Trash Novel Chronicles: My Knight Is Too Loyal || Sebek Zigvolt
Trash Novel Chronicles: 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.
Series Masterlist
You were finally done.
After a grueling week of unpacking, assembling furniture that came with instructions written in an eldritch language, and resisting the urge to commit arson when you realized your kitchen had exactly one electrical outlet, your new apartment was finally livable. Spacious, well-lit, and with an actual window that didn’t face another building? A true luxury.
With a sigh of contentment, you set your trusty roomba loose to clean up the dust bunnies while you kicked back with your favorite pastime—reading an absolutely garbage webnovel.
This particular one had come highly recommended in the “so bad it’s good” category, and hoo boy, did it deliver.
The plot, as far as you could tell, was this:
Prince Malleus (overpowered second male lead) was best friends with the villainess (actually cool).
Sebek, loyal knight, was also sworn to protect the villainess. He liked her. They were childhood friends. He was ride or die for her.
Enter the heroine, who spawned out of nowhere, latched onto Malleus, and immediately decided that she needed Sebek’s loyalty so she could get closer to him.
She then proceeded to sabotage the villainess at every turn, and somehow no one thought this was weird.
The villainess, kept fighting back—until she got poisoned on Sebek’s watch.
Sebek, devastated, exiled himself in disgrace.
And then the Duke of the North (where did he come from???) married the heroine.
You had to put your phone down because you were WHEEZING.
How. HOW???
How was this woman out here killing the prince's best friend and still pulling a wedding out of it?? Who was writing this? Why did Sebek go into self-imposed exile when the obvious answer was to punt the heroine into the sun???
You wiped a tear from your eye, clutching your stomach. "Exiled himself in disgrace—oh my god, bro, what are you doing—"
Feeling the desperate need for a snack to recover from this literary war crime, you got up and made your way to the kitchen.
At that moment, your roomba—your once-trusted ally in the battle against dust—made a choice.
It bumped into the precariously stacked pile of moving boxes you had yet to sort through.
You turned just in time to see your doom.
A full avalanche of books, kitchenware, and your entire collection of novelty mugs came crashing down on you.
Your last thought before the world faded to black?
"Should’ve never trusted a roomba."
There were several ways you expected to wake up. A soft ray of sunlight filtering through your curtains? Sure. The soothing sound of birds chirping? Ideal. Maybe even a hangover if past-you made bad decisions? Understandable.
What you did not expect was to be jolted out of unconsciousness by the auditory equivalent of an angry airhorn.
“LORD MALLEUS, SHE'S STILL UNCONSCIOUS—PERHAPS SHE HAS FALLEN INTO AN ETERNAL SLUMBER FROM WHICH SHE WILL NEVER—!!!”
“Sebek,” another voice interrupted, eerily calm in comparison. “It will be fine.”
Sebek?
Like. The Sebek?
Your eyes snapped open like a possessed doll in a horror movie, and standing in front of you were none other than—drumroll please—Malleus Draconia and Sebek Zigvolt, looking like they had been ripped straight out of that godawful webnovel.
Sebek was vibrating with fury, looking a split second away from detonating like a nuclear warhead. Malleus, meanwhile, seemed vaguely relieved that you were awake.
Your brain struggled to reboot.
You looked down. Fancy dress? Check. Lace gloves? Check. Suspiciously villainous vibes? Check.
Oh no.
OH NO.
You were the villainess.
Malleus, in his infinite patience, took your absolutely deranged expression as a cue to explain, “The heroine tripped you, and you lost consciousness.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
You covered your face with your hands. “So now I have to deal with that dumbass?”
Sebek immediately whipped out his glove, preparing to slap someone into another dimension. “THIS INSOLENCE CANNOT STAND. I SHALL CHALLENGE HER TO A DUEL AND—”
“Sebek, no.”
“—VANQUISH HER FOR DARING TO—”
“Sebek. Put the glove down.”
“—BESMIRCH YOUR HONOR, MY LADY—”
“Sebek. No.”
Malleus, amused, simply observed as if watching an entertaining stage play. Probably because his solution would be to turn the heroine into a very apologetic pile of ashes.
Sebek begrudgingly reabsorbed his rage (for now), but he was still seething.
Malleus, after ensuring you were probably not about to die, excused himself and left the room. Sebek remained, arms crossed, radiating enough protective energy to function as a personal bodyguard and a security alarm.
You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Sebek, from now on, I’m just going to ignore her.”
Sebek visibly short-circuited.
“You—you're just going to let this blatant disrespect slide???”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“Yes.”
He looked like he had been personally betrayed by the laws of honor and decency, but after a long moment, he reluctantly agreed. Probably because you had the final say in this.
As soon as he left the room, you immediately face-planted into your pillow and let out the most guttural, despairing scream of your life.
Then, with great suffering, you dragged yourself up, because it was officially time to make a game plan to survive this absolute trash novel.
You did not want to go to this tea party.
In fact, if given the choice between enduring this or being launched via medieval trebuchet into the ocean, you would’ve chosen the ocean. At least drowning would’ve been fast.
But no. Your father insisted.
Something about “maintaining your standing,” and “showing the nobility that you are still strong,” and “not letting some lowborn upstart make a fool of you.”
As if the heroine had any power over you besides the supernatural ability to generate plot conveniences. As if you weren’t already suffering enough in this stupid novel, trying to survive a romance plotline with all the grace of a cat thrown into a bathtub.
And thus, you found yourself seated at an expensive table, sipping lukewarm tea, pretending to be interested in whatever the hell the noble ladies were talking about while resisting the urge to flip the entire table over and walk out.
To make matters worse, Sebek was having an existential crisis.
Not that he’d admit it, of course. But the way he was standing, practically vibrating with tension, scanning the tea party like a very aggressive meerkat—yeah. It was bad.
Sebek was on edge.
At any given moment, his gaze would dart from one thing to another, as if expecting a chandelier to drop on your head, a poisoned biscuit to be slipped onto your plate, or a rogue assassin to emerge from the hedges wielding a butter knife.
You finally had enough.
Turning toward him, you gripped his shoulders. Firmly.
“Sebek.”
His eyes snapped to you.
“Buddy.” You gave him a little shake. “Friend. You need to chill.”
“I AM PERFECTLY COMPOSED—”
Shake, shake. “Sebek. Chill.”
Sebek blinked. For the first time in history, he shut his mouth.
And then—oddly enough—you saw pink.
Like, an actual blush. A faint, barely-there dusting of color across his cheeks, the kind you’d associate with a lovestruck noble maiden, not a half-fae knight who could probably break your spine with his bare hands.
For a moment, you wondered if he was overheating. Should you dunk him in ice water?
But miraculously, Sebek actually calmed down.
At least, he stopped looking like he was about to tackle a waiter for breathing too close to you. That was progress.
And just when you thought you could finally coast through the rest of this miserable tea party in peace—
You saw her.
The Heroine.
She was across the garden, standing under a carefully curated arrangement of roses, twirling a delicate teacup in her dainty hands, looking exactly as picturesque as a main character should.
And she was batting her eyelashes at Sebek.
Like a lot.
Like some kind of malfunctioning Victorian doll trying to send Morse code with her eyelids.
Sebek, for his part, was slowly backing away. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with her.
Unfortunately, his retreat only seemed to embolden the heroine further. As if she had mistaken his disgust for shyness.
Sebek Zigzagged.
She Zigzagged.
Sebek took a sharp left.
She matched him, too fast, like an NPC with broken pathing.
And that’s when you decided enough was enough.
With the most subtle movement possible, you lifted a hand and motioned for him to come to you.
Sebek sprinted.
Like, full-speed, knocking over at least one butler in the process sprinted. By the time he reached you, he was breathing hard, eyes wide like he had just escaped something truly horrifying.
“Sebek,” you said, voice casual, “Stick by my side.”
"UNDERSTOOD," he immediately responded, standing directly next to you like a sentient stone wall.
And thus began the worst tea party of the heroine’s life.
For months, the heroine had followed the same battle strategy.
She’d make small, calculated jabs at you—little insults hidden under layers of fake concern, “Oh, you look rather pale today, are you unwell?” or “That color looks so… unique on you! Not many would be bold enough to wear it!”
The old villainess would always take the bait.
She’d snap back, argue, cause a scene. And in the process, the heroine would look like the poor, innocent victim just trying her best to be kind.
But you?
You ignored her.
And that? That was unacceptable.
The first attempt was a comment about your shoes.
She tilted her head, voice sickly sweet. “Oh, those shoes are… interesting. Are they custom-made?”
You blinked.
That was it. Just blinked.
Nothing more.
Then, without breaking eye contact, you turned to Sebek and pointed at the cake.
"Sebek, do you want some cake?"
“OF COURSE—”
The heroine twitched.
The second attempt was a jab at your hair.
She giggled, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Oh dear, your hair looks a little tangled today! Perhaps you should try this new serum I discovered—”
You did not react.
Instead, you casually picked up a sugar cube, inspected it like it was the most fascinating thing in existence, and dropped it into your tea.
Then you slowly turned away.
Like she was scenery.
Like she was part of the background.
The heroine’s eye twitched.
Then came the third and final straw.
She physically stood in your path.
Like, full-on NPC blocking a hallway in a video game levels of obstructive.
Waiting.
Wanting you to react.
You did not.
You simply stepped to the left and walked around her.
As if she were a particularly annoying potted plant.
That was it.
That was the moment.
The moment she realized you were not playing her game.
And she SNAPPED.
In a last-ditch effort, she actually grabbed at your dress like a cranky toddler in a tantrum. Unfortunately for her, you were faster.
With all the grace of a trained assassin, you sidestepped her so effortlessly that she nearly tripped forward. For one horrifying second, she flailed—arms windmilling—before catching herself.
Then, with a furious huff, she turned bright red, grabbed her skirts, and stormed out of the tea party.
Absolutely. Defeated.
The entire garden was dead silent.
Then, softly, Sebek cleared his throat.
“…Does this mean I can have another slice of cake?”
You took a victorious sip of your tea.
+1 point for you.
This was a mistake. A grave, sweaty mistake.
Sebek, in all his knightly wisdom, had decided that you needed to learn self-defense. That was fine in theory. In practice?
You were dying.
It had started simple—stance, grip, footwork. Except your stance was wobbly, your grip was weak, and your footwork consisted of tripping over absolutely nothing .
Sebek, ever the determined instructor, refused to give up on you.
“Again!” he barked, adjusting your posture for the hundredth time. “You must hold the blade firmly!”
You tried. You really did. But the moment he stepped back, the sword dipped dangerously in your grasp like it was actively trying to escape you.
Sebek sighed through his nose. “You need to engage your core!”
“Sebek,” you panted, struggling to lift the sword back up. “I have a core. It just doesn’t want to engage.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose like a disappointed tutor watching their pupil fail basic math.
“Again.”
You half-heartedly swung the sword. It wobbled like a particularly useless noodle.
Sebek looked physically pained.
After several more embarrassing attempts—including a particularly tragic one where you almost dropped the sword on your own foot—you finally gave up.
You collapsed onto the ground, dramatically splaying out in the dirt like a knight who had perished not in battle, but in sheer spiritual defeat.
“I can’t do this,” you groaned, flopping an arm over your face. “I’m not built for the knight life.”
Sebek’s shadow loomed over you, exasperated. “You’re giving up already?”
“Yes.”
“Unacceptable. A true warrior never surrenders!”
“Well, I’m not a warrior, Sebek. I am a delicate aristocrat. My hobbies include drinking tea and not getting stabbed.”
Sebek crossed his arms, preparing to argue—but before he could launch into a speech about honor and duty and the sacred art of not dying, you simply muttered:
“That’s why you have to be my knight forever.”
The complaints instantly stopped.
Sebek didn’t say a word.
You assumed he had accepted your logic.
You didn’t see the way his back straightened slightly, or the way his expression softened into something oddly pleased. You definitely didn’t catch the way a smug, satisfied little smile flickered across his face—like a knight who had just secured his lifelong oath without even trying.
Instead, you remained on the ground, still dramatically sprawled out, waiting for him to launch into another lecture.
But nothing came.
“…Sebek?”
“Hmph.” He turned, suddenly far too content to argue. “If that is the case, then I suppose there’s no need to force you into training.”
You squinted up at him. “Wait. That’s it? You’re giving up?”
“I am merely accepting my duty,” he said smoothly. “After all, a knight must always protect their charge.”
You stared.
Suspicious.
Sebek was never this agreeable.
But, ultimately, you were too tired to question it.
With a sigh of relief, you let yourself fully relax into the grass, already looking forward to a nap.
Meanwhile, Sebek stood guard over you, looking far too smug for someone who had just lost an argument.
This was supposed to be a normal afternoon.
A nice, quiet, peaceful moment of watching Sebek ride his horse like he was leading an army into battle while Silver sat on his, perfectly relaxed, looking like the human embodiment of a soft exhale.
Meanwhile, to your right, Malleus and Lilia were having a debate that was growing increasingly unhinged.
"I'm telling you, Malleus," Lilia said with the confidence of a man who had never once been stopped from committing a crime. "If you want someone, you simply steal them away! That’s romance!"
Malleus, who had the power to obliterate reality with a flick of his wrist, rubbed his temples like a deeply tired office worker. "Lilia, that is not romance. That is abduction."
Lilia waved him off like he was swatting at a fly. "Semantics."
You turned your head just in time to see Malleus pinching the bridge of his nose, which was deeply funny because what did he even have to be stressed about? He was practically untouchable. And yet, somehow, Lilia was succeeding in emotionally exhausting him.
You had no idea how to contribute to this conversation, so you simply accepted that your afternoon would be full of crimes against logic.
But then Lilia’s sharp, ancient gaze zeroed in on you like a sniper locking onto a target.
"So," he said smoothly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Have you decided who you'll take to the ball?"
You blinked.
The ball? Oh. Right. That was a thing.
You mulled it over for a second, tapping your fingers against your knee.
Logically, Sebek was already glued to your side at all times. He was practically your own personal security alarm, complete with flashing lights, blaring sirens, and the sheer, undying volume of a man who had never whispered in his entire life.
Taking him would be easy.
"I'll probably take Sebek," you said casually.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
Lilia’s smile widened.
Not just any smile. A knowing smile. The kind that said, I have seen civilizations rise and fall, and yet nothing amuses me more than whatever is about to happen next.
Malleus, previously neutral, now looked deeply, deeply intrigued.
You squinted at them. "Why are you both looking at me like I'm a stray dog that just solved a math problem?"
Before you could demand answers, Sebek and Silver came back.
And Lilia—menace incarnate—immediately turned to Sebek and declared, with the utmost delight:
"Sebek! You've been chosen as their escort for the ball!"
Silver looked politely interested. Sebek—
Sebek crashed.
Like he hit an invisible wall.
For a second, he just stood there, expression frozen in a mix of shock, honor, and the sheer terror of being handed a social situation he wasn’t prepared for.
Then, in a grand act of buffering, he stiffened, clenched his fists, and proclaimed with all the force of a man declaring war:
"OF COURSE! AS YOUR LOYAL KNIGHT, IT IS ONLY NATURAL THAT I ACCOMPANY YOU!"
And then—before you could so much as blink—he turned on his heel and stomped off, as if he had just been given an urgent mission from Malleus himself.
The moment he was gone, you turned back to the three remaining culprits—only to find all of them looking at you like you were the underdog in a sports movie who had just pulled off a game-winning shot.
Lilia’s grin was downright diabolical.
Malleus was observing you like a scientist who had just discovered a new species.
Silver nodded, as if he had been let in on a joke you weren’t privy to.
Your eye twitched. "Okay. WHAT."
Lilia clapped you on the back like a proud father. "Oh, don’t mind us," he said airily. "We’re simply excited to see how this unfolds!"
Malleus inclined his head. "Indeed. It will be most… fascinating."
Silver hummed in agreement, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to amusement.
You stared.
Sebek was still stomping off in the distance, probably preparing himself for battle against an imaginary threat.
Meanwhile, these three looked like they had just bet on a winning horse.
You were so bored.
As someone who had once lived in the glorious era of internet, memes, and instant entertainment, being isekai’d into a medieval fantasy novel was actual hell.
Your choices for passing the time were:
Sitting at a tea party listening to Lady Whatever gossip about how her second cousin’s neighbor allegedly married his horse (scandalous).
Shopping, which involved pretending to care about embroidery while avoiding getting guilt-tripped into buying a hat the size of a carriage wheel.
But today? Today was different.
There was a theater performance. And you were going.
Sebek, of course, was accompanying you, because you weren’t allowed to go anywhere without your personal security system.
The two of you arrived, found your seats, and settled in as the play began.
It was a forbidden romance between a noblewoman and her loyal knight.
You squinted.
That was it? That was the forbidden part?
What, was it slightly inconvenient for them to date? Were they going to act like this was the most tragic love story of all time when the biggest obstacle was mild disapproval?
You were expecting a real problem—an ancient family feud, a cursed bloodline, maybe even a dragon kidnapping someone for fun.
But no. It was just a noble and her knight, staring deeply into each other’s eyes while the orchestra swelled dramatically.
You side-eyed Sebek, about to make a snide comment.
And that’s when you noticed. Sebek was sweating.
His jaw was clenched. His hands were gripping the arms of his seat like the very concept of upholstery had personally insulted him.
And most importantly?
He was actively avoiding looking at you.
On stage, the knight fell to one knee, passionately declaring, “My lady, I have sworn to protect you—but in truth, my heart has belonged to you from the moment we met.”
Sebek’s grip on his seat tightened.
You turned back to the stage, more confused now.
The noblewoman gasped, placing a delicate hand on her chest. “Sir Knight, I—!”
Cue dramatic embrace. Cue Sebek looking like he was experiencing an existential crisis in real time.
For the next twenty minutes, Sebek refused to so much as glance in your direction.
The show ended with a completely unnecessary death scene (the knight got stabbed protecting the noblewoman from a bandit with the world’s worst aim), and as soon as the curtains fell, Sebek practically launched himself out of his seat.
You walked out together, the evening air cool against your skin.
Sebek, still refusing to look at you, was marching forward with the kind of stiff, overly formal movements that meant his brain was short-circuiting.
You raised an eyebrow. "Are you good?"
"I am perfectly fine," he said, a little too quickly.
You shrugged, brushing it off. Sebek being Sebek. He was always like this.
You didn’t notice how his hands twitched at his sides.
Or how, for one painfully fleeting moment during the play, he had imagined what it would be like—just once—to take your hand, without the excuse of duty.
But only Sebek and the dark theater would ever know that.
Festivals were supposed to be fun.
Supposed to be.
But for Sebek, this was nothing short of a battlefield.
The night had started normally enough. Malleus, Lilia, Silver, Sebek, and you had all arrived together, the festival in full swing around you. Lanterns glowed softly in the trees, music played from all corners of the square, and the air was thick with the smell of food—grilled meats, sweet pastries, roasted nuts. It was the perfect evening for a carefree stroll.
And then, suspiciously quickly, things took a turn.
“Ah,” Lilia suddenly said, snapping his fingers. “I just remembered—I must go investigate the historical significance of festival games.”
Silver, who had been mid-bite into a fried pastry, blinked. “What?”
Lilia was already gone.
Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed, I must also depart. There are… matters of great importance I must attend to.”
You stared at him. “You’re about to go stare at gargoyles, aren’t you?”
Malleus did not dignify this with an answer.
Then came Silver’s turn. He at least tried to make it convincing.
“I, um—” He paused, brain clearly short-circuiting. “I have to—”
Sebek, ever the loyal soldier, stepped forward. “SILVER, WHEREVER YOU GO, WE SHALL—”
Silver immediately put a hand on Sebek’s shoulder. “No. You both stay.”
Sebek froze.
Suspicion bloomed in his sharp green eyes. “Why?”
Silver looked at you. Then back at Sebek. Then at you again. And then—like a father setting his son off into the world—he simply patted Sebek’s shoulder and said, “Have fun.”
Then he left.
Just like that, you and Sebek were alone.
You turned to Sebek, shrugged, and grabbed his hand. “Alright then! Let’s go have fun.”
Sebek ascended into a new state of panic.
One: You Held His Hand.
His hand.
Which was now holding your hand.
He was a knight. A protector. His hand had wielded swords, raised shields, sworn loyalty—
His hand had never done this.
“W-Wait, I—!”
You, completely oblivious to the fact that you were literally ruining him, simply smiled. “Come on, let’s get food first!”
And just like that, he was dragged into the festival.
Two: You Fed Him.
Sebek had prepared for many things in life.
Betrayal? Yes. Combat? Absolutely. The burden of responsibility? Without question.
But he had not prepared for you pressing a warm pastry into his hands and saying, “Try this! It’s really good.”
He stared at it like it was an enemy.
“I—this is unnecessary! I should be watching for threats, not—”
Then you, with absolutely zero hesitation, took a bite from your own pastry, hummed thoughtfully, and then just—just held it up to his mouth.
Sebek froze.
“…What,” he said, voice dangerously unstable, “are you doing?”
“Letting you try mine.”
Unacceptable.
UNACCEPTABLE.
This was wrong. You were a noble, he was your knight. His duty was to protect you, not to—to—
To have feelings.
To want things.
But you were still holding the pastry up, completely unaware of the sheer war happening in his mind.
So, with the slow hesitation of a man walking into a death trap, Sebek leaned down and took a small, precise bite.
…It was delicious.
…This was still unacceptable.
“See?” you said brightly, taking another bite yourself. “Tastes better when you share.”
Sebek almost dropped dead on the spot.
Three: The Smile.
Oh, that smile.
You were leading him from stall to stall, still holding his hand, still treating this like a perfectly normal outing and not the absolute nightmare it was for his fragile, suffering heart.
And every time you turned back to him—every time you laughed at something ridiculous, or smiled when he grumbled about stall vendors trying to scam you, or simply looked at him with that casual, easy warmth—
Something in him broke.
Not in a bad way. But absolutely in a way that would jeopardize his purpose. In the way that made him want to 1v1 the entire world just to make sure you always smiled like that.
Sebek was not meant for this.
He was a knight. A warrior. A protector.
He was not meant to look at you and wish, with every inch of his being, that he could hold your hand not because of duty, but because you wanted him to.
The ball was going well.
Which, frankly, was a miracle.
You were three glasses of wine in, the music was pleasant, and—most importantly—there was no heroine in sight.
Malleus was at peace, sipping his drink like an ancient dragon who had finally hoarded enough gold. Lilia was across the room, very seriously trying to convince a noble to invest in bat jousting (“Picture it, my dear baron—tiny suits of armor, high-speed aerial combat, think of the prestige!”). Silver was half-asleep at the table, so still that he was practically furniture.
And Sebek? Sebek was eating with the sheer intensity of a man who had never been allowed to sit and enjoy a meal in his life.
You were basking in the rare moment of peace when—
She arrived.
The heroine waltzed in, all curls and delicate elegance, scanning the room like she owned the place.
Immediately, you activated Ignore Mode.
But then—
Then she spoke.
“I challenge you!”
You blinked.
Challenge me to what? A duel? A political debate? A staring contest??
And then, with the smuggest expression known to man, she stepped aside to reveal her new(?) knight. You choked on your drink.
Because her knight—
Looked like Sebek.
Like, exactly like Sebek.
Same height, same build, suspiciously similar armor—but the worst part?
His hair was green.
Like she had dyed it.
You nearly dropped your wine.
You turned to Sebek.
Then to knockoff Sebek.
Then to Malleus—who was so absorbed in his perfect night that he hadn’t even registered the incoming disaster.
Then back to fake Sebek.
Sebek, who had been peacefully eating his steak, suddenly froze.
“WHAT IN THE GREAT SEVEN—” His chair scraped across the floor as he stood, eyes wide with pure fury.
The heroine beamed. “My knight will prove his superiority over yours! A true battle of skill and honor!”
You were still stuck on the hair.
"DID YOU DYE THIS MAN’S HAIR GREEN?!"
Fake Sebek smirked, folding his arms. “A knight should be willing to make sacrifices for his lady.”
Sebek looked ready to commit several war crimes.
“This is an INSULT!” He stepped forward, eyes blazing, voice booming. “YOU THINK YOU CAN MATCH ME WITH A PALE IMITATION?! I—”
Oh, hell no.
You had already suffered through so much stupidity in this world. You were not about to let Sebek engage in a battle of the bootlegs just because the heroine had gone completely off the rails.
You grabbed Sebek’s arm.
He whipped around like an enraged storm god. “MY LADY, I MUST—”
“No,” you said flatly. “Not worth it.”
“But—”
“Sebek.”
“She—”
“Sebek.”
“She dares—”
“Sebek. Please.”
His jaw locked. He looked like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to argue. But then you let out a long, exhausted sigh and said,
“Just dance with me instead.”
Sebek stopped breathing.
The entire ballroom faded. The heroine? Gone. Bootleg Sebek? Who? The audience of nosy nobles? Irrelevant.
All that mattered was that you—the person he had sworn to protect, the one he had dedicated his entire being to—had just asked him to dance.
He swallowed thickly. “O-Of course.”
And so, you took his hand and led him to the ballroom floor.
Sebek was stiff at first, like he was concentrating too hard on being perfect, but as the music swelled, he relaxed into the rhythm, his movements smoother, more natural.
And as he guided you across the floor, one hand firm at your waist, the other clasping yours, Sebek couldn’t help but stare.
You were laughing softly, still tipsy, the golden chandeliers casting a warm glow on your skin. The silk of your gown shimmered as you moved, and your smile—
Gods. Your smile.
Sebek knew, without a doubt, that he would do anything to keep it on your face.
And you?
You had no idea.
Because to you, this was just a dance.
But to Sebek—
You looked like a dream come true.
It was finally here. The moment where, according to the absolute literary war crime that was this novel, you were supposed to get poisoned, collapse dramatically, and set off a chain reaction that would end with Sebek exiling himself like a tragic Shakespearean protagonist.
Except this time?
You knew it was coming.
And you were about to flip the script so hard the author would feel it in whatever dimension they were in.
The heroine, as predictable as ever, had invited you to yet another tea party—probably hoping that by the time the poison kicked in, she'd have a perfect view of your untimely demise. You, of course, had accepted with a sweet smile and a mind full of schemes.
Now, seated at a pristine garden table with floral arrangements worth more than some small villages, you watched as she made her move. It was almost laughable how obvious she was. Her eyes flickered towards the maid as your tea was poured, the subtle anticipation in her expression so transparent you were honestly a little embarrassed for her.
You daintily lifted the cup, swirling the tea, inhaling its floral scent. Then, you pretended to take a sip.
Then, you threw yourself into the most dramatic, gut-wrenching, Oscar-worthy performance of your life.
Your body convulsed. Your hand flew to your throat. You gasped, choked, wheezed like a dying fish, and flung your arms out as if desperately grasping at the heavens themselves. You knocked over a plate. A fork clattered to the ground. A lesser noble screamed.
And then, with the grace of a Victorian woman in a corset two sizes too small, you collapsed onto the ground, limbs twitching for good measure.
Chaos erupted.
Ladies shrieked. Servants scrambled. One elderly duke fainted in the background. Even you were impressed. If this world had award shows, you would’ve already been giving an acceptance speech.
And then.
You heard it.
A chair screeching against stone. The heavy, unmistakable clang of armor.
Oh.
Oh, no.
You had made a critical miscalculation.
Sebek.
Sebek, who had been standing behind you the entire time. Sebek, who had just witnessed his charge collapse in agony.
Sebek, who was now standing over the heroine with his sword at her throat.
The entire tea party came to a screeching halt.
The heroine was frozen in terror, because Sebek wasn’t just angry—he was absolutely seething. His hands were steady, his grip unwavering, but the rage in his eyes? The barely-restrained fury crackling in the air around him? That was the look of a man seconds away from turning this entire tea party into a medieval execution.
“How dare you,” Sebek growled, his voice low and deadly, “I swear upon my honor—you will not leave this garden alive.”
You were so close to victory. So close. But no. No, Sebek had to go and initiate an actual murder.
The heroine, pale as a ghost, opened her mouth—probably to sob out some terrible excuse—but Sebek applied just the tiniest bit of pressure with his blade. A thin line of blood beaded at her neck.
The heroine whimpered.
Sebek narrowed his eyes.
Oh, he was fully committed to this.
Then, from your position on the ground, you made a small choking noise.
Sebek snapped around so fast he nearly decapitated her anyway.
His fury instantly shifted into sheer, unfiltered panic.
“My lady—!” He abandoned the heroine entirely, dropping to his knees and scooping you up into his arms as if you were seconds from death. "Stay with me!" His voice wavered, as if sheer willpower alone could force you to keep breathing. "You will not die here, I swear it!"
Okay. Maybe you should have accounted for this.
Before you could get a word in, Sebek scooped you up like a sack of potatoes and booked it inside.
The moment he deposited you onto a chaise lounge like a damsel in distress, you sat up and gave him your best sheepish grin.
“Sebek, I—”
But Sebek did not look relieved.
Sebek looked furious.
"You mean to tell me," he began, his voice escalating, "THAT WAS A LIE?!"
You winced. “Sebek, I—”
"You were NEVER in danger?! NEVER TRULY POISONED?!" His entire body was vibrating. "YOU—"
His voice kept rising.
He was pacing now, movements erratic, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. His breathing was uneven. His hands were shaking.
Gods. Gods, you felt bad.
Before he could work himself into an early grave, you grabbed his face and pulled him close.
"Sebek," you said firmly. "Breathe."
His breath hitched.
You could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his entire being was still radiating panic and betrayal.
Slowly, his breathing evened out. His hands, still clenched at his sides, relaxed.
"I'm sorry," you murmured, thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks. "I should have told you."
Sebek swallowed hard, staring at you like he had just walked through hell itself.
"I could never bear to lose you." His voice was raw, barely above a whisper.
And then, as if exhaling the weight of the entire world, he bowed his head slightly and said, “Forgive me for my insolence.”
Before you could even process what that meant—
His lips were on yours.
Soft, hesitant, yet utterly consuming.
It lasted one perfect moment—
And then reality kicked in.
Sebek stiffened. His eyes snapped open.
"I— I HAVE OVERSTEPPED— I APOLOGIZE—"
And then.
Sebek fled.
Full-speed.
Out the door.
Down the hall.
Possibly into another plane of existence.
You sat there, dazed, stunned, blushing so hard you were about to burst into flames.
-
You were losing your mind.
Malleus, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
He sat there, sipping his tea with the serene patience of a man who had definitely seen this coming, while you paced back and forth in front of him, unraveling like a badly-knitted sweater.
"It was just stress!" you declared, throwing your hands in the air. "Right? I mean, high emotions, near-death experience, classic knightly panic—textbook impulse decision!"
Malleus hummed, his expression one of deep, profound amusement. "Oh?"
You pointed at him like you had just presented irrefutable evidence in a murder trial. "YES. Right?! That has to be it!"
Malleus took a slow sip of his tea. "Or…"
You froze.
Malleus paused dramatically—like he was a host on some medieval reality show about to drop a major plot twist—then said, "Perhaps he has feelings for you."
You made a noise. A noise that had never existed before, somewhere between a gasp, a wheeze, and the sound of a tea kettle violently exploding.
Malleus raised an eyebrow, watching as your soul actively left your body.
"That’s—" You flailed. Actually flailed. "That’s absurd!"
Malleus nodded sagely. "Yes. Very absurd." He took another sip of tea, his tone so dry you nearly threw something at him.
You began pacing again, hands on your head, thoughts spiraling into the abyss.
"Maybe—maybe he thinks he has feelings for me," you reasoned, grasping at straws like your life depended on it. "But really, it’s just—devotion! Yes! Classic knightly devotion! It’s not romantic, it’s duty! He admires me, respects me, honors me—"
"—Kissed you."
You choked.
Malleus was smirking now. He was actually enjoying this.
"Okay, but," you continued, desperately trying to dig yourself out of the emotional pit you had fallen into, "what if—what if it was just a slip-up? A moment of weakness? What if he didn’t mean it—?"
Malleus tilted his head. "Then why did he run away? Why did he not apologize?"
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Because he did run away. Full speed. Maximum acceleration. Like a man who had just realized what he had done and could not face the consequences.
Your hands slowly lowered from your head.
Malleus set his teacup down with a soft clink. "I would say that is not the behavior of a man who does not have feelings for someone."
You sat down in the nearest chair, staring into the void.
Malleus observed you with quiet satisfaction.
The way you were actively short-circuiting before his eyes? The absolute catastrophic mental gymnastics you were performing to deny the obvious?
Oh, yes.
This was better than theater.
Meanwhile, Sebek was also suffering.
And Lilia was having the best day of his life.
Sebek was pacing, marching back and forth across the room like he was preparing for battle, arms gesturing wildly as he ranted to no one in particular.
"I—I do not—I cannot—" His voice cracked slightly before he squared his shoulders, forcing himself into a state of denial so powerful it could deflect magic. "IT WAS MERELY A MOMENT OF TEMPORARY EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY!"
Lilia, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, was vibrating. His hands were clasped in front of his mouth, his entire body shaking as he barely contained his laughter. His eyes gleamed with pure, unfiltered joy.
"Ah, young love," he sighed dramatically, swaying slightly as if overcome by emotion. "So passionate! So tumultuous!" He clutched his chest. "So full of suffering!"
Sebek whirled around, offended to his very core.
"It is NOT love!" he practically roared, and Silver, who had been trying to stay calm, rubbed his temples like a tired therapist dealing with a particularly stubborn client.
"Sebek," Silver said, voice steady, soothing, rational. "You kissed her."
Sebek's eye twitched.
"It was an accident!"
Silver raised an eyebrow. "How do you accidentally kiss someone?"
Sebek flailed. "IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT!"
"Mmhm~" Lilia hummed, practically swaying with delight.
Sebek turned to him, pointing like he was about to declare war. "STOP—STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"
"Like what?" Lilia grinned. "Like I just witnessed the most entertaining thing to happen in centuries?"
"YES!"
Lilia cackled.
Sebek turned back to Silver, desperate for support, but Silver was already shaking his head.
"Sebek," Silver said patiently. "You’re in love."
Sebek physically recoiled. His entire soul left his body for a second before it returned, but not before his brain short-circuited.
"NO!"
"Yes," Silver said simply.
"Preposterous!" Sebek thundered, arms flailing again. "I am a knight! Her protector! I have sworn my loyalty to her! I would give my LIFE for her—!"
"Yes," Silver interrupted, nodding. "Because you love her."
Sebek froze.
His mouth opened. Then closed.
Then opened again.
Nothing came out.
Lilia, who was practically incandescent with joy, clasped his hands together and leaned in, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Oh my," Lilia purred. "He's realizing it."
Sebek visibly malfunctioned.
His arms tensed, his jaw clenched, his brain clearly trying to override the obvious conclusion with pure willpower alone.
And then, because he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself—
Sebek turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room at full speed.
Lilia howled with laughter, throwing himself back onto the couch.
Silver simply sighed, rubbing his temples again. "You know he's going to deny this for at least another week, right?"
"Oh, let him struggle~" Lilia giggled, delighted beyond words. "This is better than theater."
The heroine was losing her goddamn mind.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was the main character. She was supposed to triumph over adversity! She was supposed to defeat her rival, claim her rightful place at Malleus’s side, and bask in the admiration of high society as they all realized how special and wonderful she was!
And yet—
You.
You, the person who was supposed to be her greatest adversary, her foil, her dramatic counterpart—
Did. Not. Care.
Every time she tried to one-up you, every time she schemed and plotted and prepared some devastating social maneuver to put you in your place—
You ignored her.
Not even with thinly veiled contempt. Not with cold, calculated disdain. No.
You ignored her like you would ignore a particularly unimpressive rock on the side of the road.
Like a piece of furniture. Like she was a background character in her own goddamn story.
She had thrown everything at you.
She had made subtle barbs about your outfits—Oh, what a… bold choice of color. Not everyone could pull that off.
You had simply nodded and thanked her before returning to making googly eyes at your knight.
She had gone out of her way to outshine you at every event—grander gowns, more dramatic entrances, carefully curated conversations that should have drawn everyone’s attention to her.
You?
You barely registered that she was there.
She had even dyed her own knight’s hair green for fuck’s sake.
And you had just—
Ignored it.
You hadn’t even looked surprised. No scandalized gasp, no pointed glances, no passive-aggressive remark about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.
Nothing.
The absolute indifference nearly sent her into a breakdown right then and there.
But still—still—she had held out hope.
Because there was one final, tried-and-true method to defeat a villainess.
Poison.
A noblewoman’s tea party. A carefully laced cup. A gasp, a choke, a dramatic collapse.
It was foolproof.
Except—
Except you had pretended to drink it.
She hadn’t even noticed at first. She had simply sipped her tea, waiting for your inevitable demise—only to watch you pull off an Oscar worthy performance.
And now?
Now the entirety of high society hated her.
Not because they actually cared about you, no—
But because attempting to poison someone at a social gathering was just so terribly gauche.
It was uncivilized. It was desperate. It was cringe.
And worse?
She had failed.
One noblewoman had sighed, shaking her head. “Poisoning your rival? How utterly common. If she were going to do it, the least she could’ve done was be subtle.”
Another had tsked, “Imagine—spending all that effort trying to destroy someone only for them to sit back and make googly eyes at their knight instead.”
That one nearly made her explode.
Because that? That was the worst part.
Through all of this, you weren’t even fighting back.
You weren’t scheming. You weren’t plotting revenge. You weren’t even paying attention to her anymore.
No.
You were too busy pining over Sebek.
At first, she thought it was coincidence. A weird little side note in this battle.
But no.
She saw it everywhere now.
You, brushing your hand against his as he held a door open for you. You, laughing at something he said in that ridiculous, overly loud voice. You, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in existence while he continued to act like a knight-shaped golden retriever with too many feelings.
It was infuriating.
And now, after everything, after all the time and energy and sanity she had lost trying to make you engage, she woke up one morning and realized—
She had lost.
Not in some grand, cinematic battle of wits. Not in an explosive confrontation.
No.
She had lost in the most humiliating way possible.
Because you never even considered her a threat to begin with.
She had spent all this time clawing her way to the top of a rivalry that only existed in her own head.
And the person she had chosen as her nemesis had treated her with the same level of importance as a salad garnish.
It was over.
She was done.
She picked up a pen, wrote a letter, and signed it with the exhausted resignation of a woman who had fully accepted defeat.
Lady,
I give up. I’m leaving. Enjoy your ridiculous romance with your ridiculous knight.
—Heroine
Then, without any fanfare, she packed her things, walked out of her estate, and left the country.
And you?
You didn’t even notice until a servant handed you the letter over breakfast.
You blinked at it, took a bite of toast, and read the whole thing while casually sipping your tea.
Then you folded it neatly, set it aside, and promptly forgot about it.
Sebek Zigvolt was avoiding you.
Not in the dramatic, storming-off, I-shall-never-speak-to-you-again way that some lovesick noble might after a scandalous incident at a ball. No, that would have been too easy.
Instead, he had apparently decided that the most rational way to handle his predicament was to maintain a perfect six-foot gap between the two of you at all times.
Like some sort of ridiculous, self-imposed restraining order.
You noticed it immediately, of course, because how could you not?
The first morning, you stepped into the drawing room, still slightly groggy from waking up, and found Sebek already there, standing so rigidly that he looked like he had been installed into the floorboards.
“Good morning, Sebek.”
Sebek, a man who had never once in his life failed to respond to you immediately, took a full three seconds to react, his head snapping toward you like a marionette whose strings had been yanked too hard.
“MY LADY!” he barked, far too loud for this early in the morning. “GOOD MORNING TO YOU AS WELL!”
Then, before you could say another word, he pivoted sharply and took three steps back.
Three big, deliberate, backward steps.
And then?
He stared past you.
Not at you. Past you.
Like he had suddenly developed an intense fascination with the wall.
And this? This continued.
For three. Entire. Days.
At breakfast, he sat exactly six feet away from your chair and stabbed his eggs with the precision and fury of a man attempting to exorcise a demon from his plate.
At social events, he positioned himself like some tragically lovesick ghost, haunting the edge of the room with a tormented expression, still very much guarding you but now also acting like being within arm’s reach might cause him to spontaneously combust.
Even in casual conversations, if you took a step forward?
Sebek took a step back.
And the worst part?
He was so obvious about it.
Like, if he was actually trying to be subtle, you could at least pretend it wasn’t happening. But no, this man was out here moving like an NPC whose pathfinding AI was breaking.
By the third day, you had reached your limit.
You had tolerated his weird little knightly existential crisis long enough.
So, that morning, when you saw him standing—once again—exactly six feet away, rigid as a lamppost, pointedly pretending that the tree outside the window was the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life, you snapped.
“Sebek.”
No response.
“Sebek.”
Nothing.
You took a step forward.
Sebek immediately took a step back.
You took another step.
Sebek tried to escape.
Absolutely not.
With all the swiftness of a person completely done with this nonsense, you closed the gap, stepping right into his space, and before he could even think about scrambling backward like some flustered fawn, you grabbed his face and squished his stupid, handsome, stubborn cheeks between your hands.
Sebek made an absolutely incomprehensible noise.
“W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THIS IS HIGHLY—!!”
He was spluttering. Stammering. Eyes darting around wildly like he was searching for an escape route despite the fact that you were holding his actual face.
“Sebek,” you said, exasperated, thumbs pressing into his cheeks as he failed spectacularly to regain any of his usual knightly composure. “Do you like me?”
Sebek, in his infinite, ridiculous wisdom, chose the absolute worst possible response.
“I—! I AM YOUR KNIGHT! TO ENTERTAIN SUCH FRIVOLITIES WOULD BE A DERELECTION OF DUTY!”
You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and then, with the patience of someone trying to explain basic math to a particularly dense brick wall, you groaned, “Sebek, we are not in a play. Do you like me or not!?”
Sebek made a noise somewhere between a strangled honk and a dying animal.
His entire face turned so red that for a moment, you were genuinely concerned that he might be about to pass out.
Then—
He nodded.
It was tiny, barely perceptible, like he was afraid saying it too loudly would cause the heavens to smite him on the spot, but it was there.
And that was all you needed.
Before he could start raving about duty or oaths or whatever dramatic monologue he was preparing, you surged forward and kissed him.
Sebek froze.
Completely, entirely, utterly still.
For half a second, you worried that you had broken him.
But then—
Sebek kissed you back.
With the fervor of a man who had been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.
It took thirty full minutes to convince Sebek that you were, in fact, not in a tragic, forbidden love story.
Ten minutes of him pacing, ranting about duty and propriety, gripping the air like an overdramatic stage actor monologuing in the rain.
Thirty minutes of you, standing there, patiently waiting for his brain to catch up to reality.
"Sebek," you said for the fifteenth time, arms crossed, exasperated but fond. "We are not in a Shakespearean tragedy."
Sebek opened his mouth to argue, paused, frowned, then slowly closed it.
You could see the war happening inside him. His knightly instincts were screaming about honor and responsibility, while the part of him that had just kissed you—twice now—was standing in the corner, sweating profusely.
He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and nodded.
"...Very well," he said, stiffly, as if forcing himself to accept that the universe had, in fact, allowed him to be happy.
You smirked and reached for his hand. "Great. Now come on, we’re late."
Sebek made a dying noise when you intertwined your fingers with his.
When you arrived, Malleus, Lilia, and Silver were already gathered in the garden, basking in the afternoon sun.
The moment you and Sebek showed up—hand in hand—Lilia's entire face lit up.
"Ah-ha!" Lilia cried, delighted, spinning toward the others with a mischievous flourish. "Pay up!"
Malleus sighed, deeply, as if betrayed by fate itself. Silver grunted, reaching into his pocket.
And then, right in front of you, the two of them handed Lilia actual money.
You blinked. “Wait. What just happened?”
Lilia grinned, tucking his winnings away. “Oh, just a little wager~”
You narrowed your eyes. "What kind of wager?"
Lilia, positively glowing with mischief, said, "I bet that you two would get together sooner rather than later."
Malleus, looking far too composed for someone who had just lost a bet, adjusted his sleeves and said, "I, on the other hand, estimated that it would take at least another year."
Silver sighed. "I thought it’d take two."
You gawked. "YOU WERE TAKING BETS ON THIS?!"
Sebek was mortified.
"YOU GAMBLED ON OUR HONOR?!" he thundered, appalled, offended, visibly vibrating.
Lilia cackled. “Oh, relax, dear boy! I was simply invested in your happiness!"
Sebek looked like he wanted to die.
So, naturally, you turned toward him, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.
Sebek stopped yelling immediately.
You could physically see the protest die in his throat. His entire body locked up, his ears turned red, and his eyes darted away as if you had just knocked the ability to argue right out of him.
Malleus, entirely too amused, hummed. “Curious. That seems to be an effective method of silencing him.”
Lilia beamed. “Oh, I love this development.”
Silver, utterly exhausted, rubbed his temple. "I don't even know why I bother at this point."
You just laughed, perfectly content, sitting beside your knight and the people you loved.
Masterlist
Can't believe this is the 15th part already!
More Posts from Sweetspicecake and Others
her creations by the way
atp wtf did the dad contribute. her mannerisms even screams both jade and floyd
Life as a corporate slave has you worked to the bone. Burdened with expectations from your boss, coworkers and family, you recall a faint childhood memory lost to years of data entry and drafting.
You remember the three weird uncles who'd hang out in your attic everyday at 3AM. How they'd left you an envelope before disappearing, telling you to open it up if a time ever came that you felt lost.
And so, deed in hand, you booked the next bus available and made your way over to Night Raven Valley with nothing but yourself and the clothes on your back.
What adventures await you as you farm, mine, fight and acquaint yourself with the eccentric yet strangely endearing inhabitants of the valley?
Starring:
Heartslabyul
Riddle Rosehearts as the Posh Lawyer
Trey Clover as the Homely Baker
Cater Diamond as the Bubbly Magicam Influencer
Ace Trappola as the Troublemaking Carpenter
Deuce Spade as the Trying-His-Best Mechanic
Savanaclaw
Leona Kingscholar as the Grumpy Unemployed But Rich Guy
Ruggie Bucchi as the Sneaky Odd Job Runner
Jack Howl as the Prickly Botanist
Octavinelle
Azul Ashengrotto as the Shady Saloon Owner
Jade Leech as the Shady Secretary
Floyd Leech as the Shady Security Guard
Scarabia
Kalim Al-Asim as the Cheerful Ranch Owner
Jamil Viper as the Dead-Inside Caretaker
Pomefiore
Vil Schoenheit as the Pompous Boutique Owner
Rook Hunt as the Scary Hunter
Epel Felmier as the Feral Apple Farmer
Ignihyde
Idia Shroud as the Vitamin D Deficient Game Developer
Ortho Shroud as the Local Sunshine Child
Diasomnia
Malleus Draconia as the Misunderstood Wizard
Lilia Vanrouge as the Adventurer's Guild Owner
Silver Vanrouge as the Sleepy Knight In Training
Sebek Zigvolt as the Overexcited Wizard Apprentice
Staff
Dire Crowley as the Scummy Town Mayor
Divus Crewel as the Dog Loving Scientist
Mozus Trein as the Cat Loving Librarian
Ashton Vargas as the Macho Guy Who Acts Like A Gym Trainer But Is Actually the Town Blacksmith
Sam as the Playful General Store Owner
Grim as the Weird Sewer Raccoon
The Ramshackle Ghosts as the Uncles Who Haunted Your Attic
---
I don't think I'm the first one to come up with this AU but this is just my spin on it cuz I'm totally so normal about sdv and twst
I will be updating each character's general info/ headcanons slowly then maybe I'll move on to heart events for the datables (NRC students except Ortho)
All posts related to this au will be tagged #night raven valley
Asks/Requests are open for this AU
And do any of y'all have suggestions for loved/hated gifts for some of the characters? Some are obvious but I'm actually blank for some like damn I know their entire trauma but idk if they'd like malachite or not what am i supposed to do
Tag List (Interact with the linked post to be tagged in future updates mwah)
LEONA X READER
Where you start to ask him to use his UM for you
Where Leona, always insecure and determined about the patheticness of his UM, begins to change after meeting you, an artist who creates glass and crystal figures, and asks him to use his UM to transform glass remains into sand
loved this one <3
Leona hated his Unique Magic. Always had.
Sure, people said it was impressive. The ability to dry anything, to strip it down until it crumbled to dust in your palm? Sounded like the kind of magic suited for a king. Ruinous. Untouchable.
But in practice? It was destructive. Useless. Unoriginal. All it ever did was reduce things into sand. Turn lush greenery into withered husks. Sap water from soil, drain warmth from food, crack even the air with its dryness.
He’d never found a good reason to use it unless he wanted something to disappear.
And Leona Kingscholar didn’t like being reminded that he was good at getting rid of things.
So when you first approached him about it, out of the blue and way too bold for someone who barely knew him, he looked up from the grass in the greenhouse with a deep, annoyed grunt.
“You want me to what, herbivore?”
You stood over him in that stupid art-stained apron you always wore, holding a cracked chunk of smoky, burnt glass in your gloved hands.
“I’m not asking you to blow anything up, geez,” you said lightly. “I just… need some sand.”
He squinted at you, ears twitching slightly. “What, the beach too far for you?”
You smiled. “Yeah, and your sand is better.”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“The sand you make. From your UM.”
You lifted the shard to show him its jagged edge.
“See, this one’s ruined. The shape’s off, and it’s scorched. But if I grind it down, melt it again, I could maybe salvage it. But if you could just—turn it back into sand, I could get a cleaner rebatch.”
Leona sat up slowly.
“You want me to use my Unique Magic… on your garbage?”
You didn’t flinch at the edge in his tone.
“I want to try turning it into something new.”
Leona almost told you to piss off. Almost.
But you looked at that broken glass with such purpose in your eyes, like you believed something beautiful was still hiding in it.
And for some reason—maybe the sun was too hot, or he was too tired—he flicked his hand lazily and muttered under his breath.
King’s Roar.
The shard crumbled instantly, dissolving into a fine, pale gold powder. Clean. Almost sparkling in the sunlight.
You crouched to scoop it into a container with a small, satisfied hum.
“That’s perfect,” you said, like you’d just watched a flower bloom.
He raised a brow. “It’s just sand.”
“No, it’s potential.”
Something shifted in his chest at that. Uncomfortable. Hot.
You came back the next day. And the day after that.
Always with cracked glass or ruined sculptures.
Always asking, softly but with certainty, “Can I borrow your magic again?” And Leona always acted annoyed, always rolled his eyes like he was being inconvenienced, but he never said no.
And eventually, you started bringing things back to show him.
Bowls blown in spirals of color, where specks of sand were like desert stars.
Sculptures that caught sunlight just right, making tiny rainbows on the greenhouse walls.
Or delicate little trinkets—a lion’s paw, a flower blooming in a dish—that you swore were just “practice,” but he caught you smiling when he lingered on them too long.
“Couldn’t’ve done this without you,” you said once, holding a jar filled with a swirling, amber-hued hourglass.
“Your sand’s smoother than anything I could get from crushing it myself. It melts cleaner. Glows brighter.”
Leona grunted. “You’re the one doing all the work. I’m just breaking things.”
“You’re not breaking anything,” you said. “You’re giving me a chance to start over.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
Because no one had ever said that before. Not to him.
Weeks passed like that. And slowly, Leona started to wait for you. Subtly. Not that he’d admit it.
He’d lie on the grass and tilt one ear toward the greenhouse entrance, pretending to nap while secretly hoping for your footsteps.
He found himself pocketing little broken pebbles on walks, wondering if you could use them. Once, he even caught himself thinking about what kind of glass he would be, if you ever sculpted him.
(Probably dark. Sharp. A piece that refused to be molded.)
One afternoon, you showed up carrying a bundle in cloth.
“This one’s for you,” you said, unwrapping it.
“I made it from the first batch of sand you gave me.”
It was a glass lion—small enough to fit in his palm, all sweeping mane and proud curve. Not flashy, but warm, like the sun on stone.
Leona stared. His mouth went dry.
“…Why?”
You tilted your head.
“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you deserved something that stayed, instead of just slipping through your fingers.”
That—hit something. Deep and buried. Something fragile.
He closed his hand around the glass lion slowly.
“…You’re weird, you know that?”
You smiled. “You’ve mentioned it.”
But when you turned to leave, he spoke again, quietly.
“Hey… next time you’ve got something to ruin, come find me.”
You paused, a little smile blooming on your face. “Yeah?”
He shrugged, looking away. “Might as well make some use outta this busted magic, huh?”
Your voice was soft. “It’s not busted, Leona. It just needed the right hands to show what it could become.”
His tail flicked.
For the first time in years, Leona Kingscholar didn’t think of his magic as something to be ashamed of.
He thought of sand in your hands. And glass glowing gold.
And he felt—maybe—for once—
Useful.
Calling Them ‘Hun’
(Hey look I’ve wrote a thing! So often times I’ll call people I really like ‘hun’(or some variation of it) and I was wondering how some characters would react to it! (Maybe OOC?))
Twisted Wonderland Characters x Reader
Genre: Platonic/Romantic, Fluff
Characters: Malleus, Azul, Ace, Rook, Idia
~~~~~~
Malleus
Blinks. Does a double take towards you.
Is pretty sure he hears Sebek scream somewhere down the Diasomnia hallways.
He had called out to you upon seeing you visit, and stalls when you turn to him with a gentle “what’s up, hun?”
He quickly regathers his senses, enjoying your company as he normally would, perhaps with a boyish smile now.
Please call him hun again.
Azul
Oh god.
Floyd is never going to let him live this down, why’d you call him that in front of the eel?
Do not take that as a complaint though.
He may look as salty as his homeland in the sea right now, but call him that again private?
Prepare for a very cuddly octopus.
Ace
You said it on accident, really.
Does a triple take, staring like you just grew a second head.
Oh.
Ohohoh.
He is never letting you live this down, jokingly calling you hun in return as if he doesn’t secretly wish he could say it not as a joke for once.
A good pinch does get him to shut up though.
Rook
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the onslaught of French nicknames, each one more embarrassing than the last.
You thought it would be cute to say it at least once, to try and get him back for the occasional nickname he’d give you.
Clearly that was a mistake.
This man will not leave you alone now, following you step by step and singing romantic words of your budding relationship.
Eventually, you figure out how to get him to finally shut up, and that is to simply face him with your hands on your hips and call him hun one more time.
You don’t miss the way he melts this time.
Idia
Bluescreens.
Quite literally.
All combos broken, fingers frozen over whatever it was he was doing.
Turns as pink as his fiery hair does.
You begin to worry when he doesn’t respond within five minutes. Or move, for that matter.
You have to go get Ortho, voice tearful as you explain you may have broken his brother.
Being Clever with the Fae (Malleus x Reader, Lilia x Reader, Sebek x Reader)
Pre-established relationship implied. You tell the Diasomnia boys that your world planned for ways to outsmart faes. You pull your trick but you're not sure who won.
Warning: Pepaw Bat's gets a little spicy so be careful.
I'm taking liberties with Sebek's part because he's a neutral for me and I don't know that much about him.
You and Malleus had talked about fae folklore more than once. He was delighted to know fae had something of a presence in your world but was wildly horrified at the misinformation. Out of everything you told him, only a handful were correct:
Don't give your name unless you trust that fae because names have power
Iron will hurt some fae but not all. Iron is more harmful to nocturnal fae than day fae.
Being rude to fae may be the end of you altogether
Partaking in fae food means you open yourself up for a wager
Yes, fae like to play tricks. Expect them and be wary.
Stepping into a fairy circle will summon the fairy who made it.
Just about everything else was wrong. That's why he and Lilia were teaching you what not to do if you came upon the various fae in Twisted Wonderland. Thus far you'd only managed to memorize what herbs kept smaller creatures at bay and how to curry the favor of the various faeries that helped out at NRC. Your current assignment from Lilia was filling out a map of different fae territories and classifying them as 'safe' for humans or 'unsafe'. Each territory had a tree they would love to craft from or loathed to be near and you were expected to know that, too.
Strange stuff but apparently it was important.
They liked to break up the bigger chunks of information with smaller, digestible things like etiquette so it felt more manageable. Malleus was currently instructing you on how to part from a fae in a formal setting as to not incur their wrath.
"Again, Child of Man," he's bowed down until eye level with you, one hand holding yours.
"Light shake, eye contact, nod, slide foot back, squeeze the hand, turn." he's parroting your motions until you turn away. He, instead, draws himself to his full height and observes as you pretend to walk away.
"Excellent," he nods. "But ensure you don't slouch while leaving. It will make some feel as if you don't hold them in high regard."
"That's so--" you roll your eyes. He simply lifts his brow as if to question your mild frustration. You puff your cheeks out and he laughs.
"We can be a bit particular." he agrees.
"To a fault." you smirk.
"Oh?" he's intrigued, eyes twinkling.
"Yeah," you smile. "In my world the fae were known for being literal with their word so you always had to keep something clever in reserve."
"Do tell," Malleus' grin goes from practiced and polite to genuine. A hint of fang shows.
"It's kind of specific though. Depends on that old joke about fae wanting to come for the first born."
"That's not really a joke," Malleus crossed his arms. You can't tell if he's offended or not. "We like the younglings. We're always looking to bring more around to the fae ways. In fact, fae make fantastic guardians because--"
He had a lot to say and you felt the beginnings of a lecture creep up. In some way you felt like you were in trouble. To save yourself, you said, "Just pretend. Then I can show you what we do."
Malleus pretended to make a deal with you. It looked a bit intimidating and official with the magic pulsing in the rickety floorboards of Ramshackle. They were groaning. Shadows danced along his face as pieces of his signature thorned briar wove around your joined hands. "In exchange for the repairs around Ramshackle, you will give your firstborn to me."
You pull him in, his green eyes searching curiously for any hint of what's to come. "Sure! How soon do you want to start working on that? Or do you want to wait a little while?"
All at once the floorboards fell quite. The hum of magic died with a rattle that broke the briar into tiny pieces. A few fell at your feet, the others shooting off into various directions.
Oh. Did he not understand? You thought it was clever! Maybe he was too sheltered to--
His laugh is kind of a snort at first but then you hear it honest and lilting. The hand holding yours slides up your arm and snakes around your waist. You're lifted until your hands find purchase on his shoulders and your legs wrap around whatever they reach. Your heart goes from your chest to your throat when his gloved hands slide down to your thighs as he walks you to your sad couch.
"Now is fine," he's careful to hold his weight above you, silky hair spilling around you and tickling your cheeks. His eyes are bright and boyish, a deadly compliment to his kissable lips.
Well, that technically backfired but if this were a real situation you'd make out just fine because he'd chosen to make out with you instead of curse you.
------ ----- ----- ----
Lilia wanted to focus on physical protection as much as written knowledge when it came to handling fae. You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea of him being a general but he had old photos, a weird mask, and a massive magearm to prove it. You'd picked up quite a few self-defense moves and practiced them regularly. He wanted them to be second nature to you. So here you are, in a designated training room within Diasomnia.
"You just want to cuddle me," you teased, in the familiar position of him being behind you with an arm around your neck. One elbow was planted in your shoulder, the other clasping it at the forearm to make a little prison for you. He gave a reprimanding squeeze, ever mindful of the pressure since you were fully human. Lilia gave a huffy laugh, trying to relax his smile into something more stern as he wove his fingers into your hair. You flinched at the tug and slapped his arm lightly.
"Focus," he couldn't deny himself the simple pleasure of whispering into your ear. If you asked him, it was to throw you off balance and distract you. "What could you do now?"
You thought about just leaning back into him, pressing against him, but you knew that wasn't what he meant. Capitalizing on this moment of closeness, the stillness, to huck him over your shoulder and into the floor crossed your mind but then you'd have to give him a back rub later.
Not that you minded that, either.
"We could make a deal," you leaned back to whisper in his ear even though it hurt your neck a little. You could tell by the way his bangs fluttered that he'd jerked in surprise. Was that a little pink on his cheeks? Before you could nip his pointed ear, Lilia leaned you forward and took his elbow off your shoulder, opting to hold you in a bearhug instead.
"Acceptable in this situation," he managed, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little. "Although this exercise is supposed to be combat related."
"So make the terms. I can't negotiate a deal that doesn't exist." you try to break his hold, shimmying your shoulders and sliding your feet to see if you could slip away. He lifts you off the ground with an ease that doesn't seem possible with his short, lithe body. You hang there against him as he thinks.
"Your life for that of your firstborn."
A bit dark, wasn't it? Kind of rude, really, you thought. But, your train of thought continued to ramble, he did find Silver somewhere so it didn't seem too unusual that he'd want a kid. Either that, or he was messing with you because you told him that whisking away kids was something fae were known for in your world.
"You can't have a firstborn with your clothes on." you joke.
"That's not true because I found Silver with my--" Lilia drops you when he realizes what you've said. You weren't expecting him to drop you and didn't catch yourself, hissing as you land on your knees. Before you can start complaining or poke fun at him for being an old man he's locked the door. You're bowled over as he rushes over to you, pinning you on your back as he peppers kisses along your throat and collarbone.
He's several bites in and you’re halfway undressed when you think you hear a knock at the door. Lilia begrudgingly peels himself off of you, licking blood from the corner of his lips.
"Father? Are we not going to train today?"
"M'fraid not, my boy," Lilia turns his attention back to you, opening your legs to slip between them. "But you'll be getting a new sparring partner in about nine months."
His red eyes are glowing. They're absolutely beguiling.
"Do they come with therapy?” he hears Silver mumble as you look up at him through your lashes.
He pounces on you again. It was a brilliant, filthy tactic. He's not exactly mad about it. You've earned favor with one fae, at least, and he will protect you from the others.
----- ----- --- ---
Sebek is a hard worker. He's a product of his environment; he has Baur's straightforwardness, Lilia's dedicated regimens, and his mother's impressive teeth and jaw strength. Lilia thought the best way for you to learn some of the self-defense tactics was to fight someone your size.
Sort of. Sebek seemed to be the better choice since Silver was too sleepy to be a constant threat. And, in Lilia's mind, you should have an easier time fighting a half-fae versus a full fae.
You never noticed how muscular Sebek was until you were under him. He's got corded arms and you can see the muscles of his shoulders flexing under the Diasomnia shirt he chose for the exercise.
You've never seen him in casual clothes! He actually looks very nice. Not as buff as Jack but sturdy in his own way; his chest is broader than you imagined. A solid man.
More than capable of being Malleus' body guard.
You groan as he knocks the air out of you a little. He's on top of you, pressed into your back. He's got one foot braced against the floor, leaning his weight into you. Your arms are pinned at your side courtesy of the one he's snaked underneath you.
When did he flip you over? Asshole, you scrunch your nose in frustration as your cheeks begin to burn. He's an asshole that means well and won't go easy on you, though. He makes sure you learn. You try to inch out from beneath him but he angles his shoulder down and grabs his own wrist, dragging you back to him.
"You're supposed to do something in this situation!" he grumps, "You know how to break this hold!"
You do, but he's heavy and it probably wouldn't work. And he's had a literal lifetime of training versus your handful of months. You've tangled your legs together and used his half-lean to put him on his back. Your kicking like a tipped-over bug and almost free when you remember that his fae half is crocodilian and you might have triggered his death roll tendency.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Sebek's pupils change, the dark of his eye slitting and boring into you. His throat strains like he's growling but you don't hear anything. It trembles against the back of your neck and you're reminded in that moment of just how much bigger he is than you.
How he folds around you and encompasses you.
He opens his mouth, teeth glinting and sharp. "You've bested me," you admit, swallowing thickly as his teeth hover near your shoulder. "Make your deal."
You somehow turn yourself around in his unrelenting squeeze.
Sebek huffs as if he's insulted and you swear you see his teeth dull. His pupils begin to fill out. He's usually loathe to acknowledge his human side, as he'd much rather be full fae, but it serves him in this instance. "I'm not a true fae. Such a thing wouldn't work on me!"
"You have to pretend! Lilia's teaching me how to deal with the fae! You just won't hurt me as much. Maybe." you dare to flash that teasing grin at him and Sebek nearly tears into his own lip because he doesn't know what to do with that wiggly feeling you give him.
Him? Hurt you? Not on purpose. It would go against the core values his grandfather AND Lilia taught him! Any fae caught abusing their spouse would be drawn and quartered, made a public display of. Any human man who chose to do so was no man at all!
Sebek's face feels almost painfully warm. He can feel the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. "In an act of benevolence inspired by the great Prince Malleus, I shall spare your delicate human self in exchange for a child. Is that the cliche rubbish you desire?"
Some of his once slicked-back hair has fallen down on his forehead, between his eyes, as if it's disappointed in you too.
"You think our child would be cliche rubbish? Cliche Rubbish Zigvolt? That does NOT sound good! I'm naming the firstborn, you're just helping make it."
"Wha--but I--that's not!" Sebek doesn't know what to say and he hasn't been trained for this. He's careful not to shove you away but untangles himself like a thrown ragdoll. He rolls over sharply, totally fine with hiding his face in the floor. His green hair is in disarray and his arms are limp, stretched out to either side of him.
You laugh, climbing onto his back and raking your nails down it gently. He makes the noise. You're not sure what it is but you've heard it before. It's deep and somehow soothing. He relaxes underneath you as you continue to scratch his back, throwing in a squeeze to his muscles every now and then.
It's not until you're in what would be the small of his back (if he wasn't build so solid and thick) that he raises his head, folds his arms up, and rests his chin on his hands. "You're safe." he can't bear to turn his head and look at you right now. If he did, you'd see how...how...weak and mushy he looked. Sebek snorts through his nose, arching his back in surprise as your hands slide all the way up until you flop on his back and your arms hang off his shoulders.
"Thank you, o' kind Zigvolt!" you hug his neck. "This delicate human appreciates it!"
"And I...appreciate...you." he mumbled slowly, the words a little foreign to him. More scary than foreign, honestly. That heartwarming shyness evaporated in an instant when he pinned you and began a stern lecture about how you should NOT offer to conceive a child with ANY OTHER FAE and what YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE INSTEAD.
You weren't surprised by this. Sebek lectured Silver all the time and Lilia said he was a very informed pupil. You, too, would be informed as it didn't seem like he was letting you go anytime soon.
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
I need some teasing romantic fluff, can I request the housewardens reaction to being pulled into a random room by their lover and being smother with kisses. Please and thank you 💖💖
Kiss And Make-Out
( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - she/her .
- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders
- [𝐩:𝐬] suggestive themes . mentions of making out ofc
Note: Honestly thing took me shorter than I thought it would to write Lol. And I tried my best to not make it extremely suggestive... But I then realized I have free will and just made it regularly suggestive.
Riddle Rosehearts
The hallway was quiet, lined with the dignified wallpaper and polished wood of Heartslabyul’s east wing. Riddle was walking beside you, dutifully listing the upcoming events for the next dorm meeting, when you suddenly grabbed his wrist.
"Wait—what are you—!" he sputtered, blinking rapidly as you tugged him into a nearby, empty reading room.
The door slammed shut behind you. Bookshelves stood in neat rows, sunlight streaming through high windows. But you didn’t give Riddle a chance to take in the room. You spun him to face you, pressing your body close, your hands already cupping his cheeks.
“[Name]!” Riddle gasped, eyes wide, ears turning red. “This is highly improper—”
You kissed him before he could finish.
His breath hitched as your lips met his in a flurry of soft, passionate kisses—one on the lips, another on the cheek, then two more down his neck. His back gently met the shelf behind him, a soft thump muffled by his uniform. He stood stiff for a second, flustered beyond belief, but then…
"...You're being completely unreasonable," he mumbled between kisses, although his hands were now resting on your waist. "I can't focus when you do that."
But he didn’t stop you.
Your kisses moved down to his collarbone, and Riddle squirmed just a bit. His face was a flaming red now, his breathing shallow. You could feel the way his heart was thudding under your fingertips as you ran your hands through his soft red hair.
“I’m trying to behave…” he whispered.
“But you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” you replied sweetly, stealing another kiss from his lips.
Eventually, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a quiet, surrendering sigh. “Only you could get away with something like this…” he muttered, arms now wrapped around your waist. “But if Trey walks in, I’m blaming you.”
Leona Kingscholar
You knew Leona was headed back from Spelldrive practice—his shirt clinging to his broad chest, his hair tousled, golden skin glistening with sweat. You had timed it perfectly.
As he turned the corner toward the dorm hallway, you jumped out from behind a tapestry, grabbing his shirt with both hands.
“Tch—what the hell—”
You dragged him into an unused music room, slamming the door behind you.
“Oi, herbivore, are you trying to start a fight?” Leona snapped, eyebrows furrowed, tail lashing in confusion.
But your only answer was kissing him hard.
The snarl caught in his throat immediately vanished as you caught him by surprise, hands sliding up his toned chest, lips moving over his with soft, heated insistence. For a moment, he stood stock-still, blinking, your kiss leaving him dazed. Then you kissed the corner of his mouth, then under his jaw, and he let out a slow, very audible groan.
“You really woke up and chose chaos today, huh,” he muttered against your lips.
He let his bag drop with a thud. “You could’ve waited ‘til I showered, but nah, you want your king like this?”
You nipped at his lip playfully, whispering, “I want you like this especially.”
That was enough.
Leona’s hands gripped your hips with a growl, spinning you and pressing you back against the wall, kissing you with fierce hunger now. His tongue brushed yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he kissed you harder, deeper. His tail flicked behind him, betraying his rising desire.
“I should punish you for ambushing me like that,” he murmured against your ear, voice gravelly.
“But I won’t.”
His smirk was dangerous and lazy all at once.
“Not yet, anyway.”
Azul Ashengrotto
Azul had just finished another long meeting in Mostro Lounge. You waited until the twins had left him alone in the hallway before you struck.
“Azul, can I borrow you for a second?” you said sweetly, tugging at his sleeve.
“Ah, certainly, my pearl—wait, where are we—?”
You pulled him into a supply closet of all places. It was dimly lit, a little dusty, but private. Azul looked around in confusion, pushing up his glasses.
“I—is this about the contract I was drafting—?”
You didn’t answer. You kissed him.
The poor boy short-circuited. He froze as your hands slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. You kissed his lips, then his cheek, then the underside of his jaw, and he visibly shivered.
“[Name]—w-wait—why now? I-I didn’t prepare—!” he stammered, glasses askew, already blushing violently.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again, long and slow this time. Azul's knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself by gripping the shelves behind him. His breath was trembling as you ran your fingers down his sides.
“You… you’re going to kill me,” he whispered, eyes wide behind his fogged glasses. “This is too much for a man of my constitution…”
But even as he said that, his hands found your waist, gently pulling you closer. His lips brushed your ear.
“I suppose I shouldn’t complain about having such an affectionate girlfriend…”
You smiled. “You love it.”
“…Don’t tell the twins.”
Kalim Al-Asim
You caught Kalim just as he was coming down the golden staircase in Scarabia, humming to himself, all sunny and unbothered. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you.
“[Name]!! I was just about to look for—WHOAAA!!”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—one of the spare guest suites with gauzy curtains and sun spilling in through the arched windows. He stumbled in after you, laughing the whole time.
“You’re so full of surprises today—ACK!”
You tackled him onto the cushions, landing right on top of him with a mischievous grin. Before he could ask anything, you started kissing him—peppering his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and his lips with kisses so fast he couldn’t even catch his breath.
“Wha—mmf! Wahahaha—[Name]!! Wait!!” Kalim laughed uncontrollably, trying to catch your hands in his. “You’re kissing me too fast—I’m gonna pass out from happiness!!”
You finally paused just long enough to look down at him. His white hair was a little messy, his golden eyes gleaming, his face flushed and grinning like the sun itself.
“Was that all for me?” he asked breathlessly, cheeks glowing.
You nodded and leaned in again, kissing his lips a little slower this time.
He melted under you like butter on hot sand.
“Wow,” he murmured, now dazed. “You’re… amazing. I think my heart just did a triple somersault. I should throw a party just to celebrate this moment!”
You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “You really would, huh?”
“Of course!! I’ve never felt this lucky in my life!”
Vil Schoenheit
Vil was walking briskly through the upper halls of Pomefiore, hair and uniform immaculate as ever, when you stepped directly into his path.
“Vil,” you said, breathless and determined.
He arched a single, elegant eyebrow. “Yes, darling?”
Without answering, you grabbed his hand and pulled him into a side hallway, then pushed open a door into one of the unused dressing rooms. The full-length mirrors and velvet furniture gave the room an intimate feel—one Vil would usually approve of.
“What exactly are we—mmph!”
You shut him up with your lips.
You kissed him firmly, again and again, ignoring his stunned stillness. His back lightly hit the vanity table, and your hands found his jaw, tilting his head as you kissed a path from his lips to his cheek to that spot right below his ear.
Vil sucked in a sharp breath.
“[Name]… this is hardly a—ah—suitable location…” he said, voice breathy despite himself.
You kissed down his neck, and he gripped the edge of the table hard enough for the wood to creak.
“…I’m trying to remain composed,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re ruining my lip gloss.”
You kissed him again, slower this time, tasting the faint berry gloss on your lips. “I’ll buy you another one,” you whispered.
His hands finally slid up your arms, resting on your waist. His expression softened, pride melting into fond exasperation.
“You’re so bold when you want to be,” he murmured, brushing his forehead against yours. “But you should know… if you keep kissing me like that, I might not let you leave this room for a while.”
Idia Shroud
You had to be sneaky with Idia—if you startled him too hard, he’d vanish into a puff of blue flame and digital pixels.
So when you saw him walking back from the library with headphones in and Ortho floating behind him, you waited until he was alone—just outside the server room in Ignihyde.
You pounced.
“AHHH—SYSTEM ERROR, WHAT THE—?!”
You yanked him into an empty tech room and closed the door behind you. Idia stumbled backward, hair flaring slightly blue with panic.
“W-Wait, are we being chased?! Is this a boss battle? Did you glitch through reality again—?”
You didn’t let him finish.
You kissed him. Right on his startled, slightly parted lips.
His brain blue-screened.
Idia’s body stiffened like a glitching NPC. You kissed him again, this time on the cheek, then again, trailing little kisses along his jawline. His hoodie bunched under your fingers as you leaned into him, holding him close, while his hands flailed in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“M-M-M-M-Moe overload—emergency shutdown imminent—!!”
You giggled and pressed a softer kiss to the tip of his nose.
That seemed to reboot him. Slowly, his shaking arms wrapped around you, awkward at first, but growing tighter as you kept going. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Are you real? Like… for real real?”
“Very real,” you said, kissing him one more time.
He leaned into you then, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still flustered but clinging to you like you were the only stable thing in his world.
“…You’re OP,” he mumbled. “Totally broken character build. It’s unfair. Nerf girlfriend pls.”
Malleus Draconia
It was late evening, just after sundown, and you spotted Malleus walking alone through one of the lesser-used halls of Night Raven College—moonlight catching on his horns, his cape flowing behind him like royalty incarnate.
“Malleus!” you called, jogging up beside him.
He turned with a small smile, the kind that he reserved just for you. “Ah, my love. What fortune brings you to this path?”
Without warning, you grabbed his hand—cool, calloused, always gentle—and tugged him through the closest heavy oak door. The room was empty, dark except for the faint shimmer of magic-laced torches. Dusty furniture and a grand window gave it an old, castle-like feel. Perfect.
“Where are we going?” he asked, tilting his head. “Is there danger?”
You didn’t answer. You pushed him back gently against the wall and kissed him.
His eyes went wide, not in shock, but in the quiet kind of awe that only Malleus seemed capable of. You kissed his lips, then his cheek, then the pale stretch of skin along his neck. Your hands moved to his shoulders, pulling him closer, kissing him again and again—slow, soft, reverent.
“Dearest,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “your affection is… overwhelming.”
You kissed the tip of his jaw. “Is that a problem?”
“…Not in the slightest.”
His voice dropped low, velvety and deep, as he rested his forehead against yours. “You wield power greater than most—did you know? Not in magic, but in how effortlessly you undo me.”
You smiled and kissed him again, this time slower, and something in him finally gave way. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as his lips met yours again, more certain now, more claiming. His kisses were intense and unhurried—like time stopped for you and him alone.
“If this is what it means to be mortal,” he whispered between kisses, “then I never wish to be a god again.”
Let's Be Crazy
Floyd Leech x Gn!Reader
*Notes: I included some photos from the game... let's just pretend he isn't standing in Ramshackle, lol. Also, I'm a big believer that Floyd would appreciate a partner who stands up for him when people call him crazy or make fun of his mood swings cause I feel like it would kinda upset him when people did that. Finally, there's swearing in this.*
Your morning started as usual: breakfast with Grim and walking to class with Floyd. Unfortunately, Azul had called him after class about an emergency at the Mostro Lounge that required immediate attention. You reassured him that you would meet up with him at lunch. He left with a relaxed smile, but his eyes were squinted just enough to give you the impression that he was annoyed to be called in while trying to spend time with you. That had been a couple hours ago, and lunch had started, but there was no Floyd to be found. So, you went looking for him.
It didn't take long as you quickly heard screams and shouts from the courtyard. Looking around a pillar, you see your boyfriend squeezing the life out of a Scarabia student. His friends shout for Floyd to let him go while the student struggles and screams for help. You take a deep breath; why do people always have to provoke him? ... Well, to be honest Floyd normally gets provoked when people aren't trying, but still.
"Hey!" you call out, causing Floyd to swing around to face you, the Scarabia student flailing in his arms. Noting the stern look on your face, he tosses the boy to the side where he hits the ground hard.
Floyd opens his mouth to explain, but his expression changes to shock when you gently cup his jaw.
"What happened?" You whisper, "Why are we angry at him?"
Floyd stays quiet in a curious turn of events, breaking eye contact with you. Your brows furrow, but when you realize he isn't going to say anything, you turn and walk to the Scarabia student still lying on the ground.
"What the fuck did you do?" You hiss, looking down on him.
The student looks at you in offense that you would assume he did anything in the first place. He stands, glaring at you while his friends huddle closer.
"I didn't do a damn thing, he's just crazy!" The boy yells, gesturing to Floyd behind you.
Before anyone can react, you swiftly kick the boy in the groin. As he doubles over in pain, you push him back onto the ground.
You gasp in surprise as if you weren't the one who did that, but you quickly collect yourself, leaning closer.
"I'm honestly not that sorry because you've been very rude. I'd hate to hear what people say about you..." you glance up at his friends, who look torn between defending him and keeping their distance from you.
Looking back down, you force the boy to make eye contact, "Pull that shit again, and I won't be so gentle... maybe you'll come to learn who's truly the crazy one."
You bring your leg back, making it seem like you'll kick the boy again. He flinches, scrambling back to his friends who surround him as they walk away.
Holding back a laugh, you turn back to see Floyd's rare soft smile.
"Hey, Shrimpy, you didn't have to do all that." He mumbles, his cheeks flushing a little.
"Of course I did. There is no way I'm letting him insult you, especially to my face." You walk closer, wrapping your arms around Floyd's waist.
Immediately, he squeezes you tightly to the point that you start to lose your breath. But you don't stop him, which he laughs gratefully at.
"Wanna tell me what that dick did?"
Floyd looks at you with a somewhat sheepish smile, "Ohhh y'know, talking 'bout how you must be deranged to date a psychopath like me."
Your hands tighten on the back of his coat, and you take a calming breath before smiling brightly at him.
"Well, I think that's none of his business. If I wanna date someone most people on campus are scared of, that's my choice. Plus, I always want you to express your emotions, even the heavy ones. Your feelings are valid, and I'm not going to push them away; we'll deal with them together."
Floyd can barely contain his excitement with each word out of your mouth. The moment you pause, he hurriedly crushes his lips to yours. You can feel the pinpricks of his teeth as he becomes overwhelmed by love.
When he finally pulls away, he whispers, "Thank you... Y/n."
misunderstandings ft. dr ratio
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I need. Twisted Beastmen and the like. To be more animalistic. Not necessarily like, physically, I don't meant that in the furry sense. I mean that in the 'they're part animal and it'd not just for show' sense.
I want beastmen with claw like nails. Where the cat-like ones tend to walk on their toes when not wearing shoes because it feels right. Where their eyes and pupils reflect the animals that they're partly of. With fangs and teeth appropriate for their species.
Ruggie making laughing noises at the active prospect of food. Whooping when in a fight and needing backup. Lowing when excited for a fight.
Leona roaring to get the whole dorm's attention. Chuffing in greeting at people he considers part of his pride. (He'll sometimes grunt at Cheka like a mother would to her cubs but will deny it.)
Jack barking at danger to warn others and howling to try and figure out where his pack is (he forgets they can't howl back, but Ruggie will sometimes low at him and Yuu definitely tries to howl back.)
I want to see Azul with the tips of his limbs in human form retain some of his octopus natural ability to camouflage. I want to see his hands always moving, grabbing something, holding something. Azul who might not have bones in human form with how flexible he is??
The tweels who aren't very active naturally during the day but get really hyperactive at night. Who bare their teeth at people when excited.
Che'nya who lounges in the sun on lazy days. Who's great at stretching and popping everywhere in his body if he needs to, to a concerning degree.
GIMME FEY WHO DONT ACT HUMAN
Malleus who snorts smoke when he's angry. Malleus who wear gloves because he got claws. Malleus who has a tail and wings outside of his dragon form sometimes.
Lilia who gets just a bit too excited at the prospect of a fight and spilling blood. Who can recognize a person by the smell of their blood. Who makes inhuman noises when too excited and gives off a very eldritch horror kind of vibe if he lets loose.
Sebek who can be found eating rocks sometimes. Who finds quiet in thunder and lightning. Who can move so smoothly and silently you don't know he's there until he opens his maw. Who has a lot of really sharp teeth for someone with a human mouth.
Just- gimme some animal, like, REALISM. PLEASE.
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Hello welcome to my little sideblog! I like to write cute YN x Character fanfiction! Maybe when I work up the courage il post them!
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