dorm as they chase Grim out of the room. You're left in the quiet, the emptiness settling over you like dust—suffocating and dull. The buzz of the kitchen light hums in the silence, a low, monotonous sound that only seems to heighten the irritation building inside. It's the kind of anger that feels pointless, but it consumes you anyway, making you feel unbearably stagnant.

Your eyes are locked on the tiles beneath your feet, the stark off-whiteness almost glaring under the dim light. You stare so intensely that your eyes begin to sting, but you can't bring yourself to look away. Something feels off, something is off.

And then, it hits you. Your oldest companion—the one constant presence you could always count on—has abandoned you. Your shadow is gone. For a fleeting moment, you feel exposed, like the absence of it leaves you vulnerable. You almost want to reach out, to search for it, but there's nothing there. The realization leaves you with a cold, sinking feeling, and the silence suddenly feels oppressive.

Your gaze pulls away from the tiles, heart racing, trying to dismiss the unsettling feeling. Turning back to the counter, you expect to regain a semblance of calm. But as you do, something catches your eye—your shadow is cast strangely, distorted in a way you don't recall. Paranoia gnaws at you, the question unanswered. Was it always like this? You couldn't even remember.

Before you could process it any further, you hear Yuuken's voice, calling you from down the hall, asking for help with the renovations.

Engaging with anyone here was an uphill battle—woundingly difficult. The conversations seem one sided, his interest always fleeting as if there's nothing about you that's all that interesting. You're invisible. Once again, feeling like a ghost, a nameless background character in a story you were pasted into, into a story that you weren't even supposed to be dragged into.

What cuts deeper like a blade into the fat layer is the reality that you're not just standing idle. You're there in the overblots, fighting every battle as if you were qualified despite being dastardly unfit for this work. Fighting just as fiercely for people who don't even dare to acknowledge your existence for longer than necessary. You've pulled people to safety, pushed others out of the way of dangerous attacks and when it's all over you're tending to the injured, soothing the boy whose overblotted until he comes to. Yet when he wakes his eyes are darting for someone else.

All you want—all you need—is a simple acknowledgement. A thanks.

Yuu is injured but so are you. "What about me?" The words slip out before you can stop them

"What about you?" He repeats as his eyes rake over your crumpled form; battered and broken.

His voice is distant, edged with a vague obligation of care or pity. "You're hurt. Staff and paramedics will be here soon. Stay put." You would've felt your heart swell to feel any sort of acknowledgement and being withdrawn from your lonely bubble but he goes ahead and says that to everyone else and the hope sputters out and fades away. Are you merely another faceless voice in the crowd?

But he's beside Yuuka and her friends, thanking them tending to the others, offering words of comfort and appreciation and a hot surge of jealousy envelops you for only a fleeting moment before it cools almost immediately. It's not Yuu's fault. She's stumbling over words, eyes darting between you and him, desperately trying to redirect all the praise.

"They helped a lot too. Don't worry about me. Please—they took a lot of hits for the team—" her voice is rushed, earnest. She sees you. She knows.

But you're numb. The words wash over you, leaving you staring blankly. Your focus sharpens as you watch him, the indifference cutting deeper than any wound from battle.

It's not Yuu's fault, you think, the realization like a blade. And it's not mine either.

Your eyes harden, the simmering negativity solidifying into something darker—hatred for this world and its unforgiving, selective gaze.

The Blot's words wrapped around you like velvet, warm and inviting. Each word a whisper, and just beyond your comprehension. It spoke in a language too rich, too layered for you to fully grasp, yet you found yourself managing a nod and agreeing to flowery promises barely understood.

Home seems too far now, a vague dream you once had a long time ago that's memories grow dim within your worn mind. Crowley's so-called "research" moves at a snail's pace, each reassurance vague and hollow with no weight behind it. They have housewardens, heirs, socialites, all silently pining to have them by their side in the end. The others have people who want them here.

When graduation comes, you know you'll be alone. No citizenship, no comforting embrace after a long day, no government papers to properly own a home, and no magic to shield you.

A higher education was beyond your reach without the proper credentials. You could aim for a trade but no reputable company would hire a ghost in the system without insurance. Shadier paths were on the table for you but you didn't want to hurt innocent people and you weren't ready to die. Not yet.

"You promise?" The words rasped from your throat, a fragile plea to the pitch-black figure—it smiles.

Snowflakes gathered on your broken body, frostbite gnawed at your fingertips and toes. The cold seeped deep, pressing kisses to your very bone marrow. The results of the accident are chilling, your body numb and your mind blocking the pain out.

"You'd accept even if I won't, darling." It purred, voice dripping with amusement and leaning over your mangled body. Once again you looked like broken porcelain. Doll carnage—too pretty to die in its eyes.

"You're going to die in that stupid uniform." It reminds with a melodious laugh escaping it, crouching so unseen eyes met yours and the empty gaze felt cold like a harpoon through your skull.

A response doesn't form just yet, instead your words linger on time quickly slipping away. "You'll make me live?"

"You make it sound like a punishment."

"It could be."

Its grin only widened. "I'll make you thrive—I'll sponsor you. Only to test magicless bodies, of course. You're soaked with hatred, my dove—enough to feed me for centuries and I just might be able to use all that to give you some fancy powers," The Blot chimed and waves it's hands around with a lighthearted laugh as if you're not mangled and dying right now.

You muster a nod and your vision is blurring quickly, adrenaline settling in as your blood pumped quickly to get you up, away from the charming danger you'd shake hands with if your body was capable of movement.

"I've waited too long.." It murmured softly, a hint of cruel reverence sends a shiver runs down your spine as the Blot's presence looms closer, its hands—tender, almost too tender—brush away strands of hair from your face, as if trying to soothe the tension there. Your body trembles under the weight of its touch, that impossible softness juxtaposed with the suffocating darkness that clings to it. The Blot's dark hands reach for you, wrapping around your shoulder and back to prop you up, not in malice but in something more unsettling, as though its cradling you like something fragile, something it fears may break at the breeze.

It laughs, a low, melodious sound, "Even a worm will turn," it murmurs under its breath, the words curling into your mind, buzzing like static. You can't focus on anything other than the overwhelming presence of it, the heat of its breath a nearly welcome sensation against the stinging snow, slowly burying you.

It'd been a few days since the accident—now you walk the halls, your feet knowing the path subconsciously as your eyes linger on the jewelry again, the weight of it palpable on your finger. The design is intricate, just as you'd always admired—luxurious without tipping over into excess, a perfect balance of elegance. But it's the stone at its center that pulls at you, black as the void. It swallows light, reflecting nothing but its own cold depth, as if it has its own consciousness. You feel it almost stare back at you.

A scoff slips past your lips, quiet but bitter. On your left ring finger... really? The symbolism is unmistakable, painfully so. The left ring finger—a spot traditionally reserved for unions of love, a mark that binds two hearts together. But for you, it's a symbol of something far more suffocating. This ring doesn't speak of affection or choice. It speaks of a contract. A binding agreement you were coerced into on the brink of death.

You'd like to think that in a normal situation you would've denied it but a voice in the back of your consciousness rejects that. You know you would have taken the deal.

Yuuta's voice comes from behind, cutting through the weight of your thoughts. You don't flinch, but his sudden presence forces you back into reality. His usual smile is present, though there's something different in his eyes today—a worry you can't quite ignore.

"Hey! You walk fast-" He pants, falling into step beside you. "Doing anything for lunch? Me and the others are... honestly really worried about you. Ever since you came back a few days ago from that night-blizzard-walk.. you've been off." His voice drops slightly as he tilts his head to try and meet your gaze.

It's hard to resist his pleading look. Yuuta has a way of being both persistent and comforting, and something about him makes you swallow your usual refusal. You nod, even though you'd planned to stay alone, to work through your thoughts—thoughts about the Blot, the contract, and the strange shift in the world since you'd returned.

Sighing inwardly, you follow him to the familiar table. As you lower yourself onto the bench, your thoughts still scattered, the sound of something unpleasant catches you off guard—a soft, squishy noise. You frown, reaching down to find a purple whoopie cushion beneath you.

Before you can say anything, Ace's laughter rings out, easily cutting through the table's chatter. "I told you it'd work! They're always in their own world, seriously."

Epel's high-five to Ace is audible, and you can almost feel their amusement. Deuce, on the other hand, shoots Ace a disapproving look. "A whoopie cushion? What are you, twelve?"

Ace chuckles, standing and grabbing the whoopie cushion from your hands before glancing back at the others, a mischievous grin still present on his face. "Firstly, I saw you laugh too, and hey, what can I say? I'm a guy who appreciates the classics." His crimson eyes flick to you, and before you can even process it, he taps the cushion gently on your head a few times. "Real spacey lately, huh?"

The words hang in the air, and for a split second, you freeze. Spacey. They're speaking first. They're acknowledging you first. After everything, after how invisible you've felt... now they decide to reach out?

Anger grows in your chest but you quickly suppress it. Your fingers instinctively brush the blot ring on your finger, feeling its cold weight. Thrive. The Blot's promise. The smile and soft words is the only thing you can offer right now, even if it feels a little too forced, too foreign on your face.

"Have I been?" You ask, the words coming out light and easygoing. "It's difficult to sleep in a rickety, haunted dorm. You and the others should sleepover more. I like the background noise."

It wasn't a full lie. You did feel less lonely when they visited, but the feeling only increased tenfold when you could hear everyone downstairs while you remained forgotten in your room. Still, you left the invitation open.

Just you wait. You thought, your smile dimming as Ace returned to his spot and the conversation flowed, your earlier anxieties and insecurities nulled by the ring thanks to the contract.

You'll ease yourself into their lives, each thread slipping through the spaces between them, invisible but vital. Not just the ones at the table, but everyone you've fought for, the ones who've forgotten you, the ones who've never seen you or bothered to try. You'll become a part of them so intertwined that they'll find it impossible to live without seeing you in every aspect of their days and nights.

In time, you'll make sure of it. You'll be everywhere—in their laughter, in their sorrows, in the smallest moments, the ones they think they can forget. They'll breathe you in without even realizing, and soon, every part of their lives will have a thread of you running through it. You'll be their lifeline.

part two

srry if its not the cute, comforting lovestory you were expecting lol

I'm sorta leaving it on an open end here to keep you all guessing ig lol. I can probably write separate minifics or whatever for this au I made or drabbles or maybe even a second chapter if anyone wants.

I wrote this in November and am posting it now so that was my procrastination ig

I've been sitting on this idea with no motivation to write it for probably two years so spare with me if it doesn't make sense or it's no good.

First time writing for tumblr and I haven't written outside of my notes app in a long time lol

sending your crush a survey form hcs part 2 second years x reader (separate) -> riddle, ruggie, azul

author's note: jade, floyd, kalim, jamil, and silver will be posted separately because of the tumblr image limit, i can't fit them all into one post (also i'm having trouble with massive lag for this post as is huhu)

general tags: gn reader, fluff + attempt at humor, sfw, not beta read, mix of text and images (for images, alt text/image description available)

part 1 w/ first years

character: RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS premise/trope: sending Riddle an "academic survey" to answer

HOW HE REACTS WHEN YOU SEND THE FORM LINK

You've done too good a job at making the link look legit, at hiding your intentions. Using a link shortener like twst.ly so that no preview would show up, talking about how you needed respondents, all that jazz.

Riddle would help any student in need (academically) if he was capable of doing so, he was just that kind of person, but because he liked you he was very willing to go above and beyond.

He was going to help anyway, but telling him things like "I really appreciate you doing this for me," seals the deal for him.

You had a survey that needed answering and you wanted him to answer it because you needed respondents? Well, what if he sends the link to other people as well?

He asks you about how much respondents you still need, though you don't respondent yet. He decides to delay sending it to the rest of Heartslabyul for now, only sending it to Cater and Trey.

Thank the Sevens for that.

Trey and Cater are immediately poking fun at him, telling him to actually open the survey first because they knew that he wouldn't want to send it to anyone if he saw the contents.

"Aren't you lucky you sent this to us and not the rest of Heartslabyul?"

"How embarrassed would you have been if you sent this to the Dorm Leaders gc?"

"Or worse... to Ace and Deuce."

He's rather angry, not necessarily at you (though he is a little bit annoyed, could you not have done something else less... troublesome?) but mostly at himself for not checking first. He should be more vigilant next time.

RIDDLE: Cater said this was a trend, but... I still don't understand why you would make something like this.

You haven't responded yet, so Riddle decides to answer the form all the way through.

In his head he wonders, whatever happened to regular courtship? Like he's not flustered by the whole situation.

Riddle's answers carry that tone where it feels like he's seriously questioning your intentions/decisions, but also like he's trying to answer genuinely. It's almost like he's trying to let you have your cake and eat it too (that is to say, letting you have your fun) despite not being quite sure of how to go about it.

The point is, the fact that he actually answers it is a miracle in itself, and you don't shy from letting him know you appreciate it.

HOW HE ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS

AFTER HE ANSWERS THE FORM

Actively seeks you out in person to confront you about the form. He has a feeling you were being serious about it despite the formatting, so he pretty much confirms that you do like him.

Also asks you why you would want to go about it this way, and most answers don't exactly satisfy him, but at the end of the day he's happy about the results.

You like him, he likes you, and that's what's important, really.

(Though he has no real intentions of telling his mother that he's getting into a relationship, he wonders how she would react if she found out not only did he not ask his s/o out first, but that you did it in such a bizarre manner)

"I don't think I would even give this the time of day if someone else sent it," Riddle tells you honestly, "but because it's you... even something this weird is endearing."

character: RUGGIE BUCCHI premise/trope: sending Ruggie the classic crush form, except you send it when he's busy with work and now he can't concentrate because he's too busy blushing and giggling and kicking his legs at the thought of you 👍👍

HOW HE REACTS WHEN YOU SEND THE FORM LINK

He hadn't planned on viewing any of your messages at first (or anyone's messages, really). He planned on viewing them once he finished up for the day.

But Leona was getting annoyed with the constant beeping, and honestly he was too (like, couldn't they just send it all in one message, whatever it was they wanted to say?) so he moved to view the messages quickly, maybe answer if he felt like it, then mute his phone for an hour.

Except he saw that the messages were from you, and he caught a peep of the link preview... and then he just lost it.

"It" being all sense of focus and comprehension and he knows it's bad because Leona's staring at him weirdly.

"Why are you blushing and giggling like a school girl what the hell..."

Leona just doesn't get it, Ruggie justifies. When the actual love of your life confirms their feelings for you it's enough to make anyone collapse to the floor and weep, and if anything Ruggie is holding up pretty well by, well, still being able to fold a shirt properly in spite of it all.

And then he almost messes up the laundry by mixing the colors with the whites, so maybe he is too distracted after all.

RUGGIE: ya rly hda to go send it now of all times, dontcha?? do ya want me to embarras myself in fornt of leona or smth???? wth have mercy on me

He makes a bunch of typos but he can't be bothered to correct them.

He can't really focus for the rest of the day, and when he's free from his assigned tasks he heads straight for his phone. He should be studying, but he doesn't think he can focus on that at this point without reading the form and just... seeing if you're for real, for real.

Ruggie answers like he's trying to be slick but he also can't help but slip in just how much he likes you and the types of reactions you get out of him.

HOW HE ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS

AFTER HE ANSWERS THE FORM

He needs to call you (honestly would prefer to meet up in person, but it's pretty damn late and he wants you to get your rest and... yeah, the in person talk can wait for a little bit)

Honestly you've just... lightened up his mood, like a lot. Like he just knows he's going to be full of energy and motivation tomorrow, and maybe the days after because of how much happiness you've given him.

You can tease him all you want for his answers and the spelling/grammar mistakes (in his defense, his hands were shaking the whole time!) but he can't even get himself to be too upset by it. You're laughing and giggling and that's all enough for Ruggie's good mood to skyrocket.

After that dies down, though, the two of you end up planning for your upcoming date.

"Don't think I'm not gonna getcha back for this, shishishi..."

character: AZUL ASHENGROTTO premise/trope: sending an s/o application form to Azul, who's been crushing on you for a while now

HOW HE REACTS WHEN YOU SEND THE FORM LINK

Makes sure to check the link properly first since bait links are popular these days (he learned his internet safety from Idia). Messages you in a different platform to ask if you've been hacked.

When you tell him you were the one who sent the link, it still doesn't quite sink in that you're being genuine. Before a crush you are a friend and he does trust you, but a part of him wonders if this is some prank or if someone forced you to send him something like that. You must know how badly he likes you, don't you? Please don't make fun of his feelings like this.

He calls you to really make sure, and with some reassurance from you he finally understands that this isn't something mean, that it was a trend you wanted to hop on, and that you won't judge him for his answers

You tell him that he doesn't have to answer if it makes him uncomfortable, that you just thought it seemed fun, but he tells you he does want to answer it.

"If... if you really consider me as someone who could become your partner... When opportunity knocks on my door, who am I to not answer its call?"

He tries to sound more confident, but inevitably hangs up because he doesn't think he can answer properly with you on the phone. He might end up typing a bunch of nonsense!

Azul struggles with having a fun answer and answering completely seriously, almost like it's a job interview or something. Doesn't realize until the last few questions that there are no other candidates to compete with. Maybe he should have skimmed all the questions first before answering.

The good thing, though, is that you do learn about how Azul sees romance, so even if the whole form was meant as something silly at first you do learn more about him.

HOW HE ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS

AFTER HE ANSWERS THE FORM

The last two questions gave Azul some confidence when it came to pursuing you. There's just something reassuring about actually knowing that his feelings weren't unrequited as opposed to having to make assumptions or having to make the effort to get you to fall for him.

You've already made most of the first moves, from confessing your feelings (albeit not quite in person, maybe he could try doing that...), to being the one to ask him on a date... There must be something he can do. He wants to play on equal ground, make the first move as well.

That's when the idea strikes him. It's not very innovative, but there's no need to fix what's not broken, is there?

Azul sits in front of his laptop for approximately an hour, and when he's satisfied he converts the file into a PDF. It's not a very serious document, even if it's formatted as such, and that's how you know that he's finally eased up.

"Since I've passed the application period, the next step is to sign a partnership contract, is it not?"

masterlist | end notes

[ 1 ] twst.ly is basically bit.ly, the link shortener

[ 2 ] compared to part 1 (the first years) where it was set post-NRC, this time i set it during NRC. the remaining second years will also be set during NRC, though the third years is mixed 👍

[ 3 ] the text versions of the images are in the alt text/image description but do let me know if you would prefer it to be in the post itself!

[ 4 ] i'm thinking about whether i should continue making the forms manually instead of just using the actual google forms app, it's such a hassle my laptop keeps overheating these days huhu

celebrating your birthday with the twst boys hcs part 4, ft. diasomnia, the after party w/ the first years

read part 1 here read part 2 here read part 3 here

general tags: gender neutral reader, sfw, hcs for both prefect and non-prefect reader, platonic and romantic hcs, food mentions, runs on the assumption that reader wants to celebrate their birthday, not beta read

author's note: oops forgot to post the last part! finally done with this series of hcs, after this... my next writing post will be another one-shot so see u then!

total wc: 4.9k+ words (700-1.2k+ words each character)

MALLEUS DRACONIA

If you consider him a friend at the very least, please send him an invitation should you hold a party (which, considering what we know of the NRC birthday culture, seems to be expected). 

If you’re a close friend and/or his partner, it should go without saying that you should invite him, else he’s definitely going to be more upset than usual with this particular instance. He’s not lashing out or throwing a tantrum about it, but he does feel saddened by the choice.

If you tell him in advance, he’s going to spend a lot of time thinking about your invitation and your birthday in general. He’s probably sitting down in Diasomnia’s lounge, looking as if he’s brooding over something incredibly serious like the state of affairs in his homeland, when in reality he’s thinking about what to give you as a gift.

In general incredibly grateful to be invited. Whether you tell him the day of or weeks before, he’s simply beaming at the thought. It looks a little ominous to an outsider, especially because Malleus is smiling with his teeth, fangs and all, but his inner circle get the details and they understand he’s just very proud of himself.

Sebek and Silver are probably applauding and nodding their heads in approval at the announcement because yes, who would be silly enough to not invite the Young Master, the chance to have someone like him celebrate you (Sebek) and finally, someone has not forgotten to invite Lord Malleus, and even invited him personally (Silver).

(If you’re not close to Sebek, Sebek is heavily contemplating if he should present you a gift as well since Malleus is doing so)

Meanwhile, Lilia’s teasing him about it. Malleus is in too much of a good mood to tell off anyone for what’s coming close to pandering, like yes, behold! An invitation! You just know if the invitation comes in a physical form, he’s presenting it to the three of them. His more childish side comes up just this once.

And then he keeps the invite somewhere safe somewhere in his room. 

In terms of helping you prepare a party… Well, he cannot say he actually has any experience in the preparation aspect, whether it be setting up the decorations or making food, but ahhh, since you’ve invited him he’s willing to show his gratitude. Magic will do the trick, won’t it?

(If you insist on doing things without magic, he’ll probably still do it, chuckling about how interesting it is for you to make demands of him. Also considers it a good learning experience, of which he can make discoveries from)

Let’s avoid having him set up any tech needed though.

If you’re the Ramshackle prefect, he does give you the option to host your party in his dorm, but he likes Ramshackle a lot so either place works for him.

During the party itself, reactions might differ in extremity depending on your relationship status with Malleus, and how public the both of you are about it. 

If it seems to be similar to the current canon friendship between Malleus and the Ramshackle prefect, expect a lot of people to carry mixed emotions. Surprise, shock, intimidation—all of it bundled up into essentially them finding you fascinating and terribly brave, perhaps fearless, at how you casually have the Malleus Draconia at your party, clapping along to the obligatory Happy Birthday song playing in the background.

Most guests will still find themselves a little intimidated at Malleus’ presence if it’s well known that the two of you are close (or dating!), but it’s easier for them to wrap their heads around it. This is not Malleus the prince, but Malleus, a person you find dear, and clearly adores you back.

If Leona is also in attendance and he is also a close friend of yours (or your significant other), expect a gift measuring contest. Yes, they’re mature, but they’re also boys in a boarding school. Enough said.

Malleus… honestly does not know how to party it up! unlike most of your guests probably do. Most celebrations he’s attended are terribly formal, or more festival as opposed to party, but with some observation on his part and guidance from you and/or Lilia, or whoever he decides to ask, you can probably get him to fit in well enough. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, after all.

Ah, but there’s no need to coddle him. As much as he enjoys time with you, he can manage on his own. He’s not the best at communicating but he was not born yesterday either. The day is about you and he is certain he is not the only one who wants to celebrate you, so go along and talk to everyone else. You are allowed to simply return to him when you’re done.

The fact that he’s trying, even when he’s not the most successful, is quite sweet.

In terms of gifts, Malleus is a good gift giver. Knowing who you’re giving a gift to so that you can best appeal to them is important in maintaining and forging diplomatic relations.

He remembers the things you’ve told him about yourself, about what you happen to like—of course he does, considering you actually listen to him talk about gargoyles, so he chooses a gift based on that. And even when he gets an idea, he spends a good amount of time pondering what specifically to get you. 

If someone teaches him how to order online, or someone does it for him, and you’ve shown interest, he’s getting you your very own special artifact… a Gao-Gao Dragon-kun (EN: Drago). Predictable, but still cute.

If you and Malleus are together, he’s obviously serious about you and definitely sees a future with you. Sees no problem in giving you more than a few gifts, but if you really insist on just one, well…

Jewelry is a traditional, and perhaps expected, gift from him. Obviously high quality, with the finest jewels and crafted with real silver or gold, whichever suits you best. Might get it crafted for you specifically, but he might also give you an ancient piece (or set), one with history and meaning behind it.

If you’re not into jewelry, it’ll probably still be something shiny, probably still bejeweled and created with the most precious of metals, something you can keep around you—a bookmark for the current book you’re reading, a hand mirror, a tassel on your bag. 

If you allow him, he’s going to attach a spell on it as well, just a little something to keep you safe.

Honestly, if you just make a request about something hard to find (but in his scope, particularly something more vintage or considered ancient these days), he’ll be able to procure it. If you’re human, will probably say something like, Fufufu, how bold of you to make requests from a fae. Are you prepared for the fate that would befall you should you not prepare something in return?

He says that knowing the price was already paid, a.k.a. getting to celebrate with you.

In conclusion, time may flow a little differently for someone like Malleus, but because it’s the day you were born, he takes special care to track the days leading up to your birthday. Yours is one celebration he will not allow himself to miss.

SILVER

Silver, if you tell him, makes it a point to remember your birthday (especially if you’re someone special to him, but even as a friend — or even a friend of a friend — he does remember). However, if you don’t tell him in advance, he gets concerned that he fell asleep while you were telling him about it. 

Whatever it is, while he would never get upset with you, he would still appreciate a clarification that no, this really is the first time you’re telling him about it and he wasn’t being insensitive or anything of the sort. A gentleman to his very core.

Similar to Sebek, due to Silver’s training, he’s a good choice if you need assistance in setting up your party. Even if you’re not from Diasomnia, he’s politely excusing himself in your dorm as he helps you (and anyone else helping you) with lifting tables and chairs around, or lifting boxes of ingredients to be used in cooking, or lifting– basically, he lifts a lot.

Feel free to drag him along to cook with you, even though he and others are mentioning that the birthday celebrant shouldn’t be cooking their own birthday meals. Whether he convinces you to stay out of the kitchen or not, Silver’s putting his effort into making something you’d like… as well as practicing making meals for someone.

According to him, he has practice when it comes to baking cookies because he tried to make some for his father when he was younger, so he might make some for you.

Throughout your party he really does his best to stay awake to celebrate with you. You and everyone else think fate or some deity out there must have taken a shine on him because he does stay awake, always managing to catch himself before he falls asleep.

He’s not exactly the type to dance the night away with you (although if you would like a slow dance away from prying eyes, he might just be up for it if he happens to like you), nor is he as competitive as some of your other guests, but he’ll join a few select party games… of which he likely got dragged into by Sebek (trying to challenge him) or Kalim (for that second-year solidarity).

Silver is just willing to go along with whatever you want to do for your birthday. Since Silver doesn’t exactly have the luxury of time most days, this is a great opportunity to hog him for yourself for an impromptu hangout/date! 

And he really does mean anything. Do you want to go to town to visit a cafe or restaurant? Do you want him to take you horseback riding? Just hang around somewhere on campus and talk? Your word goes!

Let’s hope you’re not afraid of small and cute forest creatures because if you’re Silver’s close friend or lover, the little birds and the squirrels are going to drop by to give you a gift. It’s very much a “because Silver likes you, the animals like you by association” thing.

Silver’s one of those people who don’t care too much about keeping the gift a surprise, even as his significant other. If he’s unsure, he’ll ask you what you want — it can be specific or something general, and he’ll select a gift based on that. 

What he lacks in the element of surprise he makes up for in presentation — the gift wrapper he uses is very pretty and neatly done, and when you read the tag you’ll find his note to be, while formal, still full of heart. He’ll prepare flowers as well if you happen to like them! He seems quite serious at first when he gives you a gift, but after a few seconds he eases into a smile that’s very charming and prince-like.

(The only time he’d be a little clueless about what to do is if you were his father’s significant other and the two of you weren’t close. What should he give you? He feels like he’s in a weird position, having to ask his father about what he could possibly give you.)

To conclude, while Silver is normally quite serious, he goes out of his way to make your birthday as pleasant as possible, and it seems that everything really does go right for him — he manages to not fall asleep in front of you, he’s smiling more than he usually does, and he devotes the day to you as opposed to training. 

He doesn’t even seem to realize that his charms have been dialed all the way up to the point that it’s a little blinding to the untrained eye, but as his friend or significant other he’s a much appreciated presence and sight.

SEBEK ZIGVOLT

Dramatic baby boy. As an acquaintance he doesn’t particularly care if you tell him about your birthday a month before or on the day of… unless you’re friends with his Young Master Malleus or Master Lilia, in which case he does wonder how worthy you are to be their friend, but will pass on the message. 

As a friend will pretend he doesn’t care that much, but definitely remembers your special day if you tell him in advance. Strolls up to your party like “you’re not celebrating hard enough, good enough! You need my assistance, don’t you?”

Also if you invite him as a friend, his immediate assumption is to wonder if you’re telling him to get Malleus to come to your party as well, or to put in a good word about you to Malleus, or —

Has a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around that you might actually want him around not for Malleus related reasons. Have patience with him, please.

If you’re a close friend or significant other, he definitely wants to know in advance. He seems haughty, and to an extent that’s true, but the idea of failing someone important to him (e.g., Malleus, and in this case you), or not being good enough, both of those scare and motivate him simultaneously. He wants to prepare something special for you.

If you’re close, he freaks out if he finds out the day of. It sounds like he’s blaming you but his brain is already working twice as fast, wondering what preparations he can make and how he can celebrate with you. He disappears and you wonder what he’s up to, he’s actually asking for permission to skip some of his duties for the day. 

Strong boy! If you need help making the preparations, he is certainly one of the guys you can go to. He’s physically strong and an expert at running around all over the place (because of constant Malleus searching), so he’s a solid choice for an errand boy. 

Sebek and art… he can appreciate it well enough, but creation isn’t his forte. If you ask him about how to decorate and what looks nice, he’s either relating it to something to do with Briar Valley or Diasomnia, or, at the best case he’s relating it to the decor he saw his parents and siblings put up for his birthday parties.

Competitive. Whatever birthday games you have, he’s trying to win. It’s kind of funny since he’s so tall — especially if his opponent is Jack or another tall boy like Floyd, just watching these boarding school boys fight over some silly party game you chose only to get a cheap prize you bought from an online shop in bulk.

Winner of the “loudest happy birthday greeting” contest/game no doubt. “That’s not a real game?” Well, clearly someone put it as one of the games to rig the system so Sebek gets a win.

He eats a lot! The party guest that makes you feel reassured about your food choices because of his appetite. You might notice that the food he touches the least is the one he happens to know is your favorite.

Especially if you’re close, he watches you like a hawk just to make sure you’re doing “the important birthday activities” which is singing and dancing and celebrating and eating your favorite food. 

If you’re in a relationship, your guests may notice that he’s barely said a peep about Malleus today. Actually, hasn’t he just been praising you all day? The first years probably tease him about it, and won’t stop for a while (a.k.a., until they find something new to joke about, as most friend group inside jokes work)

Gifts… if you’re not that close, not quite friends, he really does think you’re just there to worm your way into his heart to get to Malleus, so he just offers to talk to you about Malleus. If that’s what you want, go ahead and listen, but try to let him know if that’s not the case because he will not be stopped, he can go for hours.

If you’re his friend, Sebek’s honestly quite thoughtful. The gift is still very much him, either some nice stationery or a book he thinks you’d like based on your interests, but it’s a good sign that he actually does treat you as a friend and listens to you as well.

If you’re Malleus’ or Lilia’s significant other, he also gets you a gift regardless of how close you are to him. It’s a matter of respect, of course. Probably looking for a sign of approval or praise, he doesn’t want to disappoint you because that might end up disappointing Malleus/Lilia.

As his significant other, he tries to be romantic… meaning, he takes advice from Lilia and books (note: many of the books he uses as reference are quite old) on what gifts one should give their significant other. He pens letters and poems that have odd analogies and big words, even pulls out the cursive, but if you’re his significant other you’re probably already used to it. It’s certainly not the first time. 

No clue about his budget/allowance, but the type to specifically pick out something high quality, that you can keep with you for years, and practical things that he can spot you using in public as well. It fills him with a lot of pride like yes, my significant other is using something I bought! Aren’t I a wonderful partner?

Overall the more you manage to worm your way into his heart and the more he thinks of you, and the better of a birthday party guest he makes. He’s surprisingly very enthusiastic about your birthday, and is incredibly willing to take the lead to “teach you how to celebrate”.

LILIA VANROUGE

Lilia is the type of person who, even if he doesn’t know your birthday, talks like he does know it. Good at getting you to doubt yourself, if you actually told him, if maybe he has the ability to read your mind or if he overheard you while you were telling someone else. If you buy his bluff, you probably end up mentioning it casually, thinking he already knew.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to have a party tomorrow. Will you be able to drop by?”

No, Lilia did not know, but he’s definitely crashing, so thank you for inviting him.

But if you’re a close friend or partner, would definitely prefer that you tell him by your own volition as opposed to him getting the information out of you.

In terms of helping you out for your party, funnily enough he doesn’t always have the time for it, especially if it’s a last minute preparation, but he does want to help you whatever way he can! 

(He could just use magic, but that’s boring. Probably helps you hang some streamers and other aerial decorations, though)

Honestly, controversial opinion, I think you should let him in the kitchen (with supervision from you), especially if you’re not low on ingredients or anything of the sort. Not for all the food or anything, maybe a dish or dessert that interests him (or something with beans, because, you know… Master Chef Lilia). It’ll probably be a fun experience! The worst that can happen is that he sucks and gets a laugh out of you (if he makes you eat the food… just say you’re saving it for the party or something)

During the party itself he, Cater, and Kalim are singing happy birthday and dancing around. Definitely pulls you along to dance, it might surprise you with how easy it is for him to lead you around and even dip you — just how strong is he, actually?

Take lots of pictures with him and get them developed! Give him some as well! Sure his memory isn’t failing him, but he does want something tangible to remember a special day by.

In terms of gifts, it will depend on how “dear” you are to him. It should be a given that regardless, he will give you a “cute and cool, charming, boyish” gift. Maybe it’s a cute trinket with a mascot from Briar Valley/a game you happen to like, or a hairpin or tie with bat charms and ribbons attached to it, a choker or some other accessory in black or pink, something that screams, “you know what? this is on brand for Lilia/doesn’t this remind you of Lilia?”

Definitely gives it to you while he’s hanging upside down. Unless he knows you’ll be upset/mad, will also try to surprise you by popping up out of nowhere to greet you.

Not to be too redundant but food cooked by him is always a possibility. It’s the thought that counts, after all (though if you taste it, you’d find yourself surprised that it actually tastes quite good. He must have either asked for help or was particularly careful in cooking, maybe someone had to go through taste testing until he arrived on a “perfect” dish)

If you’re Silver’s significant other and you know about the fact that he’s Lilia’s father, he’s offering to show you Silver’s baby pics as a present (+ some stories to accompany it), and if it’s really serious he probably getting you something meaningful, maybe a nice accessory that reminds you of Silver’s eyes… or has a protective charm on it. Silver adores you, so he takes care of you by association. You might as well be one of his already.

If you don’t know he’s Silver’s dad, still gets you something anyway. It’s funnier if you’re not close to Lilia at all, like a “huh, Lilia got me a birthday present. Do you have any idea why, Silver?” moment

This probably also extends to an extent with Malleus, as Lilia’s very glad that spring has finally come for him, and even Sebek. Maybe not in the Silver level, but you do get some nice stories from their childhood, and maybe some advice 

If you and Lilia are close friends or in a relationship, your gift might come from a different land (and honestly, a different time), something with a culture and history behind it, one that Lilia can tell you all about. He’s an engaging storyteller, he talks like he was there when the item was crafted, or that he was the one who picked it up from some battlefield years ago. 

Lilia likes an element of surprise in his gifts, and if he jokes about getting you some object or decoration five times your size you have to wonder if he’s joking at all.

Especially if you’re in a relationship or his “platonic soulmate”, he gets a little… sentimental, particularly when everyone’s left the party. It might not be that obvious in his facial expression, but you can definitely pick up on it in his tone — rather, he lets you pick up on it. This especially applies if you’re human. He pushes aside the usual teasing compliments and jokes about his age to make way for more serious and meaningful praise and compliments.

Overall, compared to you, Lilia’s had a significant amount of birthdays, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see the value of celebrating them. He finds life to be something precious, especially the lives of his loved ones, so he pulls out all the stops to make sure your special day is a happy and memorable one.

If you don’t have any plans to go on a date with anyone (in which case Ace will complain about how you should put your bros before your you knows), the rest of your evening is reserved for the first years to celebrate — meaning, you, Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho, Sebek, and of course Grim. 

When they’re telling their Dorm Leaders and Vice Dorm Leaders about it (well, all of them except Jack. He doubts Leona really gives a damn where he’ll be), they’re like Oh no, we’ll definitely be back in our dorm rooms to go to bed! 

They won’t be. Riddle can see a sleeve of Deuce’s pajamas peeking from his bag, and Trey saw Ace opening a new box of toothpaste in the bathroom. It’s your birthday, so they’re going to let curfews and rules and whatnot slide this time.

Vil just has that motherly instinct so he knows Epel is going to stay up all night and fall asleep on some couch or unclean floor, so he simply instructs the lilac-haired boy to bring his night routine skin care products. Whether Epel actually uses it is a problem for the Vil of the future.

Sebek is just… a very obvious boy, who’s oblivious to the fact that he’s obvious. Lilia can read him like a book, and really has to spend a few minutes convincing him that no, he’s not abandoning his duties to the Young Master Malleus by having one (1) sleepover at a friend’s place. Malleus isn’t going to get in trouble tonight of all nights. Sebek only lets go of his reluctance when the Diasomnia Dorm Leader gives his approval.

Ortho’s probably the only good boy who actually just says it straightforwardly to Idia — there’s a 99.99% chance it’ll become a sleepover, so he asks his brother to help him prepare. 

Idia’s occasional sweet moments (that aren’t reserved just for Ortho) shine through. Aside from some party and board games, he loads Ortho’s bag with a bunch of unhealthy snacks. That’s what people eat in sleepovers, right? 

If people thought the first years were being particularly troublesome during your party, that was them holding back. When you choose to enable them? When they’re away from the eyes of their dorm leaders? They’re far worse, far more chaotic. 

(Although they all think they’re the most reasonable one in the group, the one with the most brain cells. Other than Ortho, they all lose brain cells when they’re together, bless them. As for Ortho, he just chooses not to use his big brain for the sake of having fun)

This includes Jack and Sebek, who genuinely just need a push to let loose. Competition is the easiest way for the both of them to relax and have fun. Especially Sebek. Yes, he WILL (try to) defeat everyone in a silly human game of TWSTer what about it?

Ortho is 100% the banker in TWST’s Monopoly equivalent. He’s the one stopping Ace from getting a few extra bills from the bank (because yes, they’re playing the old version with the bills and not the inferior credit card version). They also all have different understandings of the rules so they spend a good 10-15 minutes settling on which to follow and which rules they’re making up.

They have a good amount of food for the sleepover, from your leftovers from your party earlier in the day, to whatever food everyone else managed to bring. The only one who doesn’t bring any is Sebek, and he says everyone should be grateful he didn’t bring any, for reasons more obvious to him than anyone else.

It’s wiped out by sunrise though. Mostly because of Grim and Sebek.

They start a not-too-serious fight at some point, where you are obviously the one recording everything with your phone (or developing photos with the Ghost Camera). 

It’s Ace, Deuce, and Epel obviously, with Sebek yelling at them about their rowdiness (while not stopping them), Ortho making predictions about who will come out on top (also not stopping them), Grim laughing loudly while munching on food (obviously not stopping them), and Jack sighing deeply (stopping them… eventually)

Ace taps out first, lol. Everyone roots for Epel. 

The obligatory two in the morning truth or dare game involving everyone’s damaged egos and social media pages, and their seniors questioning them about what the hell happened last night and why did the prefect post a picture of you doing… the morning come.

Ace, Deuce, Epel, Grim are definitely the dare people. Ace in particular is all dares because he thinks people who pick truth are boring (in truth, he just doesn’t want to spill embarrassing stories about himself… which is a sentiment that doesn’t last that long)

Ortho is a mixed bag who alternates between truth and dare, but no one really goes that hard on him. Ortho still gives really interesting stories (most of which involve Idia) that make everyone go huh!

Jack and Sebek are truthers, but they do end up doing a dare or two if they don’t want to answer any particularly personal (or embarrassing) questions

(If you happen to be dating one of them… or, excluding Ortho and Grim, you’re dating multiple/all of them/y’all are a polycule, well, truth or dare gets even worse, but in a fun way!)

The truth or dare game is followed by the just as obligatory three in the morning heart-to-heart session where everyone gets embarrassed about the past and contemplates about their futures, and everyone also cries a little (or a lot, but no one’s going to admit that) 

Followed by the four in the morning passed out on the floor all huddled up for warmth because everyone was too lazy to get in a bed or on a couch.

To wrap it all up, the first years are at their most powerful and embarrassing when they’re all together but they’re also the only group ever, go stan the first years thank you.

masterlist

and we're done! while these hcs aren't my most... eloquent writings, i still had a lot of fun, and it was really cute seeing people in the tags/reblogs talk about how their birthdays were coming up/had just passed and that they enjoyed reading/were going to read it on their birthdays. so so cute!

celebrating your birthday with the twst boys hcs part 1, ft. heartslabyul and savanaclaw x reader (separate)

read part 2 here read part 3 here read part 4 here

author's note: I wrote these both to celebrate my own birthday today, as well as to celebrate the Birthday Greeting feature added to TWST EN yesterday!

general tags: gender neutral reader, sfw, hcs for both prefect and non-prefect reader, platonic and romantic hcs, food mentions, runs on the assumption that reader wants to celebrate their birthday, not beta read

total wc: 5.8k+ words (500-900 words each character)

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

His initial reaction depends on how long it took you to inform him about your birthday. If you tell him at least a week in advance, he’ll thank you not only for extending an invitation, but for giving him a warning—it would have been troublesome if an Unbirthday Party were to be held on the day of your birth. 

If you tell him about your birthday late (or worse, inviting him to celebrate the day of it), Riddle’s face reddens on the spot, aghast and momentarily speechless, before diving into a series of complaints.

On the surface, it might seem like he’s scolding you for neglecting to inform him about your birthday in advance. The dorm’s already made preparations for the Unbirthday Party! They’re going to have to scrap all of those!

Inwardly, however, Riddle is incredibly troubled. You’re someone dear to him, so shouldn’t he have known such a special day was coming? Have you told him before? Impossible, there was no way such vital knowledge would have slipped his mind…

If he’s your friend or dorm leader, he feels terrible, and even worse if he’s your best friend or significant other. 

Still, Riddle knows that he should make up for it the best he can. If there’s really no time, the gift can come later—what was important was the celebration itself.

(If you’re the Ramshackle prefect, or someone who happens to be close with Ace and/or Deuce, expect Riddle to tell them off for not telling him to halt the Unbirthday Party preparations. They should have known better!)

It also doesn’t matter whether you’re a Heartslabyul student or not—birthdays should be celebrated as that—birthdays.

If you’re a Heartslabyul student, best know Riddle is making extra sure that everything is perfect. The Rules of the Queen of Hearts state that you can eat whatever you like on your birthday, so request anything you want… 

But, did the Queen say you could drink whatever you want? Would coffee still be banned? Would tea not be allowed due to that one stipulation? There’s the rule about parties and formal attire, too... Riddle thinks of all of this, seemingly stressing about your birthday more than you.

(Well, if you ask just politely enough, maybe bat your eyes for good measure, he will make an exception regardless. He’ll have the menu, the dress code, and even rose colors adjusted to your liking)

If you’re the Ramshackle Prefect, he gives you the option to celebrate your birthday in the Heartslabyul Dorm. You already spend so much time with them anyway, always a guest at their parties, always in the lounge hanging out with Ace and Deuce, so isn’t it natural to just spend your birthday with them? You can even invite your friends from other dorms if you wish to do so! 

If you choose to hold it in Ramshackle, or even another dorm, well, he’ll be a tad disappointed if he’s someone close to you, but he doesn’t throw a fit over it. He can just show his appreciation for you some other way—through a gift that he certainly, most definitely did not overthink about before purchasing, or perhaps something he can do for you, like creating study guides for you or taking you for a horse ride (Vorpal, his preferred horse, would like you… he thinks).

Most importantly, he’ll be there and present for your party for as long as he can afford to be.

If you’re a Heartslabyul student, he’ll even choose to simply look away from any rule offending this one day! 

If you’re his partner, he dotes on you especially so, knowing the importance of spending time with your significant other during these types of occasions. He might even ask if he can celebrate with dinner later tonight, just the two of you. He takes the chance to show how seriously he takes your relationship, and that he doesn’t see you as just a school romance thing.

Basically, expect Riddle to pay extra attention to you on your birthday—all good, of course. If there’s anything crooked in your uniform he’ll still point it out, but he’s a whole lot gentler with you. A wonderful guest.

ACE TRAPPOLA

The type to pretend he knew all along, but inwardly he’s that one meme/audio clip going “BITCH WHAT THE FUCK”. Especially if you only tell him in passing once some months ago, where he doesn’t have the capacity to put it in his calendar or notes app or something, or if you choose to surprise him on the day of (or close to the day of) your birthday. 

If you have the decency to tell him in advance, he’s eagerly talking about all sorts of things you can do for your party—the different food you can serve, the drinks, the music, the party games. Ace can appreciate a good party, and there’s no way he’s letting you host one just for it to flop! Let Ace help you deal with it! Whether it be platonically or romantically, ain’t he your guy?

Hey, if you need some quick entertainment, just let him get his pack of cards and he’ll go do it! Hell, he’ll even practice some of the more difficult card tricks just to amuse you.

Ace is quite good at filling your head with all these thoughts about planning, and he’s just being so helpful without you even having to ask, that you might fail to notice the planning he’s doing behind your back. Real mischievous, he is. He’s very insistent on giving you a proper surprise, especially if you’re the Ramshackle Prefect and/or his significant other.

(And most especially if you’re the Ramshackle Prefect. With all the shit you have to put up with? You deserve it, honestly. Sure, he teases and insults you a healthy amount, but he’s just as easily a prime witness at everything you’ve been through)

If you’re the observant type, you might notice the strings he’s trying to pull—especially if he’s chosen to coordinate with Deuce and the other first years. You can leave it be, but if you call him out on it expect him to not go down without a fight. Ace is terribly good at deception and lying on the spot, so you might find yourself convinced that no, he’s totally not doing anything that special for you. Does he look like the type?

He really is, deep down, but he’d prefer to just show it and not talk about it. 

However, if you tell him late, it’s far easier to see through the cracks of the façade he’s putting up to hide his shock and, quite honestly, panic. It’s difficult trying to stay cheerful when he’s quickly thinking about all the things he needs to do to prepare, and—in the Queen’s name, if he doesn’t know, then he’s betting on his life that none of the first years know too!

If you’re the Ramshackle prefect, he’s shaking Grim for not telling him anything! 

You could probably catch him in Mr. S’s Mystery Shop buying party goods and presents, with him doing the haggling, dragging Deuce and Jack to do the lifting.

He’s also starting a competition over who gets you the best present. If you’re his partner, everyone rolls their eyes because isn’t it obvious? But if he’s one of your best friends along with the rest of the first years, the competitiveness does get to them. Ace has his ways. Deuce might be the number one sucker, followed by Sebek.

If you’re a Heartslabyul student like him, he contemplates when to tell Riddle about your birthday. He’s not that much of an ass to have a whole Unbirthday Party prepared the day of your special day, but he still wants a chance to poke fun at Riddle. Just a bit.

The day of, he’s definitely giving you at least one prank. He knows you well enough to know which ones you’d actually find funny, and up to what extent you can take. 

Gives you a joke gift in front of everyone, and then his actual gift in private. 

If you’re his significant other, Ace probably has his moment of reflection—after he told himself he’d swear off of any serious romance until a little later in life, here he was, not only in a relationship but actively making the effort to make your day the best it could be. If the mood is right, maybe he’ll tell you about it once the both of you are alone. 

Maybe. You’re going to have to work hard to get it out of him, to get him to talk for just long enough without him succumbing into embarrassment. Having the tables turn when it comes to teasing is still an experience he’s unused to.

Overall, you can count on someone like Ace to give you a fun birthday. With how much time he’s spent with you, he not only has enough verbal confirmation, but lots of information regarding the things you liked and didn’t due to his observant nature.

DEUCE SPADE

This boy… regardless of whether you tell him about your birthday in advance or too close to the date itself, he has rather… dramatic and explosive reactions. Panic being the most prevalent.

If you have a heart, please tell him early; give him the time to prepare. He would still be able to work under pressure since it has to do with you, but on the day itself he wants to be focused on you and not if everything is going well and if he’s a good enough (boy)friend.

Deuce is well-meaning, so it’s very plain to see how he not only wants to give you a nice present, but how he even wants to help you in planning and setting up your celebration, regardless of where it’ll be held. He can be a bit disorganized, but with some help from you (and possibly the other first years), his dedication and hard work when it comes to making you happy really shines.

Deuce messages his mom constantly when it comes to your birthday, regardless of whether you’re BFFs or partners. Everyone thinks it’s cute, though Ace does tease him once or twice about it. 

(Sebek, who admires his own mother, finds nothing funny about it. He gives a serious nod of approval)

You’re someone important to him, someone helping him on his journey to become a model student, so obviously he wants to make sure everything’s right! Because of his delinquent days, the whole preparing for birthdays thing is still new to him.

If Deuce either has a crush on you or the two of you are already together, Deuce is definitely on the receiving end of lighthearted teasing from his mother. It’s very well-intentioned, with lots of genuinely good suggestions thrown in, but he really can’t help but blush. 

Anyone who can see him talking on the phone probably knows the conversation is about you due to his reaction. His Heartslabyul seniors find it quite endearing, offering their own advice as well.

(And, well, the seniors are the ones who inform either Trey or Riddle about an upcoming birthday, of which Riddle cancels not just an Unbirthday Party, but any other occasion happening that day)

Money isn’t really an abundance for him so his gift options are a little limited, but he does use up a decent portion of his allowance getting you something nice. 

If he doesn’t have the time to get you anything outside, he’ll buy you something from the cafeteria. However, the closer you are to him, the more likely he’ll get you something that you can keep as opposed to something consumable. He might also have a matching one, tucked somewhere in his room. 

Deuce likes to think about the future, and he does think about how, when he gets a job and has more money to spend, he’ll go gift you the things he saw through the shop windows, things out of his budget but he figures you would like.

If you like eggs, he can always make you breakfast! The two of you could even eat it together… if you want.

If you’re a fellow Heartslabyul student, or if you just decide to celebrate your birthday with them, he’s the one trying to serve you—he pours you your drink, makes sure you get the first choice of flamingo, anything to make your life more convenient. He’ll stop if you tell him to not treat you too specially, but you know he means well.

If you’re his partner, he’s like Riddle in the sense that he takes the occasion as an opportunity to prove how serious he is about you. It’s most obvious through his time and his effort, and he swears he’ll always find ways to be around you, but even more lovely is how he actually tries to voice it out.

It’s so obvious he’s embarrassed. He’s unsure if the things he’s saying are coming out the right way, if his words are romantic, if you even believe him—but you do. You should reassure him of that much. 

Overall, Deuce might not be the best at actual party preparation, nor is he the absolute life of the party on the day itself, but it’s incredibly easy to look past that when you actually see not just the fruits, but the efforts as well.

(Also, he tells you his mom greeted you with a Happy Birthday as well. Most kids don’t relay their parents messages to their friends and vice versa, but the fact that he does is sweet)

“And she says you, um, can come over to our home if you want! Over the holidays!”

CATER DIAMOND

There is only one way to hide your birthday from him—if you don’t have it set on any of your social media profiles or you lied about it online, and you refused to tell him. Cater does ask about your birthday after all, especially if you’re close.

So unless you’re a particularly secretive person, Cater is more likely to find out about it early, have it stored on his phone, and the notif reminds him a good week before, allowing him ample time to prep.

Cater will also eventually tell everyone (that matters to you) about your birthday, and for some he will be the first source of news. If he’s the first you’ve told, however, expect him to keep that piece of information to himself just for a day.

Unless you’re telling him the day of, the day before, or even while he’s in the middle of doing chores for the upcoming Unbirthday Party. He’s telling everyone—in the DMs, the GCs, in the Heartslabyul lounge, you name it. He’ll be jittery in his seat during class to the point that even Idia will be compelled to ask what’s going on with him. 

He’s messaging Trey something along the lines of, “So how fast can you make a cake?”

That aside, his Unique Magic (Signature Spell) is perfect when it comes to doing the preparations, no matter where you want to have it. Cater may not have as much brawn as some other students, but he more than makes up for it with his eye for design. Not only does he tailor the party based on what he knows you like, everything is designed to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible, both to the eye and on photo.

He does get you involved in the preparations, it’s certainly more fun that way! The Cater clones, and Cater himself, are bouncing ideas off of you, constantly asking for your opinions, and of course, taking many, many pictures with you. The pictures increase tenfold on the day itself. He won’t post them if you seem uncomfortable, but, especially if you’re a close friend or significant other, he wants the memories. 

(Even more so if you’re the Ramshackle prefect in addition—the uncertainty of your stay…)

While his clones happily discuss their ideas amongst themselves, Cater pulls you away from the hustle. Alongside talking about the party, he’s definitely trying to get information of what you could want—and, of course, casually looking through your room to make sure he doesn’t get you something you already have (and don’t need more of).

Cater also has pretty good investigative skills. If made available to him, he goes through your online shopping cart/wishlist to see what things you happen to want. Of course, he already does have a vague idea based on your social media likes, posts, and following.

He’s an excellent and extremely thoughtful gift giver. He’s not the type to just give based on aesthetics. Due to the presents he used to receive from his sisters during his birthday, he understands how important it is to really put the thought in the saying, it's the thought that counts.

The day of, he’s getting his club to play some music live for you! Wherever you are, it’ll be a mini concert! Some of the song selections are chosen to keep the energy of the party up, but there are some songs that are definitely chosen with you in mind. These could be songs from a genre you like, but, in particular if you’re his partner, there could be a song or two to hint at the extent and depth of his feelings for you.

If you’re close friends or his partner, he’s definitely more attached to you on the day of your birth. He’s being incredibly affectionate—physically through hugs and kisses if you’re comfortable, considering touch is definitely a love language of his, and just through spending time with you in general.

In general, Cater is a total blast to be around for your birthday. He’s incredibly good at shaping your day to be how you most like it—whether it be a party going all night, full of energy and music, or a short but meaningful one with the people you care about—it’s so clear to see every decision was deliberately made with you in mind.

TREY CLOVER

Trey goes through so much shit please, please tell him about your birthday early. He’s going to go grey early at the rate things are going in Heartslabyul, and just NRC in general.

In the case that you tell him late, he’ll understand if it’s a case of it slipping your mind, or even something about not wanting to cause a fuss about it and wanting to either do the preparations yourself or wanting something simple, but…

If you’re just a little bit cruel and you want to play a prank on him, you can ask him to help you bake a cake, or some other dessert of choice, and if you have a good enough cover story he probably will help you. When you eventually reveal the truth to Trey, he’s gobsmacked, jaw on the floor, drops a plate—

“We were baking your birthday cake?!”

Regardless, even if you tell him upfront about it he’s still going to try to make whatever you want, for as long as he deems it in his skill level. He’ll accept the help, but you can notice he’s definitely a lot more conscious with you around. He definitely can’t afford to mess up with you watching him…

If you and Trey are close he’ll let you play around with the ingredients, whether it’s throwing flour at him or smearing cream or jam on his nose (what is he, a dormouse?), but expect him to do the same to you. It won’t become a full on mess or food fight, but just enough to require your uniforms to be washed later.

If you’re together, he’ll be extra sweet on you, especially with no prying eyes in the kitchen. He’s the one tying your apron around your waist for you, spoon feeding you everything to make sure you like the taste. 

If you’re bold, feel free to pull a line about how you want him to get a taste as well, before kissing him!

Trey’s the one who panics the least among the Heartslabyul members. He’s already used to rush orders from all the times he’s helped his parents, and while he would prefer to not work under stress, whether it be cooking or baking or helping set up the place, it’s easy for him to settle in the zone.

If you’re the Ramshackle Prefect or a Heartslabyul student, best know that the Unbirthday Party? Cancelled. Tea party? Cancelled. Trey doesn’t always use his Vice Dorm Leader privileges, but he uses it to convince Riddle to have your birthday party made to your liking instead. Riddle agrees, but it’s more to do with Trey (and perhaps you) being his friend as opposed to the leadership positions.

Even if you’re not the Ramshackle Prefect or from Heartslabyul, Trey is pulling strings to have other parties moved to another date. He’d want to be able to spend time at your birthday party instead of running back and forth between Heartslabyul and wherever you happen to be.

Definitely makes use of Doodle Suit (EN: Paint the Roses) on demand for you.

It’s a given that Trey will give you something he’s baked himself, taking note whether you preferred savory or sweet, what textures you preferred, as well the foods you loved and those you avoided, but if you’re close he wants to get you something you can keep as well. 

If you told him about your birthday early, he might have taken the time to shop in his hometown for something to get you. If you’re together or he has feelings for you, his parents and siblings probably side-eyed him like What’s going on? Who’s this for?

He’s not particular about being secretive so he does ask you what you want to receive. If there’s something you like, just tell him and he’ll try to get it for you!

Funnily enough, the best part of the gift would probably be the little card he wrote a note on. Trey’s not known to be the best with words but it’s just so Trey that you can’t help but treasure it.

Overall, Trey is an absolute sweetheart. Compared to the others he’s definitely more of a behind-the-scenes type when it comes to preparing for your birthday, and he’s not going to be the life of the party or getting you involved in all sorts of party games, but you recognize how the party would not have been possible without his help in the first place.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

If you tell him about your birthday early, it might seem like he doesn’t give a shit, considering he just closes his eyes and goes to sleep. However, the piece of information is stored at the back of his mind—he’s very conscious of it, and you wouldn’t even know that he’s already had everything prepared—the greeting he’ll give you, the gift he’ll give you, all of it is prepared even before the day itself.

If you tell him on the day of, well, he’ll be a little pissed if he’s the last to find out, but what are you waiting for? You have to celebrate, don’t you? Go lead the way now, herbivore.

He gets a headache if you tell him you have nothing prepared, or have no idea on what you want to do, or how you want to celebrate.

Planning is a no… on the surface. He’s not going to be getting up to do the work himself, but the gears in his brain are oiled and working. He’s spewing out ideas based on what he already knows works best for parties, as well as what he knows you like.

Ruggie and the rest of the Savanaclaw students will be the ones doing the brunt of the work, but you can’t deny that even the lazy lion is helping in his own way.

Of course, particularly if you’re close friends or his partner, the funds for everything come from his designer wallet.

If you choose to ask Leona for help to prepare, while he (and the rest of his dorm) does deliver, the one thing you shouldn’t expect is for it to be formal and stuffy. If you want something like that, go ask someone like Vil or, ugh, Malleus instead.

If you’re together, Leona is the first to greet you (in person. He can’t beat out the rest of your friends who have their finger hovering above the send button at 11:59 pm, trying to be the first to greet you). When you wake up, you’ll find Leona somewhere in your room—maybe he’s sleeping on a chair, maybe he’s beside you on your bed. Regardless, the shuffling of your blankets will wake him, and he’s there to give you your greeting and your gift(s).

(Even though it’s your birthday, still wants to be thanked with some form of physical affection in return, likely a kiss or getting to cuddle with you and sleep in a little longer)

Leona can and will pretend to not have put too much time thinking about not getting you, not in the sense that he just got you whatever but more in the sense of, “The perfect gift just popped up in my mind naturally. I just knew what to get you from the very start.”

However, he does spend a good amount of time thinking about it. You’re one of the few people in his life he finds important, so it’s important to him that you’re happy with whatever he gets you. Expense is not at all a problem for him, thus he has way too many options to filter through.

If you’re the Ramshackle Prefect, his mind probably automatically goes to things you might need to make your life living there easier. He’s slept over there a few times, it’s nice and quiet, so he knows what you lack, what could be better.

Whether you’re the prefect or not, Leona thinks about giving you a gift based on your hobbies. During his birthday, his dorm members were a little (too) focused on his hobby of playing chess, so that probably gave him the idea.

If you’re into art, he’s going to buy some nice quality paints or pencils. Athletics, maybe dance? A nice pair of sneakers so you don’t hurt your feet while training. Do you like video games, idols, or anime? Idia gets jumpscared by Leona, who asks him where to best buy the merchandise you like.

(Idia goes, “A normie, tho an SSS tier one, who buys merch for his cultured s/o… isn’t this every broke fan’s fantasy???”)

As a friend, his gifts aren’t the most customized or unique, but you can tell he actually thought of you while picking them out.

It’s a little different if the two of you are together, though. If you’re together and the two of you are already serious about each other, well, expect not only gifts from Leona, but his family as well. He might get you something from the Afterglow Savannah in addition to the things he’s already given you—maybe an accessory or article of clothing with cultural and romantic significance.

Also, you know, you could say the Savanaclaw members being overly respectful to you is a gift in itself.

Overall, Leona’s the type who seems like he’s being very laidback about celebrating your birth, but on the day itself you notice not only the gifts piling up from everyone, but how everyone’s really treating you like you’re the star of the show, and it becomes clear Leona has a lot to do with that. This one day, he’ll spoil you openly.

JACK HOWL

Jack doesn’t seem like the type to panic over how soon a birthday is, though he would prefer knowing in advance. The most he would do is scold you if you waited until the day itself (mostly because you narrowed down his choices in gifts, and because he’s going to cancel a bunch of his plans to spend time with you. Whatever he slacks on with his workout regime for the afternoon, he’ll just have to make up for the day after)

Given his good memory, definitely remembers your birthday even without writing it down somewhere. 

While Jack doesn’t outright pretend to not care about your birthday, you also won’t catch him fussing about it. If you choose not to involve him in the party preparations at all, you’ll be surprised with how he just comes up to you when you’re alone to give you your gift. Isn’t he a little too caught up with this lone wolf thing? It’s kind of cute.

When it comes to Jack, it’s far more interesting to see how his reactions differ based on your relationship to him.

If the two of you are friends, he’ll offer his help if you need any heavy lifting (or need help with any physical task) for the party preparations. It’s a good use of his strength, and he’s able to help you out—it’s a win-win for him.

He’ll try to be more involved in the planning process if you’re close—especially if you’re the Ramshackle Prefect and/or one of the first years he spends a lot of time with. To have a good celebration, everyone needs to put their best efforts, so Deuce says, so you’re all pitching in ideas on what food to serve, what music to play, and who to invite. 

He’s got crazy good endurance, so if you need him to run around the place either handing out invitations, or retrieving things from the kitchen, or be your errand-runner to buy things from Mr. S’s Mystery Shop, he’s got you covered.

If he’s your boyfriend, expect him to really want you to sit back and relax. This is how he knows how to spoil you, so let him. 

A typical gift from Jack would be buying you a meal either from the cafeteria or Mostro Lounge, but the closer you are to him the more he wants to get you something with a little bit more sentiment. Food is still an option, though if that’s the case, it’s more likely he’ll go out to town to look for a certain brand of snack or sweet you happen to like. 

(Jokes about getting you protein powder)

For a non-consumable gift, unless you tell him (or give a hint) about something specific, Jack wants to get you something practical. Maybe he’ll get you socks themed around an animal you really like (he’ll get a little flustered if you tell him wolves are your favorite, and raise his eyebrows if you say something like a lion or hyena). Other options include a scarf, or gloves, or…

You notice how he seems to be preparing you for the cold, and you can choose to point out that it looks like he wants you to visit him in his hometown. He’ll definitely deny it, but you can rely on his tail to tell you the truth.

You realize you can get away with a lot with having Jack as a close friend or significant other. Meaning, the wolf form—as long as the both of you are away from the public, he’ll use his Unique Magic for you. Being called fluffy and cute is a lot for him to process.

You might say the best gift of all is getting Jack to cuddle with you—wolf form or otherwise. It’s your birthday, your word goes. It’s embarrassing for him either way, but because he cares for you he pushes it aside and pretends he’s really not that affected by it at all.

To conclude, Jack may not be the most honest, but you can tell he’s pushing past his comfort zone to give you a good birthday.

RUGGIE BUCCHI

Another one you should have mercy on. Tell him in advance! He’s always running around all over the place, doing this for Leona and some other responsibilities that he needs time to prepare.

If you’re a Savanaclaw student, he’s already going to get everyone (execpt Leona, clearly) to set up the place for your birthday. He says it’s Leona’s orders and everyone believes him—the privileges of being his assistant.

If you’re not, he’s coming over to your dorm to help when he finds himself free—especially if you’re from Ramshackle. He doubts the capabilities of ghosts to help you.

Hey, if Leona’s in a particularly good mood (or if Leona happens to like you as well), Ruggie’s going to have a day off to help you out, and just hang out with you in general.

He jokes around that because you’re already getting a lot of love from people, you totally don’t need him to get you anything, right?

Even if you insist otherwise, Ruggie does want to get you something tangible as a present, so he probably works an extra hour at the Mostro Lounge to buy you something from Sam’s shop (or somewhere in town, if he knows a place). It won’t be pricey, but you can tell he knows you well enough to be able to get you something you’d like.

At the party itself Ruggie is extremely energetic. Yes, he alway enjoys them for the food, but getting to celebrate someone like you is what makes this particular party special. 

He’s no Kalim or Jamil when it comes to dancing, and he’s got no formal ballroom skills to date, but he can still show you a fun time on the dance floor (which is just the floors of the dorm of your choosing). Ruggie is certain to get you laughing along with him as the two of you pull out a bunch of wild and incoherent movements.

If you’re close friends or in a relationship with him, he especially wants to hog as much of your attention as possible. Is everyone’s attention on you? That’s great! But he’s more special to you than them, isn’t he?

If you’re in a romantic relationship, he’s using his time to show some PDA. He’s the type who thinks he really lucked out when it came to you, so he also wants to show that not only is he a good boyfriend, but there’s no way he’s giving you up—ever!

Though even if the relationship is completely platonic, Ruggie might still take the chance to give you some physical affection. Maybe it’ll rile up someone you like or someone who likes you! Maybe it’s to ward off someone with bad intentions—he might not be Leona or Jack… but he knows Leona and Jack, so they better be careful. And, well, Ruggie and his UM can be scary in their own right.

And, you know, you’re a comforting presence, so there’s also that!

Overall, he definitely shows his general appreciation for you through his actions, and he’s working extra hard to make sure you have a great birthday. Praise him, smile at him, and most of all enjoy yourself—he’ll appreciate knowing his efforts aren’t for naught!

masterlist

Me, My Partner, and My Three-Foot Tall Nephew

Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Fic Idea • Me doing whatever my witch boyfriend wants / Me, my boyfriend, and my three-foot tall nephew

Summary • Leona is usually pretty docile when it comes to you. You can do almost anything to him and at most he'll crush you and use you like a pillow.

Who says romance is dead?

But all romance is tossed out the window when you side with the enemy. He will not tolerate traitors.

Alternatively • You help Cheka disguise himself as a mini Leona and the original discovers your plan before you can steal his jacket for authenticity

…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ …ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ

When Leona wakes up and feels you stripping him of his jacket, he assumes it is just you borrowing his clothing again.

After your transition, it was tricky to slip into sleeved clothing, so you often stole his jacket while he was asleep before running off to do who knows what. This sneaking of clothing isn’t new at all. Is it annoying because you are disrupting his nap? Yeah. But you put up with his shit so what can he do but put up with yours?

It is when you start tugging his shirt up that he feels the need to swat your hand as your fingers are cold.

“Leave it.”

... Another tug.

He grumbles. “What are you, a raccoon? Paws off.”

Leona’s amusement at your small indignant huff is short-lived when he hears a familiar giggle in the distance. He cracks open an eye. “Why do I hear Cheka?”

Your hands are hovering over him, posed much like a raccoon who is preparing to dip its paws into a dog’s food bowl. Hands slowly dropping to your sides, you lean back and sit on your legs. Closing the pages of a thick book, you shove it away from you, causing a crashing sound nearby. “No reason.”

“Where is Cheka?”

“What's a Cheka?”

“...”

“...”

He closes his eyes.

“...”

Up he goes.

You grapple him by his waist as he jumps to his feet with nothing but a simple ab crunch to pull his body upward— causing you to get dragged as you try to hold him back with all your dead weight. Unfortunately for you, he has long since proven he can lift you with ease. Were it not for your sympathy for beastmen's heightened sense of hearing, you would likely be screeching unintelligibly as you slink along the ground with each of his thundering steps.

“Cheka isn’t here!”

“Get your mitts offa me ‘less you want skin burn.” He trudges forward out of the door of his room to the rope bridge stairs that lead to the ground floor of the lounge.

“I’m honestly offended you’re able to drag me.”

“Get on my level, now, where is the brat?”

You look to the side with a huff, closing your eyes and ignoring his question. Not that he really needs you to answer, he can sniff out the kid from a mile away.

Well, if he wanted to, and in this case, he does.

When he reaches the ground floor, he notices a wall of students blocking something from his sight. It is obvious that this is where Cheka is, if not because of the meat shields, then because of their nervous whistling and the small, muffled giggles behind them.

Leona glares at the students, not stopping for a moment as he marches forth, dragging you behind him.

“Outta my way or get snapped.”

They all look sheepish as they shuffle aside to make a path for him, rubbing their necks and muttering apologies as they scoot out of the way.

Now, Leona is expecting a single Cheka. One Cheka, because he can still remember the horror of facing a horde of nephews after a misdirected spell from a first year.

What he doesn’t expect is to see the younger version of himself wearing his shrunken uniform while Jack Howl sits on the floor next to him with an expression that can’t settle on amused or ‘I want to go home’.

At the sight of his bandana around Cheka’s neck— looking no better than a bib— Leona pats himself down and inspects himself.

He hadn’t noticed it when he woke, but he is missing his necklaces and bracelets.

Looking down at the raccoon clinging to his waist, Leona narrows his eyes and grabs you by the back of your jacket before you can scurry off.

“Don’t even think about runnin’, your endurance is shit.”

“I have an opinion about that.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna try the backstroke in a sand pit?”

“... Suddenly I’m feeling so non-partisan.”

“’s what I thought.” Turning his attention back to his nephew, his favorite, only nephew— thank the Seven— he nods to Jack. “How’d they rope you in?”

“I have two siblings.” The white-haired teen shrugs non-committedly, allowing Cheka to try and spike his hair without any fuss. The acceptance is starting to make sense...

“Noted.”

Finally acknowledging the brat who wears his face, which makes acknowledging Cheka as a brat very... conflicting... Leona whistles, not unlike the signal one might use to call a dog. Works just fine though, the kid looks up eagerly, ears perking up as the attention of his uncle is finally on him.

“Unca Leona! I look just like you now!” Cheka announces proudly, his hands on his hips as he puffs out his chest, his expression beaming.

Leona has little fodder to use this time around, as the brat is literally a mini mirror of him.

“Yeah... you’ve never looked better, kid.”

He is going to smother you in your sleep later for your muffled wheeze.

Asking the Housewardens help with trans tape (SMAU)

summary: you started using trans tape but needed some help from your partner

trope: established relationship, hurt/comfort, reassurance

info: trans FTM reader, transmasc reader, body dysmorphia, binding

characters: riddle, leona, azul, kalim, vil, idia, malleus (lilia mentioned)

my first smau :P (ignore the timestamp not important idk how to work the app..)

Riddle

Leona

Azul

Kalim

Vil

Idia

Malleus

a/n: MEMI IS SO DIFFICULT WTF I use to have an app that does smau but I DELETED IT N NOW ITS NOT IN THE APP STORE I hate light mood but it didn’t look good dark mood…

I tried tape once but it felt weird n didn’t look flat enough.. I usually use a binder but i feel like i should try it again.