Sending Your Crush A Survey Form Hcs Part 2 Second Years X Reader (separate) -> Riddle, Ruggie, Azul

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.

---

“I will love you forever and when ‘forever’ ends, I’ll love you some more.”

For the event, can I request Malleus for this? I need to send ALL my love to him ASAP. Although for this, feel free to have him being the one saying it to reader.

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 1.2k

Prompt 51: "I will love you forever and when ‘forever’ ends, I’ll love you some more."

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

There was something about being in love with a fae that would always be at least a little intimidating.

No, it wasn’t the unearthly powers that could literally rip through the fabric of time and space with a snap of his fingers. No, it wasn’t the cold, serpentine stare or the sharp fangs in his mouth that shined like well-polished knives under the right light. It wasn’t even the horns. Even though they added an extra foot onto the dragon’s already stupidly impressive height.

But there were other things, sometimes. Less tangiblethings.

You tried not to think about it too much, because you loved Tsunotarou. Really, you did. And you didn’t want some… some creeping thing at the fringes of your consciousness to ruin that.

It was cold tonight, and you puffed warm breath onto your fingers. Normally Malleus was the one waiting for you to arrive at your usual Gargoyle Filled haunts, but he’d had a meeting with his retainers today. And you weren’t surprised he was running a bit late in the aftermath.

‘Man, I’m surprised Draconia is ever on time for anything,’ Ace had complained, during some mandatory assembly or other. Watching as Malleus floated into the room a solid two hours after scheduled.

‘He’s usually very punctual,’ you’d answered, confused.

‘Sure, sure. But don’t fae have, like, super fucked up senses of time?’ the redhead mused. ‘Like I bet you could tell him to meet you in an hour and he’d show up a week later or something.’

“Child of man,” a familiar timbre called out over the snow, and you perked up immediately, hopping from foot to foot to get your circulation going again before trotting out to meet him halfway.

“Tsunotarou!” you chirped. “How was your day?”

“Dreadful,” he answered, deadpan, and bent his arm neatly so that you could tuck your fingers into the crook of his elbow and snuggle yourself into his side. He was like a walking furnace, what with the roaring, emerald fires in his belly. And the snowflakes seemed to melt before they’d even touched his skin. “Nothing but paperwork. Perhaps I should turn them all into enchanted quills, and then they might finally be fit for their positions.”

You snorted into your glove. “You’d need to turn some of them into ink then, too.”

“Ah, of course,” he intoned. And then shot you a smirk that was just on the right side of besotted. “Whatever would I do without your wise guidance?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you teased, and then smiled right back in that stupidly, soppy way. “But you seemed more than smart enough to manage on your own before I came along. And I’m sure you’ll go back to being brilliant when I’m gone,” you added on a laugh.

But Malleus didn’t join in your giggling.

The fae stopped in place, and you were dragged to a halt with him. You blinked up at him, confused. His expression was… complicated.

“You are leaving?” he asked, each word sounding like it had to be pried out of his mouth with a crowbar.

“What?” you blinked. “Of course not.” Crowley never having bothered to lift a feathery finger to find you a way home aside, you had more than enough reasons to stay here for as long as your meager, mortal life would allow. Going home… it soured something in your stomach that you didn’t even want to consider. So you just tightened your fingers around his arm and shot him as reassuring of a smile as you could muster. “Even if I had the choice, I’d be staying right here.”

But that just made Malleus’s brow pinch up tighter.

“Then what did you mean?” he questioned, perplexed. “When you said ‘when I’m gone.’”

Ah.

You fought a guilty wince. You hadn’t wanted to drag your own little terrors into his worries as well. You really needed to get a better leash on the poor quips that managed to tumble out of your mouth.

“Well, just that, uhm…” You waved your free hand awkwardly. “You know.”

More furrowing.

“I do not,” he said, sounding grumpy. It was a bit adorable, seeing an almighty prince and near God pout at you. But you fought off the urge to coo over his pursed lips and scrunched nose. Time and place, self. Time and place.

“I’m mortal,” you said finally, hoping that would cover it.

“And?”

Ugh. Come on, dude. Give me something here.

You shrugged, tight and awkward. “Just that, well, you know. Your lifespan is near infinite right? And mine is sort of set to be…” You held up your fingers and pinched them close together. “Uhm. Not that.”

“And you think that such an inconsequential factor means that you will be leaving me?” he asked, and you blinked at him in outright confusion.

“It’s pretty consequential,” you squeaked out, and averted your gaze. “And.. and besides. I knew that from the beginning. And I just want to be able to make the best out of the time with you that I have,” you said, hoping it sounded properly reassuring and not like the start of a particularly peppy obituary.

“…I see,” the Prince said, low. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll be gone, I’m sure.”

You blinked again, owlish and slow.

“Pardon?”

“What is the human expression…?” he hummed, tucking your arm back tightly against his side and starting up your leisurely stroll once more. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Almost so much as time itself.”

Yeah, you wanted to amend. But not from beyond the grave.

“I guess so,” you shrugged.  

“Can you imagine then,” he hummed. “How much I’ll love you in a thousand years?”

“I—” you swallowed, feeling tears prick at the back of your eyes.

But rather than give your poor, fluttering soul a chance to recover, he just pushed onwards.

“I will love you forever, and when ‘forever’ ends, I suppose that I’ll just love you even more,” he said, perfectly level and serious, like he hadn’t just absolutely pulled your heart out of your chest and set the whole of you on fire.

You stared up at his regal, handsome face from beneath a soft veil of falling snow. With those cold, emerald eyes, the pointed fangs, the horns. You felt like your stomach had fallen out at your toes, like the whole of you was bound to float away like a balloon lost in the breeze. Because he’d said—he’d really—

“And of course,” the dragon shrugged. “I’ve always intended to extend your lifespan to begin with.”

You gaped at him wordlessly for a moment, before letting out a hideously embarrassed squawk and pounding at his chest with your gloved hands.

“You could’ve told me that!” you shrieked, practically steaming in the cold with the heat pulsing off your cheeks.

“I suppose,” he smirked, catching your flailing fists easily in one of his own large hands. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to see your reaction to my declarations, would I?” he cooed, all smooth, dark chocolate and smoky embers. “And I had to work so hard to memorize those lines. Fitting as they are, I was told that the moment to use them would have to be perfect, and—"

“Did Lilia set you up for this?” you choked.

Malleus snorted and turned to tug you further down the path. “Only a little.”

.

.

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

---

Of Seashells and Sweet Nothings - Vil Schoenheit x reader

You're cursed to love everyone except Vil, and he's cursed to love only you. And yet somewhere along the way, it seems the curse has skipped you.

aka Merman! Vil x Reader

The wedding was simple, almost understated, despite the weight of its significance. You stood beside Vil Schoenheit, hand in his, as the officiant spoke words you barely registered. The setting sun bathed everything in a warm glow, but your mind was elsewhere—far away from the ceremony itself.

Vil looked impeccable, as always. His eyes were on you, piercing and focused, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was thinking. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about feelings; it was about fulfilling a duty, one you had known was coming for a long time.

The vows were exchanged, and that was that. You turned, now bound together, walking side by side down the aisle, your thoughts already moving on to what came next. The ceremony was done. A formality.

And yet, as you glanced at Vil, something about it didn’t feel as hollow as you’d expected.

In this world, balance is everything. The fae of the forests, the beastmen of the land, the merpeople of the water, and the Valkyra—yes, birdpeople—of the wind, each control their own domain. They’re the most powerful clans, each lording over their respective elements like some kind of cosmic HOA. And, of course, they all have peace treaties in place to keep everyone from accidentally (or intentionally) obliterating each other.

But no treaty is quite as peculiar as the one between the merpeople and the Valkyra.

See, hundreds of years ago, some genius thought it would be a grand idea to curse the heads of these two clans with the most impractical love curse in existence. The curse works like this: the head of the merpeople is doomed to love only the head of the Valkyra, while the head of the Valkyra is cursed to love literally everyone else except the head of the merpeople. It’s like a bad romcom plot, but with deadly consequences.

Here’s where things get complicated: the merpeople’s head, their heir, only appears once every 30 years. If they’re not with their “one true love” (a.k.a. the head of the Valkyra) at least once during every full moon, they’ll keel over and die before the next heir can pop up. No heir, no merpeople, and—boom—extinction.

This is where the "deal" comes into play. To avoid this catastrophe, the Valkyra agreed to this bizarre matchmaking curse, which now means every new head of the Valkyra has to marry the head of the merpeople. No exceptions, no complaints. The two of them must meet monthly, like clockwork, for a kind of celestial forced date night.

And just to make things even worse, if the Valkyra head doesn’t marry the merpeople’s head, they lose their ability to fly. Wings, grounded—forever. Imagine that: a birdperson without the ability to fly, as if the universe needed to throw in an extra slap to the face.

Over the generations, this has become less of a romantic arrangement and more of a job requirement, with each Valkyra head treating it like an odd but unavoidable business deal. They don’t have to like it; they just have to show up, check the box, keep the merpeople from turning into tragic folklore, and—of course—keep their own wings in working order.

That’s the way it’s always been: cursed, inconvenient, and awkward.

It was supposed to be like every other betrothal ceremony between the Valkyra and the merpeople. The air was thick with the usual tension—two clans bound by duty, not desire, meeting at the ceremonial altar like this was some awkward, forced blind date.

You, newly anointed head of the Valkyra, stood there, your wings giving an occasional twitch behind you like they’d rather be anywhere but here. You had been briefed on the whole ordeal—“meet the heir, exchange some greetings, throw the ring at them, and fly off.” Simple. This wasn’t about love. It was a political arrangement to keep the merpeople alive and the peace treaty intact.

Across from you stood Vil Schoenheit, heir to the merpeople. His golden hair shimmered like the sun reflecting off the ocean, and his face? It was disgustingly perfect, like he had been carved out of marble by some lovesick artist. In theory, the curse would make him fall for you the moment he saw you. After all, that was how it worked—he was bound to love only the Valkyra head.

But what no one expected—least of all you—was that you would be the one caught off guard.

Vil was striking, yes, but it wasn’t just his looks. It was the way he carried himself, like he was fully aware of how radiant he was but still carried an air of unapproachable elegance. Most Valkyra heads would have felt the usual disgust at their cursed partner, barely making eye contact before tossing the ring and flying off. That’s how these things went. They were practically trained to do it with their eyes shut.

But you?

You found yourself staring, actually intrigued. Instead of the wave of revulsion that was expected, something odd stirred in your chest. It wasn’t love, not by a long shot. It was…fascination. A curious pull that made you hesitate, which was enough to stun the entire audience. This had never happened before.

Vil, on the other hand, looked as if he had just seen the personification of his deepest dreams. He was besotted, as was expected by the curse, but there was something different about the way he gazed at you. Normally, the merpeople heir would fall head over heels, but Vil was genuinely taken by the way you moved, the way you stood. It wasn’t just the curse making him like you; it seemed like you intrigued him beyond the curse's binding.

And then you did something no Valkyra head had ever done before.

Instead of throwing the ring and bolting out of there like your predecessors, you knelt down in front of him, offering the ring with all the grace and seriousness of a real proposal. The crowd gasped. This wasn’t in the script. You were supposed to go through the motions, not act like this was some kind of grand romance!

Vil’s eyes widened, and for the first time in this ridiculous tradition’s history, the merpeople heir didn’t just fall in love out of obligation—he fell head over heels, utterly smitten, entirely because of you.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow across the beach where you waited, wings fluttering with nerves you tried to ignore. This was it—the first official "date" since your marriage to Vil Schoenheit, the current head of the merpeople. A union bound by centuries-old curses, it was normally a formality, something both clans did with begrudging acceptance.

Merpeople were only allowed on land during the full moon, and this was the first of many such meetings.

But tonight, you felt something different, something almost... hopeful. Maybe it was the fact that you had brought a gift, a small but meaningful token. A delicate brooch shaped like a seashell, with silver feathers—merging your worlds into one. No one had told you to do this; in fact, most Valkyra heads would never bother. But something about Vil made you want to try.

You spotted movement as Vil emerged from the water, his sleek, golden hair gleaming in the moonlight, not a strand out of place. He looked, as always, impossibly perfect, like he had stepped straight out of a painting. His eyes—a sharp, intelligent violet—landed on you, though they didn’t hold the frantic eagerness you’d seen in other cursed merpeople heads before. No desperation to win you over with excessive gifts or grand gestures. Instead, Vil’s gaze was steady, though undeniably smitten, a subtle warmth in his expression.

“Good evening,” Vil said smoothly, gliding toward you with an elegance that felt effortless.

“Evening,” you replied, your voice casual but steady. You extended your hand, offering the small box with the brooch inside. “I, uh, brought you something.”

Vil’s brow raised slightly, but he took the box from you with practiced grace. “A gift?” he asked, his tone curious as he opened it. The faintest smile touched his lips when he saw the brooch, a rare expression on someone usually so composed. “This is... unexpected.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Thought it’d be nice to bring something for a change. You know, switch things up.”

Vil inspected the brooch with an appreciative eye, his fingers brushing lightly over the delicate silver feathers. “It’s beautiful,” he said, pinning it to his chest with his usual attention to detail. “And thoughtful. Not many would bother with such an effort.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Yeah, well... I’m not like the others.”

Vil’s smile widened ever so slightly, the amusement in his eyes growing. “No, I suppose you’re not. And for that, I’m grateful.”

The two of you walked along the shoreline, side by side, the conversation surprisingly light. Normally, these meetings were stilted affairs, with the merpeople head desperate to please and the Valkyra head barely tolerating their presence. But this? This felt... different. There wasn’t the usual tension, the frantic attempts to impress, or the thinly veiled disgust. Instead, there was something approaching ease.

“You’re not what I expected,” Vil said after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“Oh?” you asked, glancing over at him.

“In the past, the Valkyra heads were always... distant. Formal. Like they couldn’t wait to leave,” Vil explained, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “You seem... different.”

You shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips. “Figured I’d try to make this less painful for both of us. I mean, we’re stuck together, right? Might as well try to get along.”

Vil laughed, a soft sound that seemed to surprise even him. “A practical approach. I like that.” His violet eyes twinkled with amusement. “And I must admit, it’s a refreshing change not to feel like I’m constantly chasing after someone.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “What, the other merpeple heads weren’t exactly thrilled about this whole curse thing?”

Vil gave you a knowing look. “Imagine being hopelessly in love with someone who can’t stand the sight of you, every single time. That’s usually how these meetings go.”

You nodded, understanding the frustration in his words. “Yeah, well, I’m not about to make this harder than it needs to be. Besides, you’re not that bad,” you added, giving him a playful nudge.

Vil chuckled, shaking his head. “Not that bad? I’ll take it.” He paused, then added more softly, “You’re not like the others either. You’re... different.”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw something more in Vil’s eyes than just the effects of the curse. There was genuine admiration there, something deeper than mere obligation. It wasn’t just the curse binding him to you—he liked you, plain and simple.

The moonlight reflected off the water, casting long shadows as the two of you continued to walk, talking about everything from your respective clans to the pressures of leadership. It was the first time in centuries that a merpeople-Valkyra meeting wasn’t a disaster. There were no awkward silences, no rushed goodbyes, just... peace.

And maybe, just maybe, something more.

As the night wore on, you both found yourselves sitting on a rock near the shore, watching the gentle waves lap at the sand. The air was calm, filled only with the quiet hum of the ocean and the soft rustle of your wings.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Vil said after a long pause, his voice softer than before. “Not the curse, not the marriage, and certainly not... this.” He gestured between the two of you.

“Yeah, me neither,” you admitted, your eyes focused on the horizon. “But hey, it could be worse, right? At least we don’t hate each other.”

Vil smiled at that, a real, genuine smile. “No, we don’t.”

For the first time, you realized that this might actually work. You weren’t just honoring the tradition anymore. You were connecting—really connecting—and it felt... right.

And as Vil glanced at you, a soft, unreadable expression on his face, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, this cursed love story wasn’t as doomed as everyone thought.

Vil looked away, his hand brushing against yours ever so slightly. “Until next month then?”

You grinned, your heart lighter than you expected. “Yeah. Until next month.”

The sun had barely risen when you made your way to the beach, the gift cradled carefully in your hands. You had spent days crafting it—a pendant of polished obsidian shaped like a feather, inlaid with shimmering sea glass that caught the light like scattered stars. You knew merpeople loved shiny things, and you figured this would catch Vil’s eye. The excuse to see him outside of your usual monthly meetings? Well, that was something you were still sorting out in your head.

By the time you reached the shore, the waves were calm, the water a deep blue-green that mirrored the sky. Vil had mentioned that he sometimes liked to swim during the day, despite the fact that the full moon was required for him to walk on land. It wasn’t a guarantee that you’d see him, but... you hoped.

And then, as if on cue, he appeared. Vil surfaced from the water with the same ethereal grace as always, his hair glistening under the sunlight, the sleek scales on his tail catching the light like gemstones. He spotted you instantly, his violet eyes locking onto yours. A small, amused smile tugged at his lips as he swam closer to the shore.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Vil said, his voice smooth as the sea itself. “It’s not our usual meeting time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You shifted awkwardly, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I, uh, just thought I’d drop by. You know, casually. No big deal.”

Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your nonchalance. “Casually, hm?” He leaned slightly against the rocks at the edge of the shore, his eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “You didn’t come all this way without a reason, did you?”

Your face heated up immediately. Great. This was going well.

“I, uh, made you something.” You fumbled with the box before finally thrusting it toward him, trying to avoid his amused gaze. “Here.”

Vil’s eyes lit up with interest as he took the box from your hands, opening it with the same precision and care he gave to everything. His smile widened when he saw the pendant, the sea glass glittering against the dark stone.

“A gift? For me?” His tone was teasing, but you could tell by the way his fingers brushed lightly over the pendant that he was genuinely pleased. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, trying not to be overwhelmed by the way he was looking at you. “I just thought you’d like something shiny. You know, since you—um—merpeople and all…”

“Shiny things?” Vil’s smile grew, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Yes, we do have a weakness for them. But this... this is exquisite. I can see you put a lot of effort into it.”

He clasped the pendant around his neck, adjusting it until it sat perfectly against his chest. He was absolutely preening, and you could feel your face heating up even more under his gaze.

“You’re... welcome,” you mumbled, desperately trying to keep your composure.

Vil chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming as he watched you fidget under his scrutiny. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite this flustered. It’s endearing, you know.”

“Flustered? Who, me?” You tried to brush it off, crossing your arms and turning your head away, but your cheeks were burning, and you knew you weren’t fooling anyone. “I’m just—uh—being polite. That’s all.”

“Polite, of course,” Vil replied, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Well, I’m very grateful for your... politeness today.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip a beat. “And for the gift. Truly.”

You weren’t sure if it was the warm sunlight, the proximity to Vil, or just the fact that he looked so pleased, but you felt your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. It was odd—normally, the Valkyra head’s instinct to despise the merpeople head would have kicked in by now. That strange hatred that had been passed down through the generations? It just wasn’t there. You liked him. Really liked him. And from the way his violet eyes held yours, you couldn’t help but think that maybe he felt the same way, curse or no curse.

Before you could say anything else that might make you look even more ridiculous, you quickly cleared your throat and took a step back. “Well! I should probably get going. Don’t want to, uh, overstay my welcome or anything.”

Vil tilted his head slightly, a knowing smile still playing on his lips. “Leaving so soon? Pity. I was rather enjoying your company.”

You tried not to trip over your own feet as you backed away, your wings fluttering nervously behind you. “Yeah, well, next time. I’m sure we’ll... have more time to talk.”

Vil chuckled softly as he watched you take off, his gaze following you until you disappeared into the sky. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after you, his voice filled with unmistakable warmth.

Later that evening, as Vil returned to his quarters beneath the sea, Epel leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, grinning like a mischievous cat. “Ya know, Vil, you can pretend all you want, but I’ve never seen you so smitten.”

Vil shot him a withering glare, though there was no real malice behind it. “Smitten? Hardly. I am simply... appreciative of their efforts.”

Epel snickered, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, sure. ‘Appreciative.’ That’s why you’ve been wearing that pendant all day like it’s some royal heirloom.”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, though a slight blush crept up his neck. “It’s a thoughtful gift, and it suits me. That’s all.”

Rook, who had been listening from nearby, chimed in with a delighted grin. “Oh, Vil, mon ami! It’s wonderful to see you so moved by affection. But do be careful. The merpeople’s curse has brought heartache to many before you.”

Vil glanced at the pendant around his neck, his expression softening just a little. “I know the risks, Rook. But this time... it feels different.”

Rook smiled, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Vil. For your sake, I truly do.”

Vil didn’t respond, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the pendant. Deep down, he knew that Rook’s concerns weren’t without merit. But for the first time in centuries, a merpeople-Valkyra union felt like more than just a curse or a duty. And maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

It was your usual monthly meeting, but this time, you had something special planned. The night was calm, the sea glimmering under the moonlight as Vil stood waiting on the shore. His presence was as striking as always—elegant, regal, with an air of serene confidence. And yet, tonight, there was something different about the way you looked at him.

You smiled as you approached, feeling your heart beat a little faster. "I’ve been thinking... since you bring so many treasures from the sea, it’s only fair I give you something from the skies in return."

Vil’s eyebrow arched in curiosity. “Oh? And what exactly do you have in mind?”

Without a word, you stepped closer, your wings unfurling behind you, casting long shadows across the beach. Before Vil could question you further, you gently scooped him up in your arms. He stiffened for a moment, his usual composure slipping just slightly.

“You’re trusting me to carry you, aren’t you?” you teased, your grin widening.

“Of course,” he replied, though there was a flicker of surprise in his voice. “I simply wasn’t expecting... this.”

With a strong beat of your wings, you soared into the sky, Vil held securely against your chest. The world below began to shrink, the crashing of the waves fading into a distant hum. Vil’s gaze widened as the mountains and clouds stretched out before him, closer than they’d ever been. For someone used to the ocean’s depths, this must’ve been an entirely new perspective—one where the world opened up endlessly.

You flew higher, taking him to the peak of the mountain your clan called home. The horizon stretched out in every direction, the first light of dawn beginning to paint the sky in hues of pink and gold. You landed softly, still holding Vil, and set him down gently on a smooth rock overlooking the expanse below.

Vil stood there in awe, his usually sharp eyes softening as he took in the sight. “It’s... beautiful,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would disturb the tranquility of the moment.

You, however, were no longer looking at the sunrise. “It is,” you replied, but your eyes were on him, drinking in the way the first rays of light illuminated his features—the golden strands of his hair catching the morning glow, his sharp profile outlined against the sky, his violet eyes reflecting the dawn. “It really is.”

He turned his head to you, catching the way you were staring, and for once, Vil seemed... uncertain. Perhaps it was the rare vulnerability of the moment, or maybe the fact that you were seeing him in a way no one had before. Either way, you didn’t look away.

“I meant the sunrise,” Vil said, his lips curving into a small smile, though the warmth in his gaze betrayed him.

“So did I,” you lied, the faintest blush creeping up your neck.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, Vil leaning against you as the first light of the sun bathed the mountain in gold. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was peaceful, almost as if the curse that tied your clans together had, for once, allowed something genuine to grow between you.

But as the sun climbed higher in the sky, you knew it was time to return. With a heavy heart, you carried Vil back down, feeling the weight of the impending separation settle in your chest. For the first time, parting felt harder than it should’ve been.

When you finally set him back down on the beach, Vil’s feet touched the sand, but he lingered close to you for a moment longer. “I’ll admit, that was... something I never expected.”

“I like surprising you,” you said, your voice softer now, unwilling to let this moment go just yet.

Vil smiled, his usual sharpness returning to his features, but there was an undeniable warmth beneath it. “You’ve become quite adept at it.”

As you prepared to leave, you couldn’t shake the sadness that gnawed at you. The monthly meetings were all you had, but each one felt shorter than the last. It seemed like the instinct your ancestors had—the hate, the disdain for the merpeople—had completely skipped you.

“You know...” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t think I ever hated you. Not even when we first met.”

Vil tilted his head, curious. “And why do you think that is?”

You looked at him, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe the valkyra hate genes just skipped me. Or maybe... I’m just lucky.”

Vil didn’t respond immediately, but there was something unspoken in the way he looked at you. Something that told you he felt it too—that strange, undeniable pull between you both. Not just the curse, but something deeper.

With a final, reluctant glance, you spread your wings and took to the skies, leaving him on the shore once again. But this time, the separation felt heavier, like leaving behind a part of yourself.

And though you couldn’t see it, Vil stayed there for a long while after you left, his gaze fixed on the horizon, already counting down the days until he’d see you again.

The moon wasn't full, and yet here you were, standing by the shore once again. It had been weeks since you and Vil started meeting outside of the required "monthly date nights." You told yourself that each visit had a purpose—bringing him a new gift, asking about the state of the seas, or simply “checking in.” But after each visit, it became harder to deny the real reason you kept showing up.

Today, you'd brought a set of polished gems woven into a necklace, knowing how much Vil appreciated delicate craftsmanship and, of course, shiny things. You were proud of it, but there was an undeniable anticipation building inside you—not just to give him the gift, but to see him again.

As you neared the shore, Vil was already waiting for you, his figure poised like something out of a painting. His golden hair glimmered even in the fading light of dusk, and his violet eyes caught yours with a familiar, almost teasing look.

"You do realize it’s not the full moon," Vil remarked as you approached, though there was a clear warmth in his voice. "What brings you here this time, again?"

You smirked, holding out the necklace. “Just thought I’d drop by... with this.”

Vil’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, and he accepted the necklace with his usual grace, though his smirk was just as playful as yours. "You’ve been quite generous lately. I’m starting to think you're looking for excuses to see me.”

“Excuses? Never.” You chuckled, though the heat rising to your face betrayed you. "I'm just keeping the tradition alive—maybe putting in a little extra effort."

Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “A little extra? Darling, this is bordering on obsession.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no denying it—especially when you saw the way Vil’s fingers traced the necklace, his appreciation clear in the way his lips curved into a satisfied smile.

“Well, you’re one to talk,” you shot back. “I seem to recall a certain someone gifting me a chest of pearls the last time I dropped by. You could decorate a palace with the amount of sea treasures you’ve been giving me.”

Vil laughed softly, his voice like velvet. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of neglecting my duties as your devoted spouse, now would I?”

The teasing back and forth had become your favorite part of these meetings—there was something light, effortless, in the way the two of you communicated. And the more time you spent with Vil, the more that odd sense of duty morphed into something genuine.

Suddenly, Vil’s attention shifted to the cliffs behind you, and when you turned, you saw two figures approaching—both of them unmistakable.

Rook and Epel.

“Oh,” you muttered under your breath, feeling a bit exposed. You hadn't expected company.

Rook, ever the observant one, smiled widely when he caught sight of you. “Ah, the elusive Valkyra head themselves! A rare sighting, but of course, you must have been drawn here by our beautiful Vil, oui?”

Epel, on the other hand, snorted as he sized you up. "Yeah, no kidding. You look like you’ve been hit with the ‘love curse’ pretty hard. I bet if we got closer, we’d see little hearts in your eyes.”

Your face flushed immediately. “W-what? No way! That’s ridiculous. I’m just—uh—here to visit. That’s all.”

Rook’s eyes gleamed, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Vil. “Oh, but I think there’s more than just a simple visit in play here! Non, non, non—you have the air of someone who has fallen hook, line, and sinker as they say.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the blush on your face wasn’t helping your case. Epel grinned mischievously, crossing his arms. “You should just admit it. You’re so head-over-heels, you don’t even see it.”

Vil, standing beside you with a graceful smirk, finally spoke. “They do have a point, you know. It’s becoming rather obvious.”

You glared at him, feeling both flustered and betrayed. “Whose side are you on?”

Vil’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “I’m always on my side, dear. But if it helps, I do appreciate the attention.”

Epel snickered again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so whipped.”

“Oh, merci, Epel,” Rook chimed in, his gaze turning fond as he looked at Vil. “Though it seems our beloved Vil is no different. A love so mutual—ah, it’s truly a sight to behold!”

Vil shot Rook a warning glance, but it didn’t diminish the contented gleam in his eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he muttered, though the slight blush on his cheeks said otherwise.

You, meanwhile, were desperately trying to hold onto the remnants of your dignity. “Alright, alright, enough of this. I’ll be going now.”

But before you could make your grand escape, you acted on impulse—a bold, unexpected impulse. Leaning in, you quickly pressed a kiss to Vil’s cheek, your face practically burning with embarrassment the second your lips made contact. You barely had a second to register the shock in his eyes before you turned on your heel and shot into the sky, your wings carrying you away at lightning speed.

Behind you, you could just barely hear Rook and Epel erupt into laughter.

After you left, Epel turned to Vil with a wide grin, clearly trying to contain himself. “Well, that was somethin’. I ain’t ever seen you look so...”

“So elated?” Rook finished for him, smiling like the cat that caught the canary. “Oh, Vil, you are besotted, aren’t you? Don’t try to deny it!”

Vil’s hand slowly rose to touch the spot where you had kissed his cheek, his expression softened, his eyes glittering with a rare mix of surprise and delight. Despite himself, a small, pleased smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vil replied, his voice carefully measured but the satisfaction in his tone impossible to miss. “But they certainly know how to make an exit, don’t they?”

Epel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that. But don’t think we didn’t notice the way you lit up the second they kissed ya.”

Vil glanced at Epel, one elegant eyebrow raised, but he couldn’t entirely suppress the smirk that followed. “Maybe I’m more appreciative of affection than you give me credit for.”

Rook clapped his hands together, looking utterly delighted. “Oh, Vil, this is magnifique! But remember—while this love may shine brighter than the stars, the curse has not yet been broken. Tread carefully, my friend.”

Vil’s gaze flickered, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “Yes, well... I’m willing to take that risk.”

And for the first time in centuries, a merpeople head wasn’t just a smitten puppet of a curse—he was utterly and entirely in love.

The vow renewal was supposed to be a dignified affair, steeped in tradition and whatever formalities came with being the head of the Valkyra clan. But dignified was hard to maintain when your heart was doing somersaults every time you so much as glanced at Vil Schoenheit. It didn’t help that he was ridiculously perfect in that “effortlessly ethereal sea deity” way, while you were standing there, sweating like you’d just run from a sea witch. Not that you had, yet.

This year was different. After a full year of avoiding your feelings like the plague, of meeting Vil whenever you could justify it (and even when you couldn’t), you were done. If there was one thing you were more tired of than being cursed, it was this weird romantic limbo where you both pretended you didn’t want to rip each other’s clothes off every time you were alone together.

And so, you stood at the sanctum, between the mountains and the sea, surrounded by both your clans—Rook’s over-the-top grin already making you nervous as he clearly prepared to be... well, Rook. Epel was next to him, arms crossed, his face a mix of intrigue and really?

But you had your ace: the magnum opus of gifts. The first gem ever given by a merperson to the first head of the Valkyra clan. A symbol of true love that—if things went sideways—could also be the final nail in the coffin for your cursed family line. Yay for high stakes!

The vow renewal started, and there was Vil, looking so majestic that you kinda wanted to scream. Why did he have to be so damn perfect? Couldn’t he just look a little tired, or maybe slightly disheveled? Nope. Not Vil.

Your vows were an absolute blur. You muttered something that vaguely sounded right while trying not to pass out from the sheer intensity of his gaze. When it was finally over, you had the spotlight, and there was no backing out now.

“I have something,” you said, your voice wavering but determined. “Something to prove that I’m done letting fear rule over us.”

You pulled out the gem, and suddenly, it felt like every pair of eyes in the sanctum was laser-focused on you. Especially Vil’s. His violet eyes widened slightly, and you almost dropped the damn thing right there. But no. Not today, curse! You were going to face this head-on, and probably make a fool of yourself in the process, but hey, at least you were trying.

The second Vil’s fingers touched the gem—it shattered.

For a brief, terrifying moment, you stared at the fragments in your hands, heart pounding as your mind raced to some truly unhinged conclusions. Oh my god, I just cursed us even more, didn’t I? Have I doomed the entire Valkyra clan to eternal hatred of the ocean? Will we be landlocked forever? No more beach vacations, no more seashell necklaces—

Before you could spiral any further, a soft light emerged from the shards, and two shimmering figures appeared. A merperson and a valkyra, their voices carrying through the sanctum like a breeze. They told the real story, about how a jealous witch had cursed them, making sure they could never be together. The cure? True love despite the curse. And, as fate would have it, you and Vil had just broken it.

“Well, that’s one way to kick things off,” you muttered under your breath, still half-expecting someone to start panicking about the broken clan treasure. But instead, Vil—bless his elegant, perfect self—took your face in his hands and kissed you.

In front of both your clans, in front of everyone who mattered, Vil kissed you like the world had finally aligned in your favor. The kiss wasn’t just tender—it was a promise, a declaration that the curse had no power over what you two had built.

Then, predictably, Rook gasped. “Ah, l'amour! A love that shatters curses and binds souls together for eternity! The stars themselves tremble at the magnitude of your passion!”

You could hear Epel snickering next to him, probably waiting for a punchline. “Well, hell, guess we should’ve seen this comin’. That’s the most dramatic vow renewal I’ve ever been to.”

Rook, undeterred, continued his monologue as if he were on a stage. “True love! It breaks all chains, transcends all curses! You have done what many could only dream of!”

Meanwhile, you were trying to stay upright after that kiss. “Did... did we just fix everything? Is that it? Can I stop worrying about accidentally damning the clan now?”

Vil smirked at you, his hands still lingering on your face, his thumbs brushing gently across your cheekbones. “If you’re asking whether the curse is gone—yes, we’re free.”

You blinked at him. “No strings attached? No hidden fine print? The curse isn’t gonna boomerang back on us in a few years, right?”

Vil’s eyes glittered with amusement. “No fine print. You and I are no longer bound by fear.”

The next morning, you woke up beside him, which, honestly, was a surreal experience. Vil, looking all peaceful and not like the intimidating figure he usually presented to the world, was kind of adorable. Of course, you couldn’t resist leaning over and planting a soft kiss on his forehead.

He stirred slightly, eyes fluttering open as he murmured, “If you keep doing that, I might get used to it.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you teased, sliding out of bed to make breakfast, because if you were going to start your curse-free life with Vil, you might as well impress him with your domestic skills.

You didn’t get very far before you felt arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a warm chest. “Leaving so soon?” Vil whispered against your ear, his voice low and just a little bit too seductive for this early in the morning.

“I was gonna make breakfast, but I can see how I might’ve gotten distracted,” you shot back, trying (and failing) not to grin like an idiot.

Vil chuckled softly, his lips brushing your neck. “Well, since we have all the time in the world now, maybe breakfast can wait.”

You turned in his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Are you proposing we spend the entire day in bed?”

His smirk was enough of an answer.

But you had plans. “Okay, okay. How about this: breakfast first, then we can lounge around and plan our next big adventure.”

Vil leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours. “Deal. But I’m holding you to that promise.”

And so, you started your first day of freedom together, planning all the adventures the world had to offer. Because now, there was nothing stopping you—no curse, no fear, just the two of you, ready to face whatever came next.

there's a lot of lore dump but I hope yall enjoyed it!!

also this was supposed to be star crossed lovers but I absolutely cannot do angst no comfort because I'm a baby.

Masterlist

The Prefect Was Here

Synopsis: The VDC boys notice the ways in which The Prefect has left their mark.

Something Ace notices during his time staying in Ramshackle is the various out of place chairs and boxes in different rooms of the dorm. He first realized they were there because he would trip over them or stub his toe on their corners. He'd move the objects out of the way to prevent himself from injuring himself on them again, but the next day they'd be back in their spots. This little cycle of him stumbling over the objects, moving them, and then stumbling over them again the next day repeated for a while until one late evening when the pieces clicked. Ace was leaving his room to get a glass of water from the kitchen when he looked over the railing of the stairs to see you stood atop one of the particularly annoying chairs placed in the lounge. A chair he trips over almost every morning in his half-awake state placed right next to the fireplace. Watching you organize various photo albums on a shelf above the mantle, he finally understood. He stopped moving the objects that no longer seemed out of place after that. They were right where they belonged: next to tall shelves, high up windows, and the occasional rickety door you had to open by shimmying it open from the top.

You often lent Deuce your notes to copy for those class periods he just couldn't keep his eyes open: exhausted from a long night of studying. At first he didn't notice anything, too busy frantically taking notes. It wasn't until he was staying in Ramshackle and he no longer had to worry about getting your notebook to you before day's end when you'd head off to your dorm and he to his that he saw it. As he was studying your notes he saw a little doodle on the edge of the page. The doodle was of Grim stirring a cauldron while standing on a stool, his goggles falling off his head. As he continued through your notes he saw ones of Epel carving an apple, Rook shooting a bow, and Vil looking studying rehearsal footage. Flipping back through the book and starting from the beginning he noticed the doodles seemed to be telling the story of your time at NRC. Early in the book, before there were notes on classes, there were doodles of the dark mirror, Crowley, and Grim. About the time you were officially enrolled there were drawings of the great 7, Ace with a smug look on his face, and even Deuce summoning a cauldron. He's asking to borrow your notes again? You could have sworn he was awake all class period (he just wants to see any new doodles).

Kalim noticed the walls, or more specifically: what was on them. It wasn't the boarded-up holes that drew his attention, nor was it the dust that you never could seem to get rid of completely. What got Kalim's attention were the drawings. In the kitchen, in your room, and on various doors there were drawings taped to the wood. Some were colorful while other were monochrome. Big, small, detailed, simple; he loved all of them! In your room you had an entire wall covered in pieces of your art, many of said pieces being of your friends and your various adventures. Your door was basically an extension of that wall just with a prominent sign in the middle reading 'Prefect and Grim.' Grim's name seemed to be written in his own handwriting (pawwriting?) and at the bottom of the sign laid a pawprint and a handprint. The other doors that had signs were rooms like the bathroom, laundry room, and the rooms each of the boys stayed in. The first few signs were put there by yourself to help the guys more easily navigate the sometimes-confusing building while the ones on each of their doors was to make them feel like they too belonged there. The kitchen had various drawings or little doodles your friends made for you. No matter how simple or detailed the drawing, you had every single thing anyone had drawn for your here displayed on the wall. All but Grim's art. He had his own pedestal (the fridge) for that. Kalim made sure to make his fair share of contributions to your display wall.

Jamil was in charge of the kitchen during the VDC and found some things rather unusual from the moment he stepped foot in there. Nearly all of your upper shelves were completely empty and when he pulled out a drawer he assumed would be a utensil drawer all he found was towels. That would be fine on its own, but none of the drawers had utensils. The upper cabinets that did have things in them held cleaning supplies, items that are commonly agreed to go below the sink. Just when he thought he was going to have to go back to Scarabia to get any kitchenware, he checked the lower cabinets. That's where he found pots, pans, cups, plates, and any other kitchen item you'd need all organized nicely as if they weren't in the most bizarre of places. Just as he was about to resign to silently judging you for your dishware placement, Grim came up beside him and opened one of the lower cabinets to grab a cup before scampering over to a step ladder placed next to the counter so he could reach the faucet and fill his cup with water. After seeing that he supposed your placement of things made sense. And after much time cooking in your kitchen as well as having to bend down to grab items he also realized that you must be even kinder than he originally thought (or just plain stupid, but he's keeping that thought to himself).

Vil is a man of beauty. He believes in not only you as a person looking your best at all times but also making sure your surrounding look their best. He understood most of Ramshackle's 'quirks' were unfixable as things were, and you did seem to keep the place remarkably clean all things considered, but there was something that caught his scrutinous eye. Clothes hung up to dry in the laundry room and bathroom (it was too cold to dry them outside) splattered in paint and a door that had matching patterns. At one point he grew curious as to what could possibly possess a person to leave a door in such a state and decided to open it. He almost fainted when he saw inside. The walls, ceiling, floor, and any furniture unlucky enough to be in the room was covered in layers of paint. The only thing that seemed to be kept clean was the window with a view of the forest beside the dorm. He left that day deciding that how you kept that room didn't affect him. As long as your mess didn't encroach into his space he would leave you to your mayhem. However, something odd began to happen. On a day Vil felt especially stressed, he went to do his laundry. When he closed the washer door and turned it on he looked up to see a row of paint splattered clothes hung up to dry, and before he knew it he was opening the door to what he assumed to be your art studio. He closed the door gently behind him and simply stood there in the room as the evening sun cast warm rays of light in through the window. It was as he stood there that he realized just how comforting the room's atmosphere was. It was hectic with all the paint everywhere and yet calming and homely at the same time. Now whenever he got too stressed during the VDC he went to that room to simply take a moment to breathe and forget about the stresses of being perfect. To look around at the remnants of pieces you put your heart and soul in splattered across the walls: telling a story only you know but that anyone who takes the time to observe can feel. Now, he may even see your paint splattered clothes and face to be rather endearing (not that he'll admit it).

Ever the hunter of Beauty, Rook notices a lot of ways in which you leave your mark on this world. The stickers on the covers of your notebooks, the patched sewn a bit sloppily onto your clothes, and even the spots on your front doorstep that have been ever so slightly worn down from scraping off mud and/or snow every time you come inside are all glorious examples of how you make the world more beautiful by being here. However, he does have a favorite. Out of every way you show that you've been here in this world, that you existed, his favorite by far is yours and Grim's height charts lightly scratched into the wall in a corner of the kitchen in a nook between the fridge and the wall. You wouldn't see it unless you really looked, but as we all know, he looks. Seemingly etched into the wall with a fork, butterknife, or something of the sort as not to be erased or easily covered up by paint are two separate sets of dashes. One is low to the floor while the other is about where the top of your head would be were you to stand with your back to the wall. Each chart has initials below the lowest mark and each dash has a date next to it. However, what really gets Rook's heart soaring is the initials and how after the letter of each of your first names there is an R. Now, Rook knows Grim doesn't have a last name and that you haven't uttered a word about what yours is (whether it be because you forgot or just simply don't want to tell people). Overwhelmed with curiosity he hunts down the ghosts to ask them the meaning of the R to which they tell him it stands for Ramshackle. You and Grim saw each other as family and so you decided to unofficially create a last name to share. When you were unable to agree on a good one you suggested Ramshackle so as to always remember your roots in this world. Rook won't encroach on the memory by asking to put a height chart of his own next to the two of yours, but you do notice that suddenly any official paperwork you or Grim gets has 'Ramshackle' after your first names.

What Epel notices are the big tape Xs in various places within the dorm. On the stairs, on the a spot in the hallway on the 2nd floor, there're even parts of the banister wrapped in blue tape. At some point he gets curious and prods at the banister only for it to sway and nearly fall off. This catches his attention so he goes through the dorm looking for places with tape on them to see if his hypothesis was correct, and, wouldn't ya know it, it was. All the places with tape are areas that could be considered hazardous for one reason or another. At first he wonders if you were just really dumb and put tape there to try and fix it, but when he sees you avoiding the areas too he decided that's not it. Then the idea comes up that perhaps they're there for an inspector that's going to come to fix up ramshackle, but it becomes apparent that's not the case when you come back one evening: exhausted from trying to convince Crowley to do something about the water damage in the attic only to be shut down. It isn't until he sees you yank Kalim back by the collar of his shirt as he was about to step on one of the Xs that he realizes you put them there to keep people safe. Epel tried pulling up a piece of tape at one pint in his inspection to get a better idea of what was underneath it and for the life of him he couldn't get it unstuck. At least he know for sure that it will stay there for generations to come acting as a kind reminder to anyone else who ventures into the dorm to avoid those areas and keep themselves safe.

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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.

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

---

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

---

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

---

As you said it was allowed, this is my second ask! If your inbox is overflowing, just drop this one in the bin

If you have the time, could you do canon!Lilia with an unabashedly appreciative/caring reader? Up to you if romantic or platonic!

For example, when noticing Lilia doesn't seem to realize how loved he is by the diasomnia gang, reader keeps commenting on how his found family - rightfully - adores him? And reader always openly validates Lilia's self-compliments; reader 100% serious declaring to anyone who'd hear that he's the cutest, that his trash metal screaming is just so cool, that bats are the best, that his cooking is.. entertaining? Overall just candidly hyping him up. Oh and reader would always be willing and excited to go on adventures or simply spend time with him in general! Because he's great fun!

Like, how do you think would canon!Lilia react when force-fed high levels of in-your-face sincere appreciation?

Lilia’s never regretted his choice in the end to attend school- His boys, peers, and teachers, people he never would’ve known as well if he’d just stayed home.. Of course, he misses it from time to time, but you assurance keeps him on the island more than any obligation <3 He is so loved, but a terrible truth of life is you’ll never know how much people care for you. Even if he insists he can read your thoughts, don’t be fooled! You need to actively spoil him to really hammer in “I love you. Deal with it.”, and he’s always happy to receive :) Staying up for game binges and encouraging healthy choices is well and good, but what about yourself? This old man’s nothing if not a caretaker, and as the original smother, you can’t escape his coddling! There’s so much fluff and respect between the two of you it’s embarrassing- Just.. Try not to kiss too much in front of Sebek, alright? Even if it is funny to see his face <3