Prompt: "Will You Marry Me?"- Proposal Headcannons Characters: Everyone :) Part(s): Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw,

HAVE TOU CONSIDERED. doing this kiss and make out prompt but flipped? i.e. THEY drag you into a closet/classroom to kiss kiss fall in love? I imagine for some chars. it would be the result of a bad day and for others just ‘cause!.

ANYWAYS. sorry if your requests are overloaded. just. an idea. <3 love your writing!!!! Ty for your service 🙏🙏

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] leona . jade . floyd . vil . malleus . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Intense kissing/makeout . Physical intimacy (non-explicit) . Sudden physical contact/grabbing . Slight unpredictability (Floyd being Floyd) . Mild dominance/control . Reader being pinned against a wall briefly . Slight possessiveness . Teasing/biting .

Note: Guys I know the tags are misleading into it being borderline 'smut' but I PROMISE it's just suggestive 🙏 . Also I kinda cooked with this one 😍

Leona Kingscholar

The sun’s slanting low across the Savannaclaw dorm courtyard, casting long shadows that stretch like sleepy lions. You're on your way to the library, arms full of notes for a shared class—when a familiar, rough hand loops around your wrist from behind.

"Oi," Leona drawls, already half-lidded, already smirking. “Ditch whatever you’re doing.”

Before you can argue—he’s pulling you along, not with urgency, but with that effortless kind of command only he seems to exude. You try to complain, maybe mention that you’ve got work to do, but his reply is a chuckle as dry and warm as the desert wind.

You end up in an unused classroom—somewhere tucked behind the alchemy wing, the door creaking faintly shut behind him as dust motes swirl in the light. The desks are all pushed to the back, stacked like towers of forgotten effort, and Leona leans against one, dragging you in with a lazy tug around your waist.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he accuses, voice low and thick, like he’s half-asleep—but his golden green eyes are very, very awake.

"I was studying," you breathe, barely getting the words out before he pulls you in the rest of the way.

His mouth finds yours with that slow-burning hunger that always leaves your knees weak. He kisses like he fights—possessive, measured, and way too confident. His hand slides up your back, keeping you flush against him, as if he’s daring you to try pulling away. You can taste the heat of the afternoon sun still clinging to his skin, that wild-sand scent of him curling around your senses.

Leona kisses like it’s something he deserves. Like you’re a prize he’s claimed and won’t be returning. He pulls back only to speak against your lips.

"You smell like ink and stress. I'm fixing that."

The makeout drags on—longer than you should allow. One of your hands ends up tangled in his hair, the other fisted in the fabric of his uniform coat. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless, dazed, lips tingling.

When he finally lets you go, he’s got that smug grin, even as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “There. Now you’ve got something better to think about than test scores.”

You try to glare at him, but your heart’s still beating way too loud in your ears.

And Leona? He just stretches and yawns like this was all part of his nap schedule.

Jade Leech

It starts off innocently enough. You’re helping Jade carry potion ingredients to one of the smaller prep rooms near Octavinelle—some obscure mushroom extracts and strange marine flora with names you can't even pronounce. The corridor is damp and quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

Jade says something—soft, quiet, amused—as he opens the storage room. His eyes linger on you for a second too long, and that’s when you should’ve known. There’s something in the glint of his gaze, the way his smile stretches a touch too wide, his fingers brushing yours as he takes the last jar from your hands.

Then, click. The door closes behind you.

“Jade?” you ask, blinking in the dim glow of the potion room’s crystal lights.

His hands are on your waist in the next breath, fingers curling like vines. “Forgive me,” he says, voice smooth and deadly charming. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you since this morning’s lecture.”

He tilts his head, watching your reaction with those sharp, mismatched eyes. You barely get out a sound before he leans in—and then his mouth is on yours, cool and commanding. Jade kisses with precision. Like he’s studied every reaction you’ve ever had, and now he’s crafting the perfect blend of teasing and temptation.

One hand stays on your lower back, the other rises to cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss, drawing you further into him like the tide. There’s something unnerving about how calm he remains—even as his lips part yours, even as your breath hitches and your knees threaten to give way.

He chuckles softly against your mouth.

“Your heartbeat is quite fast,” he whispers, brushing his lips along the corner of your mouth, then to your neck. “Are you afraid? Or simply excited?”

You can’t answer—not with your brain fogged by the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the delicious chill of his voice echoing in your ear. The room smells faintly of sea-salt and mushrooms, and something deeply Jade—subtle, spiced, unsettling in the most intoxicating way.

Eventually, when he pulls back, your lips feel swollen and your thoughts scattered.

“You’re such a curious creature,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “I should study you more often.”

You stumble out of that room later looking like you just got hit by a spell—and Jade? He walks out perfectly composed, with that same unnervingly polite smile on his face. Like he didn’t just wreck your entire nervous system with his mouth.

Floyd Leech

The day is too normal. You can feel it in the air—like the calm before one of Floyd’s storms.

You’re just walking past the Octavinelle hallway, when you feel arms suddenly wrap around your shoulders from behind—too fast, too tight, too Floyd.

“Shrimpyyyyyy~!” he sings against your ear, his voice stretching like taffy. “There you are~!”

You barely have time to react before he’s pulling you sideways—off course, off balance, and into some small, cramped janitor’s closet. It smells like cleaning supplies and old sea salt, and Floyd's eyes gleam in the dark like a predator who’s just cornered something tasty.

“Floyd, what are you doing—?”

“Shhhh,” he hums, pressing a finger to your lips. “I was bored.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You're trapped between the wall and Floyd’s looming grin.

“But now I’ve got you, and you’re way more fun.”

His hands are already on your waist, sliding under your jacket like he owns every inch of your skin. His lips crash into yours like a riptide—wild and messy and Floyd. There’s no rhythm, no pause, just overwhelming sensation. Teeth nip at your bottom lip. A low growl of amusement vibrates in his chest when you gasp.

He pulls back just an inch, enough to look at your kiss-swollen lips and flushed face. “Aww, lookit you,” he coos, voice syrupy and sharp. “All red like a little shrimp. Cute.”

You barely have time to reply before he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to claim the breath from your lungs. The tight space only makes it hotter—his body pressed up against yours, nowhere to escape, nothing to focus on but the wild way he kisses you like he might eat you and like he might never stop.

At some point, his hat falls off, and your shirt is rumpled, and there’s laughter—his and yours—mingling between kisses. Floyd stops only when he feels like it, which means you’re left dazed and breathless while he sways lazily, totally unbothered.

“Mmm. You’re fun. Let’s do this again tomorrow, kay?”

He presses a soft, playful kiss to your cheek before throwing open the closet door like you weren’t just making out like lovesick criminals.

You’re pretty sure you’re not getting anything productive done today.

Vil Schoenheit

It happens during a late-night rehearsal.

Vil’s been directing the stage club with sharp eyes and sharper critique, and you’ve been running lines off to the side, helping, watching, admiring. He’s in his element—glowing even under harsh fluorescent lights, every motion graceful and deliberate. But every now and then, his gaze flicks toward you. Not long. Just a glance. A pause.

When the rehearsal ends and the others file out, exhausted and murmuring, Vil’s hand brushes yours as you help him gather props.

"You," he says, not even looking at you—just feeling you there. “With me.”

You blink, confused, but follow him anyway, up toward the costume closet at the back of the auditorium. The second the door clicks shut, he turns sharply, and suddenly, the air is very different.

“You’ve been distracting me all night,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Do you enjoy driving me to the edge of my focus?”

“Vil—”

His name barely leaves your lips before he kisses you—hard, precise, intentional. There’s no hesitation, no test run. His mouth is demanding, confident, and so, so good. His fingers slip under your jaw, tilting your head just so, like he’s posing you for a photo—only this time, the only thing he’s interested in perfecting is the sound of your breath catching under him.

You make a small sound in the back of your throat and he hums approvingly.

“Pretty,” he says against your lips, voice like silk with thorns. “But I want more.”

You gasp when he kisses you again, this time deeper—pressing you gently but firmly against the back wall, surrounded by velvet capes and half-hung feather boas. His scent—rosewater, powder, and something earthy—completely envelopes you, and all you can think is that this is Vil, and he’s kissing you like he’s crafting a masterpiece.

When he finally pulls back, your lipstick’s smudged (if you had any on) and your knees are weak. He brushes your hair back into place with meticulous fingers and studies your flushed face with faint amusement.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, smoothing the collar of your shirt. “You’re an absolute mess. Honestly.”

But there’s a light in his eyes—a smug satisfaction—and before you can respond, he kisses you again, slow and teasing this time, like a reward.

As you leave the closet, he doesn’t hide the slight smug curve of his lips.

“You’ll be thinking about this all night,” he murmurs—and he's right.

Malleus Draconia

It starts with a storm. Of course it does.

You're walking across campus in the early evening, books tucked under your arm, clouds brooding overhead like they’ve been watching you. The wind picks up suddenly, ruffling your hair—and before you can even think of running for cover, a familiar voice calls your name.

You turn, and Malleus is already there.

There’s always something otherworldly about the way he appears—silent, graceful, like a dream blooming out of mist. “You're walking alone,” he says, like it's a crime. “Come. You'll catch cold.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before he gently takes your wrist and leads you to a tucked-away building near the edge of campus—a half-forgotten stone structure, unused, echoing with the scent of dust and damp air. He pushes open the creaking door to a tiny, empty classroom. The windows rattle as thunder rolls in the distance.

“You shouldn’t wander in the storm,” he murmurs, voice deep and rich with ancient cadence. “Something might take you.”

And then he steps closer—like the storm outside is leaking into the room through his presence. He watches you carefully, like he's weighing the moment, deciding something. His hand lifts—long fingers tracing the edge of your jaw so lightly it gives you chills.

“I’ve been… yearning,” he confesses softly, the word hanging in the space like lightning just before it strikes. “May I…?”

You don’t have time to respond before he kisses you.

Malleus kisses with reverence—slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Like he’s not just kissing you—he’s binding you, like this moment is a spell only you and he will remember. His lips are cool at first, but warmth builds quickly, rushing into your chest as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer.

He holds you like something precious—untouchable to the rest of the world. One hand pressed flat against the small of your back, the other cradling your face like he’s afraid you might vanish. His mouth moves against yours with growing intensity, every brush and sigh and pull deepening into something devastating.

The thunder cracks again, louder now.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers against your lips.

“No, I’m—” But you are. Whether it’s from him or the kiss or the storm, you’re not sure.

He leans in again, his forehead resting against yours.

“If I could… I would steal away time itself to keep us like this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion that you can feel in his chest.

And in that moment, as lightning streaks across the sky outside the window, you almost believe he could.

Lilia Vanrouge

It happens so suddenly—because that’s just how Lilia is.

One second, you’re sitting together in the music room, flipping through a book while he plays idle chords on the piano. His voice is humming softly to the melody, his eyes flicking toward you now and then with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel it building—the way his gaze lingers longer, the way his fingers slow on the keys.

Then he stops playing entirely, shuts the piano lid, and smirks.

“Hmm… I think I’ve been very patient today.”

You blink. “Patient for what?”

“Oh? You haven’t noticed?” His grin sharpens like a blade. “How disappointing.”

He stands, strides across the room in two steps, and loops his arms around you before you can react. You let out a soft laugh, but he’s already hoisting you up and carrying you—not out of the room, no, but across to a small side door you’d never paid attention to before.

It opens with a creak into a cramped storage space filled with old sheet music and velvet curtains, lit by a single flickering light. Before you can ask what he’s up to, he shuts the door behind him, trapping you in the tiny room with him—and then he kisses you.

Lilia’s kisses are playful, but not light. No, no—he kisses like he’s taunting you and loving you all at once. A smirk against your lips, followed by a sudden tug on your collar. He bites just enough to make you gasp and then soothes the sting with a slow, languid kiss that has your spine arching off the wall.

“Mmh… That sound you made,” he whispers against your lips. “Let’s see if I can coax another one.”

Your hands scramble into his hair as he deepens the kiss, rolling his hips just enough to press you into the wall. He groans low and pleased when you react, his gloved hands sliding down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt, his lips never leaving yours for more than a second.

Everything about him is tease and temptation. He kisses like a sin wrapped in velvet—like a lullaby you don’t want to wake from.

Eventually, he draws back—just barely—his breath brushing over your cheek as he chuckles.

“Well, that certainly chased away the boredom,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I want more…”

He kisses you again—quick and hard this time—and then winks.

“Better be careful, sweetheart. I may drag you in here again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or both.”

You step out of that storage room a mess—hair disheveled, lips tingling—and Lilia? He just whistles innocently and walks away with a spring in his step.

Trash Novel Chronicles Masterlist

1. Please Let Me Live || Vil Schoenheit

You get isekai'd into the worst novel you've had the misfortune of reading because apparently your life is a cosmic joke. Now all you have to do is not act like the character you've possessed and it'll be fine, you think?

Your fiancé being Vil Schoenheit makes it a little harder to behave like a human being with functional braincells, but hey, atleast he likes you, you think?

2. Villain System vs World || Riddle Rosehearts

You have a guilty pleasure: trashy villainess stories. So when you die a frankly, humiliating death, and end up in one of the worst ones you've had the pleasure of reading as the villainess, you're in denial. Then the villain system shows up. Well, there goes your second chance at life So what do you do now? Do villainous things and cause as much chaos as you can, of course. And maybe, just maybe, bag the male lead, Riddle Rosehearts while you're at it.

3. I'd Rather Date the Male Lead's Dad || Lilia Vanrouge

When you end up in your best friend's favourite but absurd novel about breaking a fae prince's curse as the heroine, you didn't expect to get attached to his little family too. Even more unexpected? You fell for the male lead's dad, but hey it looks like he likes you too.

4. Accidentally Falling for a Fae Prince || Malleus Draconia

When you get dragged into a novel which ends with the heroine in a polycule with the most annoying men in literature, as the heroine herself, you decide that you're gonna skip town. ...Only to trip over the fae prince, Malleus Draconia.

5. Not Another Royal Mess || Azul Ashengrotto

As a proofreader who gets isekai’d into a cringeworthy novel as the villainess, you decide to take revenge on the heroine and male lead for their awful story. With Azul—who just wanted to sell you a magic rock—pulled into your chaos.

6. Love Triangles and Royal Rumbles || Leona Kingscholar

When you get isekai'd as the male lead in the novel where your favorite character, Leona Kingscholar is the second male lead, all that's left to do is rewrite the romance!

7. I Want To Retire! || Idia Shroud

You write a novel that reads like a dumpster fire and while trying to delete the draft, you accidentally get isekai’d into it.

Now, as the villainess, you have to get Idia Shroud on your side as well as survive high society. You have your work cut out for you.

8. Stealing the Plot for Drama || Jamil Viper

The book you've been looking forward to turns out to be a piece of crap, and you have the bad luck of getting pulled into it as the villainess.

So you decide to steal the main character's show, just for sport with the help of your fiancé, Jamil Viper.

9. Falling for the Sun in a Cold Empire || Kalim Al-Asim

You lose everything you've worked for after a freak accident and end up getting transported to the novel that you read when you were a teenager.

As the villainess. It's time to rebuild yourself, one step at a time with a little help from Kalim Al-Asim, your betrothed.

10. My Consort Calls Me Shrimpy || Floyd Leech

You get isekai'd into a novel where the perfect Empress got absolutely wrecked by the plot, and now you have to juggle a bland heroine, 15 weird consorts, a traitor and a delightfully unhinged eel who’s oddly good at solving your problems.

11. Get Me Out of Here || Rook Hunt

You’re isekai’d into a trashy novel and stuck as a tragic side knight character. All you want is survival, but your boss is Rook Hunt—a poetic, eccentric duke.

Now you’re caught in his chaos and, worse, you kinda don’t mind.

12. How to Ruin a Plot || Jade Leech

When you end up as the villainess in a story that's hellbent on making her suffer for no reason, you decide to make the main characters suffer just for catharsis. Good thing that your fiancé, Jade Leech seems to like chaos as much as you.

13. I Want a Refund || Trey Clover

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

14. I Don't Want the Heroine || Ruggie Bucchi

You get isekai’d into what could only be described as an affront to literature, as the second male lead. So you decide to cut all ties with the heroine and live a peaceful (wealthy) life with your secretary, Ruggie Bucchi. Except life doesn't go as planned as you get more chaos than you signed up for.

15. My Knight is Too Loyal || Sebek Zigvolt

You wake up as the villainess in a novel that had to be written as a joke. The heroine is trying to ruin your life, but if you refuse to acknowledge her, then it’s not happening. Right? …Right??

It doesn't help that your knight, Sebek, is annoyingly endearing.

Twst Third Years reacting to someone else calling you 'honey' or 'sweetheart'

First Years | Second years

A/N = Likes, reblogs and comments r apprecaieted btw!

Trey Clover

He raises an eyebrow. Like what did he just say?

“Honey? Sweetheart? That's a little forward, don’t you think?”

Gives the person a polite but firm smile, subtly stepping closer to you.

HE WILL try to keep things calm but is lowkey plotting how to make sure that never happens again. Like you should probably... do something about him.

BUT in private, he’ll ask you if you’re okay with it, but also makes sure to remind you he’s got your back.

Cater Diamond

He laughs at first, but the playful glint in his eyes slowly shift into something more possessive.

“Oh? So you think you’re that close to (Y/N)?”

Gives the person a teasing grin before pulling you closer to him.

“You know, I think I’m the only one who gets to call them that. So how about we leave the nicknames to me, yeah?”

When alone with you, he’s definitely more affectionate but might joke about it a bit more.

Leona Kingscholar

Glares at the person, his face darkening in the process.

“The hell did you just call them?” he scowls.

He doesn’t hold back. His tone DRIPPING with irritation.

“You’ve got some nerve. Back off, they’re mine.”

Will pull you closer to him, practically growling if the person doesn’t get the hint.

Vil Schoenheit

Freezes for a moment, then smiles, but it’s far from a kind smile. It's more of... getoutofmyfacebeforeismackyouintotomorrow typa smile.

“How cute, you think you’re that familiar with them.”

Casually places a hand on your shoulder, making sure the other person notices how close you two are.

His voice is laced with poison: “I think you should stick to more formal terms. After all, you’re not exactly their type.” ouch that kinda hurts.

Vil keeps it classy but is definitely claiming you in his own way. He's probably not gonna let you out of his sight after this.

Rook Hunt

He simply... smirks. He's entertained. He's slightly enjoying this... but of course with a possessive glint in his eyes.

“Oh? Honey, you say? You’re a bit too forward for my liking.”

Leans in close to you, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“(Y/N) belongs to me, in a way that no one else can even dream of.”

He loves the tension it creates, and you can expect him to be a lot more possessive afterward.

Idia Shroud

His face turns red, and he freezes up.

'W-Wait, honey? Who the hell do they think they are?' his mind races.

You can practically see the steam coming out of his ears as he starts muttering to himself, fidgeting nervously. He's like a kettle about to BURST.

'I-I don’t like it when other people call them that! I get to call them cute names, okay?' he thinks to himself.

He doesn’t show it on the outside, but internally, he’s definitely marking his territory.

He tries to listen in on the conversation to know more about him for... reasons. AND goodluck to his online reputation cuz it's gonna be non-existent or absolutely ruined in a matter of seconds.

Malleus Draconia

Stares at the person, unblinking.

“Did you just refer to them as honey?”

His voice is calm, but his eyes have a dangerous glint.

Steps closer to you, his presence overwhelming.

“No one else has the right to address them that way. They belong to me.”

Will silently observe, but you’ll feel his possessive nature once the clouds start getting dark and raindrops fall from the sky. Then the air around you seems to shift, heavy with his unspoken claim.

Lilia Vanrouge

He chuckles, but his tone is laced with amusement and something more.

“Oh? Sweetheart, you say? How bold of you, but I think you’ve got it wrong.”

Laughs to himself and then ruffles your hair affectionately.

“(Y/N) is mine, so maybe you should pick a more appropriate nickname.”

While playful on the surface, you can feel the possessive edge in his words.

A/N = I love third years the most tbh

Dropping by to say that I absolutely live for your Phainon/Mydei X reader stories!! IDk if youll be interested in this idea but hear me out.. Since reader is so oblivious, what do you think would be our reaction to Mydei trying to flirt with reader in a Kreamnoan way? Sparring, Gifting weapons, ect. And would Phainon pass out from laughing at his attempts or actually try to be a wingman in this situation?

I love this idea, phainon would enjoy this. He would definitely tease Mydei, but he would help him, too.

Mydei x (fem)reader

The sun hung high over the training grounds, its golden light reflecting off the polished steel of the weapons scattered around. The air was thick with the scent of metal and sand, the rhythmic clash of blades ringing through the open space as Mydei and Y/N sparred.

Mydei’s golden eyes were sharp, focused entirely on Y/N as she lunged toward him, her form precise but still just a little off-balance. He deflected her strike with ease, the weight of their swords meeting with a satisfying clang.

“That all you got?” he teased, stepping back smoothly, effortlessly avoiding her next swing.

Y/N huffed, rolling her shoulders before gripping her sword tighter. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mydei’s lips. Good. He liked a challenge. More importantly, he liked watching her fight—it showed her determination, her will. And in Kremnoan tradition, strength was everything.

Any other Kremnoan would have immediately understood the significance of his actions But Y/N?

She just thought he was a good friend.

So now he had to resort to a different method.

His grip tightened on his own blade as he surged forward, his movements deliberate—not aiming to overpower her, but to guide her into a rhythm, a dance of steel and instinct. Y/N met him head-on, eyes bright with determination, and for a moment, Mydei nearly forgot his original goal.

Then she grinned, dodging one of his strikes with surprising agility.

“You almost got me there,” she teased.

Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, willing down the warmth creeping up his neck. Focus.

He moved fast, catching her sword with his own and stepping in closer, their faces mere inches apart. “You fight well,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “But you still have much to learn.”

Y/N blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard. But before she could register anything, he took a step back, lowering his sword slightly.

“You should learn from me,” Mydei continued, his tone calm, almost… inviting. “I can teach you properly.”

Y/N brightened, nodding eagerly. “Really? You’d do that?”

Mydei barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yes. Obviously. That’s the whole point. Instead, he simply nodded, expression unreadable.

On the sidelines, Phainon leaned lazily against a wooden post, watching the scene unfold with an amused glint in his blue eyes. He took a slow sip of his drink, barely holding in his laughter.

Y/N had no idea what was happening.

And Mydei was suffering.

Their blades clashed again, the force of the impact sending a small vibration up Y/N’s arm. She was getting better, Mydei noted—not as easy to push back, more sure-footed with each step.

But she was still a step behind him.

He decided to test something. Instead of countering her next strike, he let her sword glance off his, shifting his weight so she overextended just a little—just enough for him to use her momentum against her.

In a swift, precise motion, he hooked his foot behind her ankle, pivoted, and swept her legs out from under her.

Y/N let out a startled oof as she hit the ground, blinking up at him in shock.

Before she could move, Mydei was already on her, one knee pressing lightly against her thigh, one arm braced against the dirt beside her head. His other hand grasped her wrist, pinning it to the ground in a firm but careful hold. His golden eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.

For a beat, there was only silence between them, the weight of his presence pressing down like an unspoken challenge.

Then, Y/N grinned.

“That was awesome!” she exclaimed.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

She wriggled her wrist slightly. “Okay, so how do I get out of this position?”

By Nikador, give me strength.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tightening his grip just slightly as he leaned in closer. “That depends,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. “Do you want to get out of it?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering his words. “Well, yeah? I mean, what if someone else does this in a fight? I need to know how to counter it, right?”

There was a very long pause.

Somewhere off to the side, Phainon let out a choked sound that was definitely not a cough.

Mydei’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need to look to know Phainon was watching this disaster unfold with way too much amusement.

Still hovering over Y/N, he inhaled slowly, trying to push down his growing frustration. “It’s not just about the fight,” he said carefully, watching her expression for any sign of recognition. “It’s about…” He searched for the right words, ones that she would understand.

Y/N blinked up at him, expectant, curious—completely and utterly unaware of what he was trying to say.

Phainon made another barely contained sound from the sidelines.

Mydei’s eye twitched again.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow breath before finally pushing himself off her. “Forget it,” he muttered.

Y/N sat up quickly, dusting herself off. “Wait, did I miss something?”

“Yes.”

“…What was it?”

“Nothing.”

Y/N frowned but shrugged it off, already stretching her arms, completely unaware of Mydei’s silent suffering.

Meanwhile, Phainon was practically vibrating with barely suppressed laughter, his blue eyes gleaming with pure schadenfreude.

Mydei shot him a murderous glare.

Phainon smirked.

Oh, this was too good.

Y/N stretched her arms over her head, rolling out her shoulders as she caught her breath. “Man, I really need to work on counters,” she mused. “You keep knocking me on my ass.”

Mydei ran a hand through his hair, barely restraining a sigh. “You’ll improve,” he said, though his tone was a little strained.

Not at this rate, he thought to himself.

Phainon, still perched nearby, was doing his best to smother his smirk behind one hand. He was failing miserably.

“Alright, I’ll clean up,” Y/N said, already moving toward the weapon rack.

“No need.” Mydei stepped in front of her, reaching down to pick up her sword instead. He turned it over in his hands, the blade catching the light.

Y/N tilted her head. “What?”

He exhaled slowly. Fine. If words don’t work, maybe actions will.

“This isn’t good enough for you,” he said, inspecting the sword with mild disdain before looking back at her. “It’s too light. Not balanced properly. You need something better.”

Y/N blinked. “I mean, I like it—”

“It’s not good enough.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the armory.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before following.

Behind them, Phainon slow-blinked before standing as well. “Oh, I have to see this.”

The moment they stepped inside, Y/N’s eyes lit up. The rows of polished weapons, the gleaming suits of armor, the scent of oiled leather and sharpened steel—it was beautiful.

Mydei didn’t waste time. He led her straight to a display of swords, scanning them with a critical eye.

“This one.” He reached for a blade and held it out to her.

Y/N took it carefully, her fingers curling around the hilt. It was heavier than her old one, the craftsmanship finer. The weight felt solid in her grip. “Whoa… This is nice.”

Mydei nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll suit you better.”

She grinned. “Thanks! I’ll make sure to train hard with it.”

Mydei’s expression remained unreadable as he stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “It’s not just about training.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Mydei exhaled slowly, as if willing her to understand. “Weapons are important in Kremnos. They’re an extension of yourself. You don’t just use them—you rely on them, trust them.” He paused, his gold eyes steady on hers. “Giving someone a weapon is a sign of trust. Of something deeper.”

For a moment, the air between them shifted.

Then—

“Ohhh, this is fantastic,” Phainon’s voice cut in, absolutely thrilled.

Mydei tensed visibly as Y/N turned to look at him.

Phainon leaned against a nearby rack, arms crossed, grinning like he had just found his new favorite thing in the world.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to do this,” Phainon continued. “And yet—” he gestured vaguely at Y/N, who was still just smiling in appreciation, utterly unaware “—she still doesn’t get it.”

Y/N frowned. “Get what?”

Mydei gritted his teeth.

Phainon snickered. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all.”

Y/N huffed and turned back to Mydei, giving the sword a few practice swings. “Anyway, this really is amazing. I love it. Thank you, Mydei.”

For a fraction of a second, Mydei felt his composure slip. Her words—simple as they were—settled deep in his chest.

“…Good,” he muttered, looking away.

Phainon grinned wider. Oh, this was never going to get old.

The streets of Okhema bustled with life, filled with merchants calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air. Y/N strolled ahead, glancing at the different stalls with interest, occasionally stopping to admire something or chat with a vendor.

Phainon and Mydei trailed behind her, the latter watching her carefully, as if contemplating his next move.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Phainon asked, smirking.

Mydei barely spared him a glance. “Thinking about what?”

“Your next attempt.” Phainon stretched his arms behind his head. “It’s honestly fascinating watching you try.”

Mydei ignored him. This time, he had a new approach. If direct gifts and sparring didn’t work, perhaps a more… personal experience would.

Ahead of them, Y/N had stopped at a fruit stall, eyes lighting up at the sight of some unfamiliar fruit. “Oh, these look amazing.”

The vendor grinned. “A rare specialty! Grown only in the far southern regions.”

Y/N hummed in thought. “I wonder what they taste like.”

Before she could reach for one, Mydei had already stepped forward. With a single sharp glance, he picked out the best-looking fruit, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and turned to her.

“Here.” He held it out, his expression unreadable.

Y/N blinked. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Mydei!” She accepted it without hesitation and took a bite. “Ohhh, this is so good.”

Mydei watched her reaction carefully, the smallest bit of satisfaction creeping in. Finally, progress.

Then—

“So, this is your next strategy?” Phainon’s voice practically purred from beside him.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

Y/N, still savoring the fruit, turned to them. “Strategy? What are you talking about?”

Phainon casually leaned against a nearby stall, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring Mydei’s… tactics.”

Mydei clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to throw Phainon into the nearest crate of cabbages.

Y/N, still blissfully unaware, happily chewed. “You should try one too, Mydei! Here.”

Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist and pressed the fruit to his lips.

For half a second, Mydei froze. His gold eyes locked onto hers, and the world tilted just slightly.

She had no idea. None at all.

And then, as if to torture him further, Phainon let out the most obnoxiously loud snort of laughter Mydei had ever heard.

“You—” Mydei turned his head just slightly, glaring.

Phainon held up both hands, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, please continue. This is beautiful.”

Meanwhile, Y/N was still waiting. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Everything.

Slowly, Mydei leaned forward, taking a small bite from the fruit she still held up for him. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue, but the warmth of her fingers against his was far more distracting.

“Good,” he murmured.

Y/N beamed. “Right?! We should buy more!”

She turned back to the vendor, already discussing how many she wanted, completely missing the way Mydei exhaled sharply, reining himself back in.

Beside him, Phainon wiped a tear from his eye. “You are so down bad, it’s actually painful.”

Mydei didn’t even respond. He simply took another slow breath, clenched his fists, and prepared for his next attempt.

Because he would succeed. Eventually.

Maybe.

The evening air in Okhema had cooled, the market’s liveliness gradually settling into a more relaxed hum. People wandered at a slower pace, street lamps flickering to life, casting a warm glow over the cobbled paths.

Mydei sat alone on a bench near the marketplace, arms crossed, his golden eyes narrowed in deep thought. The interaction from earlier still lingered in his mind—the way she had unknowingly flustered him, the way Phainon had nearly died laughing at his expense.

This isn’t working.

He had given her a sword. He had sparred with her, tested her strength, tried to offer her food—all of which were clear, meaningful signs of courting in Kremnos. And yet, she remained completely, utterly oblivious.

He exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained.

Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

“Sulking already?” Phainon drawled, dropping down onto the bench beside him, stretching his arms behind his head. “Didn’t think I’d see the great Mydei looking so defeated.”

Mydei scowled. “I’m not defeated.”

“Oh?” Phainon smirked, turning his blue eyes toward him. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like it.”

Mydei exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He hated this. Not the challenge—he lived for challenges—but the sheer absurdity of this one.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he muttered, more to himself than to Phainon. “She doesn’t understand what any of it means.”

Phainon’s smirk widened. “Well, yeah. That’s the best part.”

Mydei turned to glare at him, and Phainon held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Look,” Phainon continued, clearly enjoying himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then maybe it’s time you try something… else.”

“…Else?”

Phainon nodded, shifting to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been treating this like a battle—strategizing, making moves, all that. But Y/N’s not Kremnoan, Mydei. She doesn’t think like one.”

Mydei frowned, considering this.

“So.” Phainon grinned. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a very brilliant idea.”

Mydei arched a brow. “You?”

Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll ignore that. Because this idea? Foolproof.”

Mydei sighed. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“We make her fall for you,” he said smoothly. “The way she’d understand.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?”

Phainon leaned in slightly. “Simple. We play by her rules.”

Mydei remained skeptical, but Phainon only laughed.

“Oh, trust me,” Phainon said, clapping a hand on Mydei’s shoulder. “This is going to be fun.”

Phainon’s grin had only grown wider as he observed the skepticism on Mydei’s face. The Kremnoan warrior looked utterly unconvinced, his golden eyes scrutinizing him as if trying to gauge whether this was another one of his ridiculous ideas.

Spoiler: It was.

But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.

“Alright,” Mydei said at last, arms still crossed. “I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”

Phainon leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well, first of all, let’s establish something—you’ve been trying to court Y/N your way, right? Sparring, weapons, food, all that.”

“Yes.”

“And she has no idea what’s happening.”

“…Yes.”

Phainon clapped his hands together. “Which means it’s time for a new approach. One that makes sense to her.”

Mydei gave him a flat stare. “You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

Phainon grinned. “It means we’re going to romance her the way she understands.”

Silence.

Mydei stared at him as if he’d just suggested storming a fortress alone and unarmed.

“…What?”

“Oh, you heard me,” Phainon said, far too pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then we do it her way. Flirting, compliments, maybe even gasp—” he feigned a dramatic pause “—a date.”

Mydei visibly stiffened. “That’s—”

“Not your style? Obviously,” Phainon cut in, waving a hand. “But that’s the point. You need to do something different.”

Mydei looked like he was regretting every choice that had led him to this conversation. “…A date.”

“A casual one,” Phainon said, nodding sagely. “Something low pressure. You don’t have to call it a date if that makes you want to run into battle instead.”

Mydei still didn’t look convinced.

Phainon sighed. “Listen, Mydei. Do you want her to see you as more than a sparring partner, or do you want to keep swinging swords at each other forever?”

Silence again.

Then, Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, golden eyes dark with reluctant acceptance.

“…Fine.”

Phainon smirked. “Great. Step one: You’re going to ask her to spend time with you—outside of training.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Like…?”

Phainon shrugged. “A walk. A festival. Even something as simple as grabbing food together.” He smirked. “You do eat, don’t you?”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Good,” Phainon said. “Now for step two—compliments.”

Mydei looked even more reluctant at that.

Phainon grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic pose. “Y/N, your strength in battle is admirable, but it’s your presence that truly sets the battlefield ablaze—”

Mydei promptly shoved him off the bench.

Phainon howled with laughter as he hit the ground.

“You deserved that,” Mydei muttered.

“I absolutely did,” Phainon wheezed, sitting up. “But you get my point.”

Mydei exhaled, rubbing his temple. “…Fine. I’ll try.”

Phainon beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

Now, he just had to see how Mydei would pull this off.

It took Mydei two full days to actually work up the nerve to put Phainon’s ridiculous plan into action.

It wasn’t that he was scared—he was a warrior, after all. He had faced countless battles, endured rigorous training, and held his own against some of the strongest fighters in Okhema.

But this?

This was an entirely different kind of battlefield.

Phainon, of course, was enjoying every moment of it. He was leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed, watching Mydei with way too much amusement as he approached Y/N.

Mydei shot him a warning glare before he turned his focus on her.

She was standing in the courtyard, stretching her arms after finishing some light training. The late afternoon sun caught in her hair, making her look…

…Tch. He wasn’t going to let himself get distracted.

“Y/N.” His voice came out sharper than intended.

She blinked and looked over at him, smiling. “Oh, hey, Mydei. What’s up?”

Mydei cleared his throat. Okay. Casual. Just ask her to spend time with you.

“…Would you like to join me?”

Y/N tilted her head. “For what?”

Damn it, Mydei, specify.

He clenched his jaw. “To—” He barely stopped himself from saying train. “…For food.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Sure! I’m starving.”

Phainon, from the sidelines, gave Mydei a double thumbs-up.

Mydei ignored him.

It wasn’t a date.

At least, Mydei wasn’t calling it that.

But sitting across from Y/N at the bustling market eatery, watching her happily pick at the food, he couldn’t ignore the… different feeling settling in his chest.

This wasn’t sparring. There were no weapons, no battle strategies.

Just… her.

“This place has really good food,” Y/N said between bites. “I’m surprised you suggested it.”

“…Why?” Mydei asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno, I figured if we were hanging out outside of training, it’d be something warrior-like.” She grinned. “Like arm wrestling or hunting a beast or something.”

Mydei’s grip on his drink tightened. “I can do things other than fight.”

“I know, I just—” She laughed. “It’s just funny seeing you in a setting like this.”

“…Is it?”

“A little.” She smiled. “But I like it.”

Mydei’s brain shut down for a second.

Phainon, who was conveniently sitting at a table nearby (acting as the world’s worst ‘subtle observer’), nearly choked on his drink.

To Y/N, it was just a casual statement.

To Mydei?

It felt like a damn victory.

…Tch. Focus.

“Your form has improved,” he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Mydei set his cup down. “Your footwork. I noticed it earlier. More controlled.”

Y/N perked up. “Oh! Thanks! I’ve been working on it.”

Encouraged by the way her face lit up, Mydei pushed forward.

“Your speed, too. Faster than before.”

She grinned. “You are paying attention.”

“Of course I am.”

Y/N laughed. “Wow, Mydei. That was almost a compliment.”

“…It was a compliment.”

She giggled. “I know, I know, I just like teasing you.”

From across the room, Phainon wiped a fake tear from his eye. He’s learning.

After their not-a-date, Mydei realized something.

Compliments actually worked.

And so, he tried again.

The next day, they were walking through the city streets when he noticed Y/N adjusting her outfit, fixing the loose fabric.

It was a simple gesture. Nothing unusual.

But Mydei—remembering Phainon’s words about flirting in a way she understands—decided to speak.

“That suits you.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“The color,” he said, a little gruffly. “It looks good on you.”

Y/N looked down at herself, then back up at him with a surprised smile.

“Oh… thanks!”

She was happy.

Which meant he was satisfied.

But just as he was about to move on, Phainon—who had been lurking (again)—whistled.

Mydei turned sharply to see him leaning against a stall, watching with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Phainon said, waving a hand. “I’m just so proud.”

Mydei clenched his jaw. Ignore him. Ignore him.

But Phainon wasn’t done.

“You’re really improving, Mydei. Soon you’ll be a natural at this!”

Mydei grabbed the nearest fruit off a vendor’s stall and chucked it at him.

Phainon dodged (barely) and ran off, laughing his ass off.

Y/N, completely oblivious to all of it, just smiled at Mydei again.

“…You’re being really nice today.”

I am always nice, Mydei wanted to say, but that would be a blatant lie.

Instead, he muttered, “Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

And somehow, that made her laugh.

Mydei had never taken Phainon’s advice before.

Mostly because Phainon was an idiot.

But after their last conversation—where Phainon insisted that “small, casual touches” were an effective way to fluster someone—Mydei found himself considering it.

Ridiculous, he had thought at first. Pointless.

And yet…

Here he was.

They were walking back through the marketplace again. The setting sun cast warm orange hues across the stone streets, and the air buzzed with the chatter of vendors closing up for the day.

Y/N walked beside him, talking animatedly about something—he wasn’t even sure what. He was distracted.

Because a strand of her hair had come loose, falling in front of her face.

This is it, Mydei thought.

Phainon’s voice echoed in his head: Just brush her hair back. It’s a smooth move. Works every time.

Dumb.

But effective?

There was only one way to find out.

So he did it.

Mid-conversation, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Simple. Quick. Just as Phainon suggested.

But the reaction?

He hadn’t expected that.

Y/N froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence.

Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened slightly.

For once, she was flustered.

She blinked up at him, a little stunned, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

Mydei stared back at her, and for a brief moment, he felt a rush of satisfaction.

Then it hit him.

Oh.

Oh no.

What if she realizes? What if she figures it out?

He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

So, naturally, he did what he always did in unfamiliar situations—he defaulted to stoicism.

“…Your hair was in your face,” he said gruffly, looking away as if it was nothing.

Y/N blinked again. “Oh. Uh—right. Thanks.”

She laughed, a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.

Mission success?

Mydei wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing—

Phainon, who had been watching from a nearby rooftop (because of course he was), was howling with laughter.

Mydei shot him a glare so deadly it could’ve killed a god.

Phainon just wiped a tear from his eye and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.

Later that evening, when Y/N had gone off on her own, Mydei found himself regretting everything.

Because Phainon was never going to let this go.

“Oh Mydei,” Phainon sang, throwing an arm around his shoulder as they walked. “You absolute natural. Did you see her face? She froze. I almost fell off the roof trying not to scream.”

“Shut up.”

Phainon ignored him. “The hair move was perfect. Subtle. Smooth. I’m so proud.”

Mydei exhaled sharply, shrugging him off. “It was nothing.”

“It was everything,” Phainon countered. “You’re actually getting somewhere! Now you just need to—”

“I don’t need your advice.”

“Sure you do,” Phainon grinned. “Because I know you’re going to try again.”

Mydei said nothing.

Because, damn it, he wasn’t wrong.

After Phainon had finally stopped laughing, Mydei swore to himself that he wouldn’t take his advice again. Ever.

And yet, here he was.

Again.

Y/N walked beside him, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. The sun had set, and lanterns flickered along the streets, casting a soft glow over the marketplace. She hummed quietly as she admired some trinkets on display, utterly at ease.

Meanwhile, Mydei was not at ease.

Phainon’s words still echoed in his head: You need to build tension, Mydei. Do something that’ll make her think about you when you’re not around.

Mydei had no idea what the hell that even meant. But after the small success earlier, he figured a slightly bolder approach wouldn’t hurt.

Probably.

As they walked, Y/N turned to say something—he barely even heard what. He just saw an opportunity.

So he reached out and—without thinking—lightly brushed his knuckles under her chin, tilting her face up to his for just a second.

The second their eyes met, he let go.

And kept walking like nothing happened.

Y/N stood frozen in place. Again.

Mouth slightly open. Completely, utterly stunned.

Then—

Did her face just turn red?

For a brief, glorious moment, Mydei almost smirked.

And then—

A very, very loud choking sound came from behind them.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t have to turn around to know his so-called friend was probably on the ground from laughing too hard.

Y/N, still dazed, finally snapped out of it. “Uh—what was—”

“Nothing,” Mydei said quickly.

Y/N frowned, confused, but didn’t push it. “Right. Okay…”

And just like that, she kept walking, muttering something under her breath.

Mydei exhaled slowly.

Was it perfect? No.

Did he get some kind of reaction? Yes.

And that? That was a victory.

Phainon finally caught up to him, barely holding himself together. “I—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Mydei shot him a sharp look. “Say another word and I will throw you off this bridge.”

Phainon wiped away a tear, gasping between laughs. “Worth it.”

Mydei sighed. He’d deal with Phainon later.

For now…

He just glanced at Y/N ahead of him—still slightly pink in the face.

Maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting somewhere.

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

keep thinking about baby malleus reveal,,, sof, ,,

Boothill: Love is weakness and an evolutionary mistake.

Rappa: You are literally making a Valentine’s day card for [Name].

Boothill, pointing his hot glue gun towards Rappa: You’re on thin fudging ice.

More TWST Headcanons I have bcs why not (Part one here)

One time the translation magic at the school that helped everyone understand each other stopped working and it was chaos, no one knew what the other was saying.

Kalim and Jamil were speaking in Arabic and trying to communicate to a very confused Vil, Epel, Jack, and Cater as they spoke back in German.

Riddle, Trey, Ace and Deuce are frantically speaking English and trying to understand Azul, Jade and Floyd, who were speaking back in Danish.

Ruggie and Leona are just watching everything unfold and talking in Swahil (Lowkey taking advantage that one one understands them to talk sht).

Idia gave up completely since he knew no one would understand him, he spoke Ancient Greek.

Malleus, Lilia, Silver, and Sebek are amused by the situation and talking among themselves in a mixture of medieval French and Russian.

Rook and Ortho were the only two people who understood everyone and were the main translators that day.

Sam has a sweet spot for Ruggie to the point where he’ll just give him stuff for a cheap price without Ruggie knowing.

Yuu introduced UNO to the twst boys and had a game night at Ramshackle dorm. It went just as you expected (friendships destroyed, dignity gone)

Also Yuu introduced Monopoly and of course, Azul won most of the games.

Now every time they play Monopoly, everyone gangs up on Azul (he still somehow wins tho???)

Speaking of Azul, while in his Octo form, Azul is actually colorblind and can only see Black/White

Same with the twins, they can only really see color thats green-ish

When they first came to land in their human forms, boy were they shocked to see so many different colors, it was Lowkey a little overwhelming.

Seeing each other in their true colors was a wholesome moment tho.

Also the twins have SHIT eyesight in their eel form. On land they’re fine but in the ocean? Blinder than a bat.

Since Ruggie is a hyena-type beastmen, that means his bite strength is STRONG, stronger than anyone else’s. Everyone in the Savanaclaw dorm knows this which is why they don’t really mess with him but it’s not really common knowledge around the school.

One time Ortho gave Ruggie a Jawbreaker and he was able to bite into it casually. Everyone was shocked to say the least.

Deuce is REALLY good at rhythm games. Idia played some with him once and he was able to pass most songs on extreme mode.

Malleus’s horns are VERY sensitive. Also the tip of his tail wags up and down when he’s angry, kind of like a cats. But since his tail is HEAVY, he ends up leaving cracks on the floor, poor guy

Silver has slept on everyone’s shoulder/lap at least once. Yes even the professors, don’t ask how

Thats all for now gamers

can you write abt the Fish mafia dorm with a reader who loves to smooch their faces like seeing a dog and peppering kisses all over!!

-🧃 anon

OFC!! I love these kind of prompts 💕

Pairings: Azul x Reader, Floyd x Reader, Jade x Reader(separate)

have a good read 🌺

Azul

Azul is so touched starved, and due to the bullying he probably doesn’t expect affection in the first place. But that changes as soon as he gets a partner who can’t not kiss him at least 5 times a day. You sure as hell distracted him from the Monstro lounge because you missed him.

“[reader]- I’m working!” He would whine as you cupped his cheeks, your soft lips meeting his cheeks, then his forehead, landing on top of his own lips. A flushed Azul left standing in-front of your smug face. A grin making its way to your rather giggly face. Azul’s pout try’s to make it seem as if he was actually upset, but deep down, you know he wasn’t.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

Jade

He is quite used to being bothered by his brother, so when you give him genuine affection without expecting something, he would be a little surprised. But then again, he can’t expect everyone to be like his brother. He would love random kisses between classes, because when the two of you are alone, he can reciprocate tenfold.

“my, my~, you couldn’t wait for the end of my shift?” Jade would tease lightly, his hands resting on your hips as you got on your tiptoes to kiss him. You pulled him aside while he was working his shift. Though, you only occupied him for 5 minutes, the thought of Azul chewing you two out wasn’t a pleasant one.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

Floyd

Floyd would be ecstatic!! He loves squeezing people till they pop, but this time he gets rewarded for it. And let’s just say he’ll be hugging you a whole bunch more for those kisses. He just can’t get enough of that warm tingling feeling! It makes him feel all funny.. but the good kind of funny.

“Shrimpy~! You missed a spot!” He drawled as you chuckled, going back to kiss the ‘empty’ spot. He hugged your waist as he let you kiss his pale skin. He won’t admit it(he would), but he loves this little thing you do. But the way he clings onto you, tells you just enough.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

hope ya enjoyed 🌺